#statuette (mentioned)

[sufferu]

Dunno if this is a crazy opinion but I think natsumi shwarts is not healthy for Subaru. It’s a projection of a better version of himself born from the connection of when he saw himself as amazing when he was younger and him appearing more androgynous as a child. It doesn’t allow him to accept himself how he is by projecting fake confidence. I think this is obvious from arc 7, but even in the side story, he’s able to be more confident not because he’s natsumi shwarts but because he not natsuki Subaru.

…I think you’re HALF right.

I don’t think that Subaru’s love for femininity (dresses, makeup, sewing, embroidery, etc.) is a bad thing: I think that it is being presented as an authentic and valuable part of who he is, but as a part of himself that he is ashamed of and constantly tries to suppress for fear of what other people will think of him. In that sense, Natsumi Schwartz is a way for him to compartmentalize these authentic traits as someone who is distinctly Not Natsuki Subaru — and THAT is what I think is unhealthy.

There’s been an awful lot of emphasis on how Natsuki Subaru is a unisex name, to the point where Subaru even says that when he went to school dressed as a girl, he used his real name and blended right in. That’s one hell of a detail in a story where names themselves have power. There’s also been a lot of emphasis on how Subaru’s femininity is a very valuable part of his identity: you can see this in how his sewing talent is presented as a genuine skill even in the early part of Arc 2, and how almost all of his victories come from him filling the roles that the story itself has outlined as the role of the woman (namely leadership and motivating his stronger allies to fight on his behalf, “beauty vs guts,” it’s a whole thing) — and even in how he foils Ferris Argyle, with Subaru slipping into the feminine role like a glove while Ferris needs to get in front of a mirror and practice getting into character every single morning. You’ve mentioned that Subaru likes being Schwartz because his younger self was more androgynous and he misses being his younger self, but I think you’ve got it backwards: I think his younger self was androgynous because Subaru likes being androgynous, NOT that Subaru likes being androgynous because it reminds him of his younger self.

Anyway, I actually do agree that Natsumi Schwartz isn’t healthy, but I think the reason WHY is because Natsumi Schwartz is Subaru’s way of avoiding acknowledging the fact that everything that makes up Natsumi Schwartz is also Natsuki Subaru. I’d expect that by the end of the story, Subaru will have accepted Schwartz as an actual facet of himself instead of categorizing her as an entity separate from his own identity.

[osc-incorrect-quotes]

Princess Hat: Fine! Judge all you want but...

Princess Hat, points at Yearbook: Married a lesbian.

Princess Hat, points at Statuette: Left a man at the altar.

Princess Hat, points at Pound: Fell in love with a gay ice dancer.

Princess Hat, points at Fireball: Threw a girl’s wooden leg in a fire.

Princess Hat, points at Jester Hat: Lives in a box!

[mossmx]

18 for merlin game

18 - Favorite dragon

Aithusa, but I like them especially in fanon and AUs.

In canon they were SO DAMN cute as a new born, but in the next season it was just too painful to see them so signed by their suffering ;____;

(Merlin Ask Game Questions)

[peachpitfics]

Endgame

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary: Six years after you were married off to your Father's friend, you enter a period of mourning. As soon as it is societally acceptable, Benedict Bridgerton is in your foyer with a bouquet of flowers, amending a mistake he made all those years ago.

Length: 3.8k

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Content Warnings: Death, mentions of sex work, penetrative sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm.

a/n: This is part iii to Wildest Dreams & Loml, requested by anon here! This is the final part!

Bridgerton master list (tag list)

Your father stood acrost from you, tears in his eyes, which seemed genuine, though they did leave you confused. He was more devastated by your elderly husband’s death than you were – they had been friends a very many years, even with an age gap between them. It was six years since you were married to Lord Roger Howard, six of the most gruelling years of your life, pretending to care remotely for such a wretched man.

“I apologise for this display” Father wiped his tears from his eyes.

“Fret not, he was your friend after all” You replied nonchalantly, your father never caring enough to pay attention to your words, let alone the tone of your voice. He nodded sadly, blowing his nose in his handkerchief and stuffing it back into the waistcoat pocket.

“Your mother is thrilled at the prospect of you coming home” He asserted.

The shock of his audacity displayed in full force upon your face, “This is my home, I will not be returning to your house in Mayfair. I have an estate to care for until its heir comes of age” You shot back at him, far surer and more confident in your own voice than you had been when he bullied you into a match you did not want.

His weepy eyes filled with exasperation, you were not sure anyone had ever spoken back to him in such a manner, it sure looked as though they hadn’t. He stuttered over jumbled consonants, words unforming as they bowled out of his mouth. Never in your young life had you seen your father so beside himself, so baffled.

“Is there something you wish to say?” You asked brashly.

Stern eyebrows grew rigid over his unpredictable eye line, “How disrespectful! I do not recall raising a child with such an attitude! You will do as your father tells you, and your father demands you return to Mayfair” He almost shouted, the corrosive tone of his voice scared you as a child, even just a few years ago; but he had set you on a journey down Dante’s nine rings of hell. No longer afraid of small men feigning omnipotence in comparison to you, your father was no better nor worse than the husband you had just lost.

Your harsh statuette figure remained still and unblinking, unimpressed by his temper tantrum. Sweat formed on his brow line, rage simmering just below the surface. He was a volcano, ready to erupt in exaggerated self-importance. “It is obvious to me that perhaps you are confused. I was married to Lord Howard; I am Dowager Lady Howard. I do not belong to you, nor am I required to hear this nonsense any longer. I have land, and staff to account for. I will be remaining here. Would you like me to escort you out?” You asked calmly, your heart thumping in your chest, prepared for his next outrageous onslaught.

Father shuffled on the spot, puffed-up and fragile, dancing between continuing this argument, or storming out of the room. With a defeated, heavy exhale, he turned swiftly on the ball of his foot and stomped down the stairs. Staff peered around corners, having heard the yelling, worried for your safety.

Making your way out to the landing, subtly triumphant smile on your face, you watched as your father barged past someone standing in the foyer. You could not believe your eyes, unsure now of whether this was a dream or not. Benedict Bridgerton stood tall in the foyer, a big bunch of flowers in his arms, side eying your father as he passed. He looked just like you remembered, just like you imagined him every day since you last saw him. His eyebrows high, his crowning glory, that cheeky smile adorned on his face. There were small changes, delicious smile lines around his mouth and across his forehead. He looked neat, and very well dressed – you thought perhaps he finally had taken some advice from Anthony. The door slammed violently, and Benedict jumped slightly, pursing his lips together in a look of amusement.

“Mr Bridgerton, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” You hummed in soft interrogation.

“I have come to offer my condolences” Benedict tried to wipe the smile from his face.

“Alas, it has been six whole months since my husband passed away. Would you not consider these condolences to be quite late?” You retorted audaciously.

“One… might consider my visit late, yes. However, I do believe I am right on time. I would like to point out that it is but seven hours into a societally acceptable visit for a single man to call on a widow” He feigned checking his pocket watch, nearly dropping the bouquet on the floor, beaming at you as you started descending the stairs. Rushing down the stairs with enthusiasm, you threw yourself into his arms, flowers crushed between your bodies as your kiss landed. There was that sense of delirium you had missed so dearly. Your stomach dropped excitedly, your heart skipped a beat, your smile uncontainable as he pulled you into him tighter and tighter.

“Worried I would not come?” He asked between kisses, his eyes joyously lit.

“Not one bit” You groaned as his teeth took your lip, sucking it into his mouth, “Come upstairs”.

Benedict took your hand in his, leading you to the only place he knew well in this house, your bedroom. It was strange feeling this way after so long, so much glee in such a solemn house. You had not a care in the world at this moment, everything was finally right as it should have been.

Shutting the door forcefully, Benedict grasped at your arms and pulled you toward the bed, shifting behind you to undress you. Not a second later, Benedict gripped two sections of material and reefed them apart, tearing your dress from your body, his clamorous grunt igniting something within you. The fabric fell to the ground around you in a pool, embarrassment telling you to turn to Benedict, but his forceful hands stilled you where you were. Bending you forward, you rested your elbows onto the bed, the sound of his breeches unbuttoning behind you made your mouth water, wonderment tensing your mind.

Kneeling behind you, Benedict pressed his finger to your pussy, sliding it in as slowly as possible, coaxing soft moans from your lips. You so greatly wanted to spin around, eager to see what he was up to.

“God you are so wet and ready for me” Benedict commended, slipping that same finger between his lips, sucking the taste of you off it, moaning in unbridled thirst for you. Benedict’s hands snapped to your hips grasping at generous handfuls, reefing you back into him, running the tip of his cock along you.

He plunged into you without a moments notice, sinking to extremity unexpectedly. Gasping in wretched recognition as your body adjusted, his velvet skin sliding in and out of you, images flashed through your mind of all the times you had done this before. His large hands slid into the pocket between your belly and your hips, thumbs goading you back into him, savouring every thrust back into you. Benedict laced into your hair, firmly pulling you back to meet him, the starving kiss in his arsenal his best yet. That is what it had felt like, these last two years in particular – like surviving in a baron desert, aridity only quenched by a singular person, and that person being unattainable.

Benedict’s hardness sunk into you again and again, particularly rigid on this occasion, you did not recall him filling you quite this much, but every moment was felt like a spiritual experience. His thrusts became vigorous, and he had that look in his eye that you knew all too well, his efforts quickly moving toward fruition. His pelvis slammed into yours with the most gloriously barbaric force, his moans and grunts animating, pleasure absolutely carved throughout his body and face. The eagerness of his movements made you squeal out as he reached deeper places, you hips bounced back encouraging his release inside of you. Benedict’s hands constricted in place; his body unyielding as waves of intensity rolled through him.

Desperately trying to inhale deeper breaths, Benedict rolled onto the bed next to you, stretching out his arms as if he had a stitch in his chest. You giggled at him, lying down too.

“Not as young as you once were?” You chortled.

Benedict flashed you a look of sunny offense, “If I… could breathe… right now, you’d be paying… for that comment…” Benedict chuckled through his panting. You placed your hand on his chest, feeling his heart thump against your hand, your eyes went wide with awe.

