#of lances and lament

[osric-giroux-ffxiv]

DWC February 2025 - Day 1 - Star

He didn’t smile much anymore.

It was an accusation that had been lobbed at him by his sister during her last visit.

One of many, truth be told. 

He was listless, aimless, adrift. And he’d been like this for “far too long.”

The issue wasn’t that she’d laid these accusations at his feet - it was that  they were far too accurate. 

Left picking up broken pieces of what he thought was going to be his life and told that he was being too slow, that it should have been done by now, he should have known better, should have simply buried whatever feelings were there. 

It was almost funny - for someone with as much experience with grief as he did, it would be almost reasonable to expect that he would be able to navigate it with some level of expertise and with some manner of speed. 

And yet what truly became apparent was how isolated he was. 

So he didn’t smile much anymore - he felt didn’t have a reason to. 

Well - very few reasons to.

The rare moments when he did? Were afternoons such as this one, as he sat quietly in a rocking chair, listening to Evran’s gentle breathing in the crib next to him, and Idalia’s head resting against the center of his chest - the pair of them sleeping soundly.  

He may have been adrift, attempting to navigate waters that often felt daunting, overwhelming…entirely unknown - as he felt broken - picking up pieces he never expected to, but at the very least he had a northern star, two of them…and he would be better for them. 

He could smile for them.

@daily-writing-challenge

[edalene-slater-ffxiv]

🌀

28. — hope

“To heal the wound you first have to stop touching it.”

Crackling wood of a roaring fire, three curious canine faces, and the sounds of the piano being played - those were the things that greeted Edalene as she stepped into her brother’s “home”, if one could call it that. 

Dwelling? 

That might have been the more appropriate term - he hadn’t done much to make it much of a home in the time since he’d moved into the building, or for spending as much time as he seemed to be spending there. Well - excluding what seemed to have been left there from the twins, there seemed to be some proof that the building was lived in beyond the bare minimum essentials. 

A huff brought her attention back to the moment right before a rather intrusive snout was gently nudged away with her hand as she turned, narrowing her good eye in the direction of the grey wolf - she never could keep their names straight. 

Was it Tyr? Freyja? Vidar? One of them. 

“Rather rude wasn’t it? Could get your sniff without sticking that nose of yours up my backside, just for future reference. Don’t suppose you could show me where my brother is, since - judging by the constant playing - he doesn’t seem inclined to grace us with his presence any time in the near future.” 

That earned her nothing but a set of tilted heads, and then the three turned and wandered further into the house - an action she assumed was an indication that she was supposed to follow. 

“As clear in their actions as you are, Osric. It’s fitting, honestly.”

And so she followed - the sound of the piano growing louder a good indication that she was moving in the right direction. Fortunately, the house wasn’t that large - and it was only after one wrong turn (and one wolf wandering back to find her because clearly she’d managed to get lost) that she managed to find her brother seated in front of his piano, seemingly entirely focused on playing.

Seemingly - as it didn’t stop him from having something to say, as soon as she walked into the room.

“Have you always talked to yourself, Edalene, or is that a new development?”

“It’s a new thing, particularly when my brother has locked himself away in his house in the middle of nowhere with his wolves and won’t come out to greet me and I’m left having to interpret the behavior of three canines, one of which tried to shove its nose up my backside, to figure out where he is.” 

“Hm.” It wasn’t much of a response - not that she was expecting one, as he continued to play, fingers gliding across the ivory keys. 

He’d always been like this - when he was overly stressed or upset he would throw himself into something. Training, planning, work, or in this case, the piano. 

It was just short of infuriating.

“Are you going to tell me what has you like this or am I going to have to pry it out of you?”

One shoulder barely lifted as he continued to play, not missing a note, “Are you going to tell me why you’re not out in the middle of the ocean on the Sirensong, or am I supposed to believe this is simply a ‘just because’ visit?” 

“You can’t avoid my question with a question, Osric.” 

“I can, if there’s nothing to “pry.” I’m within my home, sitting at my piano, playing because I enjoy it. I didn’t realize I needed to have a reason.” 

That earned him a huff, as she leaned against the instrument - turning her good eye towards him and crossing her arms over her chest. “I never said you couldn’t play an instrument you own within your own home, you stubborn ass. But since you want to act this way, fine. I was told you were in Black Water over the last few days.”

His gaze cut to her momentarily, fingers never slowing as he continued to play. “I was - to spend time with the twins.”

“And you didn’t bother to stop by, say hello, anything of the like - a bit rude, don’t you think.” 

“I…didn’t want to be present longer than necessary.”

“Care to share why, big brother?”

“The intent wasn’t to be rude, Edalene. I never know whether you're going to be in or not and I was there to visit  with Idalia and Evran.”

“But you were in a hurry to leave.” Looking entirely unconvinced she moved away, wandering over to grab a glass and pour herself a drink - not asking for permission and not bothering to ask if he wanted one. He was clearly busy. 

It was here that he stopped, turning on the bench towards his sister, gaze narrowed. “Whatever it is that you’d like to say, go ahead and say it, Edalene - you’ve never been one to mince words before.”

“Fine.” She took a long sip from her glass before setting it down on his desk and resting her hip against the edge of the piece. “This-,” she pointed towards him before vaguely making a circle in his general direction, “...cannot continue. You visit with your children, which is wonderful and I’m glad you spend time with them, and then you retreat here and no one will see or hear from you until you emerge from isolation to spend time with your children again and then it’s the same pattern again and again. I understand that you’re still bothered - don’t glare at me like that.” 

She rolled her eye, picking up the small green bottle that rested on his desk and turning it between her fingers as she ignored the gaze he threw over his shoulder at her. “And sitting here doing this isn’t going to get you over it. The wound doesn’t heal if you’re constantly ripping it open, Osric.”

“Speaking from personal experience, Edalene?”

She paused, shifting the bottle to one hand and pointing up at her eyepatch as she cleared her throat to get her brother’s attention. 

“And you’ve completely let go of that incident.”

“I lost my eye, Osric. It still lingers. And I’m still able to put it aside enough to do my job. I just choose not to talk about it. Ever.”

He hummed, turning his focus back to the keys beneath his fingers.

“So just don’t talk about it.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” The green bottle was set down on his desk as she pushed away and crossed the room to stand next to the piano, crossing her arms over her chest as she narrowed her gaze down at her brother. “You said you wanted to be there for your children the way Kenward wasn’t for us, right?”

“...Yes.”

“Doing this isn’t going to make that happen, Osric. Just because this one person - one person - didn’t see your value, doesn’t mean that there won’t be someone who does. And if you’re locked in…whatever this is, it makes it pretty damn hard to move forward. Stop poking the damn wound and let it heal. As someone with a bit of experience in that…it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t fucking hurt some days, but at least those days are fewer and fewer as time goes by.” 

Osric’s fingers stilled on the keys as he swallowed roughly. 

“One day, brother, one day someone is going to manage to convince you that you deserve more than table scraps.” Edalene moved over and pressed a kiss to the top of her brother’s head before ruffling his hair, ignoring his irritated huff at the action. “Until then, you’ll have to deal with my nagging, and since I’ve made this trip, I’m raiding your kitchen.”

She turned and left the room without another word, the wolves standing and following her out…leaving her brother to his thoughts once again. 

It wasn’t long before the gentle sounds of the piano filled the house once more…Osric had always needed something to throw himself into when his thoughts were scrambled…and yet this time the notes didn’t seem quite as heavy. 

Perhaps he could pull himself out of this mess yet - there was still hope.

