#sorry for the tag if it's unwanted ;_;

[moonpaw]

[crime-wives]

Send Up a Signal (that everything's fine)

by @coalitiongirl

[doyouknowthemossinman]

@silverskye13

"You what?"

"My surgery? This is where I got it done?" Tanguish reiterated, gesturing at the run-down building they were passing on their way to the apothecary. It was in an out-of-the-way part of town, with generally more misshapen houses, but it was a nice enough neighborhood compared to other parts of hels.

Helsknight stared at the house. The roof had sunken in, and the windows almost looked like crying eyes instead of windows. The stones around the front door were cracked and weathering away. Tanguish hadn't thought it would be such a big deal, but the look on Helsknight's face indicated otherwise.

"How in hels did you recover? What, were you operated on with rusty tools, too? Do I need to worry about tetanus around you?"

"I had health potions," Tanguish replied with a pout, crossing his arms. "It really wasn't that bad."

"You didn't have counseling? Or even try to find a real clinic?"

"There's counseling?"

Helsnight heaved a long-suffering sigh and dragged a hand down his face. "Nevermind. Come on, we're on a schedule here." Tanguish rolled his eyes, but followed.

[cheatsykoopa98]

how do you cope with being the most annoying human being in the world?

I hate being socially anxious

[jakesangel]

mutuals as colors?

hai anon bby >< sure ᵎ i’m not gonna do all my mooties as i don't know each of them really well, but which colors makes me think of who >.<

red : @jwsdoll @alvojake

blue : @vlaeaex

pink : @diorcelle n @sjyunnsworld n me :3

black : @heeslomll

green : @kareyuns @mygnolia

yellow : @allurecile @hoonored @ninitecoo

purple : @bywons @intromortal

orange : @kissofhoon

white : @luvlyhee

[thatsafuckeduptale]

I CANNOT KEEP FORGETTING TO UPLOAD THIS SO HERE IT IS

This is a fic based off of @pancake-shmamcake's bad end pacifist AU, please note the fic is not proof read, beta read, or even written that well considering it was written at 1am while I was super tired.

The fic has been done since the 20th and I've been hoping that I would get the inspiration/drive to rewrite it or proof read it but unfortunately that has yet to happen <:( So please do not critique my writing as I am already aware of all of the problems it has.

This fic has character death and body horror in it! It also contains some spoilers for the Pacifist ending for undertale yellow. Link to the AU post here and a link to the Amalgam's design is here.

Ceroba couldn’t breathe. The air surrounding her was suffocating and heavy with regret. Her SOUL burned within her chest, screaming at her that she’s made a mistake. A mistake that would haunt her for the rest of her life. How could this go so wrong? How could she have known that this would have been the end result? The fox monster wanted to scream. She wanted to scream and curse and swear at the world for being so cruel; but she couldn’t. She was stock still as she watched the shambling child shaped mass regain its balance on shaking legs. She watched as the mask that bore her daughter's resemblance slip and fall from its face, revealing a gaping hole.

Ceroba wanted to cry out her frustrations… but she was scared. Not scared of the security bots nor the royal scientist she had knocked out, but scared of the being she had inadvertently created. A fusion of her fallen down daughter… and the human she slaughtered mercilessly to obtain her goal. Ceroba watched as the amalgam bent down, searching the ground for the mask it had dropped. The fox waited with baited breath as it clumsily moved, shambling slowly towards where the mask lay. When the amalgam had finally located the mask it held it gently, before placing it back upon the gaping hole. Ceroba felt her magic run cold as the fusion of her daughter and the human looked at her. The cold, unfeeling eyes of the mockery of her sins stared through her. Instead of reacting to her, though, it instead focused on the torn and burnt cowboy hat lying a few feet in front of her. It reacted in excitement, a gurgling noise erupting from behind the mask as it limped towards the hat. The amalgam excitedly picked up the hat, far faster than it had lifted its own face, and gently put it upon its head. The face of Kanako remained unmoving. Unchanging as it adjusted the hat to its liking.