After catching his breath, you laid together in the bed for the rest of the day, slipping in and out of each other and conversation. Benedict was enjoying exploring your body again, as it had been two years and another child later.

“I cannot believe we are finally here” Benedict chuffed, his head resting on your navel, staring up at the ceiling.

“Six years later, my darling. To be fair, we did think we would be apart longer” You remarked.

Benedict paused, fingers circling your forearm wrapped over him, “Y/n… There are rumours circulating the Ton…” He uttered kindly, approaching with gentility.

“I suppose you should know what happened to Roger,” You sighed, more embarrassed for yourself than for the old codfish, “I received news six months previous, that Roger had passed at an establishment… during intercourse with a working woman” You pursed your lips together, trying not to laugh. This was the first time you had explained the situation out loud, to anyone at all. The hilarity was not lost on you, but it felt wrong for the widow to relish the death of her husband outwardly, no matter the kind of man he was.

Benedict was silent for a few more moments, his eyes squinting in reserve, white flashes of teeth peeking through his lips, trying his hardest not to burst into laughter. “At least, he died doing what he loved?” Benedict knew he could hold up the façade no longer, resigning to his impish personality, eliciting a perpetual and free laugh from you. You ruffled his hair merrily, giving playful shoves for saying something so outrageous.

“Perhaps so! It is difficult to explain to the children, not that he had much interest in them anyway. I am hoping they will adjust quickly; they are quite young still” You gave Benedict a gentle smile. You knew he had been waiting to bring up the children, only having seen them a handful of times over the last 5 years.

“When can I see them?” Benedict asked keenly.

“Their nanny took them for a walk in the gardens when I was informed my father was on the grounds… He is not particularly fond of them either” You shrugged, “They will surely be returning soon” You reached out to stroke Benedict’s face, his excitement uncontainable.

Benedict continued to talk about the children, taking guesses at their heights and how they walked. He asked about their favourite foods and favourite colours, he wanted to know everything. More than anything, he had wanted to be there to see them grow and change. He had spent their lives memorising details in letters, their descriptions and little personalities, so desperate to know them. Benedict was recently thrilled to learn that Benjamin had lost his very first tooth at just five years old. He was also filled with pride when you wrote of Beatrice climbing down the stairs for the first time, all be herself – she was three now and while Benedict felt like he had missed so much, he knew how much more there was to come, that he would get to be a part of.

“My apologies, I am just overjoyed to finally be here” Benedict’s eyes watered lightly.

“Do not apologise, they will be excited too, you know they love you” You smiled, wiping away his singular tear. You leant down to place a kiss on his forehead, which he intercepted, stealing yours lips away with his own, warm and full.

Benedict rolled onto his front, lifting your thigh over him and snuggling himself between your legs. His nose rested in your tangle of pubic hair, nudging gently at your slit. Without meaning to, you laid back in anticipatory relaxation, Benedict’s arms wrapping around your thighs.

“You are unreasonably delicious my love” Benedict moaned from between your thighs.

His fingers danced around your outer flesh, tickling and pleasing strokes slowly replaced by his tongue, wet and pleasantly heated. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your lung’s feeling collapse was just moments away. It had been so long, and you were well and truly voracious for him, you had thought about this every single day.

Writhing under his ministrations, Benedict gently lapped at your clitoris, hardly touching it at times. You whimpered in hopeless desperation as he teased and circled exactly where you wanted him to press. There was no doubt Benedict was a connoisseur at this fine art and you were thankful for it. His hands slid up under your behind, lifting you up and into his face, you gave a slight squeal at his strength. The smile in his eyes melted your core, watching the lower half of his face flex and move, buried in your pussy. With every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, you could not stop yourself from grinding back onto his face.

Your face strained, trying to conceal the loudest moans these walls would have heard, Benedict’s ravenous tongue lapping senselessly, your knees shaking either side of him. Every moan from Ben vibrated through you, your hand flew violently to the back of his head, demanding more and more of him. Sucking your clit between his lips insistently, his teeth grazing your sensitive nub, Benedict allowed you to orgasm. Your hips bucked against his face, the hot friction of his stubbled face a godly addition to your unleashing.

Remaining still, Benedict’s soft eyes peered up at you, taking in every moment of your completion, committing it all to memory. You could tell just by the look in his eyes that you were a transcendent idol, sent here only for him. His tongue dallied, sensually slipping between your lips a last few times before he released your thighs.

“God, I love it when you do that!” You almost yelled in exotic delight.

“You taste marvellous, truly otherworldly. I could spend the rest of my life tending to you like that” Benedict smiled widely, subtly licking around his mouth to take in the rest of you.

You remained on the flat of your back, drunk on your adoration of him, “I wish you would” You laughed, half joking. It occurred to the both of you at separate times, that there was no longer a need to rush, nor savour these moments. There was nothing to keep you apart any longer, no one to hide from.

~

Benedict suggested bathing before dinner, so you loosely dressed, calling for the housekeeper to fetch the ladies’ maids to sort some baths. Once the both of you were dressed and ready for dinner, you descended the stairs, you arm linked over his, his gentlemanly stature reinstated upon leaving the bedroom.

The children sat on the rug in the dining room, surrounded by the petals of the flowers Benedict had arrived with this morning. Benjamin looked up, playful excitement lighting his face as he noticed the two of you.

“Mama!” He exclaimed, running into your legs, wrapping his small arms around them.

“Good evening my boy” You hummed, bending down to swoop him up into your arms. Benjamin remembered Benedict from visits previously, but he had not been around in some time. He outstretched his tiny hand, offering a handshake to his father. His sweet little teeth biting into his bottom lip, the centre one missing.

“Are you going to be staying for tea?” He asked curiously, the way children do.

“Yes, my small friend, I am,” Benedict took his hand and shook it properly, “My name is Ben, I do not know if you remember me”.

“My name is Ben as well” Benjamin gasped in innocent surprise. Without thinking, you passed your five-year-old son over to his father as they continued to talk, Benedict instinctually taking him on his hip, just like he had Gregory and Hyacinth not all that long ago. You travelled across the room to Beatrice, who gathered handfuls of pink rose petals and threw them into the air above her head, clapping as they rained down upon her. You scooped your smallest child into your chest, meeting Benedict and Benjamin at the table, placing her in her little chair. Her dark curls framing her face in sweet disposition, she waved happily to the strange man at the table. As the staff served dinner, Benedict took his place at the head of the table, with encouragement from you. You could see joy filling him right to the brim, happiness pouring out of him without a hint of regret. This was what you had both worked for. The housekeeper stopped by you on her way back to the kitchen, gently pinching your cheeks just like a mother would, she had not seen you smile like this in such a long, long time.

                                                                ~

The family spent one week together at the estate before Benedict thought it was time to travel to Mayfair, to tell him family of this news. He was not sure how they would handle him marrying a widow, nowhere on his list of objectives was there a point to explain the children and why they looked like him. Benedict had slotted into their lives perfectly and without incident, the children already slipping and calling him father at times. His heart nearly beat right out of his chest with pride.

Arriving at the Bridgerton house, Benedict carried Bea on his hip from the carriage, entering to his family waiting in the entrance hall eagerly awaiting whatever the news in his letters could be.

The first thing Benedict noticed before he had even introduced his family, was his mothers all knowing smile, and the happiness reflected in her eyes.

“Family, this is Lady Y/n Howard, and we are to be married” Benedict announced loudly, a slight echoing ringing through the entrance hall. Anthony and Collins eyes bounced between Benedict and each other, confusion ruling their faces. Everyone else littered them with congratulatory hugs and kisses.

“And who are these darlings?” Violet came forward, kissing Benedict and reaching out to rub Beatrice’s small hands on his chest.

“This is Beatrice, and this young man is Benjamin” Benedict introduced his children to his mother, watching her crouch down to take Benjamins outstretched hand for a handshake.

“How gorgeous! What a fine gentleman” Violet’s smile was sunlight, her demeanour so utterly welcoming. Beatrice leaned out of Benedict’s arms, shuffling herself across to Violet’s chest, snuggling into her grandmother. The both of you knew then that Violet had caught on as she rocked gently from side to side, Beatrice fitting perfectly in her arms as all the Bridgerton babes had before.

“Please, come to the sitting room, I will fetch the tea” Hyacinth directed everybody up the stairs to the second floor. As you and Benedict were about to follow behind the children and the other Bridgerton siblings, Colin and Anthony sequestered your arms away to an adjacent room.

Anthony closed the double doors to the dining room, and benedict slid his hand into yours in solidarity. Colin circled the both of you like a shark in open water, his normally cheery face overrun with suspicion. Anthony frowned pensively in front of you, rubbing his face, well and truly confused.

“This is all happening rather fast, do you not think?” Anthony asked sceptically.

Benedict licked his lips in preparation, “Brother, you know I was in love with y/n all those years ago. We have simply reconnected since the very sad death of her late husband” Benedict portrayed the sympathetic friend, the shoulder to cry on in a time of need.

“I see, and your engagement taking in place exactly six months after the death of Lord Howard is simply a coincidence?” Anthony questioned, logical suspicion stirring up his role as caretaker of the family.

“Yes. Benedict was very considerate, giving me my time to grieve my husband before coming to visit and offer his condolences. It can be quite confronting when one is bombarded with flowers and well wishes all but a day after a loss” You lamented, doing your best to act your part, the sullen widow.

Anthony nodded, having experienced such a similar event after the death of their father Edmund, “I understand, I am glad that you have reconnected with each other after all these years… I do just have one more question, and I will only ask once. I do not wish to offend you, however if I found out either of you had anything to do with the death of Lord Howard, I –”  

“Lord Howard died in the bed of a prostitute” You blurted out, interrupting Anthony quite rudely. He was inferring the two of you had murdered Lord Howard for his estate and potentially as a crime of passion. That was not the case, your true secret seemed to be thoroughly unnoticed by the eldest brother.

Anthony and Colin stood side by side, their mouths gaping at the same time, blinking in uneasy embarrassment. There had been several rumours circulating the Ton regarding the death of Lord Howard, this was not the one they had expected to be true. Anthony snapped back to reality, shutting his mouth and nodding uncomfortably. He gestured toward the door, Benedict pulling you out of the room, heading for the stairs.

