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Title: Undertone WC: 1000
“There was no relationship.” —Dr. Cameron Talbot, When the Bough Breaks (2 x 05)
She does not believe he thought she would be relieved at the news that he may be walking away and leaving Nikki Heat behind. Not for a hot second does she believe that he has a thought to spare for how she feels about anything—not how she actually feels anyway. She’s sure he has plenty of thoughts to spare when it comes to building up his own sense of importance to her. She probably can’t count the thoughts he’s devoted to how lost she’ll be without his playground-based insights, how tragic her life will become when she’s inevitably kicked off the force because she’s unable to solve a single murder without him. He probably has to rent out a storage space for those kinds of thoughts, but there’s no way in hell that the idea of her being relieved every occurred to him.
She’s sure of that.
She’s pretty sure.
Except . . .
They are fighting about stupid things. A part of her mind—a very persuasive part—points out that this is not breaking news. This is not evidence of anything other than the fact that he is still drawing breath in proximity to her. But a different part of her mind—a much smaller, but possibly more honest part—points out that these are arguments are not just stupid, they’re weird. Worse still, they’re weird on both sides.
Even if he’d been lying in that grimy hallway, why would he choose that lie? Where would it even come from, given the sheer size of his ego? And what the hell was up with her jerky, stilted—and let’s face it, belated—agreement that she is, she would be, in the event of . . . relieved? Why does that feel like a lie?
She’d like it to be his fault. If she could lay her own awkwardness at his feet, that would be ideal. She’d like to convince herself, for instance, that the sheer enormity of a lie that would require him to have any kind of empathy or insight into her actual feelings simply staggered her in the moment.
But it’s not just that moment. It’s their utterly childish argument—within sight of a billion cameras, within earshot of a billion tabloid parasites—at the book launch. He’d been spinning lies there, too, hadn’t he? His sudden onset allergy to eye contact and his mumblings about her not knowing anything about being scorned, about being turned away . . . all that had to be some kind of act, right? He can’t have given any real thought to her heartaches or lack thereof, not when he’d decided from the get go that Nikki Heat was kinda slutty.
The only thing that should ring true about the entire, juvenile conversation should be his denunciation of his own character as too insubstantial to support more than one novel, but even there, she’d tugged the other way, suddenly championing the self-proclaimed bane of her existence as having plenty to her. The one thing they should be in one-hundred percent agreement about, and something about it makes her dig her stupidly expensive, bought-for-the-occasion heels in and deny his premise. She should be relieved that there’s some truth-telling at last—some highly unlikely eleventh hour self-awareness on his part, but she’s not. The things that ought to ring true don’t. They’re fighting, then back-burnering the fighting for the good of the case, then they’re lapsing into awkward silence after they both acknowledge that it’s happening. He’s going, and she’s relieved, right?
No. Not right. It’s not right on any level. She knows that, and there’s no other word for it but weird.
She’s not exactly coping with the weird—his, hers, theirs. She’s not acing this part of things, and then it seems she doesn’t have to. He gets a phone call, and so does she. He’s not leaving after all, and she knows how this goes. She ramps up her fury. She is going to kill him. He was supposed to be out of her life. She draws herself up and prepares to meet his look of smug satisfaction.
But there isn’t one. He cowers instead. He insists he had nothing to do with either phone call. It’s fine. It’s a variation on a theme. It’s her twisting his ear and him frantically crying, “Apples.” That’s all it is.
She’s sure.
She’s pretty sure.
Except . . .
They’re heading out from the scene of the murder—the new are you coming, or what? murder. They’re sliding into their respective seats in her unmarked, belting in, getting ready to peel away from the curb. She turns the key in the ignition. His voice is so quiet, so drawn in that she can barely hear it over the sound of the car turning over.
“I’m glad I still get to do this.” He looks up quickly, panic flashing across his face. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t know Paula was going to call—I swear . . .” He looks back down at his own hands, fidgeting in his lap. “I know you were . . . you would have been glad to have this all over with, but I just . . . I’m glad it’s not.”
The car idles. She doesn’t know what to do with this. The silence stretches out, but what he’s said lingers. The truth and vulnerability of it fills the silence up. He thought she’d be relieved—glad even. He’s uncertain of her. She feels a twinge of self-reproach, a bigger twinge of defensiveness—like she’s not uncertain of him?
They are uncertain of each other and why wouldn’t they be? They’re not exactly in the habit of saying what they mean. So she does, for once. Kind of.
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m glad, too.” She mumbles. She glares at him. “After all, I’m under orders to be glad, aren’t I?”
He sits upright, his head swiveling toward her in surprise. “That you are, Detective. Under orders,” he says with a startled smile, and she can see tht he knows.
She thinks he knows.