Then it looked back at her; and Ceroba wishes she could reset and go back. The expression on the mask was one she knew… the one she saw on her daughter before she fell down. Agony. Ceroba desperately cursed whatever higher being was out there. Whatever higher being was punishing her. This was beyond cruel. This was beyond penance. Had she not paid for her crimes already? Could she not have a happy ending? Her thoughts were ripped from her when she heard her name being yelled. The amalgam standing across from her perked at the voice, recognition dawning on it immediately. No. No no no no no no no. Ceroba wanted to stand up, to ward off her best friend from seeing what she had done. Yet the shock from what had happened chained her down. Kneeling on the cold tile of the Royal scientist’s secret lab.

“Ceroba! You can’t-“ The sheriff’s voice died in his throat as he entered, not even making it a few feet before he froze. Ceroba couldn’t stand to turn and face him. Even if she could, she knew the expression on his face would kill her inside. More footsteps followed from behind him and a cacophony of voices frantically tried to convince her to drop her plans. As soon as the others entered the room though, all their cries had died. Ceroba could hear Martlet and Moray gasp, Edward had choked on his own voice, she could even hear Mooch’s claws catch on the sleeve of Ace’s coat. Ceroba wished her body would cooperate. She wished she could stand up. Explain this horrible tragedy away. Instead, someone else spoke up.

“Un…cle… st…arl…o…” Ceroba could feel the bile rising in her throat. The voice from the amalgam was an echoing fusion of the human’s voice and her daughters. Overlapping and twisting into a horrible chorus she would give anything to forget. Ceroba flinched when she heard the thud behind her. Someone had passed out.

“No…” Starlo’s voice was strained. The fox monster didn’t need to look behind her to know how he looked. The expression of horror and realization. “Ceroba… you…” please don’t. I’m sorry. She willed her voice to work. She willed her body to speak.

Instead, the world decided it wasn’t done with her yet. Sharp bullets sliced through her as she was knocked back by a force of wind. The shock was enough to shake her from her stupor, and she stared wide eyed at her attacker. Martlet stood above her, snarling as best a bird with a beak could. “What did you do.” It wasn’t a question, not an optional one.

“I’m sorry.” Ceroba choked out the words she knew would do nothing. Closing her eyes as the royal guard member flicked her wing, sending a cascade of feather shaped bullets into her body.

“Sorry? You’re SORRY?!” Martlet’s voice was rising, anger and grief lacing every word. “You KILLED Clover! You hurt your own daughter! That wasn’t enough for you!? You had to do it again?!” Ceroba choked on her sobs. Her body aching and stinging from the cuts the feathers had left. She blinked back her tears as she gazed upon the royal guardsman. Angry tears filled the bluebird's eyes as she glowered back. Before the bird could attack again massive arms picked the bird monster up.

“Hey! You need to calm down!”

“How could I calm down! You see what she’s done? She deserves this! She-“

“You’re scaring the kids!”

Both Ceroba and Martlet froze. Their heads swinging back to the amalgam, who was in the tight embrace of the sheriff.

He held them tightly, mumbling apologies and sobbing between every word as he comforted them. The amalgam gurgled as it pat and rubbed his back, a feeble attempt at comfort. Ceroba couldn’t hear what he was saying from where she laid on the floor, but she knew it was probably apologies for how she had acted; and apologies for what she had done.

Her attention turned to the other three in the feisty five. Her heart sank when she realized it was Moray who had collapsed earlier. Their head laid on Mooch’s lap and tail as Ace attempted to heal them with green magic.

…this was all wrong. It shouldn’t have gone this way. It was supposed to go how Chujin predicted. Kanako was supposed to be healed and break the barrier.

A loud sob dragged Ceroba back to the tragedy before her. Martlet and Edward had joined Starlo with the amalgamate. The bird hugged them tightly as Starlo and Edward hung back. Martlet sobbed out apology after apology to the twisted fusion, to which it replied by patting her head and gurgling. To her surprise, it was Edward who approached her.

