#I know this has pretty much naught to do with writing with me

[movedtoferinehuntress]

[ Headcanon ] FAMILY ANCESTRY .

Caitlyn Kiramman by placement and visuals is stated to be a Piltovan 'through and through'. The irony of this is it's the furthest thing from the truth.

While Caitlyn has the title, the money, the status, and the placement nothing within her is Piltovan. Her family ancestry, while they were there during the establishment of Piltover, did not ever really fit into the piltovan standards.

Caitlyn's ancestry in a rough breakdown of percentages is seen as so -> 50% Ionian, 20% Piltovan, 20% Zaunite, and 10% Ixtali. Mixed with the Ionian and Zaunite ancestry is the Vastayan bloodline that is connected to her from both her mother's and father's side.

Tobias Kiramman is part of a bloodline that is pure Ionian. His small village he was a part of rarely had visitors from outside influences, but he met Cassandra when he was visiting one of the larger cities. Tobias's ancestry descends deep into the age of the Vastayashai’rei. His village was known to be home to Vastaya and Humans, but all the humans were gifted with magic. The Vastaya clan was that of Lhotlan when they used to be numerous and wild. It wasn't uncommon for Vastaya to mate with humans, interbreeding between the two that kept this cross of human/vastayan bloodlines.

Tobias is heavily influenced by his culture from Ionia and while he lives in Piltovan, and moved here when he married Cassandra, he does not forget the Ionian ways; including his worship, rituals, and prayers. While he is one of the most influential doctors in Piltover, it does not erase the culture of his past despite how Piltover has tried to assimilate him into the Piltovan way. Tobias provides the primary source of Ionian blood to Caitlyn and much of the vastayan traits she carries due to the Lhotlan bloodline. It's also why she can have the magical ability of empathy due to the natural magic that Vastaya carries.

His family was known as one of the guardian protectors, protecting one of the Guardian Trees in Ionia. Tobias’ family line had a spiritual site where they were deeply connected to a spirit tree, that brought life and water to the land. The people protected the tree and in turn, the tree blessed the line with magic. It allowed the people to connect to nature, bending it to their will and using it to continue to protect the tree. The effects of the magic turned the family line’s hair blue, all variations in connection to the guardian tree was affiliated with.

While Tobias does not have magic, the magic is still within his veins and it in turn, is in Caitlyn. This is why she carries the same genetic color of hair as her father, Blue, due to the connection to the spirit tree and why when the gemstone exploded, Caitlyn’s bloodline surged, like an activation key triggered bringing her empathic magical ability to the surface.

Cassandra is considered to be Piltovan by being born in Piltover, just as Caitlyn; however, the truth of the fact is that everyone in Piltover are not truly Piltovans. Piltover is a melting pot, a place created about three hundred years ago. They are the YOUNGEST civilization among all of Runeterra alongside their sister state, Zaun. This means that everyone who came to Piltover and Zaun are travelers from other locations. The Kiramman bloodline has had nine generations of families which brings mixed ancestry to Caitlyn's bloodline.

The earliest known ancestor in the Kiramman bloodline was named CHIDORI, the daughter of birds. Most Vastaya settled into the region of Zaun, and so Chidori, with her father and mother, settled into Zaun. This was before Zaun or Piltover was ever established, a beginning migration for the bird family to seek out a new home away from Ionia; a place they could call home. Chidori met another Vastaya and they gave birth to CHIZUKI, the daughter of the moon. Chizuki loved living with her parents and working in the mines but she wanted more: she wanted to see the sky, and the moon, and thrive in it. So with her and her mate, they decided to cross the strait of the ocean into the land of Piltover (before it was fully established as Piltover).

Chizuki was around when Piltover and Zaun were established and when relations were good between the two new towns. Piltover and Zaun worked together so it wasn't uncommon for the two people to interact and decide where they wanted to live. It was a blend of cultures before Piltover started to become more greedy and harsh upon Zaun.

CERISE was born to Chizuki, and this is when they settled into Piltover and took up a new name. Due to Chizuki being related to the darkness of the night moon, the beam of the moon's light, being a matriarchy family, and the knowledge and skill to give to humanity, Chizuki took up a last name.

Kiramman.

Kira comes from the root word "Mistress, Lady" along with "beam of light" and "black or darkness". Man is derived from the meaning "person" or "someone" as well as the root word for "hand". So this name Kiramman is meant to be several different concepts. "The light of man", "the darkness of the hand", "Lady Light", and "The Dark Mistress".

Cerise Kiramman, while pureblood Zaunite, was the first woman to become a part of the Piltovan culture and even mated with a Piltovan Vastaya who settled there. Cerise is also the one that set the path for the Kirammans to become the wealthiest, strongest, most powerful house in all of Piltover. Their daughter, CARA KIRAMMAN, was the first-born Piltovan daughter and the first heir to the councilor seat that Cerise was on (as she was one of the founders of the first councilors next to Heimerdinger). This is also after all conflicts began to emerge with Zaun and the sister-states became divided therefore, it was better to 'forget' about the Zaunite heritage despite Cerise being a full-blooded Zaunite. Even Heimerdinger encourages Cerise and Cara to put aside their past and that they need to move forward, progress, away from their savage side, and fully embrace who they are: Piltovans, the keepers of progress and creation.

Cara married an Ionian Man and gave birth to CALYPSO KIRAMMAN and then Calypso after marrying another Piltovan man, gave birth to Charlotte.

CHARLOTTE KIRAMMAN struck back against the concepts of Piltover vs Zaun when she fell in love with a Zaunite. She met him on the wharf of the ocean strait near the Bridge of Progress, and they had secret meetings back and forth. Without her mother's guidance (as Calypso died in childbirth), Charlotte saw no reason not to follow her heart. Despite all the ridicule and actions against Charlotte's behavior, she still married the man she fell in love with and they gave birth to Cora.

CORA KIRAMMAN was the beginning reign of prejudice against Zaunites in the Kiramman household. There was constant strife against Charlotte and her daughter, Cora, who was full of arrogance and a high-horse attitude. Cora refused to even acknowledge her zaunite father (despite looking and acting completely Piltovan, he still had his Zaunite animalistic behaviors). Cora hated Zaunites, hated the city, and hated her parents. The sociopath refuses to dare acknowledge any of them and feels no sadness when she murdered her mother because she wants her out of the way. Cora gave birth to Catherine, and she instilled the same prejudice and hatred of Zaun into her daughter; beginning this drive to erase their own Zaunite heritage and ensure that every Kiramman born would know their place as a Piltovan Heiress and ignore any sort of Behavioral actions that they may gain from their 'tainted ancestral bloodline'. After the birth of CATHERINE KIRAMMAN, Cora even set up an 'accidental death' for her Ixtali husband who was ruled a "suicide" (however Cora had murdered him herself, becoming a black widow of the Kiramman household). Out of anger for Cora (his own daughter) killing his wife and the bitter hatred between the two of them, Leto decided to do what should have been done years ago after the death of his wife. Cora would never go to prison and out of a desire for retribution and anger, he struck out and killed his daughter, because of her actions. In the end, they both died and it was ruled as an animal killing: once again trying to cover up and blame it on Zaun, when it was ultimately Cora's own undoing and what led to her demise.

Left alone with only her devices, Catherine took on this hatred for Zaunites, but not so extreme. Instead, it was simple to perceive Zaunites as not existing and to stay away from Zaun and its brutality. Catherine was so scarred and traumatized from her mother and grandparents' issues that she never truly came to grips with reality. She locked away much of their ancestral information, keeping it hidden from CASSANDRA KIRAMMAN. To ensure nothing like this ever happened again, Zaun must be left alone and they needed not to know they were once Zaunites themselves in their ancestral line. Catherine was a more quiet but firm hand, trying to teach Cassandra and instilling the same prejudices and dislike of Zaun, but more focusing Cassandra on the importance of the council and the rules. It was unfortunately a loveless parent-child relationship, Catherine was scarred after everything that had happened and had never had a chance to process any of it, so she never truly interacted or loved her daughter, only producing an heiress to carry on the council seat. It wasn't long after Cassandra turned twenty-one that Catherine died from a weak heart and came down sick during the winter.

