#then i got more successful than him and in a tale as old as time

[pynkhues]

Oooh I’d absolutely love to listen if you’d ever want to share your experience with the differences in male and women writers 👀🤍

(x)

Hahaha, mm, look, I should disclaimer this with the fact that a lot of the men and women I spoke to at the writers centre weren't necessarily writers so much as they wanted to be writers?

The writers centre I worked at was a non-profit arts support service, so we were separate from the authors guild / union, but basically the organisation they'd refer people onto a lot for anything from people wanting to do creative writing workshops and masterclasses to people needing advice on preparing their novel manuscript for submission to legal advice on publishing contracts or even just connections to bookstores. It was a real mix of stuff, and our clientele ranged from absolute beginners and hobbyists to probably some of the most famous Australian authors working. I'd say most of the membership though was early career writers who had probably had a couple of short stories published, and were hoping to get a novel out.

I worked there for five and a half years and it really burnt me out. It was a pretty gruelling job, the pay was shit, and while a lot of people calling up were lovely, a lot were calling either to vent about rejection or were in a crisis mode usually because they'd just been preyed on by self-publishers and vanity presses and were now stuck in contracts that would financially ruin them.

But yes, haha, in my experience of working there and talking to writers literally all day, every day, from across the spectrum of experience:

Men will never sign up as a member (ergo pay their dues), donate or support the Centre, but WILL take advantage of the free advice line. I think we worked out at one point 92% of our paying members were women, yet I'd say over half the calls I took during the day were men.

Men consistently think they've written a hit. Quotes I've never forgotten include "This'll be bigger than Dan Brown and Robert Ludlum combined", "Now, is it you I should talk to when the bidding war starts?" and, my personal favourite: "I've written the greatest book since Federation."

They WILL send you their manuscript even though you are very clear that you do not read manuscripts at the centre. We are eight staff, we have 4k members, it is not possible.

Sometimes! Those manuscripts they send you will have capital I Images on the covers of them to 'catch your eye'. The worst one I ever saw was a woman stark naked spread eagle with a swastika photoshopped over her vagina.

Men do not think workshops will help them. They know enough and if you suggest a workshop on, say, writing fight scenes, or preparing your manuscript for publication, they will get audibly annoyed at you and usually wrap up the conversation.

Men will call to ask you why their self-published book isn't selling on Amazon like it's your fault.

Men will call to ask you why their traditionally published book isn't selling anywhere like it's your fault (I don't know, man! Probably because publishers have no marketing budgets anymore!)

Men are Never Wrong and also Always the Victim, which I guess is basically what you'd expect, haha.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Winter (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Mature language. Grief. Toddlers. Unreliable narrators. Miscommunication.

A/N: I was so excited about this chapter! These scenes are the ones I wrote first. Also, the biggest hug to anyone who is reading this. I had not expected the amount of love my first chapter got, and I am so grateful!

THERE WAS AN old northern superstition —more like an old wives’ tale, really— that said if there was snow on the wedding day, the marriage was doomed to be a cold one.

It hadn’t been snowing the day Cregan had married you, but his marriage was proving to be icier than the lands beyond the wall. You weren’t interested in spending time with him at all, and you actively tried to avoid him. He had tried to convince you to share rooms, trying to foster some intimacy, to no avail.

Cregan had hoped that if not a loving wife, he would get a caring mother to Rickon. The boy was too small to grow without one, not yet having reached his third nameday. But you hadn’t shown interest in that either. Instead, you pretended the two of them didn’t exist.

He would like to say that the days went on the same way they did before he wed you, but it would be a lie. Winterfell ran much better now there was a lady present. Cregan had been wrong about you. It seemed like you could run a keep, and you did so with ruthless efficiency.

The castle had never been warmer, the meals so well planned. Even the servants seemed happy, now that they didn’t have to follow Cregan’s too broad instructions. It seemed that asking them to clean and cook was a little too vague for their tastes.

As for you, grief still followed you around, like a too long shadow that refused to budge even in the face of Winterfell’s brightest light. Sara had befriended you, with little success. While you had been far more welcoming to her, you still looked constantly tired and sad.

The lack of sunlight had made you lose your southron tan, leaving you with a look of quiet frailty that made Cregan want to wrap you in a thousand blankets and keep you safe. He just was unsure of the execution.

You scared him. He was man enough to admit it. People were often afraid of things they didn’t understand, and Cregan was no exception. You were made of absolute ice. There was no better description. Cold, but as fragile as glass.

He was running out of ideas on how to bond with you. Invitations to tea were denied, nor did you want to ride with him to see his tenants. You seemed at ease enough around Sara, and some other northern ladies, so social interaction wasn’t what you disliked. It was him.

Never had Winterfell’s corridors been filled with so many women. The northern lords already called you Queen Alysanne’s second coming, with your all female court. The only thing missing was your husband. You didn’t have Cregan’s ear, simply because you didn’t wish to. He would support your endeavors if you asked him to. He had offered his help with your attempts to establish a charity, since the North didn’t have Septas to take care of it, but you had proudly rebuffed him.

There was no pleasing you. He was at his wits’ end. Hence, the awful choice he had made that day.

To try to force you to be in his company.

“Why are you ordering my servants around?” You complain, barging into his chambers. While usually the kitchens were the domain of the Lady of the household, Cregan didn’t know you took it so seriously. “Do you not think me capable enough?”

“I do!” Cregan sits up in his bed, bewildered. He had given the orders around lunchtime, hoping you would not find out, yet here you were, less than half a day later. Far more soon than he had expected. “I just want to throw a feast to honor you.”

“You intend to honor me by giving me more work?” You place your hands on your hips, highlighting your figure, and Cregan is but a man. He cannot help himself, his eyes lingering for a second too long, and his brain coming with no response to your statement.

You seem to take his silence for affirmation.

“Seriously? Do you at least have a guest list?”

And your tone is so haughty, your words betraying you believe Cregan to be an absolute imbecile, he cannot help but give a heated retort.

“Of course I have. Truly, I am more than capable of organizing it on my own. Arra let me do it a few times, and I was unmarried for quite a while. I am experienced enough to…”

It is the wrong thing to say. You bare your fangs then, and Cregan has a moment of absolute and utter clarity. You are not a seahorse. Such a puny creature could never hope to deliver the utter destruction that you cause with your next words.

“Yes, and your precious Arra is dead! She is gone! Why can’t you understand it?” You turn on your heel, face absolutely thunderous, and go to rush out of his chambers.

Cregan loses his head fully, then. He grabs you by the arm, hard enough to hurt, and forces you to face him. For a frightening moment, he fears himself. Fears the wolf, the one screaming for him to strike you and remind you of your place.

How dare you come in his chambers, uninvited, after rejecting all his offers of companionship, to lecture him on grief? As if he could forget Arra was dead. It wasn’t so long ago that Rickon cried for his mother still, unable to understand why he didn’t have one. It wasn’t so long ago that Sara had to take over the role of Lady of the House, and suffered mockery from it. And it wasn’t so long ago, Cregan woke with a scream choked in his throat, reliving that awful morning in every dream he had.

He still did, sometimes. Less, now that he had more urgent matters to occupy himself with. Cregan was ashamed to admit it, but before Jacaerys and your arrival here, Winterfell had been far too empty to keep the ghosts away.

Now, with the war, and the flurry of activities that seemed to follow you, Cregan had little time to dwell much in his dark thoughts. Throwing himself into his work had allowed him to begin healing a wound he wasn’t even aware existed.

And wasn’t that a terrible thought? That Cregan was a man who thrived on war and hunger? Winter was coming, after all. It wouldn’t catch him unprepared.

He had sworn a vow to protect you. As long as Jacaerys had no children, you were third in line to the Iron Throne. To think of hurting you was not only to think of staining his honor, but to think of treason.

Cregan holds you there for a second longer, curious about your reaction. His grip must be bruising on your arm, he can feel the delicate bones under your flesh shift with how hard he is holding you. Yet, you show no fear. Your hands are balled into fists.

Were he to strike, you would strike back. Your face is the very picture of anger, your body coiled and ready to tear him apart.

He throws the feast. You sit next to him in icy silence and somehow manage to speak and dance with all the guests but him.

Cregan does no longer dream of trying to hunt a seahorse. Instead, he sees the world at a much lower angle than usual, and runs for his life. Somehow, in the dream, he knows a dragon is hunting him.

OF COURSE IT is today. The only day you actually wish your Lord Husband to be in the castle, and he is not.

You had spent many of your days fervently praying for him to leave on an errand, and yet, the day he does, you cannot even enjoy it.

Because the boy has gotten sick. And look, you have visited the nursery before, it is a part of your duties. You also cannot deny that you had been curious about the tiny version of your husband that will inherit everything.

The boy is cute, you suppose. In the manner all babes are. He is well-behaved, and quiet, and takes well to his teachings, even if they involve only naming things aloud.

Had you not hardened your heart to it already, you would want one of your own. You know, though, that their only inheritance will be tears and petty squabbles over land, so it’s best they are not born at all. It had been so between your husband’s father and uncle, and it was being so between your mother and your uncle Aegon.

The only assurance a woman has in a life spent as little more than property is her children. They are to inherit their father’s lands, and that is supposed to be enough. But for the second sons, said promise is always broken.

You had never, not once, thought you would come to understand Alicent, yet here you were.

You reflect on this as you hurry to the nursery, worried the damn boy will die before you reach it. When you get there, you feel the urge to scream. There is not one, but three serving girls hovering by the door, and the Maester is mixing some herbs in a chalice.

The child sleeps peacefully, unaware the surrounding turmoil. He looks impossibly small in his bed of furs, shirt open and chest covered in strange poultices. The boy… No, Rickon, had taken ill after the first snow. Perhaps he had been spending too much time playing outside, or he lingered too much in his wet clothes. You wouldn't know. You tried to avoid him as much as you could.

After this was over, you would have a stern talk with his maids. They shouldn’t be this careless. This was your husband’s heir. Someone had to care about him.

Not you. Never you.

“Will he be alright?” You ask, as the Maester places a wet cloth on his forehead. You have never liked children, never having had the chance to be one yourself. Your mother’s constant quest for the Iron Throne and her love for Daemon had often left you in the hands of the help. And when you were old enough, you had to take the role of the mature sibling alongside Jacaerys, helping raise your brothers.

Jacaerys. You hoped that wherever he was, he was suffering. You despised this place, and he had dared plot with your mother behind your back to get you here. With your beast of a husband, and this child of a previous marriage, whose existence would forever ensure your future children would inherit nothing.

You weren’t going to have children. Despite loving children, you despise your husband too much to ever lay with him. But most of all, you are beginning to fear you will become a damn Hightower. You feared that if you had children and faced the prospect of them only being second sons, you might be tempted to start a war too.

“He will, Princess.” The Maester, unaware of your inner turmoil, places a reassuring hand on your arm. He surely believes in the gentle hearts of women, or some nonsense like that. “The fever will lower with the tea we gave him, and the cool cloth on his forehead. His lungs are strong. He will breathe normally soon.”

The boy’s chest flutters oddly. His ribs show with each inhale, depicting his trouble breathing. You cast a dubious look at the cool cloth. If this was all they could do, it was no wonder your grandfather had been rotting alive.

“Is that all you have to say? Why do his ribs show?” You do your best to channel your mother, tone imperious. “If this is truly…” Before you can insult him by calling him the worst the Citadel has to offer, a boy comes in. You let out a sigh of relief, your desire to berate the Maester subsiding. It’s the same boy you had sent to Castle Cerwyn to retrieve your husband.

“Princess!” He says, extending a hand to you. Much to your astonishment, he hands back the message you had sent to Lord Cregan. “I have grievous news. The road to Castle Cerwyn is fully blocked. I couldn’t get past the river. I cannot go over it either and avoid the forest, for it is not fully frozen.”

“This cannot be!” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. Cursed your husband, and his plans to visit the Cerwyns’ tenants today, of all days. “You have to get Lord Cregan. Send a more experienced rider.”

“My lady, I would advise not to.” The Maester says, meekly. “Even if the rider does manage to get past, it is very likely Lord Stark is in the village, snowed in.”

“Well, then send a damn search party!” You yell, uncaring your language is unbecoming of a Princess. You cannot be here while the child… While Rickon dies. The child has a parent, and it is your husband, you do not even care for him!

“It is not as simple.” The Maester cringes when you turn on him.

“Of course it isn’t. The only simple thing is the cure for the child’s malady, isn’t it?” You growl. “Do something useful, if you think a rider cannot reach my husband. Get me someone who can, and fix the boy.”

It would be easier for you if the boy died. You could have the children you so craved. The obstacle would have removed itself. Relationships between half brothers are never as strong as between full ones. At the very least, this child could cast out you and any children you birth when Lord Cregan passes. At the very worst, he might have them killed, as your mother intended with her usurper brother.

But you are not so craven as to let an innocent die. He is still a boy, no older than three namedays. He is vulnerable, and his father is not here.

You sit next to the bed, eyes fixed on his chest. Rickon will not die on your watch.

THE SOUND OF a door opening jerks you awake. Disoriented, you sit up on your chair, and check that Rickon still breathes.

He does. He has awakened with the sound of the door opening, just as you did. But unlike you, he has begun wailing. You get him. You would like to cry too.

“What is it?” You snarl at the serving girl who dared enter in such a manner. The sound of Rickon’s cries grate in your ears, shrill and loud, awakening you fully. You try to coax him into laying back down to no avail.

“Milady…” She stammers, holding a breakfast tray. The reason for her interruption becomes clear. Had it been so long already? You remembered standing vigil over Rickon until sundown, and changing the cool compress a few times after, but no further. By the Seven, you were a terrible caretaker. “I… There are…”

Rickon wails harder.

“Father! Father, want father!” He cries. He then attempts to remove the cool cloth from his forehead, and get up, escaping the furs laid over him.

The serving girl stares at the boy. You stare at her. Rickon continues to squirm. When it is clear she is expecting you to soothe him, you sigh and turn to the child.

“Rickon, you have to lay down again.”