She stared up at him, as he stared down at her. “…you know what’s going to happen… right?” His voice was quiet. Ceroba glanced away, anxiety bubbling in her gut. “The king’s going to find out about this… and you’ll be punished.” She knew that no matter what she’d be punished by the Crown. Why bother reminding her of what she already knew? “… and Kanako and Clover are going to be experimented on.” That got her attention.

“No-!” She tried to sit up, but cried out in pain and collapsed back on the floor. Everything hurt. Her body, her SOUL, her mind. She hadn’t even considered that! Success or not, the king would probably want Kanako studied regardless! Ceroba gasped for air desperately as she clawed at the tiles furiously. She couldn’t- wouldn’t let them rip her daughter away from her again! Edward’s gaze held pity in it. Pity that made her want to rip it from his expression and beat him with it. Ceroba wouldn’t lose her daughter again! No-!

“Ceroba… it’s time to give it up.” Her body froze as Starlo’s voice cut through the air like ice. He had never spoken to her like that before. “I think you’ve done enough damage.” Ceroba desperately looked at him, but he avoided her gaze. His hat hid his expression as he knelt next to the amalgam, next to Martlet still holding onto them for dear life. “I… I know you just wanted to help Kanako… but gosh darn it, Ceroba!” His voice broke as he held back a sob. “You really messed up this time… I tried so hard to help… to make you happy, but… but I can’t help you now.” Starlo’s body shook. “I… you…” Ceroba watched with guilt as he lifted his hat to furiously wipe at his eyes with his sleeve. The amalgam noticing and reaching out to him in an attempt to comfort and console him.

“You ruined two lives trying to fulfill Chujin’s legacy… you couldn’t just let his legacy be helping others with a smile on his face… you had to-!” Martlet’s wings flew up to her hair as she stood and swung her body to face Ceroba. “You had to corrupt it! You had to turn his legacy into this!?” Edward quickly rushed to Martlet’s side to stop her from attacking the fox again. He wrapped her into a tight hug, pinning her wings to her side to prevent another hail of bullets.

Ceroba could feel her adrenaline fading. The stress was finally catching up to her. The anguished cries from Starlo as he held the amalgamate and the rage filled screams from Martlet becoming white noise in her head. All she could see once she closed her eyes… was the blood stained body of Clover, and the soulless expression of her daughter’s mask. 

[pumpkin-wants-a-cherry-scone]

Day 5: Fight

It's suppose to be Mordelia and Baz btw. For some reason, I had a hard time figuring out what I wanted to draw. But I went for this part in The Selkie and his Boy by @hushed-chorus

(it's a really good fic btw you should read it)

Also, in case it's unclear, Baz is holding his wand. Fret not, tis not a knife (if anyone is fretting lol) (the idea of Baz pulling a knife on Mordelia is absolutely ridiculous and is sending me lksdjfklsdajflksj) (I'm fretting).

[bi-chimneyy]

not an rpf shipper but as far as rpf goes... r*liver is just mid tier, no fandom history even

[essenceofarda]

.

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, read the first line.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,363. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: fighting and blood mentions.)

Chapter 39: Duel Purpose

“The Commander is going to duel Lady Orroat!”

Trevelyan almost spat out her tea.

Lady Samient had burst through the door of the Baroness’ chamber, disrupting the quiet morning conversation taking place within. Both women whirled on her, but—before they could query what she had said—Samient was already gone.

Trevelyan locked eyes with the Baroness, their faces equal in confusion. With nary a word spoken between them, they threw down their tea, and gave chase.

They pursued the sound of Lady Samient’s vanishing footsteps along the corridor, and down the stairs—tumbling out into the Great Hall, where they managed, at last, to catch her.

“What is going on?” asked Trevelyan, to no answer. Samient’s only response was to shoo them out of the door, to the courtyard beyond.

Emerging into the glare of the sun, they caught a glimpse of a crowd below, congregating around the sparring ring. Soldiers, servants, visiting nobles—it appeared most of Skyhold had turned out for the event. Word, as always, had spread rather quickly.

Yet, within the ring, Trevelyan saw only two individuals of note: a battle-ready Lady Orroat, plated in iridescent obsidian, preparing to fight—and a flailing Lady Erridge, who tugged fruitlessly at her arm.