[bluemantics]

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR A KEITH BY ANY OTHER NAME AHEAD

you have been warned.

since AKBAON was originally intended to be a Valentine’s Day fic I figured on its two year-ish anniversary i would share some BTS of my planning document. pls enjoy

[misssilversunny]

Ok so I've been on a bit of a Yandere batfam binge tbh. One thing I saw was someone saying that there should be a yandere batfam that's too interested in Reader's life, as opposed to the multitude of neglected Readers.

I would like to build on that and say, a Spoiled!Reader. Maybe around grade school age for some of the story, the rest being them as an adult realizing that their family's "interest" in every aspect of their life was nowhere near healthy. Or it could be a crack fic where Reader is guarded like the president of the world.

For example, as a child, they applied themselves to everything, wanting to be as smart as their older siblings, and followed Alfred around all the time when they found out that he was a spy in his early days.

Every award was put on a shelf, every drawing was fridge worthy, to the point where they got a corkboard to put all their drawings, and whenever they wanted something, they got it. Bullies never got more than a week of fun before an injury befell their parents or some other misfortune. Bruce was almost constantly seen with them.

Timeskip to maybe their 20s, they're trying to hold down a long term relationship after so many ended up with their partners becoming distant before either they broke things off or Reader left them. Every batchild is using their own connections to try and keep possible suitors away.

Reader laments their lack of freedom and privacy to their friends, leading to the common "Tells people about a funny memory. Why are they looking at me like that"

Apparently, while it's normal for a brother to offer if their younger sibling has noone to take to the dance, saying that they should go instead of a proper date is not. Family members should not be dressing you like a doll past age 6 (The girls + Alfred + Dick all love putting outfits together for reader, saying that they're just made to be dressed up.).

Your parents shouldn't be physically intimidating and scaring off every partner, and definitely shouldn't be saying that you shouldn't look for a partner as long as you have them. Your family shouldn't "joke" about how friends are fine since "they're seldom as permanent as family".

Reader slowly realizes that they need to get out, fast. But instead of it being a struggle for the Batfam to find them because they know next to nothing, it's a fight to do something they couldn't predict because they've all been watching them like hawks since they set foot inside the manor.

Most, if not all of their friends outside of the group that convinced them to run are friends with at least one family member, so 60-90% of their social net has been gutted. They can't use their legal name while they live in Gotham, but they need a job to get the money to leave.

I think Damien being the biggest yandere would be really funny, especially if you read it like Lance Crown is with his sister. Bro has multiple lockets with photos of them throughout the years in them, as well as a photo for every single birthday he was present for.

In Damien's eyes, Reader's primary title is "Damien's Little Sibling" and is willing to deal with the shared titles that must come with that (Dick's Little Sibling, Bruce's Child, Alfred's Ward, etc). If you want to have the honor of bestowing Another Title upon Reader, Damien has to give the go ahead first. He will never give the go ahead.

Jason would also be super protective, since he was around when they were still learning to talk and walk. He comes into the living room and Alfred's got Reader on a blanket with some toys and upon seeing him, Reader wobbles to their feet and stumbles over to him, squealing in delight and almost falling over before grabbing onto his leg and smiling up at him.

It was at that moment, the Reader fan club was truly established. Bruce would be the leader since he was the dad, but Damien was second in command and manages the collections of information/photos.

AN: I have no clue about the lore/timeline the Batfamily has. If something mentioned couldn't have happened during a certain point of time, then I'm sorry lol.

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

Reunion (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which your husband finally returns from his time in Númenor, and you make the most of the first moment you get him alone

Warnings: evil!reader, mentions of injury, hot and heavy make out, slight choking, heavily suggestive dialogue, mentions of exhibitionism

Note: same evil!reader as the others in the collection, but it should make sense on its own too.

He’s finally on his way to Eregion. And wounded. It’s been plain to see through your soulbond for days.

You can barely conceal your trepidation as you stand with Celebrimbor and Elrond, awaiting your husband’s arrival in Eregion. They do not know to expect it, of course—they believe Galadriel is long gone into Valinor, and they could never fathom that she is soon to ride through the gates with a man at her side, much less that he is the very darkness they seek to keep at bay. And that you, Celebrimbor’s trusted aid for so many years, are none other than Sauron’s beloved wife.

Had they known, they surely would not have asked you to assist in the task secretly entrusted to them by king Gil-galad—that of bringing into being some sort of creation that will save Elvendome from the dying of their light in Middle-Earth. That is what you are discussing now. Elrond laments that you have failed, and it is time to inform the High King of this. Celebrimbor looks at him, dismayed.

“We must not despair,” you intervene, working as much hopeful reassurance into your gaze as possible. “Surely, in another few days, the answers will come.”

And it’s not even a lie. Your husband shall bring all the inspiration needed and then some—but you must ensure the Elves do not leave this city before his arrival.

Elrond shakes his head. “I fear we’re out of time.” He places a hand on your shoulder, and you push down the urge to swat it away as he speaks very inconvenient words. “The Elves must prepare to abandon these shores. Forever.”

You return his sad smile with practiced ease.

Where are you? you reach out to your husband, sending the thought as far and quickly as you can manage—

A deep tiredness answers on his end. Swiftly and so very close.

The sound of hooves has never sounded sweeter than when Galadriel finally rides in through the gate. It serves you well that both Elrond and Celebrimbor are too stunned by her arrival to notice the slip in your mask when you see your husband following behind her, slumped against his own horse. Surely, the anguish written on your face is too great to be considered natural concern for a wounded stranger. You school your features quickly, but do rush to aid him in climbing off his horse—that much, any kind-hearted Elf would do.

For a short, beautiful moment, you are pressed against him as he staggers on his feet, and you manage to exchange the briefest of glances. His brow is slick with sweat, he is bleeding from his side, yet you feel through your bond how your touch fills him with elation. You would suffer the same wound as him, you think, if only it meant you could kiss him as you long to, then and there.

But a couple of guards are quick to intervene, taking what they must think is too heavy a burden off your shoulders. Pulling your husband from you, they sling his arms around themselves and all but drag him away when he fails to walk on his own, leaving you to strive not to follow as your heart slams against your ribcage.

“What has happened?” Celebrimbor asks.

“Enemy lance, six days ago,” Galadriel tells him. “We rode without rest.”

Galadriel. You take a moment to look at her. You’ve seen her before, of course, but not as a cog in your plans. That had happened quite accidentally—or perhaps by fate. Either way, your husband has returned. That is all that matters.

Well, that and getting him alone.

There is no plausible reason for you to stand at his side whilst your people’s artificers work to mend his wound. All you can do is sit and wait, gently nudging your husband’s mind through your bond to make your presence felt. A sense of content drifts back to you, though it is laced with the same impatience you feel.

If you were still loyal to the Valar, you would thank them for the haste with which Elvish remedies work, even if the hours they require to be applied feel like an eternity. Finally, the artificers leave your husband to rest his newly recovered body as you watch from the shadows of the corridor. It is past midnight, all too easy for you to slip into his room and shut the door behind you without anyone noticing.

Your husband, having sensed you were about to join him, awaits you in utter nonchalance, lying with his legs crossed and his arms beneath his head as if he truly were some graceless human man. He’s been given a new shirt, white and pristine. Pity. If you have your way, he’ll need a new one soon enough.

“The hour is inappropriate,” he greets you, and you don’t know whether you want to kiss or slap away his smug little smile.

For now, you answer with your own. “Good.”

You stride towards the bed with the determination of a demon chasing prey, and with swift, skillful movements, climb into it and straddle your husband’s hips.