“It is strange… Those kids look a lot like Ben” Colin muttered to Anthony as they followed on behind you, not a far distance away. Benedict turned and met Anthony’s gaze in his peripheral as the whole thing dawned on the eldest Bridgerton boy. Dropping your hand, Benedict darted up the stairs, headed for the safety of his mother.

��Benedict, get back here!?” Anthony shouted, the vein in his forehead violently protruding, he stormed up the stairs after Ben.

Colin slipped into the space Benedict left, holding out his arm for you to take, “Come on, I’ll show you to the sitting room. They are going to be a while. At least you will not have to endure two dead husbands… Anthony’s going to kill him before he gets to the altar” Colin chuckled, your arm clinging to his as he escorted you up the stairs.

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

Tag list: @cringycat24 // @blckbarbiedoll // @freyagallileaevans // @junkie05 // @rosabeetroot // @flamewriterr // @marvelouslyme96 // @moreover-clover // @dollarstore-lydia-deetz // @newavenger // @lifealot // @rosie-posie08 // @saintmagx // @booknerdlifelover // @impala1967666 // @mmmunson // @riseupfromthemud // @tehkairuu //

If you would like to be tagged in Bridgerton fanfiction written by me, please let me know!

[rice-fae]

Boycott hoyoverse, please.

I used to be a big genshin impact lore buff, i played, i read, i was on forums, i made fanart, and then i was deeply disrespected by the game itself (this post is about natlan)

I am brazilian and i follow a religion named candomblé. Long story short, its from yoruba people who were sent to brazil as slaves, then went through a big process of spreading out to not just black people, but light-skinned people of lower classes like my family. We believe in the creation by Olorum, the power of Axé, and the Orixás.

Natlan, as of now, has two characters named Iansan and Ororon. These names come from not just the yoruba predecessors of candomblé, but also the religion itself, the Orixá deities Iansã and Olorum.

My religion, my deities. My mother's deities. The statuettes in my house. Their names are recycled cheaply to be used trivially. Never have we of candomblé ever gotten mentioned by AAA games or films that give such attention to detail like Genshin does, and we are disrespected. Our Gods are used like rags for someone's profit to be thrown away, washed out. They do not convey our beauty, our grit, our wonder, they do not convey us but they profit from us.

People love to tell us that it is just a game, but think again: games are not entitled to disrespect us just because of their nature. We are entitled to complain, to scream, because this is cruelty. You brutalize our image, butcher our names, for what?

When I was younger, I used to look at games with religious imagery very curiously. It was always weird to see the faith of the people I know be used for aesthetic reasons or just because it looks cool. The same has now happened to me, but times worse. People will say anything to justify this mockery and throw excuses to keep playing the product of a corporation that won't ever understand what it means to be us.

Boycott, complain, scream, because I will do it too. I regret the time I invested in playing, in reading, in watching, in dedicating myself to something that would never do me justice. It is not expensive to change a character's name, not even talking about the model. I don't plan on re-entering the fandom while it still lies unaware of the gross source material's true colors. Candomblé is not mythology, it's faith. We are alive. We have existed for centuries and will continue to grow, despite the challenges we face.

[pansylair]

Hi :) do you happen to have any recommendations for documentaries/videos on Neanderthals, or other ancient peoples or ancient art?

(I rly love your work, all the warmth and roots deep in nature)

Hi! Thank you so much!! Unfortunately I don't have any documentary suggestions (via mainstream tv/streaming) as I've yet to find (or remember) one about Neanderthals (and other species) I've enjoyed from past to present. They also often seem to fall into an us vs them narrative which I find exhausting. The latest stuff like Secrets of the Neanderthals had a bold start stating they lived during the Neolithic which was uh???? No?? Personally I found it shallow and don't recall learning anything new. Then Unknown: Cave of Bones regarding Homo naledi sadly jumped to huge claims with no peer reviews (that were all negative to said claims) present. I'm sure people here should have good art documentary suggestions and such, I can't recall any off the top of my head right now. However! Some youtube channels that I love are Stefan Milo, Gutsick Gibbon, History of Humankind, and North 02. In terms of books, not much on me but I own a physical copy of Kindred - Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art by Dr. Rebecca Wragg Sykes and it was a wonderful read with tons of information and passion, very moving. Another is Prehistoric Art - the symbolic journey of humankind by Randall White. Lots of writing accompanying the photos but I find it very insightful, and certainly his mentioning that art history is a product of western society and how it impacts non-western cultures and artwork. I also very much appreciate him pointing out the term "venus" in reference to the carved figurines has a racist history connected to Saartjie Bartmann and other South African women and calls to abandon the term, using "statuette" instead. And here's one of my fave pieces from the book! A spear thrower from the Magdalenian culture of Western Europe in what is now France featuring two ibex. :)

Anywho, anyone reading this can certainly feel free to chime in with more recommendations for videos and books!

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART XI

—this must be the place

summary: two idiots who got their shit together and now love each other unconditionally.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). filthy smut, p in v, unprotected sex, lots of fluff, cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello besties, dual pov so watch out for that, and reminding everyone this is a work of fiction so just sit back and relax and enjoy! but if this isn't your thing, move along :)

masterlist!

January 18th, 2024

Los Angeles, CA

January was a whirlwind. Awards season came faster than either of you could’ve anticipated. After years of grueling work, both of you were at the pinnacle of your careers. The Golden Globes were just the beginning, and somehow, you found yourself receiving best actress nods at every award show that followed. Each time your name was announced, you were stunned—as if each award was a surprise gift wrapped in disbelief.

Pedro? He was right there beside you, proud, beaming, like he’d won every accolade himself.

And in a way, he had.

The Emmys came next. Pedro was dressed like a hot English teacher—a title you bestowed on him while posing for photos on the carpet. He blushed at your words, but his imagination clearly ran wild through the entire ceremony. You’d catch his mind drifting, the corners of his mouth twitching with thoughts you could only guess.

But when the time came, he lost his category. You turned to him with an exaggerated sad face, eyes wide, and before he could even fake another mournful look, you took his face between your hands and whispered in his ear, “You might be an Emmy loser, but you’re my Emmy loser, baby.”

He chuckled softly, a mix of amusement and adoration, his hand resting on your thigh, fingers tracing absentmindedly. “Maybe we can celebrate the loss later,” he teased, and you grinned, your shared laughter barely masked by the applause surrounding you.

February 25th, 2024

Los Angeles, CA

Pedro wore Prada that night. A crisp white button-down shirt, half the buttons undone, his chest peeking through like a prince stepping off a ship in some romantic novel. His hair was so much longer, curling softly around his ears, a curl decorating his forehead, and when you both arrived, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

“You look dreamy,” you’d whispered, your hand lingering on his arm.

You shared a tequila shot for luck before the ceremony, a ritual that seemed to work for both of you. When Pedro’s name was called, you watched in awe as he walked up to the stage, shock evident on his face. He was adorable, overwhelmed, and completely unprepared, but still effortlessly funny.

"And thank you to my love for being my biggest supporter," he said during his speech, eyes finding you in the crowd. "I love you."

The audience roared with laughter as he joked about having a panic attack. You covered your face with your hands, laughing with him, but your heart swelled with pride. When your category came not long after, you got up there, thanked everyone, and finished with, “And last but not least, thank you to now SAG Award winner Pedro Pascal for also being my biggest supporter."

Later that night, you posted a picture of the two of you holding your statuettes, captioning it, “a couple of winners,” a nod to the moment and your shared triumph.

March had rolled faster than anticipated. The Oscars themselves were here, and there you were, sitting in the middle of Hollywood’s most glamorous circus, your name announced as a Best Actress nominee. The whole thing was surreal—like, pinch-me-I’m-dreaming kind of surreal.

Pedro sat next to you, gripping your hand for dear life. He had been holding it for the last half hour, unable to let go, which made you wonder if he was comforting you or himself. Maybe both.

You gave him a quick glance. He was calm on the outside, but you could tell by the subtle way his thumb kept moving over your knuckles that his nerves were bubbling underneath too. You squeezed his hand back, your silent way of saying, Hey, we got this, right? Though, in truth, you weren’t sure who “we” were anymore. You hadn’t breathed since they started announcing the nominees.

And then it came—the moment. The envelope opened, the pause, the suspense that felt like it dragged on for an eternity, and then... someone else’s name. Not yours.

The applause in the room felt both deafening and distant, like you were watching it all through a fog. You let out the breath you’d been holding since they called your name and tried to steady yourself. You smiled, clapping for the winner because, hey, they deserved it. But inside, you were thinking, Well, damn.

Before you could even process the mix of relief and mild disappointment, Pedro turned to you. His eyes were gentle but mischievous, the exact combination that both made you feel better and also a little nervous. He tilted his head, looking at you like he was about to drop the world’s most important line.

“You might be an Oscar loser,” he said, grinning that cheeky grin of his, “but you’re my Oscar loser.”

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing, because of course he would say that. But he leaned in and kissed your forehead, so sweet and sincere, that you felt your heart melt just a little. Leave it to him to make losing feel like a win.

You rolled your eyes, more at how much you loved him than anything else. “Nice one, P. I feel so much better now,” you teased, shaking your head.

"You did the same to me; I had to."

"That's just cruel."

You elbowed him, laughing despite everything. Because at the end of the day, you realized something—you hadn’t lost at all. You were sitting there with the person who made you laugh when you needed it most, who held your hand through the stress and teased you when you least expected it. And that, as far as you were concerned, was the best kind of win.

•••

The next few months were filled with so much love and so much laughter. Pedro went with you to every concert you had scheduled, sitting backstage or in the crowd with your friends, watching you command the stage. It became your new routine, traveling to different cities with Pedro beside you for each show.

June arrived, and with it, Pedro’s filming schedule kicked back into full gear. This time, though, it was a little different. Instead of the usual months of long-distance calls and late-night texts across time zones, he was filming in New York. That meant he came home every night to your shared brownstone.

It felt wonderfully domestic.

One evening, you were curled up on the couch, the windows open to let in a soft breeze. You could hear Pedro moving around in the kitchen, humming to himself as he tried to figure out what to make for dinner. He had arrived early today and insisted on taking care of it. The scent of garlic and olive oil was already beginning to fill the room.