A/N: . . . and then they totally made out in the car. But seriously. I like to imagine there was some acknowledgment that they really were on the verge of parting and were both unspooling over the possibility.
images via homeofthenutty
#Castle#Caskett#CastleABC#Castle: Season 2#Castle: When the Bough Breaks#Castle: 2 x 05#Kate Beckett#Richard Castle#Martha Rodgers#Alexis Castle#Lanie Parish#Johanna Beckett#Javier Esposito#Roy Montgomery#Kevin Ryan#Jim Beckett#Fic#Fanfic#Fanfiction#Fan Fic#Fan Fiction#Writing#Fabrications
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#Stana Katic#Kate Beckett#Castle#castleedit#caskett#ABC Castle#S02E05#When the Bough Breaks#katebeckettedit#stanakaticedit#caskettedit#tvedit#filmtvedit#fashion#Kate Beckett moments#*gif#*mine
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14 years ago, Kate discovered Castle's dedication to her 🥹🤍
S2E05, “When the Bough Breaks” aired 14 years ago (October 19, 2009) 💙
#castle#kate beckett#caskett#richard castle#castle and beckett#beckett and castle#beckett x castle#castle x beckett#castle series#castle rewatch#castle edit#castle season 2#2x05#when the bough breaks#14 years of when the bough breaks#castle anniversary
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top 5 mentalist and castle episodes?
oooo okay this is gonna hurt lmao i'm so bad at choosing but in no particular order (based on entire episode, not just favorite moments)
The Mentalist
7x13 White Orchids (+ 7x12 Brown Shag Carpet)
6x22 Blue Bird
4x10 Fugue in Red
5x02 Devil's Cherry
4x20 Something's Rotten in Redmund
also literally all of season seven
Castle
2x12 A Rose for Ever After
4x07 Cops & Robbers
3x01 A Deadly Affair
5x04 Murder, He Wrote
5x22 Still
(I would put 4x09 Kill Shot on here because it's an absolute masterpiece, but I rarely watch it bc it's hard. but it means soooo much to me)
#this was PAINFUL#also the good the bad and the baby#when the bough breaks#the double down#the ones with jordan shaw#etc#answered#but thanks for asking hahaha#the mentalist#castle
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Hottest In The Room | From Castle Season 2x5: When the Bough Breaks 🫦

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Hi! sending good vibes. whatcha listening to lately, and/or have you heard any new songs that vibe with the anisquad?
Thank you! Off the top of my head:
Jake - "And So It Went," The Pretty Reckless
They said: the world does not belong to you/ It don't belong to you/ It belongs to me And so it went/ The children lost their minds/ Crawlin' over bodies of those who gave their lives/ And the fists began to throw/ And the bough's about to break/ Don't they think we know/ We're the fuckin human race?
Marco - "All the Good Girls Go to Hell," Billie Eilish
Hills burn in California/ My turn to ignore ya/ Don't say I didn't warn ya/ All the good girls go to hell/ 'Cause even God herself has enemies/ And once the water starts to rise/ And Heaven's out of sight/ She'll want the Devil on her team My Lucifer is lonely/There's nothing left to save now/ My God is gonna owe me/ There's nothing left to save now
Cassie - "March, March," The Chicks
March, march to my own drum/ Hey, hey, I'm an army of one/ Oh, I'm an army of one Tell the ol' boys in the white bread lobby/ What they can and can't do with their bodies/ Temperatures are risin', cities are sinkin'/ (Ah, cut the shit, you know your city is sinkin')/ Lies are truth and truth is fiction/ Everybody's talkin', who's gonna listen?
Rachel - "So Fast, So Maybe," K. Flay
Little did I know shit would get this gnarly/ This quickly/ I hardly/ Had time to think... So you better get used to the pace of things/ Cause basically, it's like stress non-stop/ From the moment that you're born to the moment that you drop/ Well, at least when you're dead you could get a little peace in the head... caught a glimpse of the action/ Since that day, I felt the passion/ Don't just talk, go make it happen
Tobias - "Both Sides Now," Joni Mitchell
Rows and floes of angel hair/ And ice cream castles in the air/ And feather canyons everywhere/ I've looked at clouds that way But now they only block the sun/ They rain and snow on everyone/ So many things I would have done/ But clouds got in my way I've looked at clouds from both sides now/ From up and down, and still somehow/ It's cloud illusions I recall/ I really don't know clouds at all
Ax - "The Truth Beneath the Rose," Within Temptation
Give me strength to face the truth, the doubt within my soul/ No longer I can justify the bloodshed in his name/ Is it a sin to seek the truth, the truth beneath the rose? I believed it would justify the means/ It had a hold over me I'm hoping, I'm praying/ I won't get lost between two worlds/ For now I have seen the truth lies between/ Give me the strength to face the wrong that I have done/ For now I see the darkest side of me
#animorphs#fan mix#playlist#animorphs mix#i'd say i'm in a female rockers phase#but the truth is that it's been 20+ years#i don't think it's a phase anymore mom
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Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly | Barbatos x Reader
.7K Words | GN Reader | CW: none, slightly Nsfwish
Barbatos was at the top of the ladder with boughs of holly in hand. He sighed as he hung the hundredth bunch and looked down the long corridor he had left.
The Little D.’s scrambled beneath him also trying to quickly hang the boughs. Barbatos wanted it done as soon as possible so Diavolo had as much time to enjoy the holiday spirit as he could.
Barbatos descended the ladder and moved it to the next window when a grin crossed his face. He turned around and bowed politely, “___ what a happy surprise. What brings you to the demon lord’s castle?”
You grinned and hugged him, “we've been dating for months, when will you stop being so formal?” You asked.
He chuckled and shook his head, “Old habits I suppose. Is there something I can help you with today?”
You shook your head. “Just the opposite. I wanted to help you decorate.”
He looked surprised but it melted into a pleased grin. “Oh my. How kind of you, ___.”
He eyed the boxes yet to be emptied and decided it would be okay to accept your help as long as it was really what you wanted.
He nodded and handed you a box with several bunches of holly. You started laughing and he gave you a puzzled look.
“I finally get to deck the halls with boughs of holly,” you chuckled.
Barbatos shook his head. “Oh, is that why you wanted to help?”