“Father! Father!” He wails, face beginning to turn red, his breathing labored. You are unsure if it is his distress or the sickness, but it worries you nonetheless. The child cannot die. You are not prepared to deal with it.

“Shh, Rickon, I know you are hurting.” You tell him, as you pick him up. “Father is not here. He is trapped by the snow.”

At this, he cries harder. You can hear him gasping for air as he squirms in your arms and kicks at you. His snot is getting everywhere. Good Gods, what if he dies? Would your husband actually force you consummate the marriage if he loses his heir? The thought alone is enough to force you into action.

“He is not trapped. He is snowed in, just as when you cannot go out and play. Happens all the time.” You reassure him, rubbing his back. You know your words to be a lie, but the boy doesn’t. The weather has been especially rough this season. The snow storm is unusual in its fierceness. “He will be back soon.”

Rickon perks up at that.

“He will?”

“As soon as he can.” You promise, hoping it is the case. In truth, you do not know. Your husband is unaware Rickon is ill, and holds no fondness for you. You doubt he will be rushing once the road clears. In fact, you think he might be celebrating the weather and praising his northern gods for the excuse to get a respite from you.

Well, too bad. You would send men each hour to check if the storm waned and the road was accessible once more. He would have to come and tend to his child.

“Where is father?” Rickon asks you, a suspicious look in his little face. He is eerily similar to your husband. His sobs have turned more subdued.

“With Lord Cerwyn.”

“Why? Hurts! Father!” The boy demands, petulantly. He is clearly feeling better if his lungs allow him to shriek like that. You are no healer, but his agitation is worrying you. What if he has a fit because he overexerted himself and then dies?

“I want your father too.” You mutter under your breath. “You do not see me wailing.”

“I love father.” He sobs. “Want him.”

And you are not made of stone. You have never been, no matter how hard you pretend. He is still a babe, hands chubby, face round. He still smells like one, a mix of the nursery, and sweet innocence.

Without even realizing it, you have cradled him into your arms and begun rocking the two of you. He keeps wailing, so you begin singing.

“I loved a maid…” There is no need to be a good singer to soothe babies. You are unsure of what they like about it, but you know it works. It had worked for Aegon and Viserys, why not for Rickon? “As fair as summer, who had sunlight in her hair….”

You begin to rock him as you pace through the room. As his tears begin to subside, and he begins to grow curious about the soft song, you realize he is not the threat to your future children you had envisioned. Rickon is beautiful in the manner all babes are, soft and sweet. His little fists cling to your wool cloak, gray eyes meeting yours with fascination.

Charmed by him, you keep singing. Seasons of my love is enlarged and repeated ten times over, and now includes verses about northern babies who look exactly like their father.

“I loved a boy…” You hum, softly. It feels like hours have passed when Rickon’s eyes finally begin to drop. Of course he would enjoy the verses about winter the most. “As white as winter, with moonglow in his hair.”

The door opens, slowly. You hear the wood groan as it does, but Rickon takes no notice. He burrows his head next to your heart, yawning.

You turn to look at the newcomer, pleased that having put the fear of the gods into the maid who had dared enter before had proven fruitful. The pleased smile drops from your face when you realize it is your husband.

Lord Stark is drenched to the bone. His hair is stuck to his head and shoulders, dripping water onto his furs. The cloak he had worn is wet, and he is quick to remove it, leaving him in simple breeches and a jerkin. His face is the picture of worry.

“I rode as hard as I dared.” His voice is low, pleasantly so. You had never considered the northern accent he sported attractive, but when his voice is gruff, and pitched low, you might see the appeal. “How is he?”

He shouldn’t have bothered with the low tone. Rickon would recognize his voice everywhere because he perks up considerably.

“Father! Father!” Rickon claps. He attempts turning in your grip to look at your husband, which makes you fear he might fall, so you perch him on your hip so he can do so.

“The fever has broken.” You hand Rickon back to him, feeling a hint of embarrassment when his eyes linger on the way you had been holding him. “He’ll live.”

“Thank you.” And his voice is earnest and soft, and it makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. Is it her still? Does Arra Norrey stand in this room with you, too?

The embarrassment from earlier, and the anger at the thought of your husband being soft because you remind him of her make you snap at him.

“It’s fine. I missed my siblings.” You cross your arms over your chest, awkward. Why does he keep staring at you? Is he… Oh, by the Seven, he is smiling at you? So softly? You cannot stand it. “I will send for a bath for you and Rickon, after washing myself. Less I catch a cold too.”

Look, princesses do not flee. They simply walk hurriedly. Very hurriedly.

[orionsangel86]

I watched X-Men 2000 tonight. Yup the Deadpool and Wolverine brain worms got me - at least for a little while - so I figured I'd rewatch the old movies that I havent seen in over a decade and have basically forgotten entirely at this point.

You know what really stunned me? Even more than the slow pace, serious tone, actual dedication to telling a coherent and interesting story with layers of meaning and social commentary attached to it, as well as a sincerity that's been missing from most superhero films since the MCU was born (thanks Josh Whedon).

Nope, what shocked me most was this:

This is a perfect specimen of a man. Look at him. He's gorgeous. But look at his chest? His arms? He's muscular, he's pretty well toned, he's hairy. He's definitely got a six pack - but it's nicely covered by a healthy layer of fat. His skin is plump, he has a bit of squish to him. He'd probably be great to hug (Jean Grey certainly gives him a good squeeze lol).

When he sits down he looks like his stomach will roll just nicely. Like a stomach should.

I know my point here is obvious. It's just that scrolling the Deadpool and Wolvering tag is basically 50% "oh they definitely fucked in the Honda Odyssey" (yes lol) and the other 50% is just horny posting over Wolverine's topless scene like the entire site suddenly adopted Deadpools horny brain.

I gotta give props to Hugh Jackman for his dedication to turn himself into an actual comic book character - because that's what this new movie does. It gives us a comic accurate Wolverine in practically every way (except for his height lol) the suit is amazing, the cowl was a joy to see brought into live action. The body too though was straight out of a comic book artists male power fantasy.

What I wanted to emphasise was that this:

Is extremely tough on the human body. What I wanna know is how long he starved and dehydrated himself for before filming this scene? How long before they shot this did he last drink some water? Because damn that must have been tough. The oil and the lighting probably help further emphasise the muscle, vein, and sinew definition. It's probably similar to how body builders prepare before a show.

Nothing about body building is healthy though. So in the coming weeks as the whole entertainment industry rides on the coat tales of this movies success, and everyone goes crazy over Hugh Jackmans physique, please don't feel pressured into thinking that his 2024 physique in the movie is remotely realistic - or realistically attractive. Like I get the fantasy sure, but come on. I'd personally rather lie on a cushioned bed than a concrete floor.

Deadpool may disagree with me, but he's a masochist lol.

Oh and whilst I stand by the shade I threw at the MCU above, I think Wolverine's different physiques in the movies is a good standard of comparison for how much superhero movies have changed. Because when superhero comics first started getting adapted I think a lot of the choices made were about how to bring them to live action realistically and believably and the attitude was to try not to make them look ridiculous. The first X-Men movies definitely do this.

It was about bringing the comics to life in a way that fit in our world. But over the years, as audiences got more and more used to comic book movies the movies became more and more like comic books and less like a realistic adaptation of a comic book. Does that make sense? So as the movies attempted to bring the comics to life in a way that was less realistic and more comic accurate, the demands on the actors to sculpt their physiques to meet the standards of comic book art became normalised.

I think Deadpool and Wolverine is the MOST comic book accurate of all superhero movies made in the past 2 decades. Half the time the images from the movie look like they could be literally pulled from the pages of the comic books. The story is convoluted and stupid, the plot is barely there and is full of gaping plot holes and elements that don't fit any past stories. The action is ridiculous, extremely fast paced, gratuitous, and violent to a hilarious level. But it's so entertaining, joyful, exciting, and laugh out loud hilarious throughout.

It reminded me a LOT of my attempts at reading through the Deadpool comics (I've read a lot of them but no where near all of them).

To sum up this rambling message with multiple points, I'll say that Deadpool and Wolverine is a really fun movie that I thoroughly enjoyed, but make no mistake there is nothing real in it at all. It is almost literally a comic on screen. Don't expect anything more than that and you'll enjoy the experience.

[tempo-takoyaki]

Transmigrator!Hua Cheng AU (aka SVSSS x TGCF AU) | I mean technically it's an AU but I wrote it in a way that would make it fit as HC's POV throughout TGCF, so AU or theory? Take that as you will | Warning: Canon Compliant Violence, Suicide ideation, Implied non-con (not between Hualian and never actually happens here)

"A Tale of Three Princes" was Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s latest novel. Unlike his previous success, Proud Immortal Demon's Way, ATTP (as it was called by the fans) was a renowned  masterpiece. Far from the stallion novels Airplane readers had been used to, ATTP was more akin to one of those classics that would be taught over and over again throughout  the centuries. What made it so peculiar though was the narrative device used to tell its story.

ATTP was not in fact a single story, but three, set in the same universe, centuries apart. The three stories were updated one after another daily, by chapters of ten thousand words (as Airplane readers were used to). Which meant that the readers had no idea how each story ended before being swept up into the next...

Which also explained why Zhu Qiang did not know any of the three endings when he got reincarnated into ATTP.

It had been just another terrible day for Zhu Qiang when he died. He had found a quiet spot in his school's stairwell to unwind and read the latest update of ATTP when his bullies had found their way back to him. He had put up a good fight, maybe too much, as he could still remember losing his footing and falling head first onto the stairs. When he had opened his eyes, it was not to the stairwell's ceiling, or even a hospital, but a busy street where people in ancient clothing looked at him strangely.

After a few minutes, he had put two and two together relatively quickly. He  had transmigrated in none other than the second story of ATTP, also called the Xianle Arc. As for which character he was supposed to be... He had no idea. When he had asked the system about it, it only flashed him a [System has encountered an error. System update…] which was not helpful in the least. Despite his more introverted personality, he had no other choice but to ask around… And the answers came relatively quickly: “It’s the monster child!” “Get away you fiend!” “Disappear!” With a sigh, he came to the realization that unlike many of those popular transmigration novels, this life wouldn’t be too much different from his previous one.

He hadn’t been the best looking guy back in his hometown, at least from what he knew, and people had always bullied him for it. This time around, he had no mirrors or phones to confirm what others said, but he supposed he wasn’t much different. (Though to be fair, even back in his previous life he had always carefully avoided mirrors and photos, he couldn’t even recall what his own face actually looked like). Once the system had finished its update, it tried to give him some helpful directions to survive, like where he could find food or shelter, but any questions about what character he was supposed to be were left unanswered. (All that he knew was that he was about ten years old). However, he finally got access to his stats (after days left to his own devices) and he almost choked on the spot.

“MINUS THIRTY-SIX ON LUCK?! WTF?!”

The reason for  these god-awful bad stats? A passive skill called Eye of Misfortune which reduced his own luck by a hundred points, and the one of surrounding people by fifteen percent. Completely unfair… But it explained people’s glares and insults. Again, with no mirror to look for, Zhu Qiang had no idea of what that Eye of Misfortune actually looked like. But at this point, he had understood that the best way to stay on the down low was to hide it. Usually, those types of novels would then introduce a special ability only the protagonist could have to solve his main issue and become a total badass… But asking the system about it, for the very first time, it seemed to express an actual tangible emotion.

[System apologizes. There has been an error. UV003 has no special ability attached to this vessel besides Eye of Misfortune and Demonic Heritage.]

Ah, yes Demonic Heritage. Another passive skill that actually was useful, unlike the other, as it made him less receptive to pain by fifty percent. He supposed it was linked to Eye of Misfortune in some way… But again how could he know when he’d apparently spawned out of nowhere with a backstory he wasn’t aware of? As time passed, the hope of bettering his life slimmed down until it seemed barely believable. 

He had no parents to take care of him. No home to find shelter in. No prospect of finding a job with his “deformity” as people called it… Only two months went by before he called it quits.

If he hadn’t died in that stairwell, he probably would have jumped from the rooftop of his school. He wasn’t afraid of death, he had hoped for that prospect for many years prior to reincarnating. But reincarnation hadn’t been kinder to him. It hadn’t offered him a life he could change, one he could better to prove he was worthy of something, anything. The system flashed him warning signs, but fuck it, he was tired. So tired of playing into God’s hand. 

[Major Event Activated: The Last Parade of Xianle.]

At the top of the castle’s wall, he could remember the first chapter of the second story of ATTP. “His beauty was beyond compare, his stance the one of a mighty warrior, and his gaze behind the mask: determined, fierce, and maybe even sly in his own childish way.” (Chapter 2 of A Tale Of Three Princes) He was too tired to go on, but if he had to go one last time, he wanted to see the prince, his favorite character, before doing so.

Once he saw him in his golden clothes, Zhu Qiang took a step beyond the edge and…

…

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Great things must be said three times! You have successfully changed the plot "The Star of Bad Omen" into "A Fateful meeting"! Character role changed from "Canon Fodder" to "Side Character". +100 B-points!]

… Uh?

He was cradled into a pair of strong arms, holding him tight against embroidered robes despite his dirty appearance. He heard the sound of a wooden object hitting the floor, and he looked up. There, with the most gentle eyes he had ever seen…

[New Character Unlocked: Xie Lian, Prince of Xianle. Second protagonist of A Tale of Three Princes.]

Zhu Qiang wanted to strangle the system with all his might. Finally, finally he knew which character he had been transmigrated into: THAT ONE STUPID KID WHO KILLED HIMSELF DURING THE PARADE OF XIANLE, CURSING THE ENTIRE COUNTRY IN THE PROCESS. WOW. That one child who had no name but haunted the entire second plotline of ATTP. Never named but always present, the curse of the city, the failure of its inhabitants, a character full of symbolism but no actual practical utility to speak of… No wonder his luck stat was so low and the system did nothing to make up for it!! He was born to die!!! 