You smiled to yourself, getting up to join him. “Need some help, Chef?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him stir something in a pan, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He looked up, a grin spreading across his face when he saw you. “I’m handling it. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”

You raised an eyebrow, walking over to peek into the pan. “Uh-huh, that’s what you said last time."

“Okay, first of all, I told you that was ‘blackened’ for flavor,” he shot back, pointing the spatula at you. “And second, tonight’s different. I’m on it.”

You laughed, moving closer and slipping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his back. “Mmm, smells good though. Maybe I’ll give you a pass this time.”

He leaned into your embrace, his free hand coming up to hold yours around his middle. “Only a pass?” he teased, turning his head slightly to catch your eye. “I was aiming for full marks.”

“You’ll have to earn that,” you replied, your voice playful as you squeezed him tighter. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

He twisted around in your arms to face you, a mock-serious expression on his face. “You are looking at a masterful creation of... stir-fry.”

“Fancy.”

“Very. It’s gourmet,” he said with a grin, pulling you closer. “It’s got vegetables and everything.”

You couldn’t help but laugh; the ease between you was just so comfortable.

It wasn’t about the food or the dinner itself—it was about the quiet rhythm of life you’d found together, the simple joy of these little moments. The kind of comfort that only comes from knowing someone so well and loving every bit of it.

As the food sizzled away on the stove, Pedro pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hand still resting on your back. “I like this,” he murmured.

“What, my expert critique of your cooking? Because I can keep going."

He laughed softly. “No, I mean…this. Us. Coming home to you every night. It feels right.”

A smile spread across your face as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “It does, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, his eyes soft as he looked at you. “I could get used to this.”

“Well,” you said, grinning as you stood on your toes to kiss him, “good thing you’re stuck with me.”

He kissed you back, his lips warm and familiar, lingering just long enough to make you lose your train of thought. “Best decision I ever made,” he murmured against your lips, pulling you closer.

You smiled into the kiss, feeling the warmth of him seep into you, grounding you in the moment.

“Alright, mister. Let’s eat before your gourmet stir-fry turns into another ‘blackened’ creation.”

“Noted,” he laughed, turning back to the stove with you still wrapped around him.

July 25th, 2024

San Diego, California

The morning had a slowness to it that Pedro liked.

The two of you were still wrapped up in the sheets, limbs intertwined in a comfortable, familiar tangle. The sunlight crept lazily through the curtains. He felt your body stir next to his, your warmth pulling him further out of sleep. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, soft kisses trailing across your skin, while his fingers lazily traced patterns on your back.

"You nervous for today?" you asked, your voice still sleepy but carrying a smile that he could hear.

Pedro groaned slightly, his morning voice raspy. "A little," he admitted, his face half-buried in the pillow.

"You’ll be great. They’re going to eat you up," you said, teasing but reassuring, your lips brushing his neck. "Anything I can do to help?"

He smirked, his eyes still closed as his hand found its way down the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Actually, yeah… I’ve got a couple ideas."

You laughed, straddling him, your hair falling over your face as you leaned down for a slow, lingering kiss. The kind of kiss that promised more, the kind that was a language only the two of you spoke. Pedro’s hands moved with familiarity, tracing the lines of your body as if he were memorizing you all over again.

He discarded yours and his clothes too. Your perfect breasts in his face as soon as you straddled him again, knees on either side of his thighs as you sat down on his cock. His head fell back on the soft pillow as you dug your nails into his broad shoulders.

For a while, it was just your steady breathing as you rode him, smooth and constant. Your moans—a delicious symphony to his ears—filled the room, mingling with his own groans of pleasure. And then both of your movements became more urgent, and he held you down to his chest, his lips finding yours in a hungry kiss.

"Fuck," he cursed, his hands gripping your back tightly as he pushed himself deeper inside you.

"Need-need you deeper."

He heard you say, and with a low growl, he complied. "Lay down."

You quickly got on your front, head turned to the side, ass in the air, and he entered you from behind. He filled you, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, stretching you in the most delicious way.

"Yes, yes, yes."

It fueled him to see you and hear you so fucked out and desperate for more.

"Goddamn," he breathed, pulling out before gliding in again, this time a little harder, a little deeper. He repeated the motion several times, each time pushing you into the bed harder and harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. It's filthy. His hands dug into your hips. Your moans grew louder—consuming him, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

You were close; he could tell by the way you were clenching around him. He cannot take it anymore. It's stupidly, brilliantly too good. Too intoxicating. He leans forward, chest pressed against your back, skin slick with sweat. "Come for me, baby."

He sees your eyes go blank as you reach your peak, your body shuddering with pleasure. The sight of you unraveling beneath him pushes him over the edge, and he follows right after you, his hips turning erratic, heat spreading inside him, and his release mixing with yours.

You don't move, and neither does he. He stays buried deep inside you, both of you trying to catch your breath and come back down from the euphoric high you just experienced together. The only sound in the room is heavy breathing and the occasional whisper of a kiss against your skin.

•••

Later, the chaos of Comic-Con surrounded him, but Pedro was good at playing it cool, even if he didn't really feel like it. He’d been in the industry long enough to know how to handle the intensity of the spotlight, but today, something felt a little more electrified. It could’ve been the crowds, but as soon as you arrived and caught sight of him, you couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Oh my god, what did Marvel give you?” you said, grinning up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “You look ten years younger—I’m scared.”

Pedro chuckled, turning a little and glancing down at himself. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, babe. You know that.”

"Right. Smoke, mirrors, and a little bit of Marvel magic."

You stole a quick kiss. "I'll be right here when you're done, P."

He loved how you could always ease him with just a few words. No matter the situation, no matter how chaotic or overwhelming things got, you had this way of cutting through the noise and grounding him. It was something he never took for granted, especially in moments like this—before the whirlwind, when he needed to remember who he was underneath it all.

"Now, get out there and win them over, handsome."

•••

Summer turned into fall; life became a blend of filming and fleeting moments of domestic bliss.

Pedro’s schedule took him to London for Fantastic Four, and you had your own projects to attend to, which meant falling back into the familiar rhythm of long-distance. It was tough—long nights filled with texts and video calls, stolen moments across time zones—but somehow, the two of you made it work. You'd promised you would.

One night, as you lay together in bed before your next trip, he whispered, “I’d rather have you 3 days a year than anyone else all the time.”

You smiled.

Weeks later, Pedro went back to New York after a short break and found solace in the little routines.

He loved coming home to you.

He found himself doing little things for you. He’d never been much of a "chores guy," but there was something solid about washing dishes while you hummed in the next room, or folding laundry. It made up for the time he spent away, the guilt he sometimes carried for being gone so much. Doing these little things felt like his way of making sure you always knew how much he loved you, even when he wasn’t physically there.

One night, after a particularly long day for you, you flopped into bed. He was finishing brushing his teeth in the bathroom. As he walked into the bedroom, he noticed the exhaustion in your eyes. You were sprawled out on the bed, your blouse slightly rolled up. He pressed a knee against the edge of the bed and hovered over you.

You looked up at him, your voice a soft whisper. “You’re the only calm thing in my life.”

Pedro’s heart swelled at that, his mouth instinctively forming a smile. “And you’re the best kind of chaos in mine,” he teased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. But beneath the joke was something deeper—a truth he felt in every fiber of his being. You had become his home.

He crawled back down slowly, peppering you with gentle kisses along your neck and sternum. You unbuttoned your blouse as he continued to trail kisses down your body. Each one a promise.

He bit your hip playfully, leaving a faint mark, and when the red faded, he did it again.

You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. “Always leaving your signature.”

“All part of the service."

•••

As fall settled, Pedro found himself reflecting on everything that had led him to this moment—this life he had built with you. All his lonely days, all the times he had doubted whether love like this would ever find him, seemed like a distant memory now. Everything he had been through had led him to this.

And there wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t grateful.

As he watched you move around the London flat he had rented, his home for the next few months, catching you mid-laugh or lost in your own world, he felt whole. Complete. Every piece of his life had finally fallen into place.

And he knew, without a doubt, that there would never be a time when he had enough of you. You were his everything, and he would always come back.

Always.

a/n: the end!! sad because i'm gonna miss them so much :( but happy to have finished this the right way. thank you everyone who reads, likes, reblogs and leaves a kind message <3

[my-name-is-apollo]

So, Apollo and jewellery!!

I want to start off by saying that Apollo (or any male god, really) wearing jewellery is not a common occurrence in the ancient greco-roman art forms. So there's not a lot you can get, but I've put together whatever I've found so far.

On the vase paintings, you'll find body chains across his chest and there's bracelets too:

^ He also has a leg bracelet in this one

In this painting, along with a body chain and a bracelet, there's a thigh band and a finger ring as well.

Then we have waist belts. I did entertain the possibility of this being an embroidered belt. However in the first image, the belt is gilded with gold, so imo it's meant to be a belt with gilded gold, if not made entirely of gold.

In this Etruscan painting representing Apollo going to/coming back from Hyperborea on a swan, he's wearing necklaces.

Apollo wearing a necklace and an arm band seems to be a fairly common sight in the Etruscan art (so Aplu, technically ig), as seen in these two statuettes:

and some Etruscan mirror arts:

Now moving onto the diadems! A diadem referred to something you could tie your hair with - it could be a ribbon, a wreath of fresh leaves, or a jewelled wreath/head piece - it's the last one that I'm counting as jewellery. Diadems like the one Apollo is wearing below were usually worn by noblewomen.

You can also find depictions of Apollo with a jewelled wreath on his head. They resemble a laurel wreath, but they're made of gold, and have gems embedded. Here's a statue for example:

There are also Roman frescos and mosaics that show you what it actually looks like in color.