“Gently, my love,” he warns, mischief dancing in his eyes as his hands fly to your waist, gripping your flesh greedily even as he keeps you at bay, “I am but a man recovering from his wounds.”

You give a slight, rueful chuckle. He is perfectly well now, and you both know it.

“I’m afraid you shall have to endure,” you threaten sweetly, and he abandons all feigned resistance as you dive in to finally claim his lips with yours.

The relief of being together again is instant, and you sigh into his mouth as you let his kiss consume you, sweet and slow. You surprise even yourself. You had expected a furious clash of teeth and tongues, the frenzy of swallowing each other whole after going too long without your beloved’s taste—like it was when you had finally nursed him from an amorphous black mass back into his form, and the two of you had been reduced to a tangle of thrashing limbs in the snow, as mindless and savage as animals mating in heat.

But that was after countless years of suffering in his absence. Compared to that, your time apart since the shipwreck separated you has been nothing at all—and what’s more, of your own choice, however it displeased you. Your husband had seen an opportunity in his meeting with Galadriel, one from which you could both benefit, and so he had entreated through your bond that rather than look for him, you must return to the false life you had built in Eregion in his absence, for he sensed you shall yet have use of it upon his return.

And now, here you are—reunited once more, in body as well as mind. This time, you wish to savour it. You relish each and every slide of your husband’s tongue against yours, every scrape of his stubble against your cheek, every inch of hair caressed by your fingers as they sink into it, tugging longingly at the roots. Your hearts beat against each other as you press yourself flush to him, his arms wrapped around you to somehow pull you even closer, and the might of the sheer adoration shared between you is almost too painful to bear.

“Will you stay this time?” you whisper, nudging his nose with yours as your lips part from his and hover close. “Or will I be made to wait for you once more, my love?”

His hand cradles your face, coaxing you to retreat only enough for your gazes to meet.

“The road goes ever winding,” he tells you. “Not even I can see all its paths.”

“Yet it seems ours so often tend to drift apart,” you say, frustratedly. “As though they are forced to be. That sea creature who attacked the ship, and the immense wave that carried us at such great distance from each other—that was no coincidence, was it?”

Your husband shakes his head.

“It is for us that I wish to reshape this world. Without you, the end I have seen so clearly since I first awoke withers away before my eyes. They know this.” Hatred sparks in his eyes, but it is only a flicker against the love with which he beholds you. “The Valar themselves may have attempted to part us,” he says, “yet the tides of fate only brought me back to you all the more fruitful in our endeavours.”

“Hm, so I’ve heard.” Now animated by more pleasant thoughts, you sit up slowly, sure to drag your nails down your husband’s torso with just the right amount of pressure that it draws a low groan from him. “King of the Southlands,” you proclaim, equal parts pride and amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “An old man’s trinket and a word from a gullible Elf and an entire people bow at your feet.”

“She is not gullible,” he says, almost absent-mindedly. His eyes are fixed on some tantalizing spot on your neck as he sits up as well and covers it with his mouth. “She is desperate to believe whatever suits her purpose,” he murmurs between languid kisses to your skin. “I all but laid back and allowed Galadriel to bring me right where I most needed to be.”

You’d be a helpless puddle of desire—and to an extent, you are—if not for the fire his words ignite within you. You grab a fistful of his hair and pull him away, pushing against his chest to throw him right back down against the pillows. That earns you a grunt and a wicked chuckle from your husband.

“It is not wise to speak another’s name,” you say with eerie calmness, gaze locked with your husband’s as you lean down until you’re nose to nose, “whilst your wife is astride you.”

He hums as if in contemplation, taking hold of your chin as his eyes roam over your face.

“She is hailed as the most beautiful of Elven maidens,” he reminds you, and you know it satisfies him when your brow knits in indignation. But then he goes on, ever so adoringly, “Those who say such a thing either have never laid eyes upon my beloved, or they are blind as bats.”

See, now... now you melt.

You catch his hand as it moves from your chin, and give the tip of his thumb the slightest nip.

“Beguiler,” you purr, a honeyed reproach. “No wonder you have them eating from the palm of your hand.” And that is exactly where you lay a lingering kiss. He seems transfixed by the reverence of your gesture, and his slightly parted lips are too tempting for you not to kiss them once more.

Your blood is still heated from your husband’s teasing, from being pressed against him so close, and you hunger for so much more than the gentleness from before. Your kiss grows deeper, more desperate, and soon enough you’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, signaling for him to aid you in lifting it over his head. With a frustrated groan, he takes hold of your hands to make them cease.

“My love, I would like nothing more than to have you, repeatedly, for the remainder of the night,” he says in earnest, breath heavy. “But you’ve already lingered here too long. Should someone come and see—”

“I’ve locked the doors,” you dismiss, and chase his lips once more. He lets you catch them, claims yet another kiss, only to turn away from you again.

“And if someone should unlock the door to find you here,” he retorts as you grunt in protest, “how shall we maintain our pretence?”

“I do not care!” you all but whine, the longing you have endured in his absence swelling painfully within your chest. It turns your voice into a quiet plea. “I want my husband.” You press an impossibly sweet kiss to his cheek, then murmur in his ear, “Don’t you want your wife?”

His breath hitches. Suddenly, he turns his head, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“Temptress,” he rasps begrudgingly. Then, softly and subdued, “Beloved.”

He is the one to capture your lips now, any thought of restraining his desire long gone. You smile in triumph against his mouth, then plant your hands against his shoulders, push away and—fisting your hands in his shirt, you pull.

Elven fabrics are by no means fragile, but with a bit of your powers put into it, the shirt tears apart at the middle, baring your husband’s chest to your ravenous gaze.

“Perhaps we might be able to explain this, after all,” he muses while your lips attack his neck, quickly moving downward. “I could tell them what a merciless creature you are...” His hand comes to cradle the back of your head as he admires how you pepper urgent kisses down his chest. “...taking advantage of a poor mortal man when he finds himself in such a vulnerable state.”

You halt abruptly, eyes snapping up to his. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” you gasp with perfectly feigned innocence, even as you lay your sinful mouth on him once more. “Here I am—a kind, virtuous Elven maiden such as myself,” you speak between kisses, nips and licks at his skin, “seeking to bring aid to a wounded man...” Your lips venture lower, down his abdomen. “...only to be seduced into his bed...” His eyes are aflame with desire as you gaze up at him through your lashes, working open his belt. “...with shameless words of temptation and ruinous caresses. Imagine the scandal.”

It happens in an instant—you gasp as you are grabbed and pulled and flipped onto your back, your husband’s frame pressing you down into the mattress as he pins your wrists to the pillow.

“Imagine that, indeed,” he rasps out, eyes so darkened by hunger his pupils turn to their primal slit shape. “Imagine if they were to burst through the door...” He releases one of your wrists to wrap an achingly tender hand around your throat, leaning into your ear. “...and saw us joined as one,” he whispers into it, making you shudder, “and knew at once that we’re forever bound.”

You grip at his wrist, eyes fluttering shut, chest heaving, ready to beg for him to give you more. But he isn’t done, and tightens his hold on your throat with just the right amount of pressure to draw a wanton whimper from it. “Imagine,” he says, “if they saw this kind, virtuous Elven maiden you have led them to believe you are for all these years, ruined with pleasure beneath her husband.” He lifts his head, his cruelty to ‘them’ mingling with his reverence for you in his gaze. “Imagine their betrayal, their horror. Their jealousy—for they would know, deep in their bones, that no love of theirs will ever compare to that which binds our souls as one. Would you like that?”