This leaves the story as it was, with Cassandra, a stubborn yet caring woman, trying to take care of her mother who was withering away year by year from depression and anxiety. Cassandra had to take up the position as the leader of the household and became a Councillor when she was barely 18 years old because her mother could not handle it anymore. Cassandra had to grow up too fast, too soon, and too quickly due to her mother's mental deterioration. However, Cassandra took care of her mother, a loving daughter despite how loveless Catherine had been to her. Cassandra had to learn quickly to be stubborn and hardheaded, lock away her emotions, control her enjoyment of danger, and work for the betterment of their family. It's a promise she made to her Catherine, to protect the Kiramman household and ensure it didn't fall. Many of Cassandra's lessons are hard learned and self taught, due to having no direction from her own mother.

And this leads to the birth of CAITLYN KIRAMMAN and where things take off.

[arieslost]

hi love! hope you’re having a great day. could you write something where the reader is oscar sisters best friend? thanks for reading my message!

anon YES! i loved writing this.

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

best friend’s brother | op81

your best friend never told you that her older brother was off limits, but she never said he wasn’t, either.

that still didn’t stop you from catching feelings for him, and you’d rather die than go up to her and say, “hey, i’m in love with oscar, is it okay if we date?” mostly because now you know oscar wants you too, and to be honest, it’s kind of fun keeping it a secret.

you saw him about as much as his family did— most of the time he was away for work, but the next race was his home one, and he arrived a week early. you, of course, being his sister’s best friend, practically lived at the piastri house half the time, and ended up being there for his homecoming. the side hug he’d given you was expected, but the wink he sent your way when he started climbing the stairs to his room was not.

you replayed that moment over and over in your head for the rest of the day, until eventually you found yourself struggling to sleep and decided to go down to the kitchen for some water.

silently slipping out of the guest room, you were careful to tread lightly down the stairwell, avoiding all the creaky spots with practiced ease. you didn’t want to wake anyone up, most of all the object of all the thoughts that were keeping you awake.

though, all your effort was for naught when you saw that the overhead sink light was on in the kitchen, and none other than oscar himself was quietly getting ice out of the freezer. his hair looked unbelievably soft and slightly messy, like he was running his hands through it. he was wearing an older looking pair of gray joggers, and worst of all, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. you’ve seen him shirtless plenty of times, but one look was all it took to notice that he had most definitely filled out since you last saw him.

your mind was screaming at you to abort mission, abort mission, because you couldn’t be alone with him when he’s half naked like this, but when you shifted to make your retreat, you stepped on the wrong floorboard. it groaned obnoxiously loudly, and your eyes met oscar’s.

“can’t sleep?”

you shook your head. “uh-uh. figured i’d get a drink and see if that helps.”

“ah, we had the same idea then.” he smiled softly. “sit down, i’ll get it for you.”

“thanks, oz.” the childhood nickname slipped easily from your lips as you crossed the kitchen and lifted yourself up onto the counter nearest to him. “having a good season so far?”

“yeah, pretty good. good progression with the car, almost got a podium last race.”

“i know,” you said, looking down at your lap when he raised his eyebrows at you. “i watched.”

he hummed, handing you a glass and holding his own up. “cheers.”

you clinked your glass against his and took a sip before putting it to the side. “no teasing remarks?”

“nah, i think it’s cute.” he grinned, taking another drink and setting his own glass down. “my number one fangirl.”

“and there it is,” you rolled your eyes, though his quiet laughter was infectious and you couldn’t help joining in. “i’m your sister’s best friend, obviously i’m gonna watch.”

“and it has nothing to do with me?” he asked with a faux pout, flattening a palm right next to you on the counter so he could lean a bit closer.

“do you want it to?” you rested your hand inches away from his and closed the gap between the two of you a little.

“i think it already does.” his other hand slid between your thighs and forced them apart so he could move into the new space and effectively cage you to where you sat on the counter. “y’know, i almost kissed you in front of everyone earlier.”

“why didn’t you?” you whispered, eyes fluttering when his nose brushed yours.

“wanted it to happen when we were alone.” you could practically feel his lips against your own when he spoke, but you also really wanted him to make the first move.

running on the pure adrenaline stemming from your close proximity to the man you want more than anything in the world, you ran your palms over the back of his hands, up his forearms, past his biceps, and settled them on his bare shoulders. “oz…”

“yeah,” he replied, like he knew everything you were trying to say, before he finally closed the distance between you.

immediately, you knew you were addicted to kissing him. the way his mouth moved against yours, the way he wrapped your legs around his hips and held your knees to keep them there, the way he sighed when your fingers slid into his hair. you no longer wanted anything more than you wanted to keep kissing him even after all the breath left your lungs.

he took his time kissing you, keeping everything slow, soft, and gentle. there was no tongue, no teeth, no desperation. if either of you felt anything, it was relief.

finally.

it’s the first thing you said when you broke apart, causing him to smile before pulling you right back in. he kissed you again, and again, until your lips were swollen and you heard someone move around upstairs, breaking you out of your lovestruck trance.

“i’ll see you in the morning,” he whispered as you slid off the counter, reaching down and tangling your fingers with his and giving your hand a squeeze.

a squeeze that promises subtle glances across the table at breakfast, fleeting touches in the stairwell, and many more late night kisses.

word count: 957

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note: i got very creative with the title (not). i can’t believe i’ve never thought to write this before!!! omg this was so delicious.

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[just-some-random-blogger]

hey gorgeous! it's me! thank you so much for writing it! tbh, it's not what i expected but AGWHWHWG bc soft!daemon? i LOVE it!! such a cutie!! i still do need him to suffer more, though... what do you think about maybe a part 2? where he's the one who (finally) gets teased and gets the taste of his own medicine (reader flirting with HM ser stong?). so the demanded apology with tears on the knees (not nsfw) because this pretty prick deserves it :) again, thank u so much for writing it! sorry if it's too much, never wanted to make you uncomfortable! take care!

Since You Asked So Nicely

Daemon Targaryen x Reader + Harwin Strong x Reader

Summary: Your feud with your husband was about to meet a swift and strong end.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: mentions/descriptions of violence, daemon's still such a man, fem!reader, wife!reader, i love strong puns XD, married couple quarrels, harwin daddy, jealous!daemon, fluff, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: the title of this fic is my reaction to you nonnie. honestly i kinda felt both bad that my fic wasn't enough T_T LIKE PLEASE I TRIED then annoyed like HOW DARE YOU NOT LIKE IT THEN MAKE ME WRITE SMTH ELSE HADhASLHDA HAHAHAH nah but then you asked me so nicely so i thought ok fine i'll give it another wack i hope that i'll finally be enough for you T_T i guess our theme for today is petty 🥰 WIAT GURL THESE GIFS SIDE BY SIDE TOGETHER FUCK THAT SHIT IM DEAD BYE Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony Part 1 (which I think you should read) "It Takes Two"

We had not spoken since our struggle last night. In the flames of my anger, I woke up before him and made no effort to alert him of my errands or duties for the day. That of course, also meant, he was certainly riveting in annoyance and betrayal having woken up alone after pleading mercy to me until he and I both fell asleep.

In all his pride and morose wailing, still, he did not find it in himself to ask for pardon. He instead wasted his breath in trying to convince me he did it as a game, and that I should not have thought much of it, that he would happily get on his knees but for the exact opposite thing I truly want him to do.

And even now, the man is as insufferable as he can get. Since it seems it was nary clear that I did not enjoy the sight of him divulging his attentions to other ladies at court, he did, what? Yes of course, the very exact thing.

Each ear of his had a young lady giggling bashfully into it. I had gone a great many lengths to ignore it, but then it began to be unbearable when I finally noticed the lords and ladies turn from my husband to me, muttering and laughing under their breath.