“Really, Lady Orroat, it is quite all right!” she pleaded, as the Ladies neared. “I suffered no injury from the Commander’s rejection, I assure you!”

Lady Orroat fastened her pauldrons.

“I am completely fine—I swear!” continued Erridge, to seemingly little effect. “I don’t mind at all! This is surely unnecessary!”

Lady Orroat turned. She hooked a finger beneath Lady Erridge’s chin, and tilted her face towards her own. Soft morning light trickled around them, motes of dust dancing through the air. The crowd almost melted away; time appeared to slow. Just their silhouette, in the shape of two lovers. As gentle as her touch, Lady Orroat spoke:

“My dearest Tam, though you may bear the insult, I cannot. No man shall walk this plane and feel so entitled as to so callously discard your treasured affection.” Her thumb traced the curve of Erridge’s jaw. “Please, my Lady. Allow me this.”

Trevelyan’s mouth fell open. Lady Samient gripped her arm. The Baroness fanned herself. All those romances Lady Erridge had read, and somehow, she had failed to realise that she was, apparently, living in one.

Naturally quite helpless to do anything but gaze back at Lady Orroat, her eyes—wide and innocent as a doe’s—fluttering rapidly, Lady Erridge assented.

“Oh, well—um, don’t hurt him too much, I suppose?”

Lady Orroat took a step back, and bowed low. “Anything for you, my Lady.”

She strode away, to meet her foe. Lady Erridge listlessly waved her off, before stumbling over to where the Ladies had gathered. She was a mess of giggles and squeaks, unable to say anything that was not in relation to her dear Lady Orroat.

The Baroness helped her regain her faculties, as Trevelyan and Samient shared in the amusement of it. Certain that Erridge would recover from her stupor, they returned their attention to the ring.

Lady Orroat—sword drawn—had taken position at its centre, and performed spectacular practice swings, to the adoration of the crowd. Yet, while all eyes were on her, Trevelyan’s drifted, to the other side of the arena—in search, perhaps, of the Lady’s opponent.

Her breath caught.

There he stood. Soldiers flanked his sides, aiding him to prepare. Armour was placed upon his body; leather straps were pulled taut by his iron grip. He tested his breastplate with a beat to the chest; it clanged against the metal of his gauntlet.

His mantle was brought, and draped over his back, amplifying the broadness of his shoulders. His helm was presented—a lion’s roar, frozen in steel—and lowered upon his head, his fearsome glare framed within its maw. His sword was last, offered in its belt and sheath. He strapped it around his hips, good and tight. His fingers curled around the blade’s hilt.

The sword was drawn; he needed no practice. He was the Commander of the Inquisition—and Maker, did he look it, in the entirety of his regalia. Intimidating, unwavering, he stalked towards his opponent.

“Hey.”

Trevelyan startled, quite unaware how how enraptured she had been by the display. She glanced about for the source of the voice, and found Varric beside her, holding up a pouch of coin.

“I’m taking wagers on who’s gonna win. Want in?” he asked.

Lady Samient, whom Trevelyan had definitely not forgotten was beside her, took an interest. “What are the odds?”

“Winning side splits the pot.”

The Baroness tossed a coin to him, which he caught with ease. “One crown on Lady Orroat.”

Lady Erridge applauded. “Oh, good choice!”

Varric noted it down, and moved on to the next group of punters. Trevelyan watched him go, then returned her gaze to the arena. A Captain addressed the combatants, and defined the rules—to which they gave their assent. Satisfied, the Captain withdrew, and raised an arm.

A hush fell over the crowd. Anticipation slowed the air around them. Breath spilled from Trevelyan’s lips. The Captain’s arm dropped.

They charged. Swords clashed.

It was the Commander who dominated first. His muscular build and experienced arm were a force to be reckoned with. He struck out with a barrage of blows, each one ferocious as the last. Each one as confident. Each one as precise. He commanded the battlefield, as was his right.