And here, you can see not just a gold diadem, but also bracelets on both his hands as well as anklets on his legs:

And there's what seems to be earrings as well? But honestly I'm not that sure, it could just be a damage on the fresco (even if that's the case, we can still appreciate the winged eyeliner amirite)

There's also this fresco of Apollo judging a beauty contest between Venus and Hesperus. Here he is not wearing a gold wreath, but there is a gold band upon his head:

And unlike other pieces of jewellery, you'll find literary references as well for Apollo's diadem:

"When Apollo was born, Zeus equipped him with golden headband and lyre and gave him also a chariot of swans to drive" – Alcaeus, Hymn to Apollo (trans. David A. Campbell)

"Apollo puts his hair in order by shaping his flowing locks with soft foliage and braiding it with a golden diadem." – Virgil, Aeneid 4 (trans. Ingo Gildenhard)

"...he fastens bay about his lyre and the woven brilliance of his coronet, and ungirds his breast of the pictured girdle..." – Statius, Thebaid 6 (trans. J. H. Mozley)

"But you will say, Phoibos has a goldgleaming diadem." – Nonnus, Dionysiaca 4 (trans. William Henry Denham Rouse)

[Inscription]: "Apollo the mighty, Lord incomparable of the Diadem, who hath set up statues of the Gods in this kingdom" – Ammianus Marcellinus, History 17 (trans. John Carew Rolfe)

[Inscription]: "Mighty Apollo, seated upon truth, Lord of the Diadem, who hath gloriously honoured Egypt as his peculiar possession" – Ammianus Marcellinus, History 17 (trans. John Carew Rolfe)

And that's pretty much everything I've come across so far. I was a bit surprised at the lack of literary references for the effeminate gods. Not just Apollo, even Dionysus' effeminacy is described by his fair face and long hair and perfumed garments, and there are no mentions of jewellery afaik. But of course, just like with Apollo, you can find jewellery on Dionysus in the visual arts.

[alphajocklover]

Hello, basic 40 year old flabby, short, wimpy nerd nerd here. Been trying and failing to get fit and transform into a stud since I've been thirteen to no avail. Pretty much decided that that the project is genetic. I don't suppose you can genetically graft me to a hypermasculine dad or maybe a hypermasculine brother so puberty could have dealt me a way different hand?

Huh. I’ll admit, I’ve never really done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve talked about changes that alter someone’s past in previous post, and I performed one myself using time travel (I fucking hate time travel), but what’s you’re asking is so much more intense. You want me to make it so that you grew up with a super manly dad or brother. You want me to make it so your genetics are different, your history is different, so that you’re basically an entirely different person. I’m not sure I’ve ever altered anyone that much before. But… I’m willing to give it a try.

You’re an only child right? And you never knew your dad? Raised only by your mom? Good, that will make this much easier. Now, I should warn you that we’re going to have to be very careful. We’re going to use an artifact that my Uncle left to me. I’ve mentioned him before. I really should tell you all about him one day. Anyways, what we’re using to change you might not look like much, but… it’s very powerful. We need to use it carefully.

Ok, I know what you’re thinking. It’s a little statue of a metal tree. Yes I know I sound crazy but in a world with time travel, an app that turns people into meatheads, and reflections that can swap places with the person they’re reflecting, I think you can give me the benefit of the doubt. The little statuette doesn’t look like much, but it’s one of the most dangerous magic items I own. It’s known as the Family Tree, and it allows the user to, well, alter their family tree. Literally. All you have to do is press your thumb to the wooden base, and the tree grows and changes until it resembles your own family tree, complete with pictures. Then it’s as simple as moving some things around, or adding a picture to the tree. So, let’s get to work.

You asked for a super manly dad, or a super manly brother. But since we’re already changing your family, why not give you both? First let’s change out your deadbeat dad for someone a little more… impressive. A real man, a man’s man, one so muscular and sexy that if he walked out on your mom you’d still thank him for the amazing genetics. But don’t worry, your new dad isn’t going to walk out like the old one. He stayed with your mom (who as it turns out is a real babe with the right man encouraging her), and raised you to be just like him. He taught you how to play sports, how to workout, how to shave your hairy face, even how to make a girl putty in your hands. You were always especially talented at that last one. You’re starting to remember it aren’t you? Everything your dad taught you, how far you pushed yourself because you wanted to make him proud. You especially remember him showing him how to throw a football. In this world you were a natural.

Next is your brother. I don’t wanna give away your identity, or his, so let’s call him Brad. He’s actually your younger brother, not your older brother. You were the one who taught him how to be a man, how to be a stud, and in doing so, became an even better one yourself. As reality changes you remember growing up with him, teaching him the ropes, playing and working out with him. You even remember the girls you’d sometimes fuck together. You remember the first time you and him spitroasted a bimbo, how hot the girl looked and how proud and manly your brother was.

But let’s move on to you. In this life you took after your dad and your little brother, being a natural stud. You were a strong kid, an active kid, but puberty hit you like a dump truck. You shot up, your shoulders widened, and you gained an almost obscene amount of muscle and hair. You’ve got a different personality too. Cocky and confident, a constant flirt and a total bro. You thought you’d never settle down, fucking a different girl every night. Until… you met your wife. Yes, in this world you have a wife. She’s a bit of a bimbo, but the kindest person you’ve ever met. She enchanted you, and soon… while, you were married, and have stayed married for almost 20 years.

You’ve changed your past, your future, and everything about yourself. You’re finally the man you always wanted to be… but your kids are really the lucky ones. They’ve got awesome genetics, killer bodies, and a great dad to show them how to use it, just like how you did growing up.

[tokkiwrites]

FAWN HEART, PART ONE : The night's desire.

dark!joel miller x f!reader

part one | part two | part three | more coming soon.

summary: After a few months of being together, you move in with your boyfriend, 'Adam'. His landlord, Joel Miller, takes a special liking to you.

tags: murder, stalking, spying, mention of abuse, mention of blood, violence, age gap, vulnerable reader, stalker joel, mentions of abusive relationship, pet names, she/her pronouns (let me know if i missed anything.)

ㅤ↪ㅤtokki's ۫ 𐑺 𝚜𝚞ׂ𝚐𝚊𝚛 ࣭ note ˑ ⌕ ࣭ ּ ➭ staring my first series ever !! of course, I will continue it only if this first part does well ( so no spice for now!! ). for now, we're starting off a bit mild, & I'm leaning more on the double storylines . this is short with only 1.5k words, but it's a little gift since i was gone for so long. sorry if it sucks! remember, requests are opened, and your feedback matters the most to me 🐰

【commencing】 : a heart as soft as the embrace of spring. She welcomed everyone with open arms, seeing the best in people, and never turned anyone away, no matter the pain. Her kindness boundlessㅡ she gave without expecting anything in return. But this gentle nature often left her defenseless. she continued to believe in the goodness of others, her fawn heart resilient and unwavering, oblivious to those trampling on it. her fawn heart, her weakness.

「may 04th ㅡ O2:08 AM」

he didn't know her. didn't deserve her. the nerve he had saying he loved her when he doesn't know what love is...he doesn't know what kind of love she needed.

so when he left for work every night, her true love would sneak in. Joel wasn't the romantic type, but for her, he'd do it all. he'd sit there, watching her sleep, staring as her soft lips puffed out when she took her shallow breaths as she slept - how her lashes laid so perfectly onto her cheeks.. that's all he could do - stare. no touching. It killed him. how that asshole could do all that he pleased to her and how she would accept almost nothing in return.

she was sweet. bitterly. her soft, gaze a testament to the trials she's been through. she could've had so much more, yet she chose this moron. Joel couldn't understand why? not just why she chose that - but why everything when it came to her. why? everything about her, she was an enigma. when Joel first set eyes on her, that's all he could think of. why? and how? how could he have lived so long without his angel by his side.

that was 6 months ago. Tonight, it's a little less cold outside- its may, and the summer smell fills the air, as branches sway next to the window in a tireless dance. cars sound in the distance, as late night chatter of the streets fill Joel's ears and her scent his nose. drowning - suffocating him in the anticipation that maybe for one night he'd have her. he never wanted to scare her - to hurt her. she's precious, a porcelain statuette he had to have. Joel was adamant. kissing her only with his gaze, he got up only as the moon kissed the sun goodbye, and the chickadees started their long-awaited song.

「june17th ㅡ O8:42 PM」

late again. he's always late, letting her wait with no sign for hours. it was his birthday, not that Joel cared, but the thin walls provided him with utmost soundㅡ any and all sounds.

she was crying, and he didn't want to budge in making it weird for her, but his heart twisted when he knew she wasted tears on a shit-head like Adam.

but he let his heart get the best of him, and maybe, just maybe, this was the moment when he let his heart dictate, and she finally realizes that she's better than that. better than Adam. Better for Joel. He makes his way to the apartment next door, thinking if he should be honest with her or make up a lame excuse like late payment on utilities or donations for a new front door. He knocked twice, his palms sweaty. This girl made him feel all giddy like a teenager again, heart racing, his dreams full of her. The door cracks open, revealing just half of her red, puffy face with make-up pushed around.

"Y-yesㅡ"

"Hey, there, Iㅡ is everything alright, fawn darling?" his eyes furrow, a weight settling down in his stomach. he couldn't stand seeing her like this. her eyes finally reach his, a glint of gratitude glimmering within them. "hi, Mr.Miller. I'm fine justㅡ" she sighs. "Adam bailed on me.. again!" she tries to laugh it off, wave it as a joke, but the pain in her spirit is apparent. "Sorry if i was, you know... crying too loud. I'll keep it down -"

"fawn...darlin', you know-" Joel's gaze softened "you know you can always come to me if you ever need a shoulder to cry on. As corny as that sounds, 'm all here for ya." looking down at her, he dares not break eye contact.

"Thank you, Mr.Miller.."

"I told you to call me Joel, didn't I?" he tsks, straightening his back. "I feel too old when you call me mister.." Joel admits, in a playful manner. "Got it. Joel." How it rolls off her tongue like honey. how he wants to lick off every drop and indulge into her like the powerful drug she is, so deeply coursing through his being, wishing he'd hear her scream his name underneath him one day. "Right, so- if you ever want anythin'.." he scratches his rough beard. "I'm one door away."

"Thank you, Joel." she steps out barefoot, throwing herself into Joel's arms, hugging him whilst her sweet perfume envelopes them both. Joel breathes inㅡ so close. At last, the hug is broken, and she scurries back inside, leaving Joel stuck in his fantasy.

"My sweet fawn."