Normally, I wouldn't even bat an eye over the opinions the pricks had of me or my husband. Here and now however, it was hard not to feel like a dunce, when I was the princess, yet I was standing alone, and my prince had ladies fawning over him left and right.

Enough.

I will not grant him the satisfaction of humiliating me any more than he has. I'm leaving.

Daemon watches, perking at the sight of the exit. He steps forward, away from the irritating voices, smirk falling, for it was never truly genuine in the first place.

His face hardens when there is an interception.

"My princess," a deep voice speaks, as a large man blocks me.

I lift my gaze and stop before we collide. Immediately, my spirits are lifted at the sight of the dark man's hair and beard, "Harwin."

His lips curve at the familiarity of my addressing.

"I thought you were off, doing gods-know-what again?"

Harwin chuckles, shaking his head, "the gods have allowed me to accomplish my tasks swiftly.

He raises a brow and places his hands behind him, "you're not leaving when the festivities have not even commenced yet, are you?"

I scoff, crossing my arms, "festivities are naught this eve, ser Strong."

"That is because," he steps forward, taking my hand slowly, "you and I have not yet shared a dance."

I roll my eyes at him, "you're a poor partner."

"And that is precisely why the festivities will commence."

I snort, smiling up at him, as he smiles back down. He takes my expression as wordless agreement. Harwin spins me once before leading me to the dancefloor. I chuckle at his theatrics. Poor he may be in dancing, he's always been good at making me smile.

I press slightly against him as his hand falls to my back, the other clutching my arm delicately.

"Tell me, Winne," I grip his firm shoulder as we glide with the music.

He snorts at my archaic pet name for him, rolling his eyes as he licks his teeth in amusement.

I am amused by his reaction, pleased to know that the name still held him tightly in annoyance, exactly like how it did when we were younger. I chuckle before deflating, "do men normally think it a game to toy with their wives' feelings?"

Harwin's amused expression fades. He grunts and spins me around, using the opportunity to eye Daemon, who was undoubtedly already looking at us.

When his eyes dart back to me, he purses his lips, "indeed this night is not at all festive to you, little doe."

I turn away from him, aimlessly looking at his collar to avert my glare elsewhere. He did not mean to trigger my anger, what he said was his pet name for me as children, but it had been since overshadowed by my husband's musing of the name; he called me his little doe in times he came to me as a predator and I appeared to him like prey.

My gut groans in annoyance.

Harwin notices my discomfort and does me the courtesy of changing the subject, "tis unfortunate for me to announce a tonne of men believe riling wives a thrilling sport."

I turn back to him; the darkness in my face melts when I catch the concern in his. I purse my lips tightly, pushing a stray curl away from his face, "and do you hold the same regard, Strong?"

"Hmm," he looks away to think, "my princess would be pleased to learn that as a child, I had a terrible playmate," Harwin turns back to me, raising his brows, "she was the most entitled little girl I ever met, was so viscous and strong."

I snort.

He mimics, "though perhaps not as strong as me. Still, I am aghast to ever think of crossing or treating a woman poorly, not even because I think it descent, but merely for I fear the rage of she."

I cannot help the fond smile that spreads on my lips. I tilt my head as we circle the room, continuing our movements, "I suppose it is the gods irony that the Strong boy fears a strong girl."

Harwin laughs, twirling me around once more. I break into a chuckle as he does so, a bit dizzy when he pulls me back close to him. I am heaving slightly when he pulls me close.

"I suppose it is, princess," he tilts his head.

In that moment, the song ends and each dance partner parts, clapping as they did, us included.

"Care for another dance, Winnie?" I ask, extending my hand to him.

"Actually," he leads me to the side, "I was wondering if you wanted a change of pace," Harwin brings us by a column, "I feel that, in all his pettiness, the prince has not yet told you that the flowers he requested for you have recently just been planted in the gardens."

"What?"

Harwin huffs, "I had the same reaction when I heard of it. Your husband is a fu-"

Instantaneously, I am pulled aside and a string of, what I knew to be High Valyrian curses, were muttered tightly. Daemon seethes, gripping me with his iron hand, "and what of her husband, Strong?"

Harwin is unfazed by the glare Daemon throws.

I wince at how rough his grip is on me, "unhand me!" I bark, shoving Daemon off me. He does not budge and tightens his grip further. It is clear to me Daemon is too blinded by his rage to realize he is hurting me.

It is because of this, Harwin finally steps in. He barks, yanking Daemon off me, stepping between us, "you're hurting your wife, prince!"

Of course the action only caused further injury to me, Daemon's nails grazed my skin, and yet I am thankful for Harwin's interception.

The vein on Daemon's neck flares as he presses forward, closer to his opponent, "you have no right to tell me what I do with my wife!"

The area of my arm that Daemon grabbed throbs in pain. Tears fog my eyes as I watch the two of them squabble.

"I have every right to protect the princess," Harwin flares, "especially from the likes of you."

"From the likes of me?!" Daemon narrows his eyes.

The crowd breaks into a shocked gasp when the prince lunges and grabs Harwin by the collar, muttering something in High Valyrian, then threatening, "I best kill you. Who the fuck do think you are to tell me anything, vermin?!"

"Daemon!" I quip, prying him off Harwin, "unhand him!"

"YOU KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE!" Daemon seethes, hands digging deeper into Harwin's clothing.

"KEEP YOUR ATTENTIONS ON HER THEN!" Harwin barks back, overpowering him, twisting Daemon's hands off him and shoving him away.

The next instant, the attentions of the entire room is upon us. I feel my blood pump as my head spins, unsure of what to do next. I still manage to act swiftly before anything else can happen.

I walk over to Harwin, calling out to him. "that's enough, please just-"

"Why are you going to hi-" Daemon starts, grabbing me again. He cuts himself back and recoils when I whine and draw back at the contact he makes at my sore arm, the arm he most definitely bruised.

I snap at him, throwing him a hot glare. He looks bewildered. He looks guilty. He doesn't even meet my eyes and instead is staring at my arm. I point a finger at him, "I'll deal with you later."

I turn back to Harwin, placing my hands on his chest, pushing him away, "go home, Winnie."

Daemon's head cocks, his lips twitches in an unpleasant manner, "Winnie?"

Harwin gently takes my arm, leaning in, "he hurt you."

I feel tears prick at the corner of my eyes. I fight them off as I whimper, "please, just go."

Harwin brushes his calloused hand on my injured arm before walking back and storming off.

When I turn back to Daemon, he is looking at me with a stoic expression. I grit my teeth and grab him, dragging him away with me as we leave this damned hall.

I take him all the way to our shared chambers, but I stop just outside the door. I finally release him and begin to berate him, "are you satisfied?"

Daemon stiffens at the sound of my shrill voice.

I heave, "not only did you ruin my night, you ruined everyone else's!"

His eyes evade me. His lips part when he sees my arm. He reaches out to me and I recoil, "don't you dare fucking touch me."

"I didn't mean-"

"YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO DO ANYTHING BUT YOU STILL DID THEM!" I scream. I poke his chest in anger, "you claim it's all a game to you, and yet you're the only one that ever enjoys it!"

"It's all that cunt, St-"

"IT'S YOU, DAEMON!" I flare, "It's always you!"

Daemon's face contorts. His breath hitches. He walks closer, "my love, please-"

"You hurt me, Daemon!" I word carefully, wanting it to finally get through his thick skull, "not just tonight, but for the past weeks!"

He calls out my name but I raise a hand to silence him.

"You're either sleeping on the floor or sleeping elsewhere."

He gulps, ready to plead his case again. I cut him off before he can even open his mouth.

"Speak a word in protest over my generosity and I will chose a far crueler fate for you," I coldly spit, walking toward the door, pushing it open. I look over my shoulder as I walk in the room, "what's it going to be, prince?"

Daemon cringes at the call, brows tightening along with his fists. He deflates and mutters under his breath, "floor."

I turn to him, eyes narrowing, "you were so loud a while ago, where did your fire go, dragon?"