You quickly protested, “No, not at all. It was a funny coincidence that’s why I was laughing.”
Barbatos decided you were telling the truth and ascended the ladder again to continue where he left off.
You turned around and Little D. no.3 and Little D. no.6 brought you a ladder and scooted it to the correct spot.
“Will you hold it for me?” You asked them and they nodded. They were glad to have an excuse to stop running around. Little D. no.7 looked upset he hadn’t offered as he was most tired of them all.
Barbatos clicked his tongue in disappointment and the Little D.’s quickened their pace while their two brothers had a chance to relax by the ladder.
“Are you alright up there?” Barbatos asked, looking back every couple of seconds to make sure you hadn’t gotten scared.
It was a pretty tall ladder but you had the magic to support your fall so it didn’t worry you. A thought occurred to you and you sighed deeply. Barbatos turned back around to inquire if you were alright.
“Why aren’t we just using magic…”
He shook his head. “Did you forget it’s Devil Down Day?”
“Oh, is that today?”
Barbatos sighed and shook his head. “I hope you haven’t been using your magic, that would be a big problem.”
You shook your head. “Not unless getting here counts because that started in the human world technically.”
He nodded in approval, “I suppose that doesn’t violate anything.”
You smiled, relieved you weren’t in trouble with anyone, especially Barbatos. It was no secret you were fond of each other but he was a stickler for the rules even when you were involved so you had to be very careful to avoid breaking any.
“It always has some bad timing doesn’t it?”
Barbatos nodded, “it did nearly kill you last time if I recall.”
You chuckled nervously. “Yeah…don’t remind me.”
He descended the ladder and dismissed the Little D.’s holding you up to grab the ladder himself.
You began to descend when your foot missed a step. Barbatos’s eyes widened and he took a step up to catch you by your hips. You gasped and he carried you down even though it wasn’t necessary.
“Perhaps you could hold the ladders instead.”
You blushed, embarrassed. “Th-that was just an accident.”
“Well I should hope it was an accident and you weren’t falling on purpose so I’d carry you,” he teased and your face reddened.
“Huh?”
“If that were the case I may have to punish you for taking me away from my responsibilities,” he gave you a mischievous grin and you blinked in surprise.
Did he really mean what you think he meant? He was good at teasing you and denying it later, which you were already used to thanks to Lucifer.
“Wh-what kind of punishment?” You stuttered and it was his turn to laugh.
“What an adorable expression. Would you like to find out?”
You nodded and he beamed. He ordered the Little D.‘s to finish the decorations themselves and carried you away to his room.
You were “punished” until morning, though in your opinion it was more of a present. It was the perfect way to begin the holidays
#obey me drabble#obey me 25 days of christmas#obey me nsfwish#obey me barbatos#obey me barbatos x reader#omswd Barbatos x reader#obey me x reader#25 days of obey me christmas#obey me ficlet#omswd Barbatos
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Title: when the bough breaks Pairing: Sylus/MC Rating: MA Genre/Warnings: hurt/comfort, drama, romance, TLC, size kink, virgin MC, first time, all kinds of sexy stuff (for detailed tags please refer to AO3) Part: 1/? (probably 5-6 chapters) Summary: After receiving an Evol injury that can only be treated by traditional means, you stay at his castle for a while to recover… Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59313988 ~~~ "You don't look surprised", he says instead of a greeting and leans against one of the columns with his right shoulder. He crosses his legs by the ankle, fingers loosely intertwined in front of his midsection. His posture is relaxed and his gaze goes out into the rain, calmly observing the surroundings of his castle. "Well, I knew you'd be getting up around this time and I was about to head back just now…"
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Captain Kate Beckett still can't figure it out. Two days ago, Richard Castle was just a name on a bookshelf. And then he crashed her case and claimed he knew her. Said they were in a relationship. Not only that, he took two bullets to the chest—saved her life. And he did it because he loves her? How the hell is that possible? A 7x06, "The Time of Our Lives" AU.
NEW UPDATE!
Chapter 9 - When the Bough Breaks
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Bones 1x22 | The Woman in Limbo Castle 2x05 | When the Bough Breaks
#bones#castle#bonesedit#castleedit#bones tv#bonestv#booth x brennan#caskett#seeley booth#kate beckett#david boreanaz#stana katic#bonescenter#otpsource#usercrime#smallscreensource#cinematv#userthing#tvarchive#minun
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The Avantris Fam Discord got this a few days early, but, in a burst of academic energy I haven't felt in weeks, I wrote a 2k word Literary Analysis on Marius from Edge of Midnight in 4 hours (complete with citations and sources)
What you are about to read is the culmination of an 18 day hyper fixation (I averaged more than a session* a day) (*each session being about 3 hours in length). It has only been slightly edited for better Tumblr consumption. It is legitimately almost 2k words. It starts VERY academic (as I get to flex my knowledge on an obscure Arthurian legend I love) and then immediately drops off in quality as I traverse some "dubious psycho-analysis" (my own words) and try to wrap up a half finished thoughts that should be thousands of words longer.
If you want to see my active descent into madness or the original google doc this was written in, join the discord (linked above!). I've got massive Legends of Avantris Brain Rot and will for a very long time I fear.