「july 3rd ㅡ OO:35 AM」

"Why so hostile, little bird? I thought you liked it when i touched you like this.. a little rough." he rasped, voice scratching at her chest like a knife. "Adam, you're drunk. let's justㅡ get inside." she manages to huff out as her palms lay flat on Adam's chest, pushing him away. "Baby- c'mon, be a doll."

"stop, Adamㅡ stop!" you could hear the frustration in her voice, and the tears that were brimming at the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall.

he couldn't just stand there and witness this. he'd regret it forever, unquestionably. " 's everything alright here?" Joel tries to play it cool. He doesn't want to let off too much. He doesn't want it to escalateㅡ for her to get hurt.

" Mr.Millerㅡ"

"Yeah, none of your business, man. Just leave, okay?" Adam scoffs, staring down the hallway where he heard Joel's voice, thinking to himself, 'what this old geezer was doing up so late'. "careful, boy. don't want ya to hurt your pretty lady, ok? just makin' sure everything is -"

"yeah, i fucking said everything is alright, so mind your fucking business, dude!" he spat "Jesus, man." Joel does nothing but smile. Does this Adam guy know what he has gotten himself into? Surely not.

He stretches his neck, making it crack as he takes one step closer to where the couple was. By this time, she was already starting to panic, soft pleads leaving her mouth as that jerk held onto her frame, shaking it up whilst he threw rude remarks towards Joel.

"Let go of her, boy."

"Fuck outta here, old ass. Don't make me come to you, I'm not nice when I'm drunk."

"Oh, I know." Joel promptly comes closer so that only a part of his face is visible by the light of the moon shining through the large window.

"Adam, let's just -"

"Quiet, bitch!" With a swift turn, Adam managed to deliver a harsh backhanded slap to her head, the pounding pain sending her a few steps back, right into the wall. "See, if you weren't here I would've gotten some pussy tonight. But you had to show up." Adam laughs, shaking his hand to recover from the hit. "You a knight in shining armor, or what?"

"You apologize to her, before I rip your fucking legs off and shove them up your sorry ass." Joel was calm. he tried his hardest to not run towards her, embrace her in his tight armsㅡ but he had other plans for now.

"Spare me the threats, old man. one wrong move, and your whole body dislocates." Adam laughs hungrily, shoving joel. or at least attempting. " I don't even know why you care so much. This bitch was onto me the whole night, but when its time to finally get the dick she shys away." he raises his arm again, oblivious to the knife Joel had aimed straight to his jugular, all this time, impatiently thirsting over the thought of Adam's blood gushing onto him. At first Adam is confused, but as he catches a glimpse of Joel's dark grin in the moonlight he finally realizes― he'd been stabbed.

with one palm over his mouth, joel grabs Adam closer, the knife slitting further into his flesh, now reaching his ear.

"You gotta know how to respect your elders, boy." Joel sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, staring deep into Adams eyes as he retracts the knife and promptly shoves it right between his eyes, with enough force that you could hear a faint 'crunch' sound. "ㅡand your lady." In a failed attempt to reach for the girl that was frozen in place, Adams pathetically tries to grab onto her dress as he collapses to the ground.

everything is silent for a moment.

So she stood there, watching as the blood from the splayed body pooled at her feet, the only sounds bouncing off the walls that bathed in darkness were her short breaths and slow steps approaching to where she practically turned to stone.

"'s alright, baby fawn . he can't hurt you no more. i promise."

[greyauras]

People have mentioned it before already about what Soap's tattoo is, but I just want to point this out...

↑ Soap's tattoo. Which is Call of Duty's fictional SAS emblem.

↓Real Life SAS emblem/statuette/and motto.

↓ Price's last words for Soap...

So basically, I looked up what "Who dares wins" meant because I thought it was a bit stupid and potentially grammatically incorrect. It's a shorter way of saying "He who dares, wins". (Which sounds so much better)

Meaning, that if you dare to try you may find yourself winning even if you fail first. (Basically)

Found out that it was the SAS's motto too. Figured they wouldn't have one but apparently they did.

The more you know.

I'm going to make this sappy but snappy.

So. That matches with what they say about Soap "He'd fight the world barehanded" and "He was the best of us", since his death was super disappointing I guess we weren't really meant to take this seriously but basically, he's ✨brave✨ (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.)c

I mean yeah, he's also ALREADY had to fight barehanded. That was the minor point of the Alone mission but whatever.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Jesus | What Once Was | Platonic

Jesus is stronger than any past and provides a family where others have failed.

Requested by Kalie

TW: Abusive behaviour (both physical and verbal), mentions of death at childbirth

They’re absolutely gorgeous, handcrafted with the utmost care, coming to life right inside your palm as you turn the little wooden statue around to inspect it further. It is as if nature itself slipped right into the woodcarver’s hand and streamed from his fingertips into the delicate doe that the decoration resembles. It is as if you’re standing in the middle of a luscious forest, surrounded by the same trees that the statuette in your hand is made from, and coming face to face with the small deer at the edge of a lake. 

Oh, how much you’d have loved to have this toy as a little girl, how many adventures you’d have taken it on, how you would have played around with it wherever you went— 

“—What do you think you are doing? Put that down!” You’re snapped out of your awe by the voice of your older brother Caleb. “I’m so sorry,” he directs himself towards the merchant offering his wares, “She doesn’t know when to keep her hands to herself, and everything she touches either breaks or dies.” 

The salesman’s kind smile evaporates and twists into something more uncertain as he looks from you to Caleb, taking the carven doe from you and putting it back where it used to sit. You flush in embarrassment, turning away your gaze. You are used to appearing smaller than you are. Caleb yanks you with him by your wrist, nails digging into your skin. 

Usually, the youngest child of the family is the most precious one, coddled by their parents or protected by their older siblings. Due to circumstances, however, your family sees you as a curse more than a blessing. 

Caleb pushes you into the custody of two of your sisters who are busy browsing the fabric stall. “Look after her while I go get meat. Make sure she doesn’t mess up again.” 

One of your sisters, Orpah, grips your arm. 

“I thought abba assigned you to babysitting duty today, Cal.”

“I am not bringing her there again since that ridiculously humiliating display from last time.” Caleb hisses, referring to the time you went to purchase meat and apparently bought the wrong kind, sending your oldest brother into a fit upon him finding out. 

Orpah rolls her eyes and turns to your other sister, Susannah, who lets out a scoff.

“Fine. We’ll watch her. Make sure she doesn’t get herself killed, even though you bet we’d love to see her try.” 

You swallow hard upon hearing their verbal abuse, their lack of care when it comes to you, their youngest sister. Abba never stuck up for you, either; even he acknowledges an edge of truth to the source of their behaviour towards you. 

You don’t think it’s fair at all. It wasn’t your fault that eema lost too much blood while she gave birth to you, nor was it because of you that her heart stopped moments after her final push. From that moment on, the burden of her death was bestowed upon you, the blame either lingering through in the background of every conversation or blatantly shoved down your throat through ungrounded accusation. Your siblings saw you as the black sheep of the family, the one who took their beloved mother from them, whereas your father saw your survival as a trial of Adonai as well as a punishment for his sins. 

This kind of existence is no existence at all. Day after day you wait eagerly for nightfall so that you can cry alone in your bed and wonder if things will ever change. If they’d be better off without you. You’ve considered running away from home, but know that you wouldn’t be able to survive all by yourself. 

“…Did you hear what I said? My, you really do have sheep dung in your ears.” 

You blink as Susannah gives you a death glare, looking at you like you have just stepped on her toes without apologising.

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“I said, go get us some fruit.” 

Orpah impatiently crosses her arms as she glowers at you. “Be quick about it.” 

A pear and a persimmon. You know their preferred fruits by heart by now — learnt so the hard way — so you don’t need to ask before heading over to the nearest fruit stand, your sisters right behind you to keep an eye on you. At the stall, you browse the wares for a bit longer than necessary. You pretend to be selecting the finest specimen from the displayed ones, the merchant giving you an odd look. Giving her an apologetic smile, you quickly grab the two requested pieces of produce.

“How much?” The merchant names her price. You pay for it with the little allowance you have left and slide the items into your pocket heading back to your siblings to hand over the fruits.

“Here.” 

Susannah inspects her persimmon as if assessing it for imperfections. Orpah pushes her tongue against the inside of her cheek as she raises an eyebrow at you, not even as much as looking at the pear in her hand. “This one is bruised.” she hisses. “Look.” 

Susannah snickers as you lean closer to your older sister, apparently in on something, but you don’t have time to process what it might be about. Without warning, Orpah tosses the pear against your face.

Staggering back, you reach for your nose — the impact is not that bad, but it hurts nevertheless — your head momentarily spinning as you let out a noise that makes both your sisters laugh in mockery.

“You should have known better.” 

Sudden tears sting behind your eyes, for you feel humiliated in a crowded area, where several dozens of people bear witness to the scene your sisters are causing. Their laughter shunts through your chest, stinging deeply, the lump in your throat growing to the point you are short of breath. 

Without another thought, you turn away, rushing through the masses whilst hiding your face from view, tears streaking down your face as you run.

You don’t notice a handful of men and women surrounding the Teacher they’ve been following for a while as you rush through the crowd. A few concerned glances are sent your way before they turn to their Rabbi, Who gives them a certain look — the kind appearing on His face when He needs to do something without them asking questions until later. He nods in your direction, and the rest of the group silently follows Him.

Finding yourself in a remote alleyway, you lean against the wall as you heave for air, your lungs burning as you collapse behind a few barrels that fishermen have left there after their trades to be picked up later. Seeing white specks in your vision, you feel your shoulders start to shake. Behind the safe wood, you deem yourself secure and hidden. As a shadow casts over you, you feel your breath hitch inside your throat, immediately realising that you have been found.

“Hey, now.” The voice does not belong to any of your siblings. Still, you remain right where you are as your heart races inside your chest. A subtle brush of fabric being disturbed. Someone is approaching you.

Cowering, you hide your face from the shadow darkening above you, flinching as if afraid to be hit again. Instead of being met with a closed fist, however, you feel a warm hand land on your shoulder. Regardless of its gentleness, you jolt. 

“Daughter.” The voice of the Stranger is warm and melts right through the layers of your heart, causing it to stutter inside your chest, “Daughter, look at Me.” 