"Floor," he utters walking in the room, stopping once he is in front of me. Daemon's expression is grave as he mutters again, "I'd much rather sleep on the floor, wife."

I pull away from him before he can even attempt to touch me. I walk towards our bed, grabbing a pillow, haphazardly throwing over to him. I glare darkly, "if you are cold, sleep by the fire, dragon."

Daemon calls out my name, wanting to begin his pleas again, but then he stiffens when he watches me walk toward the door, "where are you going?"

I scoff, "how cruel of you to think I'd sleep with a throbbing arm."

"I'll come-"

I turn to him, tears finally running down my cheeks. Daemon freezes in his spot. I huff, looking away from him, "do not show your face to me until I've calmed."

Daemon frowns.

"I mean it."

At last, he finally has the brain to no longer push the matter further.

[korkorali]

Oooooohhhh are we talking about Bradford telling Della about the Spear of Selene? I think we're talking about Bradford telling Della about the Spear of Selene!

Okay okay this is something I have Ideas™️about- specifically why he told her, and why she believed him.

The answer (as I have so humbly decided is obviously the abject truth) is the same for both: Because he'd been manipulating her for years.

He was trying to be the Emperor Palpatine to her Anakin Skywalker.

Why? Simple: The Papyrus of Truth.

Think about it- it doesn't make sense to immediately go 'oh, only Scrooge McDuck's heir can find the Papyrus? Welp, time to steal some of his DNA and make a kid!' That's supervillain territory, and Bradford isn't a supervillain! (He's just a bit of a scumbag, but that's not a supervillain so it's obviously fine.)

So picture this: he finds out about the wish Scrooge made on the Papyrus, that only his heir could find it, and his thought patterns line up with Scrooge's:

He thinks "Alright, then it has to be one of those rugrats."

The question is, which one? Della, or Donald?

And honestly, when they're both kids- it's not really that much of a question, is it?

Is it Donald, the angry coward who loves to hole up in his room and write songs about eating the rich and basically doing everything that Scrooge hates?

Or is it Della, the adventurous and energetic ball of high-octane excitement and adrenaline, unable to sit still for a single moment, who acts like Scrooge McDuck, who likes all the same things as Scrooge McDuck, who is pretty much every single thing that Bradford Buzzard hates about Scrooge McDuck, all rolled up into a bratty child?

(Nevermind the fact that she isn't actually like that, not entirely. Nevermind the fact that she's doing all that because she feels she has to be useful, to be likeable, and that means mirroring Scrooge McDuck because if he likes himself so much then he must like seeing himself in her.)

Obviously it's Della. It has to be.

Which means, in order for him to get the Papyrus, he needed to get his claws into Della.

Which shouldn't have been hard- you can't tell me that Scrooge wouldn't do the same thing with Donald and Della that he did with Louie. He'd take them to the Money Bin (after all, it's like a second home for him), then head into his office and tell them not to disturb him.

And that'd leave Della in the perfect position for Bradford to begin to wheedle his ways past her defenses.

(Of course, multiple problems arise, not the least of which is she's a child and Bradford undoubtedly hates children. But moreso it's that she's genre-savvy, and also (and we love her for it, but) kind of dumb. It's a very frustrating mix that leads to her very nearly calling him out on what he's doing a lot.

But also, despite all that- she's still a kid.

And despite how much she thinks she knows, he's still better.)

It'd take a while, and I don't think he ever really manages it, but he still gets her to trust him.

Eventually, of course, he learns that Della isn't the 'heir of Scrooge McDuck.'

(Not sure how this happens, but it obviously does- I'm sure that lots of the Adventure Trio's adventures in the earlier days were spent searching for that missing Papyrus, but for some reason they stopped. The whole thing threatened to tear Donald and Della apart, or something.)

And that makes all the work he spent on her useless. All the time spent manipulating her, and trying (and -mostly- failing) to get her to be something he wanted, to push her to break up her family, all for naught.

Or- maybe not.

Because Scrooge keeps a secret. He makes her a spaceship. An untested, unreliable, terrible spaceship that literally runs on money.

It's horrible.

It's a waste.

It's perfect.

All the work doesn't have to be for naught. All Bradford has to do is let Della come to him one day, when she's at the Money Bin (probably because she and Donald and Scrooge were going shopping for baby toys, and she kept trying to get these really dangerous and deadly-looking ones, and ultimately got sent to the Money Bin as a bit of a 'time out'), let her rant and burn herself out to him about how frustrating Donald and Scrooge are being, how unfair they are (how scared she is, how much she just wishes they'd let her actually handle some stuff, how bad they make her feel for still wanting to adventure at a time like this, how much it feels like all either of them care about anymore are the kids and not her), how much it blows to be stuck like this.

And all Bradford has to do is offer up some half-hearted consolement, assure her that (while Donald is definitely being too overprotective) that of course Scrooge still cares about her, is still thinking about her, is still thinking about her, after all he's making her the-

And then cut himself off, like he said too much. That's aaaaallll that's needed to peak Della's interest, after all. And as soon as that's peaked- it's over.

All he has to do is hem and haw back and forth, say 'oh but he made me promise never to say anything' and 'I could get in trouble' and so on and so forth. Make it seem like he didn't want to say anything. Make Della feel like she earned the information, that he didn't plan this from the start.

And when she finally gets the information about the Spear out of him, and her eyes light up like stars and she darts off to go see if he was telling the truth, he can be confident that she'll never remember that he was the one who told her about it. All she'd be able to think about is 'I figured it out.' Because she had, after all. She'd figured it out, all her, he definitely hadn't pointed her in that direction at all.

He got to get rid of a liability and break the family, all in one fell swoop.

[recurring-polynya]

Idk if you’ve answered this question (sorry if you have) before, but how do you think Renji & Rukia first met ? What do you think their life was like originally before Soul Society ?

Pardon me if I'm reading this wrong, but...Rukia and Renji's first meeting is enshrined pretty thoroughly in canon? She rescued him from a water heist that was about to turn disastrous.

This is from Chapter 98/Episode 32: A Star and a Stray Dog, which is the first place you should be looking if you're interested in pre-canon Renruki lore.

As to the second part of your question...you mean before they died? What sort of lives did they have in the World of the Living?

I'm gonna pontificate, so I'll throw that under a cut

First off, I am fascinated with the fact that Kubo gives us nothing about what anyone's living life was like. On one hand, I would like to know everyone's pre-history, but on the other, I'm glad he didn't, like as a literary choice. The slate is supposed to be wiped clean. It doesn't matter. It's maddening, but also correct.

It's also one of those places that is just ✨fanfic free real estate✨ in terms of I think everyone should make up their own version for their blorbos, so of course I have them for Renji and Rukia. I have absolutely nothing to support these, they are just what I felt in my heart.

I have actually talked about Renji's beforedeath quite a bit, here and there in various fanfics, usual under the conceit that, particularly in their Inuzuri days, he would sometimes blurt out some half-remembered thing and then promptly forget it again. Here an excerpt from Chapter 3 of go places:

It’s an Alive Memory, Rukia is nearly certain. Most souls get them. All the boys did, from time to time. To Renji, it’s just brain dust. Whatever it is in Soul Society that makes people forget their lives also makes this memory detritus slippery to hold onto. Renji won’t think of this later, or attach any importance to this conversation. The funny thing is, after ten years of watching him stumble through these moments, Rukia probably has a better idea of what Renji’s life was like than he does. He lived on a farm of some sort. A small one, or at least his family grew a lot of their own food. He died of a fever. Nearly all of his Alive Memories involve his mother. Rukia is almost positive that Renji’s mother is the one who taught him to write. The sewing scissors were likely hers. In Rukia’s imagination, Renji’s mother is very tall and beautiful and kind. Rukia doesn’t need to use her imagination to know that Renji loved his mother very much.