TW for Sexual Assault Themes (please tell me if my tw tags are not extensive enough)
CW for my insufferable academic attitude, literary analysis where no one wanted it, "dubious psycho-analysis", half finished thoughts, DnD, vampires, and my sailors mouth
Marius: An Analysis on Chivalry and Chastity
Break to save your dash
To get the literary shit out of the way, Marius’s seduction is a parallel of the Arthurian Legend “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight” intentionally or not. I have a sneaking suspicion perhaps The Duchess scene is also based on the “Tale of Sir Galahad” bit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail BUT that bit draws inspiration from Gawain’s story. So no matter which way you cut it, Marius is connected to Gawain to SOME degree.
Attempting to be brief, I’ll sum up Gawain as briefly as I, someone who loves this tale a ridiculous amount, can.
Gawain is King Arthur’s nephew, a knight of the round table, young, chivalrous, pious, but itching to prove himself. He loves the aging Arthur and Arthur loves him like a son but he feels restless in his station because he has not gone on a great quest like many of the other knights.
Serendipitously, during the New Years celebrations a strange man enters Arthur’s great hall. He is green and carries a great axe in one hand and a bough of holly in his other. He challenges anyone in the room to hit him with the axe and he will return the blow in a year and a day. No one takes the man up on the challenge. Arthur is about to do it when Gawain takes his chance to prove himself. Thinking he can outsmart the Green Knight, Gawain cleaves the man’s head from his shoulders. Unexpectedly the Green Knight picks up his detached head, leaves the axe for Gawain as a trophy, and strides out of there with the reminder that he will return the blow in a year and a day. Gawain has effectively doomed himself.
Attempting to put off his fate, Gawain waits to seek the Green Knight until All Saints Day (November 1st). He is sent forth with all of the pomp and circumstance a Knight of the Round Table and favorite of King Arthur can get. He spends nearly two months seeking someone who knows of the Green Chapel where the Green Knight resides and is fruitless. Winter sets in and he begins to suffer exposure when he is greeted by a beautiful castle that seemingly appears out of nowhere. He meets the Lord of the Castle and the Lord's beautiful wife. In the spirit of Christmas the Lord challenges Gawain to a game. The Lord will be hunting the next three days, anything he catches is to be Gawain’s. In return Gawain is to give the Lord anything he receives during his stay.
Well what Gawain receives is a lot of unwanted attention from the Lord’s wife. She attempts to seduce the ever pious Knight. Gawain, minding his promise and his tenets, only allows her six kisses over the course of the three days. All of which he returns to the Lord. But seeing as she can’t sway him with the sins of the flesh, she tempts Gawain with magic. The same day she convinces Gawain to receive three kisses she offers him an enchanted sash that will keep him from harm. Gawain accepts this knowing it will save his life in the coming days. He breaks his promise to the Lord and does not divulge this gift.
Gawain keeps his appointment with the Green Knight who admonishes Gawain when he flinches at the first swing, holds back on his second, and finally drives home the third, only wounding Gawain slightly. Gawain now must confess his temptation to the Green Knight who tells him that it is not Gawain’s fault. This has all been a plan by Morgan le Fay to attempt to ruin Arthur. Gawain only fell to part of her plan and so it has been thwarted. He should learn from this stumble on his path. And learn he does.
Monty Python takes this tale and guts it for “the Tale of Sir Galahad” segment. Galahad is instead searching for the Grail when he stumbles upon a mystical castle with a grail shaped beacon. His temptress(es) are the “8 scores” of young women of Castle Anthrax. He too enters the castle sick from exposure and wounded and thwarts unwanted advances until he learns that the grail is not there. Before he can fall to his temptation Lancelot, Ector, and ironically Gawain rescue him from his “peril” judging it to be “too perilous” for him to face. (It is really important to note that the actual Sir Galahad in Arthurian Legend doesn’t have a story that even resembles this one. Galahad is supposed to be an emulation of good ol’ Jesus Christ and the perfect chivalric Knight. He literally ascends to heaven in his tale. The only reason Gawain’s Tale is used is because it is the perfect setting to test “Sir Galahad the Pure” as long as you fudge a few details.)
These are both humorous stories with happy endings. It is important that Marius’s story is not.
Marius is searching for the Grail much like Sir Galahad in Monty Python and the Holy Grail (a parallel Mikey brings up often by singing “Brave, Brave, Brave, Brave Sir Robin Marius”).
Like both Gawain and Galahad his quest leads him on a lengthy adventure that causes him to suffer from exposure to the elements. A fate he is saved from by a mystical castle that appears out of nowhere.
Much like Gawain and Galahad, this Castle is the home of a seductress.
And all too much like Sir Gawain, the Lord of this Castle is away on a hunting expedition.
But here is where Sir Gawain, Sir Galahad, and Sir Marius’s stories diverge. Because Marius’s story partially is a story of sexual assault.
We see in the ritual that Marius’s “head is filled with exhaustion, wine, and a strange perfume that feels almost magical in its enchantment” (Nikkie’s narration, 2:32:00, Chapter 17). There’s literally no other way to say this, Marius cannot consent to the acts about to take place in The Red Duchess’s bedchamber. He is too sick, too drunk, and, on top of it, literally charmed.
His affliction is also another facet of this assault. While his transformation is not a direct result or part of the sex act, it follows quickly on the heels of it. Nikkie even notes Marius is still naked and that the shame of what has just happened is beginning to bubble up.
(Now this is where I get into the dubious psycho-analysis)
Perhaps attempting to swallow that shame, he accepts the Faux Grail and drinks from it, not questioning the appearance of the so-called Grail of Dawn. If he can just get through this night he can bring it back to Victor and all will be righted. He can live with the shame if it saves his kingdom.