That alone, pissed him off enough to reschedule his suicide at a later date. If he had to die he wanted it to be by his own hands and his own choice. If the system wanted him dead, then it was no better than his bullies back in his previous life! Besides, he was already laughing in its face, because he had been held by the Crown Prince of Xianle, a beauty amongst beauties, the most perfect and fascinating character ever written (in Zhu Qiang’s own biased opinion as a 16 year old).

What happened afterwards though was embarrassing to say the least. First he had been found out by Qi Rong (that bastard traitor, he had always hated him even when he was only a reader) who had beaten him to a pulp (he was so thankful for Demonic Heritage at that moment), then Xie Lian had saved him (yay!) and he had taken care of him (double yay!) and then he and his subordinates had asked him questions (fuck).

“What’s your name?” He doesn’t know. “What does your mother call you?” Uuuuh people said his cursed eye was red so maybe… “Hong…Hong-er?” “How cute!” Nailed it. “Where are your parents?” Damn, he wishes he knew! “I… ran away from home.” “Poor boy…” He would have felt awful if it weren’t for Xie Lian’s gentle hands and his soft smile. Any lie in the world was worth it if it allowed him to see him. He was however, feeling very uneasy in the presence of Feng Xin and Mu Qing, Xie Lian’s two closest servants and friends who were eyeing him as if he had a bomb hidden under his clothes. Especially Mu Qing, the last chapter of ATTP about Xianle he read implied that Mu Qing was about to betray the prince, and so Zhu Qiang (now renamed Hong-er) didn’t trust him one bit.

But even so… After that awful cultivator told him he didn’t deserve to live (and god did he already know that)... Xie Lian took him in his arms and said he wasn’t a monster. No matter how ugly his sobbing was, no matter the reason for his misfortune, Xie Lian, unafraid of him, held him and told him he was not a monster… that was more than anyone had ever done for him in two lifetimes. And for the first time in a long time, Zhu Qiang cried.

He already knew he was a curse on legs, and so no matter how thankful he was, he couldn’t extend his stay. He knew what sort of character he was, if he did, things would only get worse for Xie Lian from then on. And he didn’t want that for him… And then Xie Lian ascended.

It was a miracle that he stayed alive for so long. His saving grace? Not Xie Lian’s temple he had built himself and took care of. No. It was beating the other street kids like they had beaten him up before. Hey, no judgement, those weren’t modern times, the worst that would happen is some other kids coming back to get revenge and then he could whoop their ass over again. Uh? He was an adult beefing with kids? That’s a detail, system, buddy! Let him enjoy this miserable life of his that had not improved one bit in three years besides that!

[+32 exp point. User has obtained a new success: Child Beater. Congratulations… (-_-)]

Now it’s just making stuff up. Anyway, life was going, that was it. Every day was the same: go in the fields to get a flower for the crown prince’s statue (not only did it make him happy, it also raised his Faith stat!), pray, take care of the temple if need be, take leftovers from one of the big houses in the neighbourhood, beat other kids up when they came to provoke him (or steal his food), go back to the temple to pray (again), clean it up (again), steal food (again), beat kids (again) and sleep where no one will see him (...again). It was fine the first year. The second, it had become redundant, the third, he was wondering what the heck he was doing. Beating kids raised his stats slowly but surely, but becoming stronger wasn’t his goal. What he wanted… And that was it, he didn’t know what he wanted. And after three years, doubt made its way in the cracks of his broken heart: he lived so he could spite the system for attempting to kill him… But was it worth it? 

Xie Lian was a god now, and with his shitty luck, was he going to live long enough to even see him for the upcoming civil war? What was the point of it all in the end? He wasn’t supposed to live. He had never been meant to live at all… So why…?

“If you don’t know what to live for, then live for me.”

[Class upgrade: Beggar -> Soldier. Skill update: STR +15. DEF +13. CHAR +5...etc]

[New passive skills acquired: Blade of Xianle, doubles the amount of exp gained from killing humans. Demonic Heritage II, the might of your ancestors give you +20 to your Strength and Speed.]

[Major event coming soon: Land of Tender, Land of Loser.]

Reading about the Land of Tender had been excruciating. One of the main criticisms towards ATTP was how downright cruel some chapters were towards the main three princes. Each had one specific traumatic event that would shape them up for the rest of the story, their own fall from grace. In the case of Xie Lian… It had been the Land of Tender.

Unlike his previous novel Airplane hadn’t romanticized what happened at all. It was so raw and so awful many readers had considered dropping the story right here and there, Zhu Qiang had been one of them. It was the start of the fall of Xianle, marked by this cruel beyond humanly possible event.

Now, standing straight with his sword in hand, Hong-er faced the flowers. He couldn’t let them close, he knew what would happen if he did. It’s the exact reason for why he had followed Xie Lian in the forest to save Qi Rong even if he hated him. If he gave up, if he wavered for just one moment… Never could he forgive himself.

And then the flowers changed appearances, and laughing, they took the face of the Crown Prince.

Back when Xie Lian only used to be a character in Zhu Qiang eyes, he admitted he looked at some fanarts or some skimpy fics about him, sometimes even watched videos imagining it was him. Face with the real deal, he had vowed himself to never see him again as some sort of forbidden pleasure. And yet those flowers had seen right through him… Maybe they had all been right, his bullies, his parents, his teachers, the villagers, everyone… Maybe he was a monster.

“You’re not a monster,” he had clinged onto those words for years. But his palm against the white skin of his prince, he felt his devotion waver. He thought it was faith, he thought it was fate, now… he wondered, hadn’t it all been in the name of lust and obsession? When Xie Lian left, and he asked for him, he reminded himself of why he shouldn’t have gotten closer in the first place: he was a jinx.

Mu Qing kicked him out of the army after this event. There was no point in arguing with him. No matter how Hong-er told him he was the one at fault for abandoning the prince, the only acknowledgement he got from him was a slap to his face and his insignia snatched out of his hands. And back to the street he was. He wasn’t beating kids anymore, no point to that, he would destroy them at the first occasion. His stats were high thanks to how much he had killed (Paper men, he reminded himself after washing the blood off his hand, paper men). There was the epidemic too. Since he was immune, he got recruited to take care of the transport of the ill. The grotesque faces made him want to puke, but it hadn’t been the worst he’d seen at that point.

He saw Xie Lian one last time. And then another time, his eyes closed, holding the pagoda… And then Xianle fell. And he was back to beating kids up to protect the temples he rebuilt.

“I’ll never forget you!!” His one reason to hold on in two lifetimes.

He died in Xie Lian’s temple, stabbed by Qi Rong, not without smashing his head in retaliation. Heavens, he hated that guy. He laughed low and quiet, the system flashing his health bar lowering and lowering. And then… As he had expected it, everything faded to black.

[GAME OVER. 2/3 life left, start again?]

Wait… HE HAD SPARE LIVES???!!

[Class update: Soldier -> Malice. Base stats changed from Human to Ghost. Passive skills still active: Eye of Misfortune, Demonic Heritage I, Demonic Heritage II, Blade of Xianle...]

[To continue…?]

(I don't know if I'll do it in multiple parts or not, if you like it I'll continue. Other than that, here's the tweets that started it all:)

(I added one of the replies mentioning that it could explain why his writing is so bad because I hadn't thought about it when I made my first tweets, but looking at his writing in adaptations and comparing it to how modern chinese students write... You can see similarities.)

If you enjoy the concept you can add onto it in the replies, the reblogs or send me asks!

[askthestans]

Hey Stan, can you tell us stories about your brother Sherman being a total square?

Stan and Ford: At the same time. You mean Square-mie?

Both of them laugh, not in a harsh way, but the kind of lighthearted chuckles that usually come from one sibling teasing another. It's obvious they love their older brother, but... like most siblings, they'll always jump on a chance to make fun of one another.

Stan: Oh, he always hated that nickname! Look, Anon, lemme first introduce ya to the official scale of Pines fun-ness. At the top, there's me, for obvious reasons. Second best is Mabel, also for obvious reasons. And... He pauses, putting his hand to his chin. Damn, I gotta say, I think Ford's next-

Ford: I am as much of an adventurer as I am a scientist.

Stan: Yeah, definitely Ford, despite his dorkiness and obsession with... He gestures at Ford's honors and trophies for grades and intelligence related successes from childhood. That garbage. Good grades and other crap. And then-

Ford: Definitely our nephew, Dipper and Mabel's father. Works in IT, very smart, has a little bit more of Mabel's fun-loving nature. But far less adventurous than you or I. You and I could never live a boring suburban life like he does.

Stan: Grinning. Then, near the very bottom, you've got Dipper. No offense to the kid, but he's Ford's smarts but minus Ford's rebel streak. Walkin' wet blanket at times, always askin' how many laws we're breakin' while we're out havin' fun... although me and Ford are teachin' 'im to grow past it, as much as his parents will let us corrupt 'im. But he at least likes to have fun, I'll give 'im that. So that leaves us at-

Ford: Way at the very bottom of the Pines fun-ness scale, you have... Square-mie. He coughs. Shermie, sorry.

Both men howl with snorts and laughter again, barely able to explain why.

Stan: Wiping a tear from his eye, wheezing a bit. Okay, okay, Anon, picture this: take Dipper and his dad's wet blanket crap and crank it up to 1000. This guy? Our brother? Good ol' Saint Sherm? Guy's never even had a parking ticket his entire life! He won't even jaywalk! He never goes even one mile per hour above the speed limit! He's like the human equivalent of white bread. Of unflavored oatmeal. Got average grades, got a boring old suburban house with a literal white picket fence, had an average job-

Ford: Shudders. I have no idea how he worked as an IRS accountant for decades.

Stan: Ugh, don't remind me. He's always barkin' at me. "Stan, you pay your taxes yet this year?" this. "Stan, you need to contribute to your civic duty.", that. Cripes, ol' Sherm is like the anti-Pines. A Pines is supposed to laugh in the face of rules and authority. This guy huffs whatever authority's smokin' like he's part of a cult. Even when we were kids, he'd always do chores even when he wasn't asked. Kept his room clean as a whistle. Barked at me to do my homework and foiled our pranks when he could. Pure goody two shoes, so much he'd make an angel blush. I think all of our Ma's rebellion genes went to us, and Pa's strictness went to Sherm.

Ford: Yes, so after I returned and we explained to him what had happened, he...

Both men fall into a snicker fest again, unsure who will stop laughing first long enough to tell the story.

Stan: Holy mackerel, he... he... Snort. Picture Dipper at, like, seventy years old, but with an even bigger stick up his ass and even less muscles somehow. Gets told this long, convoluted as hell tale about me fakin' my death and pretendin' to be Ford for three decades, Ford gettin' lost in sci-fi sideburn land for just as long, the world almost ending with Sherm's grandkids along for the ride... just mind bendin' stuff... and the first words outta his mouth... and for reference, this guy never swears, and he never has thrown a punch at anyone... he's so square he's a cube! But he just says...

He wheezes, so Ford has to finish the story.

Ford: Snort. He raises his voice a bit, likely to mimic Shermie's. "I just knew I shoulda kicked your asses more when we were kids."

The two howl and cackle with laughter, leaning on each other for support.

Stan: And then he just... walked away, out his door, down the street to the gas station, bought beer for the - and I'm not kidding - the first time in his life, and sat back down in his old man chair and faced us as we just stood there, gobsmacked, while he cracked one open and drank it with an expression like a man betrayed. And he said-

Ford: "You two knuckleheads are lucky I'm even older than you, 'cause if I wasn't, I'd plant my loafer up your ass! You're gonna sit down, shut up, and let me drink this crap while I process whatever the f*ck I just heard and how many goddamn taxes you owe. And then maybe I'll think about huggin' your sorry asses."

More laughing.

Stan: I'm not sure if he was more mad about the taxes, or the fact that I'd faked my death all those years ago, or... the world ending part where Dipper and Mabes coulda been hurt... or maybe because we drove him to drink and swear and threaten someone for the first time in his whole goddamn life, all in the same day, he... Chuckles. He never really said. All I know is, is I don't think I've ever had my jaw that close to the floor in my life.

Ford: Honestly, I think we just kind of... broke him. Even still, I think he blew our minds more than we blew his.

Stan: He laughs a bit more, then shakes his head. Pfft, can you imagine Sherm kickin' our asses, anyway? He'd probably gently nudge one of our shins and give up. He's too nice for anything worse. That's the thing with our brother: he may be boring as sin, but... he's a good guy.

Ford: He always protected us from bullies when we were kids. Carried us home whenever we sprained an ankle or broke a bone.

Stan: And bought us ice cream whenever we asked, and fixed our bikes, and patched us up, scared the "monsters" outta our closet, and taught us most of what we know. Kind of like a second Dad, honestly, and one a lot less grumpy. A bit more somber. And he helped our parents out in their old age when we weren't around, until the... well, you know. 'Til the end.

Ford: His smile fades, then he sighs, expression a bit bittersweet. And he did actually hug us.

Stan: He scratches the back of his head, a bit embarrassed, but smiling fondly. For three hours straight.

[currently-reading-a-book]

A Tale of Two Minds

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: The seemingly shy Dr. Spencer Reid is interrupting you at the library, but don't let his quiet demeanor fool you...

Genre: smut

Warning: crime scenes; talking about murder, heated kiss, made up facts (let me know if I forgot something)

Word 1118 Count: words

A/N: As always, any criticism is very welcome. Sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes. English is not my first language. Not proofread.

Anyway, enjoy :)

✧ 🎀 -------------------------------------------------------------- 🎀 ✧

The building was huge. The dull grey walls ran through the whole building, seeming to never stop. You could easily get lost in one of the many departments of the FBI. An outsider would declare this building old and labyrinthine. However, for you, it was home or the closest place to one. Of course, you only have limited access as you’re just a trainee. You could only get inside the school side of the building, but you only needed the library to feel safe. Every possible minute of your free time you spend there. Being surrounded by piles of thick complicated books, trying to study every field of knowledge that exists. 