Yet Lady Orroat showed no signs of yielding. She was a fleet-footed fighter, taking each hit and turning it into momentum. Dodges and blocks; no counters. It seemed she was not interested in fighting back—not yet. She was biding her time. She was waiting for something.

Whatever opening this was, the Commander would not give it. He stepped back only to return, with even greater force. Trevelyan admired the arc of his sword through the air, its flash in the sunlight, as he thrust hard toward her abdomen.

Lady Orroat deflected it away. The crowd gasped. The Commander was open.

She delivered a swift slice to his arm, before it could straighten. The Commander’s grip weakened. She moved in, butted her pommel direct into his helm. The Commander stumbled back. A mighty kick to his chest, and he was thrown to the ground.

The crowd roared, the Ladies cheered. The Baroness was going to get that crown back.

Lady Orroat strode to where the Commander lay. Before he could recover, she knocked his helm away, with the tip of her blade—and then held it to his throat.

“Yield.”

The crowd waited, breath bated, for the reply. The Commander let his sword fall from his grasp. “I yield.”

The Captain’s arm went up, on Orroat’s side. The crowd began to holler and cheer. Soldiers, trained hard in this same ring, applauded the satisfaction of seeing their Commander humiliated.

Lady Erridge burst from the masses, running to Lady Orroat’s arms. The Lady dropped her sword, and embraced Erridge entirely, twirling her through the air.

Over the noise of the crowd, one could barely hear what was said between them in that moment. But as their dance ended, and Orroat set Erridge down, she sank onto one knee—and the crowd fell silent once more.

“Lady Tam Erridge, of West Coldon,” said Lady Orroat, loud enough for all to hear. “My dearest friend. My most ardent love. I have been enamoured with you since the day we met; in the years I have known you, my love for you has only grown. I have always cherished our friendship, but I wish to cherish you entirely. Please, I humbly beg—will you marry me?”

The pause afterward felt as though a lifetime. Though no one suffered it as much as Orroat, the Ladies held their breath. They looked to Erridge—as did the entire crowd—and waited.

Erridge, fixed in place, blinked. “Oh, Lady Orroat,” she gasped, “well—of course! I could not think of anything more wonderful in all my life!”

Lady Orroat shot to her feet, and collided with Erridge. The Ladies screamed, joyous and in sheer disbelief. The crowds applauded. At long last, a kiss that had waited for years to exist, finally came to be.

The Ladies rushed the arena, and even more followed. They met and embraced both Erridge and Orroat, smiling, laughing, squealing in delight. The world became nothing but noise and happiness. Congratulations were given, and received with joy. Invitations to a wedding, promised and assured.

Never had Trevelyan seen such mirth, and such festivity. Though very few of Skyhold knew the significance of the event, they celebrated nonetheless. The happiness of others was enough motivation.

And yet, in the crowd, Trevelyan found one face to be missing. As her friends continued their revelry, she continued to sweep their surroundings. Somewhere, in this maelstrom of merriment, surely—

“Your winnings!” came Varric’s voice, not quite the one she’d been looking for. He passed a handful of coins to the Baroness, who tucked them discreetly into a pocket, and told some joke about starting a fund for her wedding attire.

But before he moved on, to hand out his next prize, he stopped—for just a moment—beside Trevelyan.

“Armoury,” he said.

Trevelyan looked out, over the heads that surrounded her. The vaguest shape of red wool and silver plate disappeared into a building nearby.

“Thank you,” she said to Varric—but he had already gone. She made her excuses to her friends instead, and began to pick her way through the crowds.

It was difficult, to move against the flow of excitement—but soon enough, she found herself at the very edges of the hubbub. The armoury door lingered open, just a crack, in the distance. She hurried towards it.

Peeking her head through, Trevelyan took in the space. She’d not been here often. It acted as a secondary smithy, with forges and furnaces along the back wall, swathing the room in their warmth and light.

Yet, unlike the smithy of the Undercroft, soldiers would frequent this place. Armour and weaponry lined the racks, ready for use in training. A long bench, where such soldiers would prepare, waited below.

Today, however, it boasted only one occupant.