But that isn’t the Grail of Dawn he is drinking from and the woman who has just taken something irreplaceable from him is not just a beautiful woman looking for the comforts of the flesh on a cold, lonely winter’s night. And he is going through something so much more horrible than being assaulted like he has been.
And so he ends up back in the cold, irrevocably changed through no fault of his own, and he hates himself for it.
It’s heartbreakingly common that Sexual Assault survivors blame themselves for being assaulted. Marius’s conviction that he was at fault, that if only he was stronger, smarter, less feeble, he could have found a way to say no. He could have escaped her clutches. He wouldn’t be a Dhampir. He wouldn’t be haunted by her noxious perfume. He would still have his clear connection to Lathander.
None of it is really his fault. The Duchess took advantage of him. There was truly nothing he could have done to change his fate that night.
At this point I am trying to articulate some of the things @middycat_ @zer09851 and @purpledinosaurdnd were talking about here https://discord.com/channels/223485292449890305/892828741900849182/1182483200505815153
I think I want to jump into my High Inquisitor thoughts because they tie so closely with the novel I wrote above. This section is admittedly a little more scatterbrained.
The High Inquisitor is a perfect example of both Marius’s self loathing and the way abusers seemingly can sniff out who has been abused before. From the second we meet her she singles Marius out. While yes, Marius is the most “normal” out of the EoM cast, Jericho is a MUCH easier target. He is touch starved and his sin is literally Envy. Jericho would have bent immediately at the first hints of affection and then she has an actual demon under her control. But Marius, though a tougher catch, is a much tastier meal so to say. (Not in that way you freaks /j)
By answering to the High Inquisitor’s beckoning is how we end up with Marius as the Crimson Abbot. His self hatred would make him spiral and he’d turn to his Wrath to compensate. We’ve seen it before, especially recently when he thinks Lathander has abandoned him. He gives in because it's so much easier. She wants me? Fine. Let her have me in all of my broken glory. I’m too wrong to serve Lathander. Etc etc.
Man, I wish I could string these thoughts together better.
AHA! This was the thought I had that I felt needed more context!
@middycat_ brought up “hoping beyond hope that it’s not lathander’s choice to leave him”
I think the severed connection between him and Lathander is both a subconscious self-sabotage and a direct result of the ritual binding him to The Red Duchess.
Most of the binding rituals I was pretty comfortable with. Lethica, Briggsy, Farryn, and somewhat Yorgrim were simply binding themselves to their gods/patrons. (I’m still not entirely sure what the Maiden of the Mists' whole deal is about but she seems mostly benevolent for now. Mr Crossroads didn’t really make Briggsy that way, he kinda was a bastard from the start. The zombification was a result of “fuck around and find out”). The ones I felt least comfortable with and that are reaping the most consequences are Jericho and Marius. Jericho’s character analysis is another similarly sized tome that will have to wait but he is having a harder and harder time keeping Virgil in check. Marius has bound himself to the woman that literally raped him.
No wonder Lathander has found it hard to commune with him, The Duchess is practically breathing down his neck, whispering in his ear that he is not worthy of Lathander. He has been debased, ruined, made unloveable in the eyes of that god. And at least up until Chapter 22 he has been pushing back against that. Not any longer. He’s given in. As @middycat_ said “he’s a tired old man, a jaded old soldier who should have long since given up this fight to someone else.”
I am afraid we are about to see the beginnings of the Crimson Abbot
And the only thing that can save Marius are his friends.
But I am also afraid they may not learn their lessons in time. Many of them tried to encourage him to fuck or made fun of him for not fucking the High Inquisitor when he was clearly triggered by something.
Jericho will have to quash his envy.
Briggsy and Farryn will have to admit they were wrong.
Lethica and Yorgrim will have to speak up.
Inaction hurts as much as action
And Marius needs all the help he can get.
[If you stuck this out A) you deserve awards and B) check out my other 2k word research essay on a niche topic: Why Ghouls Look Different Across the Fallout Games (Not because of Stylistic Differences) ]
This is fucking insane but here are the sources i used
Sir Gawain
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Gawain_and_the_Green_Knight https://www.yorku.ca/inpar/sggk_neilson.pdf (Translation PDF if you want to read the tale)
Sir Galahad
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galahad (for the one time i reference his actual arthurian legend)
Monty Python (I really can’t believe I cited this)
https://montycasinos.com/montypython/grailmm2.php.html (This is a script I was quoting from) https://montypython.fandom.com/wiki/Sir_Galahad (I was looking for other info on him in the movie but ended pulling the list of knights from this)
Pretty basic article on why victims blame themselves
https://www.throughthewoodstherapy.com/sexual-assault-survivors-blame/ (In case you want to do some light reading)
EoM Episodes
17 + 22 Definitely Anytime the High Inquisitor shows up
#I apologize to my fallout mutuals#I was doomed by the narrative#These silly dnd bitches in my electronics are funny#I guess I'm just gonna be known for writing 2k word essays on topics no one gives a shit about but me and a handful of other people#Legends of Avantris#the crooked moon#crooked moon#edge of midnight#marius renathyr#King Arthur#arthurian legend#arthurian mythology#arthurian literature#sir gawain#gawain and the green knight#DnD#d&d 5e#d&d#dnd 5e#5e#homebrew#DnD compendium#literary analysis#literature#english literature#classic literature#dnd character#dungeons and dragons#paladin#dnd5e
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Berion's Song
@tolkienocweek A late post for Day 2 (OC and their relationship to a canon character) or an early post for Day 6 (background or minor OC)
Berion, captain of Barad Eithel under King Fingon, laments Fingon's death and the loss of his home.