The sternmost part of the library was your favorite. Nobody was there and you could enjoy your peaceful solitude. This was also the part where unsolved closed cases were located. Reading through them, trying to find a repeating pattern, and making an accurate profile. Hoping the police can then find a suspect that fits the criteria. With this method, you have quite a success and solved relatively a lot of cases. That is actually how you got into the special program of the FBI. It all started when you were solving a case of strange murders your local police couldn’t solve. It turned out the priest took justice a bit too personally. You analyzed the victimology of the murders and started to make a profile. The police just needed forensic evidence, which luckily was found quickly. 

As you were nearly done with your profile on a murder case, in deep focus, someone disturbed your beloved peace. 

“You know sitting on the ground could raise your potential of getting sick by over 18%.” A shy voice stated.

Letting out a breath, you snapped your head around just to see a guy with long blond curly hair. You lowered your glance a bit and saw his ID Card. Your eyes shot open. You're on your feet within a few seconds. “This can’t be true, can it?” you thought.

“You’re Dr. Spencer Reid!”, you said, a bit too enthusiastic.

He backed up a bit, startled by your elation. He hesitantly nods his head. Of course, you heard of him, like everybody did. Maybe you liked him a bit too much, like not everybody did. 

He worked at the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU) of the FBI and was also a professor at the academy. One of his most impressive traits was undoubtedly his intelligence. It was hard not to be impressed by the breadth and depth of his knowledge, which set him apart from others. You would often hear amazing stories about how his mind solved cases. He was incredibly skilled at what he did and a huge role model for many, also for you. Working with him was always a dream for many and again of course you dream about it too, maybe even more than others. “Suddenly, you remember your position. You’re a forensics student and he was an agent, even a doctor to begin with. Another point would be that you had a crush and didn’t want to scare him away.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was too excited,” you slowly admitted, locking down.

Embarrassment was written across your chubby face. He took a step closer, gaining confidence. He smelled incredible, masculine yet fresh and pine. Just like you imagined.

“I see you’re trying to solve the “Lucifer Case” and have you gotten any further with it?”, he asked, trying to break the awkwardness.

You look into his eyes, trying to read him. Confused why he would show any interest in you, you try to find out any motive by analyzing his body language, but you can’t find anything too convincing. A moment later he was standing beside you, looking through the files spread around you on the floor.

“I was just about to finish my profile before you interrupted, Doctor Reid”, you told him quietly. Your shyness got the best of you. 

“Oh, please call me Spencer, Y/N”, he responded promptly, “and I apologize for interrupting you.”

Your cheeks heated up. Looking at him shocked, he looked back smiling. Too astounded to notice that he had called you by your name, which you hadn’t told him yet. 

“Wait, how do you know my name?”, she questioned him embarrassingly late.

His smile got bigger. Even though he was close before, he reduced their distance some more. Now your back was pressing against the bookshelf, unable to escape his intense gaze. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Miss Y/L/N.” he hushed seductively. 

You swallowed hard, staying quiet. “What could this mean?”, you thought to yourself. Everybody in the study facility always said Spencer Reid was a shy nerd, but now you’re standing in the library with him towering over you.

“I was very impressed by your profile of the Cryptic Puzzle Killings,” he whispered into your ear, “it was a genius profile.” His voice was sending shivers down your spine.

“Doctor Reid,” you stuttered, but then interrupted you.

“it’s Spencer, remember?” You couldn’t think straight anymore. “I was holding back too long, I couldn’t resist any longer Y/N, please forgive me for my bad-mannered roughness,” he muttered as his lip brushed faintly over your neck. This was the moment your breath stopped. Am I dreaming? 

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he muttered as he placed sloppy kisses around my neck.

“No, don’t stop.” That was the only thing you could say; his hands feeling too good on you. How he griped your hips pressing your hips more into his clothed erection. Feeling his touch like hot burns all over your body.

“I needed to use this opportunity,” he breathed .

As you wanted to reply to his confession, all of a sudden, another voice was calling for Spencer.  Your cheeks flushed even more at the thought of getting caught with Spencer at this situation.

“Spencer, I said I would talk to her!” A stern voice was speaking with such authority. 

Spencer quickly stepped back, taking all his warmth with him. You were looking around, overwhelmed with the situation, trying to figure out what was happening. Still feeling hot after your heated situation with Dr. Reid. Spencer was now around two meters apart from you, smiling at you shyly. His duality will kill you someday. 

“Hotch I am here,” he quickly yelled back.

Whispering a quick apology to you before the tall black-haired guy showed up before us. His firm eyes looked into yours. He was standing in front of you with a straight face. Frankly, he seemed like a strict guy who didn’t understand any jokes. You’re starting to get the feeling that you did something bad. Your mouth got dry.

“Are you Y/N/Y/L/N?” the man asked you.

You nodded your head skeptically. Unsure of what consequences it might bring.

“I am Aaron Hotch, Supervisory Special Agent and Unit Chief of the BAU,” he continued, “And I am asking you Y/N to join the team of the BAU.”

Your head began to spin. 

[mcntsee]

There was this boy…

Summary: Y/N shares a tale of her first love with the Crows.

Warnings: Not much other than ooc Kaz and alcohol consumption.

Note: I’m more of a angsty writing typa gal, so here’s some fluff for now. Let me know what you guys think.

In the dimly lit confines of the Crow Club, the Crows gathered around a secluded table, basking in the afterglow of a successful heist. Glasses clinked, and raucous laughter filled the air as the alcohol flowed freely. Kaz, Y/N, and Matthias sat with relative sobriety amidst the drunken revelry, observing their inebriated comrades.

Jesper, his cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming, leaned toward Y/N with a mischievous grin. "So, Y/N, have you ever been in love?" he slurred, barely able to contain his curiosity.

Y/N's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Of course, Jesper," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of mystery. The Crows leaned in, their drunken curiosity piqued.

"There was this boy," Y/N began, her eyes sparkling with memories. "I met him near the harbor when I was just a wide-eyed nine-year-old. He had this mischievous smile and eyes that seemed to hold a million secrets. A captivating presence that drew me in. He was the first person I ever truly loved."

Confusion clouded the faces of the Crows. They exchanged glances, unable to decipher who Y/N was referring to. Only Kaz, ever perceptive, held a hidden smile, understanding the truth behind Y/N's words.

“We were inseparable. We would spend our days exploring the harbor, sneaking into places we weren’t supposed to be. We had a sweet tooth that knew no bounds, and we’d devour candy like it was our secret treasure.” Y/n paused for a second to compose herself from the small chuckle that managed to escape her lips, “Whenever times got tough, we’d help each other steal food, laughing as we escaped the clutches of hunger.”

The Crows listened with rapt attention, their faces reflecting a mix of curiosity and sentimentality. The image of two children forging a bond over stolen treats warmed their hearts.

Y/N’s voice grew softer, her eyes distant. “We shared our hopes and dreams, our fears and vulnerabilities. It was as if we created our own little world, shielded from the hardships that surrounded us. He was my confidant, my partner in mischief, and my first taste of love.”

Nina, her words slightly slurred, leaned closer. "What happened to him, Y/N?" she asked, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

A tender smile played on Y/N's lips as she replied. "He changed. Life took him down a different path, one far from the innocence we once shared." she replied, her voice steady, "but my love for him didn't."

Y/N’s gaze drifted across the table, locking eyes with Kaz, the only one who knew the true identity of the boy from her story.

The Crows, their senses dulled by alcohol, cooed at the sweetness of Y/N's confession, their questions dissipating into laughter and sighs. Meanwhile, Matthias, ever vigilant, noticed the lingering glances between Y/N and Kaz throughout the evening. An inkling of suspicion gnawed at him, planting seeds of curiosity that would bloom in the days to come.

As the night wore on and drinks were consumed in abundance, the Crows bid each other goodnight and stumbled off to their respective rooms.

What they didn't know was that Y/N's steps veered away from her designated room, drawing her toward Kaz's quarters instead. The door closed behind them, and the atmosphere shifted from the revelry downstairs to a more intimate setting.

In the hushed whispers of their shared secret, Y/N and Kaz laughed and marveled at the obliviousness of their companions. They reveled in the fact that the Crows had no inkling that Y/N's tale of first love was a covert homage to their own hidden bond.

As silence settle, Kaz moved from his previous position near y/n. His gaze met Y/N’s, and a mischievous smile played on his lips.

“Care to join me for a moment?” Kaz asked, his voice holding a hint of intrigue.

Curiosity piqued, Y/N nodded, joining him near the record player. The room was enveloped in a nostalgic melody, its soulful notes casting a spell of tranquility.

As the music filled the room, Y/N couldn’t help but remark, “What a lovely choice. I didn’t know you were a fan of this genre.”

Kaz’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “There’s more to me than meets the eye, y/n,” he replied, his voice infused with a touch of playfulness.

They stood there, amidst the gentle hum of music, engaging in lighthearted banter and sharing whispered stories of their day. Their laughter mingled with the nostalgic tunes, creating an intimate symphony that resonated within their hearts.

A comfortable silence settled between them, a testament to the depth of their connection. In that moment, Kaz extended his hand with a gallant gesture, “Care to join me for a dance, Mrs. Brekker?”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with delight as she placed her hand in his. “I’d be honored, Mr. Brekker,” she replied, her voice filled with a warm affection.

They swayed to the timeless melody, their steps graceful and in perfect sync. The world outside seemed to fade away as they reveled in the simple joy of being together, their laughter intertwining with the music.

In the embrace of their dance, Y/N and Kaz spoke volumes through their movements. Each twirl and sway conveyed a love that transcended words—a love that was hidden, yet tangible.

As the music played on, they allowed themselves to get lost in the moment, cherishing the intimacy they shared. Their smiles spoke of a shared secret, a commitment that only they held dear.

And as the final notes of the song faded away, they remained locked in a tender gaze, their hearts speaking a language known only to them. In that stolen moment, they were reminded of the strength and beauty of their hidden love.

Their laughter resonated in the quiet room, an acknowledgment of the unspoken bond they cherished. They knew that their story would forever remain known only to them, a treasure woven into the tapestry of their lives, while the Crows slumbered, oblivious to the truth that danced in the shadows of their own revelry.

[denaliwrites]

Tales of Daring

Scrooge McDuck x GN!Reader

Summary: Scrooge catches you in his Money Bin.

Soundtrack: DuckTales Theme by Felicia Barton

Requests: Open!

Warnings: I... I'm so... I don't even know what to put here. What the fuck, man. What did I do to deserve this?

"It's not every day I catch a thief red-handed," a Scottish voice purred from behind you. You hadn't even heard him effortlessly dive into the seemingly infinite pile of gold that you'd had to rappel into, and now he had you at a disadvantage. What were you supposed to do with that?

Well, you certainly wouldn't beg for mercy. It was exactly what the old coot wanted, and you couldn't give him that.

"It's not every day a thief makes it out of your Money Bin with a pretty penny to show for it," you replied, holding up a giant, glinting ruby. Light bounced off it, sending scattered shards of red all over the room. One lit up the grin on your bill.

"Tha's a bit more than a pretty penny, wouldn't ye say?" he asked. You heard some coins shift behind you, signaling his moving closer to you.

Your grin grew just a fraction.

"To you, I'd think it's little more than a pretty trinket, wouldn't you say?" you teased, shooting him a look. He didn't seem as amused by your twist on his words as you were. No matter. "Would you really miss this little token, Scrooge?"

You watched as he shivered at the way you said his name. His eyes bounced around the bin contemplatively in an attempt to play off the reaction he'd had to you. "I know all the coins and gems and trinkets in this bin as if they were my own children. Of course I'd miss it."

"Then it should bring you some comfort, shouldn't it, that it's going to a good home?"

"I hardly think bein' sold on the Black Market for a wad of cash is 'goin' to a good home.'"

You feigned offense, laying a hand dramatically over your heart. "Scrooge! I'm hurt you'd think so poorly of me. Of course it's not going to the Black Market. It's going to a very reputable buyer. Hired me to steal it from you and everything."

"How much is 'e payin' ye, then?" Scrooge asked.

Now it was your turn to shiver -- though the one that danced down your spine was a bit more... anticipatory in nature. "Not nearly as much as the ruby is worth," you confessed lightly. "But we both know I never was one to back down from a challenge."

He was suddenly on you, his hands pinning yours behind you while his chest pressed flush against your back. A gentle shushing whisper blew past your ear before he spoke, "And how goes yer little challenge, eh? Would ye consider it successful?"

You shot a look back to him, along with a grin. "Well, I got your attention, didn't I? I'd call that a win."

He grunted in amusement before shifting his hands so that one was still holding you by the wrists, while the other delicately plucked the ruby from your grasp.

He held it up within your line of sight, twisting it so the lights bouncing off it danced along the walls. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, though even as he spoke of it, his eyes were on you.

"You're not so bad yourself," you purred.

He unceremoniously threw the ruby back into the sea of gold with a sigh, then released you with a grunt that seemed a lot less amused than before. "Same time next week?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Off ye pop, then. I've got a meetin' in ten..."

[flowercrowngods]

Suggesting/Requesting Eddie having a crush on the valiant knight Steve Dustin goes on about, not realizing it's Steve "the Hair" Harrington and the way he reacts when he realizes they're the same dude. Cue adjustment period.

hi! first of all thank you for the prompt 🥰 i slipped and kinda decided to take your ‘valiant knight Steve’ quite literally and made this a medieval/regency au with knight steve and bard eddie, kinda enemies to lovers. it totally got out of hand, so this is part 1, with all my apologies to your original prompt 🤍🌷

Eddie smiles as the fields and forest that surround Hawkins come into view, kissed by the early afternoon sun with more affection and richness than the city probably deserves. It looks different this time of year, the green seems deeper than he left it, and nostalgia paints him a picture of glory and welcome that would make any traveller linger at the sight. 

He knows it’s only the magic of coming home, the thrill of having been gone so long that he needs to learn his town a-new, and the curiosity of a poet that makes his heart beat faster; but it’s his life’s blood to embrace all of that. So he spurs on his trusty horse to make it home even just a minute sooner. 