Tears leak down your face as you shake your head. No matter Who this Man is, you are not worthy of looking Him in the eye. “I want to see your face.” 

The request is made so warmly that you can’t help but remove your hands from your raw face. The moment a warm hand cradles it, tilting it upwards, you open your eyes again. 

Pools of deep brown gaze down at you with a gentleness you’ve never seen on anyone ever before.

“My daughter. (Y/n).” 

Your chin quivers as you attempt to find the first question to ask. The Stranger thumbs away a tear and smiles. 

“You don’t need to say anything. All you need is Me. My Name is Jesus. Come, stand up. You don’t need to hide from Me.” 

You feel some strength come back in your legs at the command, and you straighten out to stand next to the Man Who introduced Himself as Jesus. Surrounding Him are a few people with curious yet kind eyes. 

“There.” Jesus muses. “Now we can properly see you.” He readjusts your veil so it sits better on your hair and looks at you with an expression that floods you with unfamiliar warmth. 

“I am glad I met you here today,” he whispers, “That we run into one another while you are surrounded with the people who you should have been able to call your family.” 

Your vision blurs, but Jesus shushes you and shakes His head. “There is no need for tears anymore. You have been hurt enough. I know how you afraid you have been. How you have felt about yourself. Today, that all changes.” 

“There you are, you little—” 

Caleb freezes in his spot as he pushes through the crowd of Jesus’ followers and sees you standing near the Man Who treats you with more kindness in a single minute than your own flesh and blood ever has done in more than twenty years of your life. 

“Who are You?! Get away from my sister.” 

“She is no longer your sister.” Jesus states, “For you have never been her brother. She is a daughter of her Father in heaven.” 

Caleb frowns, shaking his head in confusion, rage starting to seep into his features. 

“What kind of nonsense are You spewing?! Our father is back home in—” 

“You and your family—” Jesus lets His gaze go over to your sisters, who have gathered behind Caleb upon hearing the commotion. “You and your siblings as well as your father, have blamed this young woman for something that was not her fault. You have treated her like cattle, to be talked down on, hurt her in ways that I don’t even want to say out loud. I am here to declare, no more of that.” 

Your oldest brother grits his teeth as Orpah puts her hand on his arm. “You know nothing about our family, You—” 

“—You will no longer hurt her. You will no longer hurt My creation.” 

Your face warms upon the words Jesus is saying. He is speaking with such authority that you don’t even consider it for a moment, accepting His words right away, believing them, for you had been depraved from any comfort of the sort all your life; This Stranger right in front of you, He is all you needed, and then, somehow, you realise that He is more. More than just a Man telling people they are loved and wanted. More than just a Man rebuking others for their wicked behaviour. Your entire soul is suddenly flooded by this understanding, and a large smile spreads over your expression. 

“(Y/n). As I said, I know you have been hurt by those who were supposed to protect and love you. But I will teach you a different kind of love. A true, Godly love. I will redefine the meaning of fatherhood for you. You will learn it is supposed to be like. What a true Father is supposed to do for His children.” 

“Don’t listen to this nonsense, (Y/n).” Caleb hisses, “He’s a madman! Some random rabbi with a Messiah-complex!” 

Jesus can’t help but let His lips quirk upwards at the irony of the latter statement, but no one catches on.

“(Y/n).” Jesus ignores your brother, focusing on you completely. “Will you follow Me?” 

There is no hesitation in your voice. “Yes!” you breathe, “Yes��� Yes, I will!” 

The crowd of Jesus’ followers around you lets out a breath of happiness and seems eager to get to know you, whilst Caleb, Orpah and Susannah deeply frown. 

Your brother steps forward in an attempt to grab your wrist and pull you away, but two men of whom you don’t know the names yet shield you from him, looming over your sibling, who swallows hard. 

“Our— Our father will not be pleased! This is not the end of it, (Y/n)! You’ll be hearing from us, soon! Come on, let’s go.”  

With your sisters in tow, Caleb stomps off without as much as a look back. You let out a sigh of relief as your tears dry on your cheeks at last. Jesus smiles down at you and releases your face. Just now, you turn to the group standing with you, sniffling a bit as you smile.

“Uh, shalom shalom.” 

You are greeted with a few shalom’s from both men and women. 

“These are my followers,” Jesus tells you, “They will be your new siblings, if you will. And this time around, they will be kind and loving to you. It seems like they can barely wait to meet you. How does that sound?” 

You can’t help but laugh a little — genuinely so, which you haven’t done in a very long time — and nod, running your hands down your tunic. “Oh, I… I think I’d like that very much.” 

Jesus chuckles, nodding. “Very good. I’m sure they can tell you more about Me, too, hm?” As Jesus looks up at His followers, they all eagerly nod. 

Your heart swells with sudden happiness, a sensation you don’t even think you’ve truly experienced before, and you step forward to meet them more closely, surrounded by unexpected gentleness and acceptance. You have been so parched for Truth that you welcome the new feeling with open arms, at the precipice of something you have been dying to have in life. 

The Messiah fondly watches how His students involve you into their day right away, sensing the way the yoke of your family falls from your shoulders, replaced by His soft one.

[minticecodes]

A (late) piece for dmcweek2024 day 4! I was buzzing to put forward something for the week. Prompt was alt universe.

AU where Eva survived the fire and had to figure out a way forward, believing the twins dead. She becomes an RPG shopkeeper selling wares ranging from antique books to magical goods (Devil May Scry). She's also out for Mundus' blood.

Image descriptions are the same as in alt.

[ID: 7 Digital illustrations and sketches. 1: Coloured illustration of a bookshop at sunset. Eva, a pale blonde middle aged woman mans the bright patterned counter. She wears a turtleneck and red shawl, has shoulder length hair, and diagonal facial burn scar and scarring on her left hand. Light rays illuminate her gently smiling face. Besides packed books, on the shelves are potion bottles, statuettes, succulents, and a displayed katana. Roses and plants decorate the shop. On the counter are a thick hardback, bookscanner, and crystal ball. Cards are displayed inside the counter. On the wall hangs a price sign, featuring doodled vital stars (large star drawn with sunglasses), holy water and fortunes. Beneath it is a rose wreathed divinity statue display, with 2 red orb offerings in a dish. 2: Eva from behind, sitting hunched alone at a table where a birthday cake sits untouched. It's a two flavour cake. By her clenched hand are crumpled tissues. Caption: 'Vergil...Dante...happy birthday...' 3: Eva bracing the Devil Sword Sparda across her shoulders, aimed at the ground. She wears a bell sleeved, ruffled funeral/wedding dress with a slit for leg movement. A veil trails behind her like a ribbon. Close ups of her show the headpiece design; a pacifier made of a long bird skill, feather, rose, and four skeletal 'legs'. 4 & 5: Trish taking on teen Dante's image: a tan teen in black, with chin length white hair, a halter neck tank top, leather pants, kneelength boots and black polish. Her leather jacket collar resembles lightning bolts. She leans against an invisible wall, one leg bent to brace her foot against it. She looks askance with arched brows, lifting shades from her face. The 2nd image is a 3/4 profile with shades perched on her forehead and popped collar. 6: Helmetless portraits of Dante and Vergil in armour, expressionless. Dante's hair is shoulder length and falls across his face. 7: Full body of 2 somewhat lanky demonic knights. One (Nelo Angelo) in black and blue with droopy horns rests his palms atop his blue broadsword's pommel, the sword upright against the ground. He stands straight, staring ahead. The other in white and red and curled horns has a palm clapped on Nelo Angelo's shoulder, other hand at his hips. Somehow the eyes on his helmet express playfulness. At his back is the hilt to a flail, the spiked ball resting on the ground by his armoured heels. They're labelled '~16' . End ID.]

Read more for some wordy backstory and sketches. TW for mentions of torture, abuse and solitary confinement surrounding the twins.

I had...so many more ideas that I'm leaving out to keep this short. It's fun to think how she'd mesh with the cast.

Like! her and Lady. Mother that lost her kid and kid that lost her mother. It writes itself how much unwitting projection can go wrong. And pretty much everything about her, the twins, and Trish :)

In terms of backstory:

After the fire she's alone. Her birth family disowned her long ago. She thinks about revamping the mansion but the idea of staying in that empty space with only memories for company is too much. So she eventually opens a small store.

Starts off paranoid and distant. Still is distant but gets entangled with the local community overtime. Greets people by name and they'll chat about how life has been going. This includes demon hunters and demons and supernatural beings living peacefully; her shop becomes a small safe haven to exchange information to stay safe.

Gets very good at forging protective charms. Haunted by the memory of the enchanted closet, smashed in and empty.

A regular is a schoolgirl who originally came to pick up reserved books for her father but stuck around because hey, this place is quiet and interesting, and the owner serves stellar teacakes. Great place to study. To Mary, Eva's kind, though odd, secretive and a little lonely.

I got inspired by Eva's association with the bangle/bracelet of time and the amulets for her fighting style. It's based around item crafting, like an RPG character slapping on every stat boosting item.

She stitches together different outfits for different needs Cardcaptor style. They're all exceedingly dramatic. It's not clear here but I wanted a bird motif to eventually come through. Phoenix motif, really.

[ID: Rough sketches: A magician esque outfit with vest, feathered tophat and cape. A longcoat with long skirt and long scarf at her back like a cape. The cape is tagged with 'spells stitched into fabric'. Close ups on the coat lapel show two pins (strawberry and wing), labelled 'charm lapel pins.' Close up of the shoes show sharp heals and ankle bracelets. Eva leaping in a black bodysuit and leotard, with feathery collar, quill behind her ear, and ballet shoes with a claw at the heel. Eva making a triangular 2 hand sign in a hooded cloak and longskirt. Around her shoulders are claws. At her hips is an hourglass. Above her heeded head is a clocklike halo. Beside her is a sketch of a woman with a lionhead mask. A funeral and wedding dress inspired outfit. Eva crouches, wielding the Devil Sword Sparda in scythe form. Her face is covered by a tattered veil. She wears a knee length ruffled dress, black gloves, and a long, ruffled cape. Close up of her left hand shows a ring and finger claws Rough comic. Chibi lady talks to chibi Eva. Lady holds up a black body suit with billowing sleeves and a cleavage window. Lady: "Eva what is this" Eva (smiling cheerfully): "Oh - that old thing!" Eva: "My old hunting outfit. Gosh I'd almost forgotten about it. Not the most comfortable thing - so skin tight..." However Lady fixates on 'my old hunting outfit'. The words go in one ear and come out as a younger Eva in a catsuit, pointing a gun with a serious expression, wind blowing through her hair. Lady stares into the distance, bewildered, and slightly blushing. End ID]

Meanwhile the twins are having a terrible time but they have each other, even if they don't remember they're brothers. I think it'd be sweet if they have a bond anyway. Everyone else thinks they're rivals at best.