My king dwelt in a northern land.
A tower among mountains green
was his, and on the eastern hand
long leagues of grassy plain were seen,
westwards a shore of silver sand,
the mist-wreathed forest-boughs between.
As through the northern summer night
the sunlight softly slipped away,
the orc and the uncanny wight
stole forth beneath the branches grey;
but when the king came and the light,
they fled away at break of day!
How oft I watched beneath the moon
my king gaze out over wood and lawn
or ride singing a merry tune,
until, his brand for battle drawn,
he fell, come a midsummer dawn.
Who sees now if the mountains green
still cradle castle-ruins grey?
Who sees now if the boughs between
the lake-shore gleams each desolate day?
Above the slain, the grass is green.
They trod his banner in the clay!
This is an adaptation of the poem Romance by Andrew Lang, better known as the lyrics of Elgar's part song My love dwelt in a northern land.
More on my OC Berion:
Berion was born in Hithlum and first entered Fingon's service as a squire. He was devoted to Fingon and his father Fingolfin.
In my early stories, he features as a lovable but mildly comic background character, because he is well-meaning, enthusiastic and energetic, but doesn't always understand the complexities of the personal relationships between Fingon and his family very well.
As times darken in Beleriand, Berion becomes a tragic character. Although he does survive the Battle of Unnumbered Tears when Fingon and most of his army are killed in battle, he loses so many people and things he cares for! At this point, Berion also became the protagonist of one of my stories, set in Gondolin and surroundings: Above the Clouds
In Idril's service, Berion survives the Fall of Gondolin and eventually goes on to serve Gil-galad in Lindon.
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KB & RC ♾️🤍
#castle#kate beckett#caskett#richard castle#castle and beckett#beckett and castle#castle x beckett#beckett x castle#castle season 2#2x05#castle series#castle rewatch#when the bough breaks
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Richard Castle & Kate Beckett ━ CASTLE 2.05 | “When the Bough Breaks”
#castleedit#caskettedit#usersole#tuserandrea#tuserlucien#userannalise#usermandie#userteresa#tusercarolina#tuserjana#cinematv#userelliee#tuserisabel#castle#tv#myedit#i've really been in a them mood recently and i am not sorry about it whatsoever
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Truth to be Dared - Ch. 04
(First) / (Previous)
Clomp. Ca-clomp.
Her hoofmarks scatter incadent echoes across the tiles and stutter into a still, perpendicular endlessness of corridors and chambers, vaulted into sunless canopies. The stones aside are silent — none of it speaks to her like the man-forest could, even through the unlove of its rot.
Clomp. Ca-clomp.
Trust lacks in her dewounded shank — muscle taut-then-loose in obverse arrangement; each stair climbed she presses on its mirror-sheen surface and waits for it to break like water, for another snare to bite down. The handmaiden that clutches her leash is, in some kindness, at least oddly cowed as she hesitates, as it leads her to a raised bough of the castle.
Clomp. Ca-clomp.
It’d be easy to buck the rope loose. “If it dlǝɐsǝs you — Sᴉɹ,” asks the maid, as it bids them past a startled-then-attentive knight — who’d only snatch her back up with a harsher hand.
And thereafter, in a hearth-warmed fold of rooms — the safe-or-so reserve she might have been promised in one of her Princess-captor’s illucid remarks — the ornament so overgrown below, a salt lavish on rot-bloated pork, is here… not so? Sun-browned brick dressed in fine murals, ancient tributes to an ancient line, are smothered in unsewn tapestries; the brass leaves that twine on the columns — that hide in their crown a thousand leering eyes — are stripped off, and leave but shadows of unworn stone aneath.
It might make her the most precious thing in here, she thinks.
Clomp. Ca-chunk.
Alike in unadornment, two more handmaidens haul a hammer-mottled copper bathtub to the hearth-side as the door is locked while her handler abandons her in the vestibule. “ʇɥɐʇ ᴉsu,ʇ the Ԁɹᴉuɔǝss,” slips from one’s lips to the floor, as glances turn to those familiar, dream-sick stares — the tub follows.
CLANG!
“No— she ᴉsu,ʇ,” the other scorns, as it rushes to its senses, its disdain falling quickly from her to the floor, where it seeps into the mortars and drips to halls aneath, meant for another.
Instead, stout and sun-warmed as the Oak she wishes had, it crosses to the column she huddles to as substitute and pries loose her hands — held so close it’s surprised when it finds them unbound — and takes them into its own, “qnʇ— ɐ gorgeous dear, ɐll the same.”
The Oak presses her — gentle at the small of her back, but so she cannot retreat — towards the first maid; a false-spring Leaf, that flitters around her like she were a bitter wind, carving mud-matted fur off into a bucket, no care to how the knife’s glint makes her squeal.
“Sɥǝ?” it snarls, kneeled in-front, pointing at her with its blade. “There’s ɐ s,uɐɯ ʇɹɐd between ᴉʇs legs.”
“פoopuǝss,” the Oak spits, knocking the Leaf’s backside with an emptied ewer. “These walls have sheltered you, lass.” It taps on the filled tub’s broadside and, in-between winces as another prickled, blood-stuck weed is torn free, she watches as a crude embossment of runes shimmer and unstoke the hearth till its cold flames lick at the tub, its waters simmering with stolen heat and bubbled soap. “Hoʍ,ʌǝ ʎon never met snɔɥ a girl?”