The people’s reactions to his arrival come in multitudes, though Eddie can respect the healthy dose of mistrust with which they regard him. He has made a name for himself after all, a bard more than a jester these days, but most people don’t tend to forget the pretty face they chased out of the city on multiple occasions. 

He lifts his head in greeting as he passes the elderly Wheelers as they’re tending to the flowers lining their windows, and grins with glee at both the disapproving scoff and the wary nod he gets in return. 

He’s in good spirits. Great spirits, in fact, the sun shining down on him, welcoming him and lighting familiar paths for him to tread again after years of absence. Hawkins will see his glory, his success, his victory, and it will pale in jealousy and regret. They cannot chase him away this time, not with the title of royal bard and winner of the bardic competition three years in a row. 

If his travels have taught him anything, it’s that he is pettiness acts as a wonderful motivation.

Of course, he shall also see his friends again. One of his saddlebags is half full with their letters that have accumulated over the years, all of which Eddie has kept for reasons of muse and a heart entirely too soft for his own good.

Most of all, though, even more than proving his worth and success to his city and its people, it is curiosity that brings him home. 

Dustin and his friends have been mentioning a most valiant knight, waxing poetic about his glorious deeds and his kinder heart — or, as poetic as they get, which is hardly at all. Which consequently made Eddie write no less than five ballads about the stories they told him, three of which have made it into songs yet, one of which he was made to play in every tavern on his long journey back to Hawkins and to Princess Nancy herself on more than one occasion.

The Knightmærs, as he calls his little collection of poeterey, his pride and joy about a man he has yet to meet. Tales about maidens saved and brothers defeated, hearts stolen and retrieved with the gentlest gestures, and children protected against the evils of night, expecting naught but friendship. And friendship he got. 

If Eddie’s heart picks up yet another notch at the thought of meeting this knight as the familiar city walls tower before him, he allows it for a second before announcing himself to the guards. They looked wary upon his approach and blanch now as they hear his name; Eddie does not hide his laughter this time and preens as he is told to ride on. 

“Oh, Hawkins, old friend,” he mutters under his breath, not even bothering to hide his smile. “You and I shall have so much fun, shan’t we?” 

~*~

He barely makes it to the home he has been sharing with his uncle since the ripe age of twelve with minimal fuss, unsaddling his horse and guiding her to the trough, when he hears it. 

“Eddie!”

Halting in his motions the currycomb, he looks up from the rusty brown that shines red like embers in the sun and spots Dustin racing down the street towards him. 

He lowers the comb and steps around his horse, grinning at his rapidly approaching friend. 

“Why, good day to you, young traveller, what brings you to my humble abode?” 

Dustin doesn’t falter in his approach, doesn’t even slow down, and Eddie braces himself for impact. Years of experience have made him quite practiced in handling tackle-hugs, but Dustin has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, and they both stumble backwards when Dustin’s arms wrap around Eddie in a way that seems to press all air out of his lungs. Eddie laughs as he hugs his friend back with as much ferocity. 

“I’ve missed you! I was writing to you this morning when I remembered you said you’d come this week. I didn’t think it would be today!” 

“I came as soon as I could. Such is the Munson way, or did you forget?” 

Dustin shakes his head and finally lets go, though Eddie yearns for another hug. It’s been too long. The boy has grown. He’s hardly a boy anymore, though he shall always remain as such in Eddie’s heart. He smiles and ruffles Dustin’s locks, realising with a pang that they’re almost of a height now. 

An ache like homesickness settles in his gut and wears on his heart heavily. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smoothing out the curls he’s put in disarray. “It’s just been too long. And I’ve missed you, too. You’ve grown quite a bit since last we talked.” 

“I have!” And he looks so proud of it, too, preening a little under Eddie’s faux scrutiny, and it’s what makes him pull Dustin against his chest again. 

Eddie continues taking care of his horse, feeding her, combing through her mane, making sure she has as much comfort as he can provide after their long days of travel. Dustin sits on the fence and watches him tend to her, feeding her the occasional apple when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He hides his smile and pretends not to see. 

God, but he has missed his friend. 

Their twosomeness is rudely and entirely too quickly interrupted by Lord Harrington of all people, who hurries down the street in search of Dustin. 

Eddie never did like the lord and his pompous appearance coupled with his rude personality. He always acted like a prince among men, subject to many a jest in Eddie’s younger days. On one memorable occasion, Eddie managed to steal the lord’s clothes and swap them with his own, making him walk about in linen rags and torn-up trousers. 

Days later, all of his lute strings ripped just as he was getting ready to play at the tavern, and he never messed with Harrington again — even though there was a parcel three days later with new lute strings and his old clothes he had made the lord wear. No note attached to it, because Lords didn’t stoop down to converse with lowly peasants even for revenge. 

So, seeing Harrington now on the very first day of his being back, it sours Eddie’s face and his humour. 

“Why, Lord Harrington,” he speaks before the man can get a word in. “To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you here? Have you suffered a fall from grace yet, or was it a hit in the head that left you disoriented, bringing you to my humble abode?” 

Harrington frowns at him, though Eddie deems to detect confusion more than distaste. 

And then he has the audacity of not even answering to Eddie’s ruse, simply ignoring him and instead turning around to Dustin. 

“Dustin, Master Clarke is expecting you. I will not cover for you once more.” 

“But—“ 

“Spare me,” Harrington says, hands on his hips now, and Eddie is starting to feel defensive over Dustin. How dare his lordship come and steal his best friend away when he hasn’t even been home for an hour yet? 

Before he can get so much as a word in, however, Dustin is already jumping from his perch on the fence and trudging towards Harrington, rounding the man and leading the way up the hill towards the castle. 

“I’ll come back later, Eddie,” Dustin says over his shoulder, and then he is gone, rounded the corner, out of his sight. 

Harrington, however, lingers. Eddie raises his eyebrows in question and challenge, and the Lord scoffs a little. It’s like he wants to say something — but what could it be? What could Lord Harrington have to say to him, years after they last saw each other? 

He does look stunning, Eddie has to admit with a grudge against his self and his integrity. The golden light of the afternoon sun catches in his hair, likening it to strands of gold that kings and queens pay alchemists across the world to procure. Eddie, for a moment, feels like he has found it in Lord Harrington’s hair and the skin of his face, but he quickly snaps out of it, cutting off that particular train of thought before it can run away form him. 

“I hear you are a bard of great renown these days.” 

The words catch him off his guard, for Eddie was sure that the Lord would not attempt to converse. Yet it seems that propriety still has a tight grip on him. 

Does Harrington like his ballads, his plays, his poetry and sonnets? Has he heard them? Or has he heard of them? Has word travelled across the countries, telling of Eddie the Bard and his brave-hearted muse his soul yearns for and his quill bleeds for?

Eddie is not sure which option thrills him more, but whichever one it is, it makes him smile, feeling quite bashful and yet proud. 

“So you hear,” he says, approaching the stiff Lord. “What exactly is it that you hear, my Lord?” 

He swallows, following Eddie’s steps with his eyes, turning his head when the bard circles him slowly. “I hear you sing of beasts slain and brothers banished, a knight at the heart of your ballads.” Eddie smiles at that, knowing that Harrington has at least heard of two of his Knightmærs. I hear it sounds like mockery, the knight but an object of your hyperbolic fascination and flowery imagination, his pain and bravery nothing to you.” 

He stops dead in his tracks, his feet planted right before Harrington. The Lord looks like he is taking personal offence to his works, and it irritates the bard. 

“And what, Lord Harrington, would you know of fascination, pain and bravery? I cannot imagine you have faced a lot of hardship in your life, and the only acts of bravery you had to chance upon were mislead in the name of false honour.” 

“False honour,” Harrington repeats, his words like poison, sharp and dangerous as the sword’s blade at his hip. “You would know something about that, I imagine, telling stories of which you have no idea. Immortalising glory where there should be sympathy.” 

Eddie studies him, the frown between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, set and calmed to keep more words from spilling. Imposing, this Lord is. A sight for sore eyes even in his  purely misplaced anger. 

Eddie huffs, his eyes travelling between the Lord’s where they are standing so impossibly close. 

“Sympathy,” he repeats. “Nobody, my Lord, wants a ballad of sympathy. It is glory that the people seek!” He steps back from Harrington, gesturing with his arms as he dramatically recounts the lessons he has learned over the years, passionate for his craft. “Glory, heroism, heartbreak and love! Yearning and longing and deeds of an aching heart, that is what the people want to hear. That is what deserves to be immortalised in art, in poetry, in song! I shall forgive you for being so painfully unaware of this, my Lord, but I shall not stand to be in your company much longer, calling my work lacking or a mockery when it is borne out of nothing but loyalty, fascination and love.” 

They are close again, because Harrington did not step back when Eddie approached him once more, his feet planted like a tree, fierce and strong and unbudging. 

It is intoxicating, though Eddie blames half of it on the passion and the rage, on the bravery that possessed him to send the Lord away, or the fierceness with which he came to his muse’s defence. 

Harrington swallows again, his eyes wandering over Eddie’s face once more, lingering at his lips, both their jaws set in determination and perhaps a sudden tension.  

“Forgive me for insulting you with my company,” he speaks at last, his voice nothing but a rasp. “You will find there is an irony to your words soon. I shall not rob you of that discovery. I ask you do not take it out on our mutual friends when you do, Munson.” 

And with one last glance, Harrington turns on his heel and hurries up the hill, too, leaving Eddie puzzled and quite dazed upon the lingering warmth of their close proximity. 

When did Harrington become so handsome? There was a fire in his eyes that Eddie got to witness for just the blink of an eye, but he wonders where that comes from, what it means, and what other secrets he holds. 

Perhaps, if he cannot meet his muse, the knight Dustin has only ever referred to as Steve, Harrington might serve to inspire a ballad or two himself.

~*~

Harrington catches his eyes on more than one occasion over the next days. Eddie is invited to the castle to play for Princess Chrissy, though she greets him like an old friend and makes him sit close to her at the banquet. Right beside Harrington, who merely nods at Eddie, his fists clenched as Chrissy asks the bard about one of his ballads — the one about the valiant knight slaying a horde of monsters to keep the kingdom’s children safe. 

The Lord must really hate Eddie’s work. It fills him with spiteful glee, for some reason, and he makes sure to play and recite all of his Knightmærs that night. Harrington excuses himself when Eddie hasn’t even made it halfway through his songs, and he doesn’t return that night. 

He takes personal offence now and vows to make the Lord’s life as difficult as he can. 

But still there is no sign of Steve. 

Eddie is starting to get frustrated. 

He was supposed to be here, stand tall and proud with a smile on his face upon seeing Eddie, sweep him off his feet, make him swoon, dare Eddie to fall in love with the face long after the name. 

His mood is sour, and only sours further when Harrington rounds the corner and stumbles upon Eddie who is tuning his lute for tonight’s banquet. The annual royal tournament is set for the next morning, so everyone is in a good mood. 

Well, everyone except Eddie. And Lord Harrington, by the look on his face. 

“Munson,” he says, straightening before he bows his head in greeting. “Forgive me, I was looking for some quiet. I shall look somewhere else.” 

And, somehow, that is enough to snap his patience that was already wearing thin. “Why can you not stand being in my presence, sir?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Does it disgust you so to be around mere peasants?” 

Harrington looks taken aback, shock and confusion clear on his face before a frown takes its place and washes away all further emotions. 

“It is not your presence that bothers me, nor the nature of your birth.”

“And yet you leave every time I so much as strum a tune, Lord Harrington, ready to throw both caution and propriety to the winds. Leaving me to wonder what it is that I have done to deserve such treatment.” 

Eddie finds himself walking closer and closer to the Lord, coming to a stop not one foot before him. He is drawn in by his presence, his charm as alluring as his cold silence. Everything about Lord Harrington intrigues him, horrified as he is to admit it. But with Steve not around to catch his eye and captivate his heart and mind alike, he simply has to find inspiration elsewhere. 

And the way Harrington’s face is taken over by a dangerous expression is the most inspiring, alluring thing he has seen in a while, even though it is directed at him. 

“How can you have the audacity to feign confusion over my disdain, bard,” he hisses, and Eddie shivers slightly. Harrington does not even have the sense to step back, staying right where he is, so close, so improper. “How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own, singing songs and telling stories, making into nothing but a jaunty tale recited by drunkards with no regard to the blood it was written in.” 

Eddie blinks, not quite catching up with the point Harrington is making. 

“What—“ 

“You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.” 

Lord Harrington speaks to him as though he takes offence at the content of Eddie’s ballads, offence at the reality of their background. But what right does he have to take offence when his songs are based on heroic deeds, recounted to him first hand by his very best friend. What right does Harrington have to question the truth behind them? 

“If it is a matter of truth that concerns you, let me reassure you, my Lord, that all of my ballads are based on true events. I ask that you do not call me a liar, no matter how great your dislike of my craft.” 

“It is not a liar that I call you, but rather a thief.” 

Eddie gasps, offended now. “What do you suggest I have stolen, then?” 

“A person’s right to their own story. To their own nightmares. A man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.” 

“How dare you call his deeds horrific,” Eddie hisses now, feeling protective over his knight. “How dare you accuse me of ill intent when every word out of my quill is written with nothing but love and admiration.” 

“For whom?” Harrington challenges, disdainful and cold. “Only for yourself, your vanity, your overgrown sense of artistic ambition.”

“No,” he shakes his head, hands clenched into fists as he finds himself incredibly close to Lord Harrington, their faces only inches apart now. “It is love for this person I have never met, whom my dear friend has told me about. A man who has kept me awake at night as I was pouring over letter after letter, hoping he should be well. It is a love so strong it has to be turned into art, into song, love that should be sung in every voice of the kingdom.” He scoffs, stepping back to catch his breath. “I do not expect you to know such a love when all you have in your cold heart is disdain for all things beautiful. You would never know bravery if it looked you in the face, you would never know love if it was the very fabric that makes this world. It would slip through your fingers, my Lord, for you would be busy yearning for the day your life found its meaning.” 