You would not like it—you need it, you crave it with a force so great it feels as though his skin is made of flame, burning yours in sweet agony with every inch it touches. And yet, even breathless and desperate as you are, you lift your chin in challenge and fix him with your gaze.

“I would like you,” you murmur defiantly, “to put that wicked tongue of yours to better use than talking.”

Your husband grins. “How I’ve missed you, my love.”

There is nothing teasing about the way he kisses you then. He tastes your mouth with abandon as his hips dig into yours, and you whine impatiently, writhing within his grip. Obeying your silent wish, his hands release your throat and wrist in favour of roaming over your body, caressing and kneading all the spots of your soft flesh he knows to be most sensitive. You coil your arms around him, wishing him even closer, as his lips drift from yours to your jaw, kissing their eager way down your neck, and you shudder as he tugs down the shoulder of your dress, exposing your heated skin only to set it further ablaze with his mouth. You can feel the fabric straining, sure enough to tear apart in the same way his shirt had, and you want it, you want your husband’s skin against yours with nothing in between—

Someone is trying to open the door.

You pray with all your might that you misheard, even as your husband freezes at the sound as well, and lifts his mouth from your shoulder to look in the direction of the sound. But then whoever is on the other side, realizing that the door had been locked, knocks on it instead.

You don’t even bother making your voice quiet. “Oh, for the love of—!”

Your husband puts a silencing finger to your lips—and gives you a scolding look when you lick it obscenely.

“Sir Halbrand?” one of the artificers calls from outside. “Are you well?”

“That should be ‘your majesty’,” your husband mumbles.

“I’ll kill them,” you deadpan.

“Shh,” he coos, slightly amused. “Not yet. We still have work to do here.” Infuriatingly composed, his eyes roam the room in search of a solution, and land on one. “Why don’t you step onto the balcony for a moment whilst I tell them I locked the door myself? A man needs his privacy, after all.” He looks back to you, and finds a tragic blend of ire and yearning on your face.

“Oh, my love,” he says sympathetically, brushing a tender knuckle down your cheek, “how beautiful you are when you crave me to despair.”

“Then I must always look splendid,” you quip, lifting your head to reach his lips with an alluring whisper, “I never not crave you to despair.”

He curses in Black Speech, the foul words muffled as he gives into your kiss once more. But then there is another rap at the door, more urgent than the last.

“Go,” he grunts. Before you can protest further, your husband pries himself off you and leaves the bed altogether. You allow yourself a moment to plop down on the pillows and curse at the ceiling before you will your body into moving. Your limbs are still weak with desire as you get on your feet.

You decide then and there that your first decree as Queen of all Middle-Earth shall be the execution of whoever is now standing beyond that door.

Your husband has hastily discarded his ruined shirt, tormenting you further with an unobstructed view of his lean torso. There must be something equally irresistible in your disheveled state, however, because the moment his eyes land upon you, his apparent composure slips away and he surges to you like a man possessed, planting yet another searing kiss onto your lips.

“Get rid of them,” you pant out as you break away.

Your husband takes your hand, kissing your knuckles quickly. “As my Queen commands.”

Your heart flutters, easing the frustration as, finally, you go your separate ways: he towards the door, you to conceal yourself. You take comfort in knowing that this parting, unlike the others, shall be extremely short—and the reunion all the more delectable.

Previous fic with same reader -> Tides of fate

Next fic with same reader -> As one

[sloubs]

punaise mais j'aime tellement le fait qu'arthur passe la saison 4 à se lamenter que sa femme se soit barrée alors qu'il en a une toute neuve toute fraîche et qu'il a passé trois plombes à trouver une combine pour l'épouser, j'aime tellement le fait que même en face-à-face avec lancelot il continue de qualifier guenièvre comme étant sa femme, j'aime trop que même après l'échange d'épouse il lui soit impossible de considérer faire un héritier avec qui que ce soit d'autre qu'avec guenièvre, j'aime tellement le fait que le maître d'armes arrive même pas à croire qu'arthur ait épousé mevanwi tellement ils sont jamais ensemble, j'adore le regard qu'il lance à karadoc dès qu'il lui confie que guenièvre est malheureuse, j'aime tellement qu'il accepte l'annulation d'échange d'épouses deux épisodes après qu'ygerne et cryda l'aient approuvé (et ce tout en chiant sur guenièvre), je les aime TELLEMENT tellement TELLEMENT EUX et la saison 4 en fait

[tomalbon]

Poem #89

Groves have yet to burn, a deep red ocean

Unswept. Sedge rise in coils of gorgon splendour

For the earthworks’ watch; statues with open

Mouths bare knots of cowslip. I stand

Before such alters soaked by language

Whose trespass is the origin of water.

I drift in pollen, light as laments

For dragonflies made resurrected angels

Of silt, sand in the wind budded to winged

Fissures, sprout and dart, lancing half-shadow

Strands to obelisk amongst buttercups.

Pre-human yellows are shrived of minnow-green

Forces. Each confession elegiac

By the moorhen’s sable knell; the moorhen

Blear that holds my folded body, shade-like:

Supposable gloss of grass-blown incense.

My eye is a season of geese alighting

Suggestions of lakes; my tongue a canopy

Heavy with baptismal dew. Rushes wear

My ancestors’ throats to speak in shapes

Of marsh-fowl. Each scent is eggshell pink.

Each syllable a monasticism.

Each name an epitaph before its time

Lifted from the moorhen’s strobed reflections,

Hidden, surged then again concealed

At tangled boundaries. Mother of Water,

No imperial edict holds your ending

In the poverty of words. I walk

Into the river to wash away my names.

Hear the silence that follows acceptance.

A shape sheds translucence in the reeds.

-

[dreamscapesofimagination]

I'll Say I Was Overthinking

A/N: Part 2 of the Alan drabble!

Summary: Being involved with anomalies was not conducive to peaceful dates, a fact that Alan laments when you are injured on his watch.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, cursing, body horror, fluff, Alan beating himself up as usual, kiss to shut someone up.

—------------

It had taken a couple weeks to get the R&R permit approved- and Alan had insisted that your first date not be on campus.

Maybe he was going overboard, but dinner and a movie off campus (and therefore away from a certain meddlesome vice-captain) was a must.

You weren’t complaining.

He had picked you up from your dorm, and you had nearly tripped over your feet at the sight of him in a nice button up and slacks- two things you were not sure he even owned (he didn’t- Tohma had insisted upon providing clothes once Kurosagi has let the date slip.)

He had complimented you, cheeks pink as he scratched the back of his neck.

Your dress was simple, nothing over the top, but you loved its fit and from his expression you could tell Alan had too.

Dinner had gone well, Alan slowly becoming more comfortable as the night went on- and you’d be lying if you said his smile didn’t make your heart flutter.

That's what crossed your mind when you both had rounded a corner, only to be faced with this.

Mottled flesh, an entirely too human face- too many teeth and a too wide smile.

You froze- heart pounding. You had ended up ahead of Alan as you chattered away about your excitement for the movie he had planned.

Far enough ahead that he was helpless as the anomaly smacked you aside.

“No!” his shout was futile as he watched your body hit the alley wall and crumple.

You lay there wheezing, brain slowly processing the scene.

Snippets.

Alan’s pipe appearing in his hand.

The anomaly making its way toward you.

Alan launching in front of you, blocking your body.

A horrible, mocking laugh.

Your vision swam, and as shock wore off you began to feel the deep pain in your body from where you had hit the wall, and you were faintly aware of the taste of blood and bile in your throat.

Alan was fighting it- but seemed to be doing little damage.