“Iʇ,s soɯǝ… ʇsɐǝq,” the Leaf mutters. It shoves her till the tub’s lip presses into her, and she whimpers till she realises despite the water’s toil that the copper is cool. The Leaf snorts, “And ɐ pǝɥɔʇǝɹʍ ǝuo at ʇɥɐʇ ʇoo — I’ve seen sɥɐɹdǝɹ claws on the ɔɐsʇlǝ-ƃɐɹpǝu badgers.”
The Oak studies her hands from afar, her split and broken nails, but shakes the suspicious look off its face. It’s not untrue, merely truth twisted as her own horns.
“Oɥ, ƃǝʇ ᴉu!” the Leaf commands, as it scruffs her hair and bends her over. She tries to stop herself, but her hand just slips aneath the surface and it bites — wet and hot.
And she must be wretched, as her shriek makes both handmaidens wince; but the Oak is swift, and barks at the Leaf till it flutters back and lurks at the hearth-side and is left to stare. All she can do as it does is fold into herself, and be taken along as the Oak whispers something soft and guides her, soft and slow, into the bath; hand first, the one that came afore, to show her that it’s safe — their fingers intertwined like an old forest’s roots.
“Moupǝɹ what your name ᴉs, dear,” the Faun hears, when words come clearly again, as a hand rubs the mud-etched fluff at her shoulders, till it sparkles like moonlit snow. And when no words come to her lips, the Oak still smiles — even as the Leaf huffs its own breeze.
“No ɯɐʇʇǝɹ! I’m Esme,” Esme says. “I’ll have you cleaned up ᴉu uo time.”
---
The Princess arrives later, disarmoured and displeased — not at her, or so the Faun hopes — hands prizing a small box.
Awhile, the Faun stands on a mountain of towels, as she drips from a thousand curls; her ears peer through the wild nest of them on her head, to flick specks of stinging suds into the Leaf’s eyes as it scrubs her down as rough as Esme cannot scold it for.
The Princess ignores them, sneers when the Leaf bows and pushes past it to the hearth, leans into it till the flames dance close — cold no more, its warmth blooms the Faun’s wet curls into tender fluff. Her head tilts at something unseen on the mantelpiece; Esme rocks her own towards the open door, and the Leaf follows and hovers till Esme mouths out. It closes the door behind it, though not without one last, soap-blinked, stare at the Faun.
“Hɐupɯɐᴉpǝu,” the Princess mumbles, drops a kerchief to let her raven hair tumble free; steps off with a signet ring, plucked from the mantelpiece, she slides it onto her finger.
She rubs out her frustration into the rams-head seal with a calloused, opposing thumb — but to be interrupted when—
“Princess,” Esme replies, kneading out a little of that disdain into the Faun as she dries her as much as her accursed thicket of fur will allow — till her still-damp charge warbles a note of discomfort. She leaves fire and sun to do the rest, and asks, “You ɥɐʌǝ ɐ hostage, ʇɥǝu?”
The Faun pads on the spot, as the Princess walks over and reaches out. Not a fleck of filth remains, the Princess’ hand sinking into softness. “s,ʇI ɐ ǝzᴉɹd,” she insists, and traces a line between her teats, till fingers flower at her throat. “∀up it ɯǝɐus,” she flares, the hand pouring into a horn, “ʇɥɐʇ uouǝ sʇᴉll of ∩uɔlǝ,s suitors ʍᴉll lay a hand on me!”
And pulls.
As if she unearths a root; the Faun moans through her teeth, as the pain rots across her scalp— “˥ᴉʇʇlǝ Florrie!” Esme shouts.
And the Princess lets go.
“pᴉp I ǝʌǝɹ raise you ʇo treat a girl like ʇɥɐʇ?” she demands, as she folds towels into sharp squares, each she whips into shape with a crack.
“Ǝsɯǝ—” the Princess tries.
“ʇo… ssᴉɯsᴉp ɐuoʇɥǝɹ companion because sɥǝ doesn’t share ʎonɹ ʇɐsʇǝs,” the handmaiden continues, “ʇɥɐʇ I have ɐqᴉpǝp, ʇɥonƃɥ it burdens ʎon with loneliness. But to—”
“Esme, ʍɐᴉʇ!” she pleads, as she takes the Faun to a plush stool, and sits her down — and the handmaiden does wait. “Iʇ,ll be ǝɟɐs ɥǝɹǝ. If you’d sǝǝu what ˥oɹp Relbert ʍonlp ɥɐʌǝ done to it.” The Princess opens the box, and takes from it a collar; undoes the iron one that chokes her, but afore her throat can feel free she proffers the new one to take its place.
“Another ʇɹɐpǝ,” she says, as she fetches then from the box another foul restraint and holds it low to demonstrate its purpose — a cage; delicate and small like the offered collar. “I’ll ʍollɐ ʎon a collar more qǝɐɹɐqlǝ, but I ɯnsʇ dɹǝɔlnpǝ any rumours about ʎon ƃuᴉpǝǝs ɯǝ.”
And for her Gods-cursing cock.
The Faun nods, and hopes she understands.
She starts with the cage, spreads the Faun apart and threads it on with a passion for the squeals it elicits. “pou,ʇ look so ssoɹɔ,” the Princess huffs at her, but Esme looks from behind and sees naught but meek surrender in the Faun — and raises her brow.
There is no twist of the Faun’s expression that would make those words true.