The Commander had collapsed upon the bench, wrenching the plate from his body. Each piece clattered to the floor as soon as the straps came loose. With all outside celebrating, there was no one to attend him.

And so he continued the task himself, stripping his mantle and laying it over his lap. Arms free, he tugged at his gorget until it came loose; removed it and the breastplate beneath. Just a gambeson, now, and his helm.

He discarded the latter first, his face at last revealed—exhausted, and panting. Sweat-streaked skin glistened in the glow of the fires. But not mere sweat alone. Trevelyan gasped. Blood. There was blood.

The Commander must have felt it, for he raised his hand to his upper lip, and pulled it away, red. A bloody nose. That strike to the face.

He sighed, and, like the weight of the world was holding him down, leant back against the wall—

“Forward, Commander!” blurted Trevelyan, before she’d even thought of what to say next. “You... need to tilt your head forward.”

His eyes widened at seeing her there, but he followed her instruction regardless. “Thank you,” he said.

Trevelyan barely acknowledged it. She glanced at the door, and almost stepped through—but, out of the corner of her eye, saw a drop of crimson splash against the floor.

She could not leave him like this.

She let the door shut, and turned instead towards him. A hand dipped into her pocket, and from within, she produced a small cloth.

“Commander,” she said, creeping closer, “use this.”

Head still tilted downward, the Commander’s hand clumsily found hers. Their fingers overlapped for the briefest of moments—before he took hold of the cloth, and fled with it.

Yet he hesitated, in bringing it to his face. “This is from the banquet,” he muttered.

Surprising that he’d somehow remembered. But he was right. It was the napkin he’d given to her that night, to dry her tears.

“I had it cleaned,” said Trevelyan.

He held it out to her. “I... can’t use this.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to stain it.”

Trevelyan sighed. “Commander, you’re bleeding. Please.”

His hand withdrew, and he pressed the napkin to his nose. Trevelyan took a little step back, and watched him. Her hands twisted around each other, unsure of what to do with themselves.

“Commander?” she whispered.

He started to raise his head.

“No, no—keep it forward,” Trevelyan instructed. “Please.”

This order came not only for the benefit of his bloodied nose. She could not bear both his gaze, and the words she wished to say. Thank the Maker, he did as asked.

“I’m... so sorry, Commander, for my behaviour, last we spoke,” she murmured, struggling not to falter. “My response to your situation was entirely unsympathetic, and undeservedly harsh. My temperament at the time was not balanced, and it is you who bore the brunt of that. I am sorry, truly, I am.”

He was quiet for a moment. A terrifying, excruciating moment. Until, that is, he said:

“You needn’t apologise to me.”

Trevelyan blinked. “What?”

“Nothing of what you said to me that day was incorrect or undeserved,” the Commander told her, voice firm. “You had every right to despise me. I treated you all disgracefully.”

He lifted his head, if only for a second, to look at her—despite the pain it seemed to bring.

“It was not your fault, but mine. There is nothing for you to apologise for. I am sorry. For everything I did.”

She waited until his head dipped back down, and moved a little closer. “But even if I were upset, even if I were right, I needn’t have been so wicked in how I addressed you.”

“No. I deserved to know the consequences of my actions, in as clear and difficult terms as possible. I was cruel, and ignorant. I needed to understand the hurt I had caused. Especially to you. And... I am sorry that I did, cause it.”

Trevelyan sank to her knees before him. Gently, she took the napkin from his grasp, and examined his nose.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” she told him.

Unable to meet her eye, he nodded, head still bowed.

“I understand why you did it,” she muttered. “Lady Montilyet explained to me, what the court of Orlais has put you through. Were I faced with the same, I cannot imagine I would have acted differently.”

The Commander’s head shook. “You would. You would never have done what I did to all of you.”

“Oh, come, Commander. You’ve seen my less savoury side, now.” She folded the napkin, so that it formed a clean little square. “You should have heard the things I called you the first night we met.”

“Deserved, I’m sure.”

“Stop punishing yourself, Commander.” Trevelyan raised the napkin to his face. “May I?”

He nodded. She placed her fingertips beneath his chin, and tilted his head. The cloth was dabbed upon a small cut, lancing across his cheek.