Just to offer a little more detail--doing the math out, where Bleach starts in the early 00s, Rukia and Renji have been separated for 40 years and knew each other for 10 years before that, it would make a lot of sense for both of them to have died in WWII. However, I like to think that time is very wobbly, especially in the outer Rukon, so I like to make their deaths a little earlier-- specifically, I think that Renji died in the 1918 flu pandemic, which may have contributed to getting a plague spirit for a zanpakutou. That being said, my general vibe for his childhood is based on Kanta, the neighbor kid from My Neighbor Totoro, which takes place in the 50s. In any case, he had a pretty small and unremarkable life in rural Japan, aside from the fact that he was loved very much, which will never be unremarkable, no matter how common it may be.

I have written less about Rukia's beforedeath, mostly because she was too young when she died to have any phantom memories. [Note: I know there are some theories out there, based on some arcane clues that Kubo has dropped that Rukia may not actually be a normal soul and may be related to Hell. That's...fine. While I'm never going to say no to a storyline that centers Rukia, I really do hope that it comes to naught. Ichigo has enough Crazy Origin going on and I like the Rukia's backstory the way it is, so I'm just going to ignore all of that for the sake of this post]. Ahem! So, infant death is not anything surprising, or even really interesting, but what makes Rukia's kind of compelling is the fact that her much-older sister died at the same time. To me, this indicates either a natural disaster or a death-by-violence.

As I said above, there are infinity ways you can go with this, but to me, there were two important things I wanted to capture 1) given Renji's descriptions of Rukia having an inherent grace and nobility, and the idea that something about Hisana caught Byakuya's eye, I thought that maybe they should have been noble, and 2) I wanted them to live by the sea. I do not actually remember how I landed on this, but in the 1850s, a bunch of sea fortresses were constructed to protect Japan by attack from sea (see here for more detail). This was the tail end of the Edo period and I liked the idea that maybe Rukia came from an old samurai family, and her father was sent to oversee one of these coastal forts. Did they die in a bombardment? A bad storm? The Kanto earthquake? I never got that far. I'm not even sure if this is a realistic scenario, if they had civilians living there, etc, this was just a half-thought-out thing I came up with for a bonus chapter of a fanfic that someone requested once. The one other detail from that that I came up with and stand by is that I think there were more siblings in their family between Hisana and Rukia. I also like that this idea that makes Rukia somewhat older than Renji, even though the math is impossible and the points are made up anyway.

[ishgard]

dog - for the single word drabble prompt!

"A drabble is 100 words, a drabble is a hundred words" I chant to myself as I go over 500.

Thank you so much though!! As soon as I saw it I knew exactly what old scene to finally write that's been in my head since grinding Holminster Switch and getting the Black Hayate. 😂

"Can't imagine why you'd want to come back here already." Ardbert's voice emerged from the silence, a frown etched into his features as he surveyed the smoldering ruins of Holminster Switch. It was a town of ghosts now, naught but a few embers still glistening under the blanket of night. 

She can never quite know when her favorite ghost is going to chime in, but it is a surprise tonight. 

"I'm not sure, either." She replied, nudging over a broken piece of fence before continuing along the winding road. "There's so little civilization left here, I suppose I just..." Lips pursed, her brow furrowed as her gaze swept over the wreckage. "Wanted to get an idea of what it was like. Without all the fighting and screaming." 

Ardbert said nothing, but his silence was so heavy it could have been worth a thousand words. 

What broke the silence was not either of their voices but instead a tiny, distinct whimpering. Frowning, Ahru’s hand went for the hilt of her rapier, gaze scanning around her. 

“…Do sineaters typically make sounds like that?” She asked in a whisper. 

“Far be it from me to assume they couldn’t… But not any that I’m aware of.” 

The sound came again, this time accompanied by the shifting of shadows from beneath one of the half-toppled buildings. Her fingers gripped the handle as her eyes made out the form of-

Oh. A dog. A puppy, to be exact; black and white with the cutest ears and -less cute- a limp in its front paw. It gave a pathetic little wag of it’s tail, clearly exhausted but happy to see people. 

“Aww, you poor thing!” Ahru cooed, taking only a few steps forward before crouching down with her hands held out - she didn’t want to scare it. “Come here, sweetie.”

It’s tail wagged again and it limped forward, sniffing at her fingertips and licking them feebly. Grabbing some dried meat from her satchel she held it out to him and he ate it up eagerly, visibly perking up. 

“Can’t believe the little guy survived all that.” Ardbert mused, crouching down beside her. As calm and stoic as he acted, she was pretty sure from the smile on his face and the glint in his eye he very much wanted to scoop the creature up and give it a good thorough petting.

“You must be pretty clever, huh?” She asked to a response of eager yips. After a testing scratch behind his ears, she gingerly touched her hand to his injured leg, infusing it with healing magicks. Fortunately the wound wasn’t too bad, and within seconds he was bouncing around, yipping and wagging his tail like wild, licking at her hands. 

“Doesn’t look like he has a collar…”Ardbert murmured, clearly far more interested than she imagined he’d ever admit to. “He’ll need a name.”

Just as amusing was the fact they were, despite saying nothing of it, on the same page. Evidently being a Warrior of Light also indicated a habit of picking up strays, at least where they were concerned. Laughing she gave the dog ‘a good thorough petting’, before plucking him up into her arms. 

“I’ve got it. I’ll call you Ardbert!”

“What?”

The pup yipped and howled, wiggling in her arms as its tail practically spun in happy circles. 

“See? He likes it!”

[littlecactiguy]

Aziraphale, Crowley, Herschel of Ostropol, Chanukah, and a story...

Sooo there's no way I can think of (and I have been thinking on this a lot) that this post isn't going to be a little bit awkward, but it's going to exist anyway.

A year ago, in 2022, I saw this post from 2021 by @anonymousdandelion on Aziraphale and Crowley meeting Herschel of Ostropol (protagonist of Herschel and the Hanukkah Goblins, a Jewish children's book, as well as a Jewish folkloric figure).

Then, a) being Jewish and Herschel and the Hanukkah Goblins being a fondly remembered book from my childhood, b) someone who enjoys Good Omens, c) also a fic writer and, d) the idea being adoptable, I started to write a story.

(and okay, it's taken me roughly a year to give it a solid shape (long story short that's less to do with the story itself and more to do with me figuring some things out about what and who I want to write for, but I digress), but the fic itself very much exists now.)

I planned to have the full Chapter 1 done in time for Chanukah this year. Due to life in general being pretty chaotic, that hasn't happened. Instead, under the read more is a preview (the first scene of chapter 1), because I still wanted to post some part of it for the holiday.

Some Fic Notes:

-This story is, arguably, two stories intertwined. One that takes place in the 'present day' (though before the Apocalypse, etc.), and one that takes place during the Herschel story.

-It will largely follow the perspective of and by driven by OCs. Though, Aziraphale and Crowley will have a strong presence and influence, it didn't feel like it was their story to tell.

-It is written with two base structural rules in mind;

Aziraphale and Crowley had a hand in the stories of Herschel of Ostropol being remembered. The original kernel this fic was built around and expanded from was answering the question of how that happens.

There can be absolutely no interference in Herschel's story happening in the synagogue (i.e. the narrative of the children's book cannot be altered). Though, that doesn't necessarily mean Herschel is prevented from appearing in the story ;)

Story Preview Beneath The Cut

Generally speaking, the old bookshop is almost always closed.

If one, however, is in ownership of a decent set of lock picks, they may find it otherwise.

For what it’s worth, Tziporah (Tzi to her close friends, Nora to most everyone else at school, and young lady to almost all adults—including her parents, Bubbie, aunties and uncles, and the odd, inconvenient passerby—all who’ve caught her getting into trouble), most of the time, does her best to not use her lock picks. It’s just…it’s…

It’s like this, alright?

Tzi was born into a family with a long, long, long tradition of bookbinding. The kind that historians sometimes visit to ask stuffy questions about. The kind that causes librarians to visit requesting restorations of aging tomes. The kind that means their home has a dedicated workshop full of fairly ancient machinery that no one outside of the family knows how to use. Of course, there are other bookbinders in the world who would certainly recognize and understand the functionality of the more modern pieces of equipment Tzi’s family has. They just won’t recognize all of what they use. Not the Family bits.