(Nelo is Mundus' favourite to toy with as the proud, eldest son. But when he gets rough, Bianco butts in and acts up for Mundus' attention. This gets him sent to solitary confinement; Mundus figured out Bianco hates small spaces and designed an iron maiden for him. Others think Bianco is a brute who acts out for a fight. But that's ok. It means Bianco can keep buying Nelo time.) (When lucid, Nelo despises his own weakness when this happens.)

[ID: 2 Images. Nelo and Bianco Angelo in fisticuffs in a cartoony dustcloud, glaring at each other as they fight. They're captioned 'Mundus' most competent generals'. Additional text: 'silent, obedient, crushing force when apart. Perfect soldiers. ... until they're put together. Complement each other's battle style OR clash terribly. Nelo Angelo staring off, arms crossed and furrowed eyes somehow expressing being completely fed up. Behind him, Bianco and Griffin talk at each other. Griffin's glaring. Bianco has a hand up to gesture. End ID]

[romanceyourdemons]

a fantasy story where a wizard is given a statuette head in honor of their getting tenure. it’s more a tchotchke than anything else, but it’s a high quality tchotchke, and imported from foreign parts too, so the wizard keeps it on their desk and uses it to hold down letters when they open their window. then one day they get back from teaching a lecture and the statuette is gone. they contact the university’s department of rectification, and the department finds a janitor who claims she saw the statuette begin to shake violently before splintering into fragments, dissolving into fine dust before the fragments had a chance to hit the desk. the wizard is skeptical. if they had a magically affected item on their own desk for months without noticing, they wouldn’t deserve their own tenure. but then a curator from the university’s gallery of artifacts enters in a panic: several of their more expensive foreign items have vanished, shaking violently before splintering into fragments and dissolving into dust. the wizard’s curiosity is piqued, and their worry is awakened. consulting both the receipt for the statuette and the gallery’s records, they find that the statuette and the first of the artifacts to vanish were made in the same workshop, and each of the other artifacts originated from a steadily expanding region of the foreign parts. this is truly odd. the wizard studies the records for any mention of a spell that might do this, coming up with nothing, although an ancient book from foreign parts does disintegrate in their very hands. by now a petition has come in from a merchant city a hundred miles away, stating that a warehouse of very expensive imported fabrics vanished overnight, leaving nothing but impossibly fine dust. the wizard checks the origin of the fabrics and is not surprised with what they find. the university has a guest lecturer from the same country as these vanishing items, a slender, sharp-mustached man with a vast store of medical knowledge and an insufficient store of patience. he brushes off the wizard’s question with offense—he left his home country twenty years ago, what special knowledge does he have?—but after a pensive moment he adds that the letters from his mother have all vanished. he seems uncertain whether to shoo the wizard out or let them leave on their own, but before he can make up his mind a terrible expression crosses his face. he begins to tremble, violently. the wizard rushes to steady him, but the moment their hands meet his shoulders, his entire body bursts into meaty fragments, baptizing the wizard in gore that sloughs off in fine dust before it gets the chance to drip. as though he had never been. the wizard fights to refocus their eyes and mind; when they succeed, they see items in their deceased colleague’s office bursting and vanishing one by one—densely scrawled papers, delicately constructed medical equipment, even the elegant painting of the colleague’s mentor the brusque doctor had made with his own hands. the wizard is so old and so dignified, but they flee the room. across the campus, people are coming undone: students, faculty, staff, birds in the duck pond the wizard’s deceased colleague had loved to frequent. in the chaos, the wizard hardly bothers to ask permission to pack their staff and go wandering. they journey toward the foreign parts where this curse originated, tracking its progress in reverse as they go. items from that country are the first affected, and people from that country are next. those deeply intertwined with victims become victims themselves—now that the wizard thinks of it, the colleagues and students who they saw vanishing had all been patients of the guest lecturer at some point or another. as they travel further and further, the cities grow emptier and emptier, the fields more barren—if a farm was planted with imported seed at any point in the past twenty years, its crops have without exception crumbled away—and the wizard consults every school, sage, and recluse they can find, looking for an explanation. searching for a cure

[lampost-in-winter]

Forgotten ecology

Rook finds Davrin carving wooden statuettes, which isn’t unusual. What surprises them is that he is looking at a book for reference. Davrin never needs reference: every nook and cranny of monster anatomy is etched into his brain, for good or ill.

“What do you have there?”

“You mean the book? I took it from Isseya’s lair, she must’ve gotten it from Ghilan’nain. Sorry I didn’t mention it.” He lets go of the piece he’s been carving—it looks like some kind of snake covered in feathers—and brings the book closer to Rook.

The tome hums with magic as Davrin passes the pages. Although Rook can’t interpret the text, written in ancient Elven, it is evident that it is a bestiary: each page depicts a variety of creatures Rook’s never seen before, all of them either aglow with foreign beauty or haunted by terrifying strangeness. The pictures move on the page like figures from a shadow play, portraying the different walks of the herbivores, the attack movements of predators, and the complex flight of four-winged and six-winged birds.

There is some flora depicted, as well. A two-page spread is entirely dedicated to the reproductive cycle of a translucent flower with iridescent blue filaments, which relied on wisps as its sole pollinators.

It is gorgeous. It is also concerning.

“Do you think Ghilan’nain created all of these?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Look,” Davrin points at a stamp in the shape of a halla at the beginning of one of the pages. “I’d say only the ones with her mark are her creation. Everything else… maybe someone, or something, else made them. Or maybe they were there already when the first elves gave themselves bodies.”

“Wow,” Rook mutters, “Do you think we might still find one of these things out there?”

The elf shakes his head.

“Not likely. It looks like all the wildlife in this bestiary was specially adapted to live in a world with spirits and much more magic than our own. In many ways, their life cycles depended on it, so most of them couldn’t possibly exist as they were in our world.”

“Damn. That’s… tough.”

“Yeah. Could be the reason why Ghilan’nain kept a specific record of them.”

Rook feels a hole in their stomach, the shape left by a loss that’s not even their own, as well as the dread at the idea of life being able to just disappear, the terror of the frailty of existence. And whatever Davrin is feeling, it doesn’t look like it differs much.

“It’s kinda… weird, to think that all of these animals can simply be gone without a trace,” Rook says, “The magic and technology from ancient elven times at least left something behind, even if it’s just debris.”

“They might’ve left something,” Davrin muses, “Some of these creatures could’ve adapted to the world post-Veil and changed into something we might recognize. Like this one,” he picks up the feathered snake he’d been carving. “She could be the grandmother of modern snakes.”

Rook chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Mmm. I’ve also been thinking about it the other way around.” The warden takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Rook notes that they really like his thinking face, so solemn. “If these couldn’t survive in our world, it’s also possible that many of our own animals and plants would not be able to adapt to life without the Veil. Perhaps they wouldn’t die in the initial blast, but the change in their way of life would slowly end them.”

“See, another reason to stop Solas: what if the fall of the Veil destroys cocoa trees? I wouldn’t survive it,” Rook counters with a playful smile, and it gets a laugh out of Davrin.

“Jokes aside… it makes you think, you know? That when Solas talks about bringing back the old world, it doesn’t just mean restoring the ancient elves: it means to change the very core of how life works. And I know that all things end, and that these creatures had their time, but…” Davrin looks towards the cozy, feathered bun that is Assan sleeping by the fireplace. The unlikely survivor of two extinction events, as they now start to understand. “Who decides which form of life is more worthy of existence?”

Rook tries to think of something wise and soothing and motivating to say, but it doesn’t come to them. They’re not a philosopher: they’re just one of the alive things in this world trying to make it to the next day.

“So… drinks?” they offer, instead.

Davrin smiles. “Sure. And, hey, pick one,” he says, pointing at the carvings of ancient creatures he has been working on. “My treat.”

Rook observes the three statuettes that Davrin has finished so far: there’s the feathered snake, a unicorn with a horn as long as its whole head, and a bird with wings made of flames. They take the unicorn. They will put it up in their room later, because it’s from Davrin and it’s beautiful, and they will hope that this melancholy feeling they get from looking at it will recede. In time.

[hmshermitcraft]

Pearl is an archaeologist. Her team and her recently found the remnants of an ancient city somewhere on Empires. Pearl was working on her section when she found a statuette.

It was about the length of her forearm, made of marble and had two emeralds for eyes. At the end of the day, when she had to report what they could unearth, Pearl didn't mention the statuette. She knows she should mention it, but she feels like just the thought of doing it was sacrilegious.

She felt possessed by the statue, putting it on her table in her tent, and looking at it for hours. The craftsmanship of the statue was exquisite, it was like the cast of a person in marble. Pearl felt like she could draw every curve and twist of it.

When she slept that night, it appeared in her dreams, but it was quite different, she wasn't white like marble but a rosy peach, fiery red hair but still had gems for eyes.

Pearl doesn't know what to think of it. When the figure talks to her in her dreams the sound is muffled, like speaking underwater. She wants to know what this person is saying, but no matter how hard Pearl listens, she can't make it out.

The rest of the excavation goes well. They unearth stone foundations, shards of brightly coloured glass (her team is optimistic it might be pieced together into a stained glass window) and jars with crystals inside that look like honey.

The visage of the statue only seems to get clearer every night. Pearl has been cleaning it in her spare time, carefully brushing away the lingering dirt and grime. Then in her dreams, she makes out freckles across the person's face and the flow of a dress. Pearl sees the digsite, but filled with structures she's only seen the remnants of.

Pearl knows she can't let this city go. She's going to consult every book she can find, there has to be answers somewhere.

If only she could hear them from the statue's mouth.