He is seething, heaving breaths, out of control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. Insulted in his pride and his muse, offended, hurt. Confused, still, as to why the Lord hates his songs with such vigour. 

“Is that your opinion of me?” Harrington whispers, though even in that toneless voice of his lies so much that Eddie cannot begin to decipher. 

“Yes,” he whispers back, the fight leaving him now, the very air sucked out of the room they share. “I believe I made that clear just now.” 

Harrington takes one step closer once more, but Eddie does not budge. 

“Then I suggest you forget that knight of yours,” he says, quiet and final. “And forget the idea you have of love. To love someone is not to turn his nightmares into song. To love someone is not to look him in the eye and insult his very existence even further. You love yourself, your craft, your mind. But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.” 

Eddie huffs, just barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And what makes you so sure of that, Lord Harrington?” 

A smile twitches his lips, though there is no mirth, no glee. “You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.” He takes a step back and evades Eddie’s eyes. “I believe you should return to the fest now. Good night.” 

And with that, he turns around and leaves. 

Eddie finds himself rooted to the ground, air returning to the room now but still he is unable to catch his breath, staring ahead as he is. 

Words echo in his mind as the picture paints itself and a horrible, horrible realisation dawns on him. 

You will find there is an irony to your words soon. 

How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own?

But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.

You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.

But… There is no way. There is no way that Dustin’s friend, Dustin’s knight and protector, his saviour, Steve, should be the same as Lord Harrington with his careful, quiet, disdainfully quirked eyebrow. 

Except, Lord Harrington collected Dustin from Eddie’s home, speaking with him in a tone filled with such familiarity, they cannot be mistaken as anything but friends. 

And Lord Harrington had listened with such rapt attention when Eddie played his jaunty tunes and the well-known classics at the banquet days ago, looking like he enjoyed Eddie’s play. His face had only soured when people started requesting his newer original songs, his fists clenched upon the opening chords of The Knight and His Nightmare, leaving the hall altogether when people requested more. 

You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. 

Eddie’s heart falls when he realises what he has done. How blind he was to the frowns and the tension, how deaf to the hints and insinuations, how ignorant he was of the pain he inflicted on Lord Harrington. Lord Steven Harrington. Steve. 

His Steve. And yet not his at all.

He falls back onto the bench, dazed, as the weight of his realisation settles inside his chest. 

onwards to part 2

[mllemaenad]

You know what else bugs me here? I'm stunned that what happened at Weisshaupt is being presented as a defeat.

Now, yes, to be clear: hundreds of Wardens died. I'm not expecting anyone to be happy about that, and of course Davrin should be allowed to grieve. But ...

In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice.

This is very much the purpose of the Grey Wardens. And not-Varric there is fucking right. Is nobody grasping the magnitude of what we just accomplished here?

We just speed-ran a Blight.

Even if we count the start of the Sixth Blight from the moment the elven gods were released, we have now beaten the Hero of Ferelden's already impressive one year record by several months. And we took out the Archdemon at its first sighting.

What metric for success are we using here? The First Blight went on for nearly 200 years. It crippled the Tevinter Imperium! The dwarves lost almost their entire civilisation and got so desperate they started ripping out their people's souls to make golems!

For the first half, they didn't even have Grey Wardens! People kept stabbing the Archdemon and the damn thing kept popping up again like the world's worst game of whack-a-mole!

People today have little concept of the consequences of the second sin. Oh, believe me when I say that when asked, pious, Chantry-going folk will curse the use of foul magic, spitting and snapping their fingers—but none live today who actually remember the horror that was unleashed so very long ago. Whatever records might have existed regrettably did not survive the chaos and ignorance that was to follow. We have only the tales of survivors handed down through the murky ages and the dogma of the Chantry to instruct us, and that is precious little indeed. I believe I am not understating when I say that the second sin unleashed the bane of all life upon Thedas. The darkspawn are more virulent than the worst plague, a heartless force of nature that came into our world like an ill wind. We know from accounts of later Blights (as these darkspawn invasions came to be called—never has a more appropriate name existed) that the darkspawn spread disease and famine wherever they tread. The earth itself is corrupted by their presence, the sky roiling with angry black clouds. I do not exaggerate, my friends, when I say that a mass gathering of darkspawn is an omen of dread cataclysm. It is said that those cursed magisters who became the first darkspawn scratched at the very earth to find solace in the darkness of the dwarven Deep Roads, and there in the shadows they multiplied. Whether by intelligent design or by some last vestige of worship in their minds, they attempted to locate the Old Gods they had once served. They found what they sought: Dumat, first among the Old Gods, once known as the Dragon of Silence before the Maker imprisoned him and all his brethren beneath the earth for the first sin: usurping the Maker's place in mankind's heart. The slumbering dragon awoke, freed from the Maker's prison by his twisted followers, and became corrupted himself. Dumat was transformed into the first Archdemon, his great and terrible power given will by a rotting, unholy mind. With the darkspawn horde following, Dumat rose and took wing in the skies once again, bringing ruin to the world the Maker had created. The Old God had become the eye of a dark storm that would ravage the entire world. —From Tales of the Destruction of Thedas, by Brother Genitivi, Chantry Scholar – The First Blight: Chapter 2

Two hundred years! Of that!

And yet civilisation survived. The Tevinter Imperium survived! Much reduced, yes, but they're still there. Orzammar still stands, as does Kal-Sharok. This was arguably the worst apocalypse Thedas had ever seen (there are some other contenders, obviously), and they weathered it. Those people knew what a crushing defeat looked like. They knew what loss looked like. They knew what it was to retreat and ration and lose everything.

If you lot ever work out time travel properly, bring some exhausted dwarven or Tevene soldier forward from the First Blight and try telling them you're sad because defeating the Archdemon lost you a castle and a few hundred men.

No Blight since has lasted so long or been quite so destructive, but most have lasted decades, and left utter ruin in their wake. Why does the Western Approach look like that? A Blight!

Once these wastes were a land of plenty. Can you believe it? The rain came north over the Gamordan Peaks, turning the plains green and verdant for three months of the year. Eight hundred years ago, that changed. During the Second Blight, darkspawn spilled out of an enormous crack in the earth, corrupting it with their foul blood… and it never recovered, even after they were driven back underground. The Grey Wardens built Adamant Fortress to stand watch over that chasm, but eventually even they abandoned it to the wind and the biting sand. What few of us eke out a living in this Maker-forsaken place do so knowing that any number of deaths await us: darkspawn raids, dragons, bandits—not to mention starvation from the lack of water and game. If we stay, it is because we know there are treasures buried in the bones of this place, ruins from the time when Tevinter ruled, and even earlier. We pass tales around our campfires of the things we have seen shrouded in the dust storms. My favorites are the ones about relics that could restore the Western Approach once more… but I don't believe them. Truth be told, on nights when the wind is calm, I can stand on a hilltop and see for miles in the moonlight over a stark beauty of which no other Orlesian can claim to know the equal. On those nights, I hope it will never change. —From Lands of the Abyss by Magistrate Gilles de Sancriste – The Western Approach

Even Ostagar was a catastrophe. A short-term one, sure, but a massive loss of life for no appreciable gain.

What happened at Weisshaupt? Even with a commanding officer whose strategy apparently came down to "What if we just charged straight at them? Wouldn't that look cool?" the Wardens held back the darkspawn long enough for Davrin (the Warden in this scenario! Rook is a supporting role!) to get through. The dragon trap worked. And they killed the damn Archdemon.

Now, yes: I recognise the problem. As the elven gods are free they can immediately wake up another Archdemon, so we are rolling straight into the Seventh Blight. This is not ideal! And the Grey Wardens are undeniably weakened after their fight.

But. You cannot tell me that decades of warfare in earlier Blights did not produce even greater casualties, along with the fact that the mere presence of Blight reduces a Warden's lifespan – their Callings come sooner.

We just had the fastest Archdemon kill in history. It may not be the least bloody (it's hard to count the casualties in the south, so the Fifth may still be winning on that front), but it has to be close. And let's face it: they finished the Fifth Blight with (probably) no more than three Wardens on the field. It's been months, at most. We should barely be out of breath. This Blight was over so fast, if you're some kind of official on a diplomatic trip to Par Vollen you might have completely missed it!

What is it Blackwall said? What can one Grey Warden do?

"Save the fucking world if pressed."

One more to go. Do this one more time and we never, ever have to do it again. I don't know why we're moping. This is incredible.

[muldersmeat]

Breaking the Rules

My Secret Santa gift for the poangpal gift exchange for @howlctts! Set soon after Momento Mori, Mulder is adamant that Scully can’t lose the fight against cancer. He invites her over to his apartment and tries to cheer her up in the most Mulder-Scully way possible: never actually talking about it. Also, there is a sketch I drew at the end of the fic.

AO3 link is here

—------------------------------------------

Lately Scully has been diagnosed with some impossible news.

Mulder wouldn't be so cocky and to say that cancer isn't real. But for Scully to die from such a thing? No, that can't be true. It just doesn’t make sense. The universe can throw so many trials at them but she had breezed through the odds against her like a goddess. Cancer simply does not have a chance.

He is a believer and to her is no exception.

It would be the first time back from the hospital, and Mulder decided to invite her over. Of course, he felt that for the best chance of success, he had to tempt her with the oh-so-intriguing mention of work, especially when he stressed to her that it was really important and needed her help (which is true, of course). To his relief, she fell for it hook, line and sinker, rolling her eyes and agreeing as long as he ordered from that pizza place with the "healthy option". Normally, Mulder really would want to actually look over the files and it would be a two-for-one deal, but if he was being honest with himself, right now he just wanted to hover without alerting her of the hovering.

They go through the dance of looking over the notes on the latest case but Mulder feels like an animal right before a storm. One part of him feels jittery, the feeling he gets when he wants to go for a run, but another just wants to just sit there and fret over his partner. He knows that if he fawns too much, she would spook, akin to an animal. This negative feedback loop causes him to not get much done other than read the same paragraph over and over again. It is an awfully good thing that it wasn’t his primary intention. Meanwhile, he glanced over at Scully and he was still shocked at how different her face looked to him already. He swears that her face is already more gaunt, and her eyes are more weary. Her beautiful hair, that is the same fiery colour as her spirit, has already dimmed and lay flatter on her head. While she still pointed out things from the reports, he swore there was an air of tiredness creeping from her voice. He felt his heart crack.

Thankfully, he heard a knock on the door for the pizza that he ordered earlier for them. He got up and winked at Scully.

“Well, I’d say we can pack it up, Scully. Now that we reviewed the case. I think we need to watch a dumb movie on tv to get the brain juices working while we eat beer and pizza. It’s an Oxford proven method.”

“Hmm…” Scully said, raising one eyebrow at him “ I think young men drinking beer and eating pizza in university is a tale as old as time for a different reason.” Still, she gathered up the paperwork for a place to put the pizza in front of the couch while Mulder went to pay the delivery boy.

She is just tired and devastated from the news, that's all. Just like her dying is all in her head, all the things he noticed about her was all in his. He gave a slight nod to himself as he picked out the movie, a godzilla movie from the “non-danger” stash tape stash. This one he recorded from a late night special a long time ago, and he hoped that he was on the ball with turning on the recording properly as soon as the commercials were over.

“No FBI warning on this one Scully.” He said as he put the tape in the VCR and pressed play.

“Recorded from the TV? You're a classified rebel, Mulder. The higher ups have an eye on you.”

“I know you like the bad boys Scully.” He said. She rolled her eyes and smiled as he settled down beside her.  “Besides, I know an FBI agent that can warn me about stuff I shouldn’t be doing.”

“Whether you listen is another thing.” Scully retorted

“That’s why they have me locked in the basement. My collection of questionable acts are too much for them to handle.”

Scully gave him a pointed look and Mulder coughed as he wiggled in his seat a bit. He did walk into that one. He opened up the pizza boxes and picked himself out a slice and was pleased when Scully mirrored him, picking up her beer in her other hand.

As the movie went on, his feelings changed, as two major aspected changed. For one thing he noticed with dismay that she didn’t really eat much of her pizza. Maybe a couple bites. While he was aware that Scully watched what she ate, she was still a healthy eater. Eating three slices after a rough day was a breeze for her, but she ate only enough to be considered “polite”. He tried to rationalize that sometimes people were just not hungry, but he felt the river of denial in his mind’s dam was starting to break.

Two she was snuggled up to him.

The moment of shock quickly dissipated to a feeling of protectiveness of her. She rarely reached out to him like this, and he felt warmth spread over his body originating from two places, one from the body heat as she was pressed against him, and two from his heart.

“Mulder, just don't say anything. Just hold me for a while.” She muttered so softly Mulder almost missed it. He shuffled sideways to face her, and placed his arms around her in a warm embrace. He felt her doing the same as the movie drew to a close. They sat in a comfortable silence, basking in each others warmth. A luxury that is always within reach, but rarely indulged in. He felt her breathing slow, suggesting she fell asleep. 

He cradled her in his arms, holding her tight. One day, he would be able to admit to himself that Scully is his world. But for now, the most pressing need is to be there for her. He felt that if he held her long enough, if he felt her warm body on his and her heartbeat, that would be enough. No one would be able to take her away. Not the higher ups at the FBI, not Duane Barry, not Donnie Pfaster, not Tooms.

Not cancer.

"Mulder?" A small voice asked

"Hm?"

"...You...?" She started then stopped.

It was then he realised that he had a tear down his cheek, and had made its presence known on the top of her head. He internally started to panic. Here he was, trying to comfort Scully, and this was dangerously close of going in the other direction. He took a moment to make sure his voice was stable and muttered as loudly as he could without his voice cracking.

"...Don't worry about it. The upstairs neighbours have a waterbed."

She stiffened.

"What?" She tried to pull away but he held her close for a little more.

"Yeah, this apartment... has a lot of rulebreakers. Their waterbed leaks sometimes."

"Their … waterbed." She repeated slowly. He could feel in the air that look that Scully got whenever he mentioned anything supernatural.

"Yeah, we aren't supposed to have 'em. Because they break and get water everywhere. The neighbours must break it with all the sinful sex they are having."