“Besides,” she said, “I hear you’ve had punishment enough.”

The mere mention was enough to eke a little smirk from his mouth.

“Yes, the Ladies made quite sure of that,” he murmured. “I... ought to have listened to you, and Lady Montilyet. They are good women.”

“Impressive, even?” she suggested.

“Yes.”

Trevelyan smiled. She turned his head, and brushed dirt from his other cheek.

“Their ‘punishments’ were more endearing than I believe was intended,” the Commander confessed. “I quite enjoyed their company.”

“Finally.” Trevelyan withdrew her hand, let him face forward once more. “I told you.”

“You did. Though… I was right about one thing.”

“What is that?”

He smiled, eyes askance. “I still much prefer yours.”

“Oh.”

Trevelyan stared at him. No longer seeking his skin for wounds, she took in his face, closer now than it had ever been. Every prick of stubble was in perfect focus. The exact curve of the scar that marred his lip. Each lash that framed his honey eyes.

She caught their gaze.

“Um…”

The door burst open. Trevelyan scrambled to her feet, shoving the napkin into her pocket. Lady Orroat—halfway-out of her own armour—strode in, with Lady Erridge hanging upon her arm.

“Oh!” gasped Erridge, eyes wide at seeing Trevelyan. “Lady Trevelyan is here. Um, dearest Hul, perhaps we should leave them, for a moment—”

Lady Orroat, apparently as oblivious in nature as her fiance, continued regardless. “But we must make certain the Commander is all right,” she begged, marching for where he sat. She winced, upon seeing his face. “Oh, Maker, I am so sorry, Commander.”

“It’s fine,” he said, though Trevelyan could not help but note a hint of confusion in his voice. He mouthed, to Lady Orroat: “Does she know?”

‘She’ referring here to Lady Erridge—who promptly began to giggle.

“I’m afraid I do!” she confessed. “My dear Lady confessed all to me after the duel had ended—though I had suspected it might be a ruse. Dear Hul would never truly be so insistent upon fighting if I objected so!” She took Orroat’s hand, and squeezed it tight. “Oh, it was so terribly romantic. Thank you, Commander. I am ever so sorry that it got you hurt.”

He waved it off. “Perhaps that makes us even.”

Erridge nodded. “I believe it does.” She glanced between Trevelyan and the Commander once more, and tugged at Orroat’s hand. “Come, my love, we’d best be off.”

Orroat finally allowed herself to be led away—but as they left, called out:

“There’s been some kind of impromptu party arranged at the tavern nearby! Do come along!”

“No, no,” said Erridge, hurrying Orroat out of the door, “stay here as long as you like!”

The door swung shut, and silence fell again. Trevelyan looked to the Commander. He had begun to reoccupy himself with the removal of his armour, and was already busy loosening his greaves.

“Is that why you invited Lady Orroat here?” she asked.

He glanced up. “Hm?”

“You conspired with Lady Orroat to stage a duel?”

The Commander released the straps, and straightened up. “Not originally. I invited her because I realised Lady Erridge cared for her. I thought it might be a start, at making amends. I spoke to her privately after she arrived. She told me of how she and Lady Erridge had met—through a duel, between a boy and Lady Orroat.”

Trevelyan nodded. “Lady Erridge told me the same story.”

“I suggested we recreate the circumstances, to provide Lady Orroat an opportunity to reveal her affection. I thought it... might be poetic, in some way.”

He shrugged. Trevelyan smiled. A little warmth gathered in her chest.

She moved closer.

“Will you be attending the party, Commander?”

He shook his head, and continued working off his greave. “I am unsure the loser would be welcome at the celebration.”

“I believe it would a show of humility,” Trevelyan teased. “You do have an arrogant streak.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

The Commander glanced up at her, hand finding the back of his neck. “I, ah…”

Trevelyan giggled. “Here,” she said, offering him the napkin, sullied as it was, “in case you need it. I’d best get to the party, before any rumours start.”