The point being, when you grow up in such a setting, you tend to learn certain things. The store names and locations of almost every bookshop dealing in antique or rare books fairly close by, for instance. Also, a lot of the owners become familiar faces (or have been since before Tzi could remember). As the future of the Family Tradition, it’s only natural that she should accompany whomever is doing the deliveries or house calls regularly.

Thus, when you have this knowledge and you can be an Extremely Trustworthy Child (sure, Tzi may cause trouble regularly, but some things (like books, it’s books) are far too precious not to be Extremely Careful about), you’re, more often than naught, allowed to explore such bookshops, and read to your heart’s content.

And if you’re Tzi and you’re allowed to come along on a visit to The Bookshop That You’re Family Rarely Does Business With Because Their Books Are Almost Always In Unexplainable, Impeccable Condition, you’re going to want to read something (and you inevitably will).

The problem of course becomes, if you happen to be Tzi, and your mother, or father or whomever finishes up the Official Business rather quickly, you don’t have enough time to finish whatever it is you’re reading. And it being The Bookshop That You’re Family Rarely Does Business With Because Their Books Are Almost Always In Unexplainable, Impeccable Condition, you know you probably won’t have the opportunity to come back. At least not on an official bookbinding-related visit. Not for a Long While.

First, you’ll try coming back during regular business hours, as you have for many a bookshop previously.

Except, this bookshop doesn’t seem to have regular business hours.

So, given the story you were reading has been buzzing around your head for days, you come up with an alternate method.

Tzi isn’t going to take anything of course! She’s going to be extremely careful. She just wants to finish the story.

No one will ever know she was even there!

Except the giant snake waiting for her on the other side of the door.

If Tzi didn’t regularly inhabit spaces full of delicate books in need of repair or the equally delicate tools used to repair them, she would have jumped. As it stands, she finagles the lock open, slips in through the door quietly, turns around to the face the bookshop proper, and and a yelp almost escapes her lips. The snake, black as ink and with scales bigger than Tzi’s thumb, regards her coolly with brilliant golden eyes. She stares back, hyperventilating at first, but as the seconds pass and nothing happens, her breathing evens out.

“You aren’t going to eat me, are you?” Tzi asks the snake.

The snake’s tongue flicks out and back. It doesn’t say anything, or stop gazing at her for that matter.

Tzi studies the snake with more scrutiny. “I don’t suppose you could. I mean, of course I know snakes can unhinge their jaws and all, but even if you did, you look like you aren’t big enough to fit more than my arm in your mouth, and then what would you do? You’d be stuck hanging off my shoulder.”

There’s a long beat where it seems they’re both considering this possibility (in truth, only Tzi is, in a ‘walking into school with a giant snake hanging off my arm would be really cool’ kind of way. The giant snake, for what it’s worth, is feeling mildly insulted by the implication that he’d try to eat her).

“Well,” Tzi finally says. “I did plan for this.”

Technically speaking, she only sort of planned for this. Tzi had been skeptical of the rumored sightings of a (pet?) snake in this particular bookshop when she first heard them. More so after she visited for the first time and no such snake could be located. Regardless, when One Is Determined To Finish The Book She Was Reading, One Has To Prepare For As Many Possibilities As Possible. So, Tzi had hardboiled a few eggs (because an article she read once said snakes like to eat eggs) and put them in a tupperware and put that tupperware in her bag before she left home an hour ago.

Tzi takes the egg tupperware out of her bag now and shows it to the snake. “Would you like one? They’re tastier than me, I promise.”

The snake turns its head slightly down to look at the eggs in their unassuming plastic container, and then turns back to gaze at Tzi again.

It’s at this moment that Tzi remembers the article she’d read had been about foxes, not snakes, and that she may have just insulted this particular snake (since snakes lay eggs, right? Tzi is fairly certain of that fact, but all snake facts she knows seem to have taken her seeking them as an impromptu game of Hide and Seek in her mind and they are hiding Very Well).

Tzi gulps (and briefly considers pretending one of the eggs is a stone and crushing it as a show of strength to intimidate the snake, but he can clearly see they’re eggs so that probably won’t work).

In the end, Tzi’s desire to just find the book she wants to read already, reinforced by the snake not doing much beyond staring at the eggs, wins out.

(For what it’s worth, when the snake in question has confronted intruders into the bookstore in the past, the intruders have usually taken more aggressive approaches to him. Eggs in a plastic container gifted by a girl who clearly isn’t going to run screaming at the sight of him is certainly New, and he’s not going to be given enough time to fully figure out how to respond).

Tzi places the egg tupperware down on the floor in front of the snake and snaps off the lid. “Sooo…” She draws the word out. “I’m going to go read.” She tentatively sidesteps away from the snake. When he doesn’t react, she goes to hurry off, stops herself, turns back, takes a deep breath, and “You’rewelcometojoinmeifyoulike!” tumbles from her mouth.

Without waiting for a response, Tzi darts through the chaotically organized bookshelves of the shop until she finds the one holding the book she’s after. Gingerly she plucks it off its shelf and, after memorizing its place so she can return it to exactly there, sets off for a comfortable place to sit and read.

All the while, the snake slithers after her.

After a couple minutes of fruitlessly trying to find a seat, the snake bumps its snout into Tzi’s shoulder and, when she looks at it, points her in the direction of a comfy-looking armchair that, hidden in the shadows as it is, previously escaped her notice.

Once settled, Tzi gently opens the book, finds the place she left off, and begins to read.

It’s well into the evening, after the traveler who called himself Herschel had gone up to the old synagogue, that two more visitors arrived in our small town…

[nikethestatue]

Listen do you think someone is trying to fuck with SJM because she pissed someone off at Bloomsbury? Idk but her reputation at workplace is horrible and looking at how Bloomsbury has handled the HOFAS release... idek what to think anymore. She's the biggest name rn so her book getting uploaded on the internet for hours by an account that seems to have been made for this task alone and then BB promoting ACOTAR more than the latest release doesn't make any sense. And does hee editor even do their job? Do they hate her? I've a feeling that the first draft was better. It's just all so sus to me. I mean I could be thinking too much but with the TV show getting cancelled and her writing quality deteriorating, things aren't looking very good for Janet.

I dont know, but I think she is sabotaging herself pretty well.

She basically dumped her writing to go and work on this show, where she spent almost 2 years and it came to naught and she didnt bother with her fandom at all, not even so much as to hire a Social Media manager to keep engagement.

She is utterly silent for YEARS, she gives PAID interviews where people supposedly can ask questions which she then ignores.

Her overall reputation is that she is impossible to work with, doesn't take any criticism, everyone who was working with her on the show complained and said that she argued about every line. Her editors are non existent and quality of her books has been sliding.

If it werent for the stupid Gwynriels who kept that shit up for 3 years, praising that trainwreck of a book which is ACOSF, maybe things would've been different. But they've been screaming on every platform about Gwyn and Az, and it created unwarranted interest in the series and her writing, which obviously went into everyone's heads. Whereas the same Gwynriels havent even bothered with any of her previous books and are obsessing over a bonus.

The whole thing is just a mess, but I dont think that BB needs to do anything to sabotage her.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @half-life-citizen For the secret swap. I hope you enjoy this, it was a lot of fun to write! Memoirs of a Surface Traveller Unnamed Tomb Colonist character, Teen(?) rating, 1509 words. Slight warnings for violence and body horror, but both are pretty mild.

I was someone. Please, if nothing else, believe me: I was someone. Down here, my titles are useless, my wealth has been squandered and stolen, and even my finery is naught more than rags. To look at me, you could hardly tell where my clothes end and the bandages begin. Why did I ever come to this forsaken underground place? What good would it ever have brought me aside from a moment’s amusement at the novelty of this damp, dark city that England once loved? If only I had known. If only I had known. There is a sensation, a soft fluttering, in my chest as I try to find my words. I fear it is not as metaphorical as I would hope. I fear I may not have much time. And that is why I must write. I think I intended it as a holiday, which is the ironic part. I had heard such wonders. I thought, at least if they were exaggerated, I could still come back home to my life and my love and be able to brag about what I had seen. Tell everyone I knew tales of how I descended into the depths of the earth like a modern Orpheus, and came back out of this underworld singing.