"Mulder!" Scully chastised.  He started to chuckle now, feeling the tension in the room dissipating like morning dew, and finally deemed his face worthy enough to let her go.

"It's true! I even heard they use the Lord's name in vain once." He tried to look at Scully as seriously as he could but he couldn’t help the faint smirk.

"Maybe it hasn't occurred to you that perhaps they just overfilled the sink? It would explain the water and the cursing." She had a playful gleam in her eyes

"Scully, nobody says God like that when they forget the water is on, but to be sure, wanna investigate it? I mean, waterbeds aren't allowed." He waggled her eyebrow at her.

"Mulder, landlord agreements or for that matter, how people break their contracts are not our jurisdiction."

"You're right. It would be our jurisdiction if it was apparitions that were having sex and breaking the waterbeds instead. Finding them would put the fears of the good waterbed resident rebels of this apartment at peace."

"Mulder, we aren't Ghostbusters!"  Scully quipped, still huddled next to him but folding her arms.

"Aww shucks Scully, and that was what I was rethinking of naming the X-Files."

"I'll put in a formal request for you."

"Oh Scully, you always go by the books. I was thinking of just slapping the name on the filing cabinet and calling it a day"

She shook her head while smiling as they fell into the beat of conversation, just like they did before the events of the last few days ever occured. It was more comfortable that way, to never talk about the elephant in the room, but rather the demons in the forest. Regardless of their partnership intricacies, there was something new that he felt that they never needed to discuss. That Scully would die of Cancer.

That is simply breaking the rules.

—----------------------------------

I hope you liked it! I haven’t wrote a fic in a loooong time (eight years?), but I am quite happy with this one! Howlctts said that she wanted some soft Mulder, msr and some cancer ark stuff. She said either vulnerable or him trying to be funny, so I tried my hand at both. 

As for the artwork, originally it was just going to be that and coloured, but … that was not going well T.T I am mostly an animal artist, haven’t drawn people much, and for some reason I found drawing Mulder really hard. I don’t get his hair for some reason? (this has been a problem in the past too lmao) and the pose I was struggling with. Originally it was going to be his back to us with Scully’s head on her shoulder, with the other hand holding a tissue (of blood for extra angst) but that wasn’t working. I couldn’t find a reference, and so I went with this instead. Despite considering myself an artist, not a writer, I found the fanfic easier to write haha.

I wish you all Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year!

[vintagegeekculture]

So even though it's kind of the Marvel line, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby didn't really quite reignite Superheroes, the Flash was around a good bit before. But nothing would have been the same without Marvel breathing new life into the genre. What state do you think comics would have been in if instead of writing the Fantastic Four Stan Lee had quit to go sell used cars? Was it inevitable someone would have paired with Jack to do it? What would comics and pop culture look like now instead?

I'm a Marvel True Believer first and foremost, but I think you're underselling how enormously successful Justice League of America was from 1960-1969. Marvel books, especially Fantastic Four (at the time, the "flagship" Marvel comic of the 1960s) regularly topped the polls as favorites for the serious fans in 60s fanzines like Alter Ego, but they were not top sellers until 1970, when Marvel acquired their own distributor. Prior to that, Marvel published their books through DC, who made sure Marvel's runs were lower. They also limited the amount of books that Marvel could print, which is why books like Tales of Suspense had two characters in them (Captain America and Iron Man shared a book). As soon as Marvel got their own distribution, they pushed DC out of the top selling lists.

Justice League of America was a huge success when it came out, for a reason that may surprise people: nostalgia. Essentially a revival of the 1940s heroes, it was a huge hit because the adult audience bought it.

It's interesting how nostalgia itself as a cultural concept with actual power is a kind of recent phenomenon. Prior to the 1980s, there were huge volumes of books aimed at old people like Hallmark's "Remember When?" books.

I do think the single greatest what-if of the Marvel Age is one you didn't mention: what if Joe Maneely had lived to work on the Marvel Universe?

Whenever Stan Lee was asked who the greatest artist he ever worked with was, his response was unexpected: Joe Maneely, a name that even some serious fans of the Silver Age may find unfamiliar. But Joe Maneely worked with Stan extensively in the 1950s in Marvel's non-superhero comics like Black Knight and Yellow Claw. He was a beautiful artist, a professional who was always punctual, and even more so, he understood and developed the "language" of comics, and had an even better relationship with Stan than Jack Kirby did, who, by all accounts, was a genius artist but was, interpersonally, a difficult, sullen wound collector who had difficulty keeping friendships (as his Captain America co-creator Joe Simon can attest; he and Jack had a "breakup" long before he ever met Stan).

Meanwhile, contrast all those interpersonal problems with the difficult to get along with Kirby, with how Joe Maneely used to draw him and Stan holding hands and walking through the park together and so on.

The downside is that Joe Maneely died at a young age, 1958, in a tragic accident where he fell between railway cars, all 3 years before Fantastic Four. He was the biggest Atlas-era Marvel artist to never work on the Marvel Universe.

A Marvel Universe with Joe Maneely as the major creative force alongside Stan Lee is a change so deep and fundamental I have no idea what it even would look like.

[hlficlibrary]

Hi ✨

Do you know fics where they are soulmates/true mates(if it's ABO) but one of them or both fight it at first?

Ohhh yes I do, anon! You have hit upon something I love very much and am currently writing haha. So here are some fics for you...

Light, Spark and Fire (series) by green_feelings / @greenfeelings

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.

Or, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

Only by @allwaswell16

Although Louis Tomlinson lived most of his life on the most remote island in the world, now he’s ready to leave home, attend university, and maybe have a chance at finding his soulmate. Prince Harry Styles reluctantly leaves London for yet another diplomatic visit, this time to the tiny island of Tristan da Cunha.

Or the one where the electric touch of Louis’ soulmate isn’t enough to discount that he's a bit of a dickhead.

Sometimes You Just Know by @2tiedships2

“Dear diary. Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why...”

“What are you doing?” Louis mumbled as he bit into a piece of toast.

“It’s been almost two years and today Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson reunite. Louis is very excited about…”

Louis’ chair screeched along the kitchen floor as he flew up out of his seat, quickly grabbing the paper from Niall’s grasp. As he scanned the page he found it amounted to lines of nothing.

“What is this?” Louis asked again. “We’ve discussed how Harry Styles will never be spoken of in this flat. I don’t care how long it’s been.”

Niall snatched the paper from Louis and proceeded to draw a line across the page before writing.

“Today is the day that he-who-shall-not-be-named is coming to dinner.”

Or the one where Harry and Louis don’t believe in soulmates… until they do.

accept it, my love (you're mine) by skipper / @skipperxao3

It’s said that soulmates are just an old tale. Most believe it to be accurate, but none more than Louis Tomlinson.

It’s a single conversation with his one and only. After months of visions, feeling his pain and joy, Louis is finally facing him.

But to his astonishment, Harry wants nothing to do with him.

Or, the 1920's fic in which Louis Tomlinson, a successful architect, gives up drawing buildings to fall in love with the homeless boy who’s captured his heart.

[romana-after-dark]

Blessed Be The Fruit

Commander!Joel Miller x Handmaid!Reader

Series masterlist

Summary: A few decades into Gilead’s conception, you head into your first posting as a handmaid after an affair with a guardian landed you in trouble. Determined to keep your head low in order to keep your son safe, you take on the moniker of OfJoel. Commander Miller has very little to do with you and mrs. Miller regards you with disgust, however you find solace in an unlikely friendship with Commander Miller’s daughter from a handmaid 14 years ago, Ellie who just got done with wives school. You and your friend, Ofthomas start teacher her and her friend Reilly under her mothers nose. Slowly, Commander Miller begins spending time with you and you begin to learn more about the man he was before and an affair begins outside the confines of the ceremony. Although initially you go along with it out if survival, you find yourself falling for the version of Joel you saw in these late night rendezvous.

Which Joel is really him, and how will he react when his own daughters secrets are revealed?

Content and Warnings: DARK JOEL! DUB CON!

Although no violent rape happens like in TWW, reader is under systemic misogyny and a society of ritualized sex abuse. Everything other than the violent rape scenes, everything that happen in either The Handmaids Tale book or show are liable to happen here including but not limited to discussion of rape, child abuse, child marriage, ritualized sexual abuse, sexual abuse in general, acts of violence, major character deaths, mentions of miscarriage but never shown and never pregnancies we know of. Big ole homophobia warning, specifically in regards to lesbophobia. As for Joel, PIV sex, breeding kink, degrading (slut, whore etc but thing like Raider!joel) forced breeding and breeding kink, power dynamics, Joel is not the good guy but he’s also not the worst, slightly rough sex but not violent. Warnings are liable to be added as the story goes but I’ll always update. As always if I miss something please tell me, but i extensively label my warnings and in the end media consumption is your own choice. If you would like to know if this is a happy ending or not you can message me and I’ll tell you that way I don’t spoil for everyone but you can decide if this is for you.

Immersability: Reader has long hair, can conceive children theoretically. At one point, she has to pose as Ellie's mother and I know this can be loaded in terms of skin tone. I am no genetics expert but I know dark skinned parents can have white passing children, like Lional Richie and Nicole Richie. It's up to you to see if this is going to take you out of the story or not.

Support writers, reblog and leave comments!

*****************************

Aunt Lydia said your first posting would be a difficult one, but that she took pride is matching up Handmaids to the right households and said she thinks it will be a solid posting. A peaceful household is the best conditions to conceive a child in, after all. Stress isn’t good for the baby, dear.

She gave you all the details, everything you needed to know. You would known as Ofjoel for the time of your posting; three years unless you conceive, God willing. Commander Miller was known as a fair man and a good father to the child he had, a 14 year old named Elizabeth who had only recently returned from wives school. Gildead had been eagerly awaiting news of her being betrothed, but Commander Miller was very particular. Nothing but the best for his daughter. Elizabeth was the product of a handmaid that had been posted with him 15 years ago at the advent of Gilead; one of the first 3 successful children of the new state. Their family had a bit of celebrity in that sense. Joel had declined handmaids for years ever since, saying he had his child and it was only fair that others got a chance. A good man, dear, always thinking of his countrymen. 

Mrs. Miller, she warned, can be a bit particular. But that shouldn’t be a problem for a well behaved girl like you, dear. You were well behaved, that was true. After you were taken away from your life with your husband, your son was taken and given to an unknown high ranking family. All you wanted to do was be passive and quiet and behave so no harm came to your son.

“Ah, welcome. Blessed be the fruit.” A beautiful woman in blue with dark hair braided back greeted you at the porch. Behind her was a young girl, Elizabeth you assumed, who looked less than thrilled to be there and behind her was a Martha. In front of Mrs. Miller, however, you see him. He was tall, handsome, a strong alkaline nose and medium brown curls slicked back in an attempt to tame them. 

Aunt Lydia spoke for you. You weren’t to speak unless spoken too. “Thank you, may the lord open! Mrs. Miller, Commander Miller. Oh, Elizabeth! Look how you’ve grown!” Lydia greeted the teenager who refused to put on a smile.

“Elizabeth, be polite.” Her mother chided, but it wasn’t until Commander Miller whispered a small ‘Ellie’ that the girl put on a small and curtsied.

Mrs. Miller invited aunt Lydia in for tea, but she declined, saying goodbye to you and telling you to be good before you were ushered inside. As Mrs. Miller introduced the household, you felt Commander Miller’s intense stare on you, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“Our daughter, Elizabeth, is to be betrothed soon, God willing.”

Elizabeth groaned. “Great.”

“Your attitude is exactly why we can’t find you a match, young lady.” Mrs. Miller snapped, turning to her daughter with a glare. “That and the fact you keep sneaking second helpings-”

At that, Commander Miller walked over to where his wife was berating the girl. “She hasn’t found a match because I haven't found anyone suitable for her. She’s a shining star of Gilead, Gina, and I’m not going to send her off to just anyone.”

You watched as Mrs. Miller glared at him before her eyes fluttered over to you, and suddenly you felt like the outside you were. 

Commander Miller kissed the crown of Elizabeth’s hair, gently nudging her off. “Go to your room, I’ll walk you to Reilly’s after I’m done here, alright?” Women couldn’t walk alone, God forbid. It was for your safety, right?

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but agreed and left the room, the commander looking back to his wife. “You have to stop berating her like that, she’s a good kid.”

Mrs. Miller walked a step closer. “She’s a brat, she’ll never have a successful marriage if she can’t submit to her-”

“Woman, I told you to drop it!” Commander Miller’s voice raised up just a little, enough to tell his wife to leave it alone.

With a huff, Mrs. Miller left the room mumbling that he can deal with the help, and how this is why they were getting a new handmaid and baby in the first place.

As she walked away, Commander Miller scrubbed his face and sighed, eventually looking over towards you and seeming startled by your presence. He sighed again. The way he looked at you… he didn’t look past you like everyone else seemed to do, he didn’t look at you like furniture. “Ellie’s going through a phase right now. Gilead has seemed to forget that teenagers are still teenagers, no matter the birthing crisis.”

You want to ask him whose fault that was. You want to remind him that he was one of the sons of Jacob who created this entire system… but you weren’t looking to die today. 

“She’s a good kid, smart.” He pressed on, like he was looking for a response. Smart was an odd choice of words. Women weren’t meant to be smart, they were meant to be pretty, fertile, godly, kind, demure.

You down cast your eyes. “Of course, sir.”

Commander Miller urged you along showing you all the parts of the house. The bottom floor held the kitchen where you would be helping the Martha, Lisa, the dining room, parlor, all the miscellaneous living areas and way in the back was Commander Miller’s office. Upstairs was a second bathroom, the master suite, Elizabeth’s room (or Ellie, as he called her), and Lisa’s room and then yours towards the end. He excused himself there.

“Make yourself as comfortable as possible.” He urged. It  was strange, the way he acted was not how you had expected. For such a  prominent commander  whose daughter was almost like royalty, you expect a harsher man; someone to match his wife’s strict standards. However, it seemed he was… almost normal, whatever that meant. “I’m going to walk my daughter to her friend’s house, but I’ll be back if you have any questions. Lisa would probably appreciate some help with dinner for once.”