The collar snakes itself around her throat then — a thin and brassy snake. “A ring, worn by ᴉʇs uʍo ɾǝʍǝl,” the Princess mutters then, rote and shallow-in-her-breath.
It feels as if made of snowflakes, cold, and as if the weight could almost be forgot. The Princess rises; hand on one shoulder to keep her there. “You want to lǝɔʇnɹǝ ɯǝ, now?” she asks Esme, who does not stop looking at the Faun.
“I’ve never not qǝǝu yours, dear. The ˥oɹp Regent? Him, his schemes, ɐup ɥᴉs laws, can sod off. You pǝsǝɹʌǝ what’s best ɟoɹ you.” Esme shakes her gaze free, “But to ɟoᴉl ɥᴉɯ like this…
Mɥǝu will I see you ɔoɯǝ crying ʇo ɯǝ, because you’ve broken this ʇoʎ as well?”
“I ʍonlp ɹǝʌǝu—” the Princess almost answers; restrains herself, “You’re ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo speak to me lᴉʞǝ a child?” Her anxious pace melts the brace of her cold words.
“If you’re ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo ɐɔʇ like one, Little Florrie,” she’s told, and seems small.
Though there isn’t a crossness left in Esme now, as the Princess starts then chokes several sentences in her throat. “I have soɯǝʇɥᴉuƃ to fetch,” she decides on. “From ʇɥǝ other room.”
Afore Esme can follow, the Faun reaches out and roots retwine at their tips. The old handmaiden glances, into the next chamber, and back when the Princess doesn’t call for help — and waits, holds her stout, smiles at her sun-warmed. “Lass?” she asks.
“Raoghnailt,” Raoghnailt answers, her tongue rustling like a fallen leaf.
“I’m… Raoghnailt.”
---
(Masterpost) / (Next)
originally written on cohost 31/07/2024, in response to Making-up-Monsters' prompt:
Monster who just needs a few more minutes to dry out
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𝕺𝖓 𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕱𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘
Note: I wrote this years ago when I was thinking about the concept of lust and found it today. ʚ♡ɞ
Never forget that we,
Like kittens at their yarn, pursue.
And when you chased the fairies down,
The goblin kings and dwarven crowns,
By hyacinths and in brittle aspen’s highest bough,
Where reckless kittens after little moths pursue, pursue,
What did you want to do?
Simply to know, by trembling caress,
That finds its halting way or makes its sudden trespass,
Either way breathless until
The scent of honeyed morn on yonder hill
Or sweat that tastes like spice of foreign fears, labors and loves unknown in these tame parts,
Finds lungs that shudder, winglike, in your breast,
Drives them through sprouting shoulder blades, through cardiac arrest,
Endowed with the levitation of power,
And do you reach? You do not know yourself, you cannot guess,
It has you now, desire,
That freckle-starred and fair,
That hair like cotton candy sunrise spins,
Or lace confection veil of a mourning bride,
Silver, pastel, carnival prize to win,
Blonde, angelic, to be buried in.
What do you wish?
To keep a jar, possess and tint in cola colored washes,
To own, to keep and make stay, to have to hold, and by this holding, see?
To use, to break? To be
Swallowed in a cloud?
Buried, with another body as your shroud?
What do bodies want,
To cherishingly crush the fragile, squeeze the darkly adored
Into powder, strike them like a chord,
And into a lightning storm release,
Follow the butchered ghost into the blaze,
Frenzied, to feast?
To taste the fleshy candy, sugared meat,
Were they of pomegranate blood and hot fondue, or did they proffer you
Sweatmeats beyond compare,
Fresh chestnuts where
Hearts beat in margination of a caramelized desperation,
Or,
Abandoning all metaphor,
Did you wish to fuck nymphs, happily kidnapped,
Too gentle and pure for your insatiable greed to stain,
That turn instead your insides gold and hollow from the loin and rot the veins?
Or did you wish to pay with your own cum and your own name,
Make wild love to twisted, pulsing horns while forked tongue lapped your thighs and spat a salted flame?
Did you wish to be bound and stolen,
Abandon all remembering and enter a slumbering,
Where ten thousand days unfold as handmaiden,
Desperate, adoring slave, rose laden,
To be kept in crystal, bell jars and castles in the stars,
To flail against the bars,
And then be broken, marred,
Into a better shape, to be reborn?
To cook sumptuous feasts from glamour and the air,
In gilded cages, warm, waxy drops of amber, and paralysis of fairy kiss,
Beneath the soil, be preened and wed to kings in amber halls,
Bewitched, resisting, to unearthly bliss,
Nun to a peerless, brutal, Pagan creature-god of beauty awful to behold,
Our lord the devil in her harlequin and gold,
Or, by bacchanalia rhapsody of lithe and lively riverdanse macabre,
Know his catlike motion and her deftness with a moonlight woven knife,
Its sting,
To die, impaled on his maple lily wings,
To walk hand in hand with one you cannot understand, and then to understand
A vivid moral compass, spinning, spinning in the depths,
And yet always pointing true,
For it always points the way desired by you.
Didn’t you wish,
To know your own soul’s lavish price,
To know what things
Lie beyond man’s kingdom and be given these,
Be given to these?
What happiness
And misery exist
Beyond even what exists -
The evils that we can imagine if we wish to be
Happy
Flailing ever forward into deeper reaches of paradox fantasy,
Where love’s most bitter, lashing embers stir,
Never to return,
Ever to pursue...
Think: if you caught a fairy,
What did you want to do?
And did you want to catch him, did you want her to catch you?
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