I don’t think I can remember the last time I sang. The Cumean Canal was beautiful, but as it closed behind us, I remember a stab of anxiety lancing through my heart. I should have listened to it. I should have stayed upon that d__n boat and let it take me home. Hindsight is always so clear. It’s a bitter thing to realise. I was my own Cassandra, and I was doomed to not heed my warnings. London seemed so much smaller than it had been in the stories, from the time before it fell. It was darker than I’d expected. I’d known it was underground, of course, so far from sunlight or any other illumination, but I remember it still taking me aback. I felt like if I closed my eyes then I’d just cease to exist, cast adrift into an endless black void. You can likely guess that I tried to stick to the best lit streets, just in case.

I had so many plans. So many things to experience down here. I wanted to taste mushroom wine and sample prisoner’s honey, visit the carnival and the theatre, and so much more. I wanted to try things that no one else I knew ever had, and wear that like a badge of honour. Anyone could visit far off and exotic places on the surface, but visiting London was almost unheard of since its disappearance. I craved that novelty like nothing else. I suppose, in a horrific twist of fate, I did experience a novelty here beyond anything my friends could ever fathom. I died, and then I came back to tell the tale. I think I had just passed from Covent Garden Veilgarden into Spitalfields M Spite when I felt that unseen blade pierce my heart, tearing through my upper body, and then everything went black. My ribs ache just thinking about it. I don’t want to think about the possibility of that being something else, causing that ache. Maybe I should write faster, but I can’t risk this running into illegibility. I need to make sure my story is known.

I really thought that was it, that I was done for. That’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it? You die, and then what happens next is generally up for debate, but I have never once heard “you come back to your own body” as an option being argued. I might have fainted when I saw the Boatman, or screamed. Death was a bit of a blur for me in all honesty. I think I remember playing chess, but surely that’s incorrect. What I do remember was waking up in my own skin, back aching and a sense of loss taut in my chest. I had been moved out of the street by some good samaritan or another, but the news they broke to me made me wish I had never come back to life. Did you know that if you die in this cavern, sunlight becomes as deadly as cyanide to you? I’m sure you know that, my dear reader, but it was news to me at the time. I didn’t pretend to understand why or how, I just knew what it meant: I could never go home again. What had been intended to be a few days’ vacation had become a life sentence. I had fashioned myself as Orpheus, in this tale. I hadn’t known I was to be doomed as Eurydice. I still don’t know who killed me. I can only guess at the motive. I suppose I seemed an easy mark, with my fine clothes and sun kissed complexion. I suppose when you’ve lived in a damp cave that you can’t even properly die in for your whole life, stabbing someone so you can rob them in peace hardly seems like the worst thing you can do. Sometimes, on melancholy days, I wonder if they ever realised how much more they took from me that day than just money. It’s been many years since then. Some days I think I’ve forgiven them. Other days I think if I ever saw them, and knew for certain it was them, I would kill them with my bare hands. Most days I just hope they thought it was worth it, because then at least one of us could be pleased with that day. Anger takes energy I simply don’t have anymore. It’s been too long, and I am so tired.

Dust flakes from my hand and wrist as I write, try as I might to keep myself whole. Whatever it is that has made a home inside of me seems restless. I am afraid. I must keep my pen to paper if I am to have any hope. But yes, that was the first thing they told me: that I could never return to the surface. The second thing that they told me was of a place to the north, although they didn’t say it with the same strange weight I sometimes hear. A place for other people who had died, and didn’t find London as welcoming anymore. They said it as if it was just another holiday, but I could see the distaste behind their expressions. They worded it like it was my choice, but I know a platitude when I hear one. I had come back to life, yes, but I was still too dead for the truly living to tolerate. Either I would come to this place with my dignity still intact, or I would be treated less than human until I broke down and came here anyway.

My pride is quite dear to me, and was the only thing I truly had left as far as I could see. I took a steamer across the s zee to the port of Venderbight, and I’ve lived here ever since. Even now, after all these decades, I still struggle to think of it as home. I miss the sun. I miss real wine, and the influence I held, and I miss the people I once knew. Above all else, I miss when death was simple. Man was not made to come back from such a thing, and I fear this disrespect for the laws of existence may have brought about some new horror. The fluttering in my chest has progressed into a frantic scraping, and I shudder to feel it. I do not know what is happening. I fear that, in a horrible instance of dramatic irony, I will not survive whatever it is. Please, you must understand. I was important, once. I was wealthy, and powerful, and I donated to the poor and helped the sick and I was a good person, I was good, what have I done to deserve this? Oh G-d. Oh dear G-d. Please, I don’t want to die. I’ve changed my mind, I’m happy to have come back, really! It was a gift and I should have been more grateful because

Oh G-d I’m not ready. Please. I can feel my chest cracking apart like the spine of a book and it hurts and please, please remember me, please hear me, I was a person I was alive I was someone I was someone I was so _______ (You flip the paper over, searching for a date, or a name, or anything identifiable, and come up empty. There is no way of telling who wrote this memoir, or any way of finding it out. There is nothing at all to denote its author aside from a scattering of dust, flecked with shed scales from a moth’s wings.) (The story will be remembered, as all stories are, but no one will ever know whose story it was.) (Perhaps it will be enough, or perhaps not.)

[cheese-water]

Alright, @ranboolivesaysstuff, you asked for criticism of Genloss, so here it is. This was my personal biggest flaw with how the story was written, plus it was a fun writing exercise. Feel free to discuss in notes why I’m right or wrong. It makes me very happy. :D

Do you know what would have, for lack of a better phrase, royally sucked? If we had gotten the "live" ending.

I mean, sure, being dragged away kicking and screaming while being brainwashed is indeed horrifying. But for the conclusion? Compared to the ending we got? I’m just going to say it—it’s the box. The most important (and expensive) part of Generation Loss was only used because of 3000 people. WHAT?!?

How lackluster would that conclusion be? We would lose the disturbing imagery of the crucifixion as the credits silently rolled, but also all of the subtle allusions and foreshadowing months beforehand that Showfall planned for the broadcast? ALL FOR NAUGHT? Ranboo, it should only be your character that wasted their time and effort for an ending that was just out of reach, NOT YOU TOO! So many people adore the ending of episode three, regardless of how they voted at the time. That really says something. But after the true "live" ending was revealed, I’d bet the poll would have a much larger split than 55/45, which, like, defeats the purpose of a moral dilemma if one of the options is objectively cooler than the other.

"But Cheese, why are you complaining about an ending we didn’t even get? Isn’t that pretty pointless?" Trust me, I hear you loud and clear. And to that, I say "no." We were pretty damn close to choosing "live." 55% is not a majority ruling. If the poll ended a minute earlier, we’d all be singing a different tune. Also, even though Ranboo has discussed exploring different media for future generations, it’s likely we’ll see another live experience from them. And if he keeps assuming the audience will choose the best or morally correct choice every time, disaster is bound to happen.

So, how do we make it better? I'm not saying you need make a completely new ending, Ranboo. No, no, no. You already have your ending. You’ve said that you really wanted that box closed on your head, so we're making it happen no matter what we choose. It's just way too cool and integral to the show to cut out. What changes is what Hetch says in response to the choice: "The audience has voted for you to LIVE! We will see you soon~" Ranboo screams out "NO—" and is cut off by the box. Maybe a more aggressive reaction from your limbs as they slowly fall to a still as the credits begin to roll.

There. The box has been shut. Round of applause lmao. Not only do we keep the Jesus imagery, but this hypothetical ending also has interesting lore implications. Cast members have been revived before, including Ranboo himself, so the death isn't jarring to the audience. The parallels between the box head and the TV screens in the background are greatly strengthened. The juxtaposition of the "die" ranboo being set free and the "live" being even more trapped by the box: even though "die's" body is gone, he still has himself, while "live" still has his body but their mind is forever lost. We even maintain the core mindset held throughout Genloss’s creation: "Changing your perception of reality in order to influence your choices for desired outcomes."