“Yes commander”

You were in elementary school when Gilead was formed. Your parents were christian and church goers so you were allowed to grow up with them in the lower class regions and were married off to another man of lower stock, and it was years before you became pregnant with your son. Problem was that this son looked nothing like his father, and a paternity test revealed your secret, landing you in the position you were at now.

The day dragged on. Between you and Lisa, there wasn’t much to do to keep the household clean for the three other people that lived there, even with Mrs. Miller’s strict standards. Tomorrow you would meet your walking partner, and hopefully have activities to fill more of your day until your first ceremony.

That night, you woke up to use the bathroom, but when you walked out you were met face to face with Commander Miller. He was even taller like this, even dressed down out of his boots. White tee shirt and dark pants were under his long road and his previously slicked back hair was unfurled into soft, messy curls. His face was still sweaty; he smelled like sex. You hadn’t really thought if Commander’s still fucked their wives… but you suppossed there was no reason not to. Gina was beautiful, after all, and so was Commander Miller.

He towered over you, breaths almost shared in the close confines of the hallway. “Sorry.” He murmured in a whisper and moved, heading downstairs to his office or a midnight snack. A little shaken at being so close to a man, a man of such rank and power… that very power emanated off him in wafts of manly musk. You ran into Elizabeth as you exited the bathroom and she looked as startled to see you as you did Commander Miller.

“Excuse me.” She said as she slipped past and you re-entered your room, only to peek out as she was tiptoeing down the stairs and turning towards Commander Miller’s office. It was strange to see, but you supposed fathers were fathers, no matter the horrors they created for other women. Did he realize he was setting his own daughter up for this life? Especially a girl as headstrong as she seemed to be?

The sun was bright, the early fall only requiring  your long sleeve dress as you stood outside but behind the gate of your new home, Mrs. Miller standing beside you to make the introduction. Your walking partner was your next door neighbors handmaid.

“Ofthomas is my brother-in-law’s handmaiden. I assume you’ll meet their family this week, we usually keep weekly dinner’s at each other’s homes every Friday, we host this week. Tommy- Commander Miller, I mean, is certainly… interesting. Very kind, but don’t like me catch him being kind to you alone.” Mrs. Miller shot you a warning eye and you understood. Despite having wives and handmaids to fuck, men were never satisfied. 

“Ofthomas, there you are. You’re late.”

Ofthomas curtsied. “Apologies, Ma’am”

“Hm. This is Ofjoel, our new handmaiden.”

You bow your head and Ofthomas bows back, and Mrs. Miller opened the gate, allowing you to begin your walk to the store. To say you were nervous was an understatement. You could never tell who an eye was, and certainly couldn’t tell who a true believer was. Did Ofthomas believe everything she had been taught? It was never safe to say anything, never safe to question or complain to a single person lest they turn you-

“So what’s your real name?” Ofthomas asked.

You jolt, turning to her in shock. “Excuse me?!” Wide-eyes, you wonder if this is a trap, she had to be trapping you, right?

Ofthomas smiled at you, it was friendly but teasing as if she knew you’d react like this. Her dark hair peaked out of her wimple, as uncontrollable as she was, it seemed. “My name’s Angela.”

*****************

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @dins-riduur-anthe @morallyinept @fan-fiction-floozy @med494 @taliarose12 @flvrdoll @k-ra @sam-2me @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @moriartyyouwhore @hereforthepedrofanfic @alwaysmicado @noisynightmarepoetry @kyloispunk

[delta-lethonomia]

For the pairing prompt—Lae’zel/Gale is a rare pair that’s always held a special place in my heart ❤️

Lae'zel/Gale is super cute! I can totally see that working. Tbh I do think Gale is a little old for her and they're very much at different stages in life, but Lae'zel has such "straight A athletic valedictorian who also read the entire library" energy that they have more in common that one might initially expect. Plus, Gale's so interested in Githyanki, he's the nicest and most interested in Lae'zel by far. I always got the impression in-game that she was fond of him.

Honestly, I think the best genre would be romantic comedy. Domestic, hallmark-style romcom. Post-game, with Lae'zel staying in Faerûn with the gith baby, she's out and about being hunted by Vlaakith's forces. Maybe it starts to get to her. Maybe baby Xan gets ill and Lae'zel realizes she has no idea what to do about it. Maybe she just happens to be near Waterdeep and so she shows up at Gale's doorstep, bedraggled and rain-soaked, holding a wailing child.

Of course, Gale takes her in. Anything for a friend! Only problem is, his mother is in town, and Morena Dekarios is very interested in this young single woman who shows up at her son's doorstep with a baby.

While I do think Gale has had success with some romantic endeavors, I think he's also the sort of have inadvertently kept people at a bit of a distance - like yes, he'll cook a lovely meal for them, but they'll only do dates on Friday nights and it never turns into a multi-day sleepover type of affair. Like you'll have a great time, but Gale keeps returning your bras and toothbrush every time you "accidentally" leave them at his place. Freshly laundered, neatly packed, but there's no open space for someone to wiggle their way into his heart, not truly.

But with Lae'zel, there's none of this distance. She's very neat, but uncompromising with fitting her things into his home for the duration of her stay. Maybe baby Xan really just needs to stay in one place for a few months while his baby immune system builds up and he becomes a toddler. Gale's fascinated, of course - while I think he can be a bit awkward and uncomfortable with children, Xan's really nothing more than a potato at this point, and his needs and wants are fairly predictable. Plus, babies are fun in the sense that you can practically see their little brains churning as they take in more information, and I think Gale would enjoy seeing that development happen in real time, watching Xan get smarter and smarter by the week.

So Gale's initially more interested in the baby. He's taking Xan to other academics, showing him off ("How often do you get to see a baby Gith, truly? He's no more a fearsome marauder than I am! Be mindful of the teeth, he's quite bitey--") while Lae'zel languishes. She has no clue how to be at peace, living in Gale's cozy and overstuffed tower. So naturally, Morena finds things for her to do. Morena treats her as she would any other young woman, and tries to bond in that way - they go to the market together, bake some bread, Morena tells her all sorts of tales of her life, tries to figure out if there's any young paramour in Lae'zel's life....

...and Lae'zel is just so Lae'zel about it all. There are some fine warriors in Faerûn, yes, Gale included, but she won't be distracted from her duties of raising Xan and providing him a future. She takes to baking with ferocity, timing her meditations with proofing times. Morena gives her a jar of homemade jam made from berries in her yard that are only in season for two weeks out of the year and they fall into an in-depth discussion on the ridiculous amount of forethought and long-term planning running an actual homestead involves. There's so much detail in gardening that I think Lae'zel might fall down a rabbit hole of reading the Farmer's Almanac cover to cover for lack of anything else to do, only to realize she's mentally planning out a garden plot for a home she doesn't have.

Githyanki have fine artisans, yes, but they are primarily concerned with metalwork, literature, and other imperishable goods; when they leave the astral plane, they acquire foodstuffs and cloth through conquest and rarely, through trade. She's never had to consider all the effort invested to make a hank of yarn, the months of waiting to produce the ingredients of a potato stew. It's a cycle of life and death that is not entirely alien, but one she hasn't had to truly interact with, but now seems all too real with every change in Xan's appearance and behavior.

Basically I think Lae'zel has both the intense dedication and appreciation of meditative repetitive activities to be a really good crafter. She's trying new things. Going by her hair and poetic inclinations, Lae'zel has an aesthetic appreciation, it's only lurking beneath the surface and ready to be unlocked. Morena is charmed by her, because Lae'zel is very charming, and before you know it they're great friends as Lae'zel absolutely enjoys being the teacher's pet, and that's the closest analog she has for Morena. They bully Gale together and it's cute.

Inevitably, Gale has some sort of party to attend, perhaps a holiday party, and he asks Lae'zel to go with him and doesn't think about it. Naturally Lae'zel looks amazing in a dress, she's intimidating and gorgeous, and maybe someone snarks at Gale for something - being the washed-up Chosen of Mystra and now downgrading to a teaching position, wow (because you just know some of Gale's peers think he's an absolute dickhead, with his whole "oh no I could definitely teach every class, and better than the people you already employ" nonsense) and Lae'zel throws down in an instant. She'll eviscerate them with a butter knife. On your knees, wizard, or she'll hamstring them for daring to think themselves a better man than Gale.

Anyway Gale's smitten lmao. He's not blind to her being attractive, he does flirt with her a fair amount in-game, but he had no idea she thought so highly of him. All of a sudden, she's not just Lae'zel visiting for a few weeks/months - she's a very pretty young woman that accompanied him to a party as his date, whose child he's looking after, who just threatened his colleague in his defense in an instant with no shame whatsoever, that his mother likes. Literally, it's a switch that flips. All of a sudden, Lae'zel is.... an option.

But of course, all things must come to an end. Xan gets over his cold, Lae'zel starts to get that itch for violence again, either way, they need to get back to it. Gale watches them go mournfully while Morena shakes her head at his idiocy and Lae'zel's obstinacy.

Lae'zel sets out with Xan and is almost immediately attacked. She fights them off, but it's an ill-omen of all that's to come. The fights seem endless and grueling. Xan's no longer used to being in the cold, outside; he's fussier, he misses Morena and Gale both, he misses being warm and watching the sparkly lights Gale would conjure for him and all sorts of things his little baby brain can't really express to her. But Lae'zel's stubborn, and she pushes through it for a month, two months--but it wears on her. She doesn't get any peace.

At the epilogue party, she sees Gale again. He's looking well. He's ever so pleased to see her, and he packed a little gift for Xan, and his mother sent him along with another gift for Lae'zel, something practical that she would enjoy, something they bonded over, and all of a sudden Lae'zel cannot understand what she is doing with her life. She wanted to enjoy all that Faerûn had to offer, see the world in all of its colors, but without fail she keeps choosing only death and blood. She wanted to give Xan something different, but instead all she's done is make him miserable. A battlefield is no place for a baby, even a githyanki one. Even her creche kept their young protected until they could hold a sword.

Haltingly, with great difficulty, Lae'zel asks Gale to accompany her. There's one last Gith stronghold nearby as far as she can tell - perhaps she doesn't have to do it alone. And Xan would love to see him, of course, he keeps grabbing at her shirt and then looking disappointed when it's not the velvet material that Gale so often wears - and of course Gale accepts, he can take time off whenever he pleases, or it's the end of the semester regardless--

So naturally they go together on a fun romantic adventure to thoroughly destroy a Githyanki stronghold. Gale gets to stretch his magic and Lae'zel is incredibly turned on by the destructive power he wields with a baby strapped to his chest. Their first kiss is backlit by a roaring Wall of Fire underneath Gale's Globe of Invulnerability, a quick moment stolen as Xan slumbers in his sling, lulled to sleep by the sounds of battle--

--and Lae'zel accompanies Gale back to Waterdeep, ready to try a new type of adventure.

(Look ok I know it's insanely sweet but both Lae'zel and Gale are both incredibly sweet when you get down to it. It's gotta be a hallmark romcom. There was simply no other option!)

[sugarplumpowder]

My friend B.

A while back, I was asked to share some real-life observations, and one memory that always comes to mind is about an old friend I’ll call B. Our friendship had a tendency to blur the lines, and eventually, he dropped the classic bombshell: “I’ve got feelings for you.” I didn’t share the same feelings, and we ended up drifting apart, but I still find myself reflecting on those moments from time to time. We were both young - B was around 23, and I was a few years younger - just trying to figure life out.

B stood about 5'11", with dark hair that brushed the nape of his neck and piercing green eyes that probably melted a few hearts along the way. He had tattoos covering his arms and upper body, giving him the appearance of someone who was just one jam session away from starting a garage band, yet somehow never quite got around to it. With his soft-spoken, laid-back vibe, he balanced out the crazier escapades we often found ourselves in. In hindsight, I appreciated that calming presence more than I realized at the time.

One unforgettable quirk of B’s was his sensitive nose. He had a small, slightly ski-slope nose that fit his face perfectly, but was also the cause of much distress. Even the lightest touch could trigger an uncontrollable sneezing fit, a fact I discovered one afternoon while we were hanging out.

We lounged on his bed, heavy metal music playing in the background as we playfully debated something utterly ridiculous - like who would win in a fight, a bear or a shark. In the middle of our banter, I impulsively booped him on the nose, not thinking much of it.

His expression shifted instantly; his eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. He inhaled deeply, and I could see the anticipation building in him. “Oh my god. I’m going to sneeze,” he whispered in a hushed, panicked voice tinged with desperation.

In a flash, he yanked his shirt over his head, just in time to cover his mouth as the first sneeze erupted downward, sending a wet spray across his chest. The sneezes came in rapid succession - quiet yet powerful, misting his skin with each exhale.

“Hup-tsssssh, hip-tssssshoo, hup-TSSSH!” Each sneeze shook his body, echoing in the room with intensity. I watched as his face flushed a deeper shade of crimson with every outburst, sheer desperation filling his eyes - a mix of surprise and surrender.

I couldn’t help it; I burst into laughter, my heart racing at the sheer absurdity of the moment. “What was that?!” I teased, barely able to contain my amusement. He shot me a sheepish grin, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “Oh my god, my nose is just so sensitive; I have no control over it.”

Though he did his best to cover up, the evidence was undeniable - his shirt was stained, the dampness spreading from where he had sneezed.

That was my first encounter with B’s sneezing fits, but it wouldn’t be the last. As our friendship developed, his nose seemed to react to everything around him - dust in the air, the sunlight streaming through the window, and even the faint trace of my perfume lingering in the room. It felt like he was cursed; every time he looked outside on a sunny day, I could see the anticipation building in his eyes. I would brace myself, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before a sneeze would burst forth from his sensitive nose.

Those were definitely some wild memories from a time when life was simpler and a lot more carefree. If you’re up for it, I’ve got more wild tales about B’s sneezy antics that’ll definitely keep you on your toes.

XOXO