He took it, and nodded. “Yes, of course, ah…”

“Perhaps I will see you,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

She smiled, and bid him farewell with a curtsy. He bowed as best he could, and watched her go.

Trevelyan had thought, that when she spoke to him again, she would know what she wanted. Whether she wanted to forgive him, whether she wanted to trust him.

She was right, in a way. For when she glanced back, one last time, before slipping through the door—she knew exactly what she wanted.

It was simply not an option she’d expected.

[midmorninggrey]

Zero-Context WIP Game

If you’re tagged, make a new post and share 1-2 (a few) sentences from your most recent unposted WIP(s) with zero context – Let your followers guess!

I'm throwing myself in here because my dash has been filled with beautiful little snippets all day, and gosh, it's been great. Shout out to @inquisimer for opening the floor.

And this is really the best zero context I've got going on

Fenris and Cal did not relax. They sat squeezed into opposite ends of the old bathtub, each with their knees tucked up to their chins, and stared at one another over the steaming water. Their toes were forced to meet in the middle.  “This is nice,” Cal said enthusiastically, hugging his shins closer. Fenris knew at once this whole idea had been a mistake; he’d long since learned Cal only called things nice when they were, in fact, horrendous. 

tagging @samseabxrn and @blarrghe if you'd like!

[go-johnny-go-go-go-go]

help? I keep putting Without You by Harry Nilson on repeat.

(finally made myself watch A Quiet Night In with @kookaburrito 's rewatch and these are the consequences)

[crime-wives]

WIP Tag Game

Rules: post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

tagged by: @emily-prentits @peridotglimmer @sucker-for-emily-prentiss

since i have so many wips i will only list the ones i'm actively working on lol

if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did

i would stay forever if you say "don't go"

leopold underworld sighting

fwb sq (ambiguous timeline)

you and i, we’re sweet nothings (temporary title)

emma swan thing

don’t you dare say that you’ll braid my hair babe (if you don’t really care)

cleaning

gonna make the blorbo so sad

neverland rewrite (healing)

why tf did they name their child neal

…i am going to knife myself

meddison 2x04 idk

saving the tedstina fandom singlehandedly (not really)

angsty mer thing (you could let it all go, it's called: freefall)

addek. fuck [do you think i have forgotten (about you)]

meredith grey is totally not a stalker

shes so sad in this one

oh no, i'm hurting them

no pressure with the tags, (sorry for any unwanted ones) @flyingpotstickers @nostradamus0 @horsetailcurlers2 @everiistence @itwasmagic @inkedroplets @inlovewithjemily @aqueerchronicle @hummingbirdswords @lesbian-boo-radley @fabulousglitch @dungeonsanddoormats @fazedlight @morallygreykoifsh @sillyfroggremlin @holdaheartinmyhands @walshies @mx-loar-tev @thelastevilregal

[project-sekai-facts]

In the Hitorinbo Envy 2DMV, during the first and second chorus, Miku and Kanade appear to have an indifferent expression (eyes open normally, mouth closed) while Mizuki appears surprised or shocked (wide eyes, mouth slightly agape).

In the final chorus, Miku and Kanade appear to have that shocked expression, while Mizuki's is neutral. This change is probably to reflect the change in attitude of the people in the song by the end of it.

[switchbladefightz]

i fully understand people being upset about the klaus getting sex trafficked thing & i don't want to excuse that plot line or anything else going on in s4 because it's sure ... not what i wanted (although i don't have high expectations for tuatv in general) but i feel like some are missing that it's just. lifted straight from the comics. that happens in the comics. almost beat for beat. the show has a very different tone from the comic and that's part of what makes it so jarring! but there's a - very flimsy - reason for including that specific plot line (other than needing klaus off doing something because for some reason tuatv is obsessed with making him irrelevant to the plot). yeah anyway

[mechahero]

//Still floating that little dream world idea around. And then started brainstorming what Lambda's might be like. So far, toying around with landscape ideas such as there being a sky with building bits smushed together, floating a nice blue sky with all the other items that can be seen floating in there. Lambda's hanging outside this big green building in the center. You can travel through it!

You are not supposed to go past Floor 1.