Groaning, you staggered to your feet, leaning over as you emptied the contents of your stomach.

Lurching forward, you gripped Alan's arm.

His eyes shot to you, “what are you doing?”

“Your stigma-” you coughed, wincing as a bolt of pain lanced your head, -”use it”

His eyes glanced over you, frowning in concern at your state.

“You can hardly stand!”

“And if I don’t help you we are both going to die! Stop arguing with me and just hit the fucking thing!” you snapped, gripping his arm harder to stabilize yourself.

The laughing anomaly lurched toward you both, interrupting his chance to argue further.

Alan adjusted his grip on the pipe, fixing the anomaly with a harsh glare.

He raised the pipe, bringing it down as the anomaly lunged, and you watched the creature's head give way beneath the iron.

It fell to the ground, and the resulting tremble caused you to stagger.

Alan caught you, shouting your name as your vision faded.

~~~•••~~~•••~~~

Quiet voices were the first thing you registered- along with the sterile smell.

Mortkranken’s infirmary.

“Like I said, you need to let someone examine you. She is stable- the last thing she needs right now is you collapsing because you had an injury and didn’t let us treat you. Taking more attention off of her than is necessary would be foolish, Mido.”

“I’m fine, regardless, I’m a ghoul. If something was wrong it’d be pretty damn clear.”

You cracked your eyes, wincing at the glare.

Alan swam into focus, glaring at Jiro, whose face was impassive.

Jiro’s arms were crossed, and the bags under his eyes were more defined than normal.

“Ghouls can still die, Mido.” Jiro left with that scathing retort before his eyes landed on you.

“You’re awake.” Alan’s head snapped around, and he quickly rushed forward.

“You okay?” his eyes were wild with concern.

You cracked a small smile, “I’ve been better.”

“Ah-hem.” You looked past Alan, and met Jiro’s gaze.

“Please let Jiro look you over?” you asked, bringing a hand up to grasp Alan’s for a moment.

His cheeks flushed at the contact.

“Can I do my job?” You giggled at Jiro’s mildly irritated tone.

“Go. I’ll be okay.”

Alan hesitated for a moment before nodding.

Jiro led him out from the curtained off “room” you were in.

You laid there, taking in the sounds of machines and the smell of alcohol.

You shifted, sitting up with a groan as you searched for water, throat scratchy.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Alan sounded panicked when he came back in to see you moving.

“I need some water.” you said, voice hoarse.

“I brought some,” Jiro entered behind Alan, carrying a cup.

He handed it to you, all but rolling his eyes at the Vagastrom captain.

“Your boyfriend is fine, from what the very limited exam he let me do showed.”

You could practically hear the eye roll in his voice.

“Is she going to be fine?” Alan snapped.

You sipped your water, relishing how soothing it was.

Jiro fixed Alan with a tired glare before directing his statement toward you, “You have a broken rib, concussion, and some nasty contusions, and hitting the wall dislocated your shoulder. I got the shoulder back in place, and your chest is wrapped to prevent your rib from moving too much. It will be awhile before you can function at your full capacity- even with the anomalous medicine we have.”

He cracked a small smile, “if you need anything, just call. You can go back to your dorm as long as you have someone who can keep an eye on you. And I will be coming by in the mornings to check on you.”

“Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” Alan said quickly, carefully grasping your hand.

Jiro looked at him for a moment before nodding.

Fifteen minutes later, you were slowly staggering back to your dorm.

Alan’s arm was wrapped around you, and a bag of medical supplies was on his shoulder.

Silence passed between you- and you weren’t too disappointed due to the dull throb with every step and breath. You didn’t think you could manage words very well.

At your door, Alan froze.

You looked up at him, seeing the set of his jaw.

“Alan, what’s wrong?”

You watched a muscle feather.

“I shouldn’t be the one doing this.”

You frowned, turning to fully face him.

“What do you mean? If you don’t want to, that's fine, I can call Jiro and go back to the infirmary.”

Shaking his head, Alan said, “it’s my fault you got hurt. If I had been faster, more aware, then you would be okay. I’ll just make things worse.”

He avoided your eyes.

“This was a bad idea, it would be best for you to go to the infirmary so I don’t get you ki-”

A surprised grunt left him as you yanked him down by the collar and pressed your lips to his.

After a moment, the stiffness left Alan’s body, and his arms wrapped around you, holding you like you were porcelain as he finally reciprocated the kiss.

They broke away, and she was sure the flush on Alan’s face matched her own as he blinked owlishly at her.

“What- what was that for?” he stammered.

You giggled at his shell-shocked expression.

“Alan, I kissed you because I like you,” you cradled his cheek with your good hand, “I would not kiss you if I thought you got me hurt. Now will you please accept that it's not your fault so we can go inside and shower?”

His eyes widened even farther, “Like?”

You tilted your head before realizing what he meant.

“No! Not together- as incredibly attractive as I find you I think sex would kill me right now,” Alan stood straight, face and neck bright red.

Laughing, you said, “I will probably need your help though- if that’s okay?”

Alan cleared his throat, “I said I would take care of you, and I will.”

You blinked at the seriousness in his voice.

Alan was nothing if not committed, and you knew that if he was around you would be taken care of.

[thymejot]

Rio has twice now said 'te veo' as she walks away from Agatha.

I see you

See you

I hope no matter how bad things get in the end, when they are broken and bloody, standing across the battlefield from one another.

When they finally lance all that has been festering between them.

Faced all the heartache, the regrets, the laments, the sour ugliness of their grief, the deep and abiding love.

When they have a had a good cathartic fight to the end of all things.

Rios last words will be 'te veo'

With the explicit understanding that they will meet again. That this is never truly over. That I see all of you, all the parts you hide away. I still see you. Because it is not one way.

Agatha has always seen all of Rio as well.

They love each other because of who they are, not in spite of it.

A relationship like theirs is never truly over. They may not be lovers for now, may be opposing forces. But they will always be a part of each other.

They will always see each other as the truest of equals.

They may not have a happy ending, but then they will never truly end. So that is okay as well.

Agatha will never truly die

[osric-giroux-ffxiv]

DWC 2025 - May - Day 1 - Beauty/Cruel

There were some, a few fortunate ones, who had experienced the beauty of the world from the first. 

They were able to revel in it. Embrace it. 

They didn’t question every time something took a positive turn. Doubt didn’t linger at the back of their minds - they didn’t view everything as a trap. 

He knew those individuals existed…He’d run into one or two when he was younger - they’d tried to challenge his view on the war, or some task he’d been assigned and he’d always scoffed, resisted the urge to roll his eyes when they’d pushed their optimism. 

After all - how could they possibly understand the experience of one who had only experienced cruelty? Rejection? 

Of course everything was going to work out for them - they were safe behind the walls, they had a family doing everything they could to protect them - the cruel war was out there distant…it wasn’t real. Not really. Not to them. 

To him for a majority of his life the war was real, the cruelty was real, the pain, the suffering - all of that was real. 

The beauty? The hope? A waste of time and energy better spent preparing for…literally anything besides what it was being spent on.

That had been his perspective, emphasized by a lifetime of experience…and then had come his children.

Osric sat back - seated as comfortably as he could be on the floor, carefully watching both the twins crawl between Frejya and Tyr - the two wolves relaxed, with their heads settled between their paws. Idalia eventually settled next to Tyr, leaning her head against the wolf as her brother, Evran, crawled over to Osric and settled himself in his lap. 

They were content, protected…oblivious to the world outside. The dangers or the opportunities. 

The twins continued to babble back and forth to one another, drawing Osric from his own musings, and he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the top of Evran’s head - catching the boy’s attention for the briefest of moments. 

He couldn’t protect them from everything but he would do his part - he was, of course, one of three parents - to make sure they didn’t have to face the world on their own. 

They would have the opportunity to have a better childhood than what he did…at the very least, he could help ensure that.

@daily-writing-challenge

[raapija]

‎‧₊˚✧ Whenever you want me *:･ﾟ

fashion designer!lance x footballer!nando

~500 words, no warnings <3

A small glimpse into a tender moment between Fernando and Lance.

Fernando could hear Lance's bare feet padding along the tile flooring of the hallway to his bedroom. The mild scent of his shampoo leafed in through the open door. The Canadian's head peeked into the room. 

"Hey..." he said shyly from the doorway, making Fernando snicker. Lance stepped in, and to Fernando's delight, he had found one of his hoodies to put on. His hair was still wet, dripping onto it and staining parts of the fabric a shade of blue darker. He had on a pair of boxers, too, nothing more. Seeing him like this was strange to his ordinary get-up; a suit and vest, classy and stylish. Sure, Lance looked great in a suit, but Fernando preferred him like this. 

"You look cute." Fernando said when Lance sat on the edge of his bed. He smelled good, his fruity shampoo and soap suited Lance much more nicely. The hoodie was too big on him, Fernando liked them baggy, but Lance almost disappeared into it. He had tied the hoodie's drawstring into a bow, which Fernando found charming. Lance always had to add something special. 

"Can I keep this?" the Canadian asked. He picked at the hem of the hoodie where there was a small tag with a Real Madrid logo on it. Fernando swiped a strand of Lance's damp hair off his forehead and to the side. Lance’s chestnut brown eyes looked at him. 

"Sí, got more than enough." he said and watched Lance's cheeks turn pink. He really was adorable. Lance leaned forward to kiss him, sweet and soft. Completely opposite of the way he had crushed their lips together half an hour ago on the same bed. Not rough and needy, but nice. Tender. 

"I wish I could stay." Lance lamented as he scooted closer, settling into Fernando's arms and laying his head onto his bare chest. Fernando held him close, Lance matching his breathing. 

"You could. Never leave again." Fernando said and rubbed small circles on his back. Lance was warm. Soft to the touch. "Stay with me forever." 

"I wish I could." Lance repeated, his voice small and frail. Right at this moment Fernando could ditch his whole life for him. Quit playing football; get his pension and leave town. Go wherever Lance needed him. Be it Montréal, Paris or Berlin. He couldn't care less about anything other than Lance. He'd lounge in his studio all day, watch him work on his sketches and patterns. Bring him coffee when he needs it and take him out to lunch. 

"Will you come see me soon?" the Canadian asked and Fernando nuzzled his hair. Lance's hold around his waist tightened. Fernando felt like he would shatter into his arms if he let go. Lance rarely let this softer side of him show. Normally he was cool and collected, always ready for whatever came his way. But with Fernando, he could let go of the walls he had built around himself. Make Fernando the one to take care of him. 

"Whenever you want me." 

[sirtaliesin]

Romantic gestures from demons do not translate well.

Romantic gestures from demons do not translate well.

Jason thinks back looking for any indication in his memory of when Etrigan had displayed anything like fondness. The obvious displays are recent, within the last few decades really. Despite Etrigan’s claims that his affection is far from new.

Nothing in his memory reads as affectionate, not really. Possessive at times, certainly, protective even with current context. But affectionate…Jason sits in silent contemplation. Picking over centuries with a scrutiny he doesn’t often dare to employ. Looking for anything that might constitute a romantic gesture from a demon who claims he’d made several.

Protection from harm, he supposes could be filed under that label. Perhaps. Though, that’s a bit self-serving even by demon standards to qualify as romantic. Oh, and that thought catches like a bur against his thoughts. A Demon’s standards for romantic gestures surely would not read the same as a human’s.

Jason scrubs a hand down his face and turns to the shelves of his library. Etrigan had already scoffed at him being woefully dense about all of this. He wasn’t about to request an itemised list of where, when, and what Etrigan considered his early romantic overtures to be.

As he reads it becomes painfully obvious that courting methods were actually not all that dissimilar. Trinkets, gifts of food or delicacies, displays of strength and physical prowess…Jason closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. How many magical curios and books had he acquired because of Etrigan? Not as many as he’d acquired on his own, but the number is not insignificant. Displays of power and strength had been numerous as well. Not that any of that had read as anything other than mocking centuries ago. Or spiteful when the demon had broken loose even when they were on better terms.

Jason recalls waking in a sweet field of flowers with the liver and heart of some beast – he doesn’t think about the times he knows the offal was of human nature – fresh and close at hand. The first time, he’d been horribly ill for the smell of them. That at the time had seemed a cruel taunt as well. Perhaps it was intended to be both.

There had been that strange faerie creature that had attempted to keep Jason as a pet. Not as human as le Fey, though that’s a generous descriptor for Morgaine, but just as unpleasant and power-hungry. She’d cooed over his hair more than anything and Etrigan had snarled like a mad thing. The pain that lanced through his mind had drowned out his own voice as he spoke the rhyme. He had woken with a lightly roasted heart in his hands already half eaten, and the taste of warm iron in his throat. He hadn’t been wholly awake or in control while Etrigan fed him that faerie creature’s heart. The memory of it remains all the same.

Finding the rest of his captor later hadn’t made him as ill as he thinks it might have in the beginning. The flayed corpse was half charred and left for the crows to pick clean. A charm of hiding crafted of fine gold was wrapped around Jason’s wrist instead of hers, and her ribs had been snapped open clean. The heart removed with precision rather than brute force, and nothing else taken.

Jason drops into his favourite reading chair, head in his hands, and resumes picking through his memory. Trinkets and books that he’d chalked up to Etrigan’s willingness to let Jason look for a means of separating them no longer all read the same. Some had to be purely to that end, even if they’d been ultimately useless for it. Others though, little things of power that had made Jason’s life easier or kept him safe…He shakes his head and skips over those. They’re not as numerous as the other things over the years.

While he’d been grateful at the time for it, Jason had still lamented the sheep Etrigan had killed and left for him to share. It had been a healthy farm animal that some poor peasant would not have for wool or milk in the spring. He’d made use of it, how could he not? But the melancholy of it had irritated Etrigan. At the time, Jason hadn’t understood why beyond what he thought was obvious. It had been the last time Etrigan had left him anything from a farm to share.

The next time it had happened, it’d been a hart. Jason hadn’t been upset about that, had even been pleased. He recalls the vague flair of pride and the new context for it settles heavy and warm. While his taste for pork had never really returned over the years, pushed further and further into unpleasant association, his comfort in wild game grew. Etrigan had seemed to favour boar, and he hadn’t questioned why at the time. They were a challenge, or as much as any mortal beast could be for a demon, and they were more than large enough to share with a human appetite. They weren’t the only game Etrigan went after. The bear pelt had been damn welcome when winter had come, all the more so as Jason hadn’t had to hunt it himself or trade for it.

The further he goes into his memories, the more difficult it is to sort. There are things he’s forgotten. Probably details he simply hadn’t noticed at all. Still, what he has sifted out, he can admit that Etrigan had been genuine when he’d said the affection was neither new nor sudden. Jason had just been somewhat stupid.

Jason wrinkles his nose and amends the last to reasonably unaware. Until recently he hadn’t had any reason to think any of the gentler interactions had been anything other than a mutual attempt at peace. Let alone amorous or romantic intent. Or as close to the latter as demonic standard came to human understanding of the word.

All of the revelation and recontextualization ends up back where it began. In the quiet misty places of Jason’s memory. It is, well he still hesitates to say ‘nice’, but there is a pleasant bloom in his chest over the idea.

Weeks later, Etrigan comes to the fore against some magical threat. Tearing across the field with manic glee as foes burn and their allies give him a wide berth. Jason blinks past the familiar blinding glow of hellfire at his friends who shuffle uncertainly. Their discomfort is confusing for only a moment before the familiar iron scent of blood fills his nose. At his feet, a half roasted wild pig smokes gently in the breeze.

It does nothing for the comfort or opinion of his companions, but Jason can’t help himself. He laughs until he’s doubled over with tears in his eyes. In his mind Etrigan snorts with fond amusement. Clearly pleased with himself, and equally so that Jason finally understands.

Once he’s calmed, Jason coughs into his hand. Clearing his throat and choosing whether or not to explain. To Zatanna and Batman, he’ll certainly tell something of the story. Diana will understand without much explanation. The others…He decides he doesn’t care to explain to everyone. He knows who will understand, those few will get an explanation later. Everyone else can draw their own conclusions as he steps over the animal to head for home. A wild pig doesn’t sound like an appealing supper just now, not when he has a properly stocked kitchen.

Still, the smell of smoke and iron in his nose makes his stomach growl. Green Arrow taking a sudden large step away from him nearly brings him to another fit of laughter. He bites his tongue and swallows down the sound without any effort at all. Maybe he should ask the butcher for a lamb’s heart the next time he’s out. It’s not the same as freshly plucked and roasted with hellfire, but sage butter isn’t a bad second choice.

[genshinemblem564]

Genshin Isekai Headcanons

These can be sagau, but they don't have to be.

• Xinyan is stoked that you love her music, and is excited when you offer to play her some music from your world, but she's confused by some of the lyrics. She understands metaphorical lyrics, like the person described in the song isn't actually a rocket, but some of them don't make sense or feel like they were added just to fill a void. Aside from that, she kinda wants to perform some of these songs, now if only she had some band members.

• Tartaglia doesn't have much to say about the guns of your world. The pyro and hydro fatui agents already use guns of some kind, and the cryo fatui agent uses, um. What would you call an ice based flamethrower? No, what he's interested in is the immense amount of new weapons that Teyvat doesn't have, or they probably do, and we just don't hear about them. Like chain blades, I don't know what else to call them, essentially a flail, but instead of a mace, it's blade. I would write something about axes, but I feel like saving that for my crossover series. A scythe is often seen as a special lance, but you tell him that it's much more complicated than that specifically pointing out the blade, and depending on your own skill, you give him a demonstration. He is way too excited to learn all of these new weapons, like a kid excited about a new toy, you can't help but smile.

• Baizhu is perplexed when he first prescribes medicine to you, as you give him a list of allergies, if any, and are more than willing to go through proper examination to learn how resistant your body is to certain toxins. He's even more surprised when you tell him that his unique practice is actually common in your world, so that's why you don't bat an eye at potentially poisonous ingredients.

• Bennett is rather surprised. When you hang out, his bad luck seems to go away. It's actually just you using a bit of foresight, like checking the date on a flyer before rushing to a sale that had already ended, but seeing that glimmer in his eyes, you decide to let his imagination roam.

• You and Cyno are reference lords. You two reference everything, Cyno, his favorite book or book series, and you, your favorite media source. Now, if only people actually understood them, and yes, you do quote Yu-Gi-Oh when playing Genius Invokation.

• If you're an artist, then you quickly catch Albedo's attention. When he sees your drawings, he is quick to ask what you used as a muse, and your answer will have great impact on his reaction. If you point to an object or animal, his response will be normal. If you draw from memory though, he is astounded, especially if what you drew was a scene of some kind, with people, animals, or what have you. Drawing all that from memory is incredible. If you say it's something you made up, he'll compare it to when he's commissioned for his own art.

• Depending on your own interests, you'll be interacting with several different characters. I can't think of anything in depth for these few, so here's a general basis. Barbara is relieved that you're so open to different views. She knows how cruel people can be when they're closed-minded, and she's happy to teach you about the Church of Favonius and Barbatos. Noelle was lamenting not being a knight yet, which led you to bring up the seven chivalric virtues. Yae Miko and Xingqiu are very interested in the stories of your world. Xingqiu hoping to learn more about your worlds code of chivalry, but he ends up learning about justice's different forms. Yae is simply searching for new inspiration. She often calls on you when her old nemesis, writers block, appears. Nahida takes interest in you right away, wanting to gain knowledge from your world, and you seem fun. She knows better than anyone how dangerous knowledge can be, so she asks you to omit potentially dangerous subjects.

• Mona was shocked when you said that you only wanted to know the bad stuff coming your way, not that she could help you, with you being an outworlder and all. When she asked why, you told her "It's best to be prepared for all the bad coming your way, and if you know all the good coming your way, it takes away from life's natural wonder." Which was promptly followed by you asking "Where did that come from?"

___________________________________________

I'm thinking making more of that last one, like " Characters reaction to reader who is randomly philosophical" might need to work on the title a bit. Also, as stated above, these can be sagau, but can also be normal isekai, so I'll use both tags so they can be found more easily

[bigolbard]

A lot of immediate thoughts about Legend of Vox Machina EPs 7-9. Spoiler galore. Get outta here if you haven't watched yet.

Did not like the song choice at the end of Ep 7. This is probably hit or miss personal preference, but felt very tonally disconnected with what was happening in the scene.

THE MOTHERFUCKING CERBERUS ASSEMPLY HOLY SHIT

I'm shocked that they didn't resurrect Percy before fighting Thordak. Genuinely shocked. I have no strong feelings about it from a narrative standpoint, but that's a massive change and just...a lot to chew on.

I didn't like that they changed the tone of Grog's "Fix him" line. That line is iconic, and I'd bet most people have that in their Top 3 most emotional moments from C1, and Grog's forceful tone is the entire reason for that. Changing it just...didn't land for me.

And also Scanlan isn't even dead? Just...in a coma? I don't know how I feel about that change -- it'll probably be dependent on how the last three episodes go.

Vex's coversation with her father was heartbreaking and beautiful and holy fuck Laura Bailey, goddamn it.

Ripley still being alive after Thordak is dead is a very interesting change that I currently have no strong feelings about, but will probably have more feelings about when the season has concluded.

I have two thoughts about Pike Trickfoot. Thought number one is that I don't love this whole "actually her power is intrinsic and not from the everlight" thing, but maybe I'm just misreading where that'll go. Though number two is that every single scene with Pike is either beautiful, hilarious, or the most fucking badass thing I've ever seen in my life. Seriously, she got the Divine Nuke in S1 and now she gets the Dawnmartyr Plate power up scene? Girl, save some badassery for the rest of the team!

I assume the last three episodes will be one devoted to killing Ripley, one devoted to killing Raishan, and one dedicated to resurrections and fallout. However, I have no idea what order that will happen in. On one hand, it's very hard for me to imagine them fighting Raishan without Percy or Scanlan. On the other hand, this batch of episodes changed enough narratively that I no longer have any idea what is and isn't off the table.

I still believe this season will end with Bard's Lament, but given that Scanlan hasn't made his promise to Kaylie yet, I'm...ever so slightly worried about how it's gonna be handled and if they're gonna stick the landing. I have faith, I'm just slightly nervous. There's a lotta shit left to tie up in three episodes.

Killing Kashaw sucks, but I don't hate it. Especially if it gives us a reason for more Zahra in Season 4.

Rest in peace, Lance Reddick. You were fucking amazing as Thordak, and I'm devastated you're not around to receive your deserved praise.

[real-fire-emblem-takes]

Responding to the romhack recommendation ask from August 22nd.

Depends on what you're looking for.

Do you want a mostly vanilla gba fe experience with some interesting design decisions? Check out the princess's lament.

Want something close to vanilla in terms of gameplay difficulty but an all new story? Vision quest.

Do you want something that plays like Thracia 776 (escape maps, capturing, follow up crit modifier, held items that modify growths fatigue, I'm sure there's more unique thracia mechanics I'm forgetting)? Sun god's wrath. Bells of byelen.

Want a hack that STRONGLY rewards resource management and creative use of warp/rescue? Call of the armor.

Want a gba demake of a 3ds remake of a nes game that is about the same quality as the 3ds game in question? Sacred Echoes.

Want a hack that feels more like a dnd party getting into wacky situations than a traditional fire emblem game? Cerulean Coast.

Want a hack that takes a silly concept and follows that concept to wild conclusions? There are so many of these.

Oops all archers (a hack where all of your characters are archers). Or Myrm Emblem (where all of your characters are sword guys). In both of these hacks there are a bunch of different varieties of the base class that promote into wildly different things.

No redundancy hacks - i think all 3 gba games have one now - where all characters of the same role from vanilla are compressed to one unit. For instance in the FE7 one, all three lords are compressed into one unit who has the best of their base stats and growths (so hector's strength, lyn's speed, for instance).

Trainee emblem - a hack of sacred stones where the big change is everyone is one tier lower than they normally are, and can promote to different classes than they normally come in from the base game (for instance, seth is a cavalier and can become a great knight, franz and gilliam are both footlocked lance units that can promote into cavalier or knight). Everyone is weaker/less mobile than they are in vanilla, so it's also kind of a difficulty hack.

👀👀👀

[aspiringtrashpanda]

Satan "knows a guy" for everything. I love how social Satan is. I feel like we don't talk about it enough.

Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 7 Prompt: Satan

It was a warm day in the Devildom. Not uncomfortably warm to the degree where peeling off your skin would be the only way to seek relief – No, it was only that warm in the desert region to the south, or in the steaming waters of Asmodeus’s bathtub – but warm enough that you could comfortably stroll from store to store in a shirt without requiring a sweater. 

“It is a nice day out,” Satan observed, though you weren’t sure if he was speaking to himself or expecting an answer from you. 

Apparently, you guessed wrong when you assumed the former. Curiosity tangoed with amusement in his sea green eyes, peering at you as you took slightly longer strides than usual to keep up with his brisk pace. “Is that why you wanted to accompany me?” 

“No.” You shook your head, tugging open the door to Hell’s Supermarket and grinning at him with all your teeth. He thanked you, a slightly bewildered expression lancing across his face as he entered the store before you. He probably hadn’t anticipated such a direct response. 

“Ah! Satan! Good afternoon,” A fresh faced demon waved from where she leaned over the death deli counter. “Your turn to buy the groceries?”

“Yes.” With a charming smile that squinted his eyes into crescent moons, Satan offered a playful, “I’m lucky I wasn’t the one on grocery duty yesterday.”

You grabbed a basket, and started surveying the meat that the demon had available. Though you pretended to be very occupied choosing between smoked basilisk and oven-roasted black tapir, you eavesdropped on the easy volley of conversation between the store clerk and the Avatar of Wrath. 

“Oh, yes. The rain was just awful.” She frowned, “Your brother made quite a fuss when he stormed in here.”

Satan laughed sheepishly, “Well, that’s Mammon’s fault for failing to check the forecast.” 

The demon giggled, glancing towards you for a brief moment before concluding, “Sure, but I’m certainly happy to see you in his place. What can I get the two of you today?”  

“Why are you smiling?” Satan asked as you both exited the store, two shopping bags in his grasp. 

“No reason.” You chirped, unable to hide the giddy bubble swelling in your chest. A lie would have to suffice. “If I close my eyes, the moonlight is almost as bright as the sun.” 

And you did just that, allowing the affection thrumming throughout your body to spill over into a silly display of closing your eyes and craning your face towards the moon. You heard Satan click his tongue, though you know it was less a sound of irritation, and more a warning to the many demons passing by to watch out for your blind steps. 

Despite the beautiful weather, the downtown strip wasn’t overwhelmingly busy. Merchants seemed to be taking advantage of the quiet afternoon, tidying the front of their stores or preparing new window displays. Even the patio of Hell’s Kitchen was rather empty, with only a handful of patrons munching on a burger and sipping a glass of demonus.

“Are you homesick?” Satan asked, sometime after he had used a book he thought would interest the shopkeeper at Demoning to negotiate a deal on tea leaves, and sometime before making plans to visit the theater with the piano technician at the music store. You had stopped there to purchase a new metronome, as the old one had mysteriously disappeared (Mammon had probably sold it), but you weren’t bothered in the slightest by the employee's fifteen minute review of the visiting symphony. Frankly, Satan committing to plans with someone outside of the House of Lamentation delighted you greatly. 

“Nah.” This time, it wasn’t a lie. 

His steps paused. His emerald eyes swept over you, his brow slightly creased as he tried to see into your soul. You weren’t sure what he surmised from your body language, but he came to some sort of conclusion, as he turned on his heel. “Wait here for a moment.”

You watched as his mop of golden hair retreated across the street, to the bored popcorn vendor lingering outside of Café Lament. It was entertaining, the way he moved with such alert grace. You could practically picture fluffy ears flicking this way and that atop his head. 

He did possess a sort of feline quality, in his movements, in his behavior. He managed to hold a conversation while being more observant than the average demon about his surroundings. The entire time the vendor filled his order, he made small talk that seemed genuine despite his attention remaining on you. You could feel it. 

Satan returned with popcorn, movie theater yellow and wrapped up in a commercial striped bucket. “It’s simple butter and salt. I figured you may want a snack that reminds you of home. The vendor also had an extra coffee from Café Lament, and he was nice enough to offer it to me.” 

You accepted the gift, regardless of the meaning. If it comforted Satan to think that he had cheered you up by buying you a snack, then you would let it be. In reality, simply existing in his space was what had encouraged you to accompany him from the start. His company was quiet, honest, and steady. 

You knocked your popcorn carton against his coffee cup.

You had a feeling many others appreciated his company, too. 

Well, except for the jackass who slammed right into Satan’s chest. The demon’s face had been buried in his D.D.D. It was now dripping with premium hell coffee.

You flinched, gasped, braced yourself for the inevitable blow up. Satan’s hand – the one that wasn’t drenched in spilt coffee – clamped onto the demon’s bicep, steered him off to the side of the street. Should you look away? It was probably best to avoid witnessing a murder.

But then, the demon was walking away, completely unscathed, and Satan was returning to your side with only a mildly perturbed expression. 

“You aren’t upset?” You asked, eyeing the bright skin of his index finger where the hot coffee had gushed over his skin. 

“Hm?” He didn’t seem to understand why you would even ask. “No. Why would I be? It was an honest mistake.”

It was as if the record had skipped and you were stuck in this moment where only the audience understood the irony of the situation. You filled him in. “Lucifer did the same thing when he was half-asleep two weeks ago and you summoned hellfire to burn his phonograph to smithereens.”

“Well,” Satan laughed, loud and brash. “That was personal.” 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

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