Plus, if people choose to complain that "Ranboo still died even though we voted for them to live," I’ve thought of a couple responses. For instance, how and why is the box execution the only way cast members can truly die? When have our choices ever mattered in the grand scheme of the series? Why would the final one be any different?

But my favorite response would be in the Founder’s Cut. The credits end, the screen fades, and, oh, look! There’s an additional after-credits scene! It’s the beginning of a new show, and we see what looks to be the back of Ranboo’s head, his scalp visibly wounded and mutilated, and bits of hair matted with blood. Hetch off-screen counts down "3 2 1." As Ranboo turns to introduce himself to the audience, we see their Showfall Media mask in perfect condition. However, possibly to cover up the rest of the scaring, he obstructs their eyes from view with a pair of green ski goggles (sunglasses). In its reflection, we see the camera, a reflection of ourselves forced to face the consequences of our choice.

END OF TAPE

As someone who’s been a fan since October 2020, do you know how harrowing that would be to see? The implication of Showfall making their own corpses "presentable" is deeply disturbing in itself, and it ties the content creation allegory into a nice little bow on top. Just a few changes would have made the "live" ending an equally satisfying conclusion to the series, rather than the ending we’re "not supposed to pick."

Long story short: Ranboo, you don’t have to possibly sacrifice the best part of your show for the impact of an execution. You are the creator, and I implore you to have your cake and eat it too.

[chromonym]

hi

wanna write for a while about something you love? or just find interesting? it'd be fun to read

genuinely difficult to decide what to talk about bc i have so many things uhhhhhhhh let’s do OneShot. i’ll try to avoid spoilers for this first bit.

OneShot is one of, if not my absolute, favourite games of all time. the story can and will absolutely break you, and even though it’s been years since i’ve played it i still miss Niko (the main character).

the gameplay itself is… eh, let’s be real, it’s an rpgmaker game with no combat. at the very least there are some quite interesting puzzles - nothing overly difficult, but their main purpose isn’t that. they serve to immerse you (for want of a better word) in the game.

the immersion and the story are the absolute highlights, although again ‘immersion’ might be the wrong word to use. i’m trying to word this without spoilers in case you or anyone else reading this hasn’t played the game, but you’ll be able to tell within the first few minutes of gameplay what i’m talking about. for similar reasons, i’d recommend the steam version over the console version (‘world machine edition’) despite the latter having quite a few quality of life improvements.

the story, aided by the ‘immersion’, can and will make you cry. i played the game after watching a playthrough (something that i would strongly recommend against!), and i still cried over it. it’s pretty simple, your job is to guide Niko to the centre of the world of OneShot to replace its “sun”, a giant lightbulb. well, okay it’s not really that simple there’s some other things that become apparent right near the end. :)

also, the Solstice route (think of it as a new game plus) will ruin you emotionally in a completely different way! if you haven’t played it yet, say hi to Rue and TWM for me.

oh also the music is great and certain tracks (pretty, i’m here, thanks for everything, etc) still make me emotional

but i’m not done. only look under the cut if you’ve played the game, and if you haven’t, go play it!!!

so: SPOILERS FOR ONESHOT (not including Solstice).

the funniest thing about OneShot is that it’s just a glorified trolley problem. with the main difference, of course, being that the entire game has been setting you up to have Genuine Emotional Investment in it, and it. fucking. works.

i absolutely love the way that it does this, too. throughout the tutorial area, you kind of expect to be playing as Niko - that’s how it is in almost every other rpg, after all. but immediately after you’ve made this assumption, the game refers to you and Niko separately - and it says your name before you’ve even had a chance to input it. (this is also part of why i recommend steam over console, because this is a lot more unexpected there)

this is then expanded upon when you meet prophetbot, who gets Niko to talk to you directly! you then kind of get to know Niko through these chats (as well as Niko talking to other characters in the game), which makes the final decision so much worse. they’re just a kid.

the meta puzzles are quite fun (and again another reason that i recommend computer over console), but saying they immerse you in the game world isn’t exactly right - they immerse the game world in reality. they, along with things like Niko talking directly to you, utterly demolish the fourth wall while simultaneously bringing direct attention to it. obviously there’s still a necessary amount of suspension of disbelief, but you can almost imagine that the program OneShot is an actual simulation of a digital world undergoing corruption.

i also love the tower sequence, because of what you can’t do in it. you can’t talk to Niko. it’s a very simple limitation, but it’s absolutely fucking destroying given that you’ve been able to for the entire rest of the game. and even though you’re still in full control, it feels like you’re not.

and then! once you are finally able to speak to Niko again! you need to tell them that the entire journey has been for naught and you can’t save both them and the world at the same time! look, there’s a reason that the song Pretty (the one that plays in the final elevator ride) is in a playlist of songs that make me emotional.

god i fucking love this game so much

(i’ve decided that i’m not going to write anything about Solstice because. i don’t think i can do it justice. just play it. you’ll know.)

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story touches upon possibly distressing themes, such as domestic abuse, infidelity, racism and non-consensual intercourse. Period typical attitudes do not represent the author's personal view. Reader discretion is advised.

Story description: Whilst you're trapped in an arranged and loveless marriage to Praetor Quintus, a chance meeting has you spiralling into an intense and passionate love affair with the most tenured agent of the Cohorte Urbanae.

When you find out you are pregnant with his child, it's only the beginning : Nothing you've ever known remains intact when a certain Preacher reaches the ear of Capernaum, including yours.

Chapter summary: Arriving in Capernaum, you realise that your arranged marriage to Quintus might never know a true breakthrough.

Chapter list

Your husband, you know better than anyone, is a volatile man, and despite the decent amount of time you have known him for, his mannerisms are still thoroughly unpredictable to you.

Praetor Quintus removes his heavy helmet with a sigh, a thin sheen of sweat shimmering on his bald head, and steps out in front of you to take in the sight of the chamber that he’d call his office for an undisclosed period of time. “It’ll have to do,” falls from his lips, a statement that might be deemed neutral to some, but you know that tone. He’s displeased with the size, the decor, and perhaps even with the plasterwork. He is, all in all, critical of everything.

You, on the other hand, can’t care less. The room is still half-empty, but the small chaise longue you usually rest on during days that Quintus wants you in his office is already standing in the corner, a little daylight streaming in through the window. It makes for the perfect spot to read some books, although you’d prefer a bit more privacy.

“We’ll be settled in no time,” you reassure him, causing him to look at you with a raised brow. 

“Of all places, we’re stationed in Capernaum. Don’t think it will be easy around here, dearest.” The nickname makes the hairs of your neck stand on end. How could a word usually so loving be spoken in such a cold way, you think to yourself, for there is no comfort in his drawling voice. You’re certain that the man hasn’t even grown fond of you, despite your second wedding anniversary rolling around in a few weeks from now. 

Not that you had been too keen on marrying him, either, for you are naught but a pretty thing on his arm. Being your father’s property, alas, you had no choice.

“As long as I have my books, I will be satisfied everywhere in the world.” you told him earnestly.

He scoffs. “You and your books.” With a roll of his eye, he tosses his helmet onto his desk with abandon. “It would have bored me out of my mind ages ago.”

You hug the bag that hangs over your shoulder a little closer to your body, the familiar outlines of your leatherbound journal pressed against your chest. “Well, I quite like it, thank you very much.”

“As long as you don’t keep them lying around.” he chastises you like a father addressing his daughter with a distant edge to his tone, and it causes you to shrink. 

A thought pops up in your mind - he had promised you your own little sitting room where you could store your books and write on your poetry - and you open your mouth to ask him about it, but a sudden stranger on the threshold causes the words to get stuck in your throat.

A middle-aged man clad in red takes off his helmet and holds it under his arm, one hand against his chest. “Hail Caesar,” he says, catching your husband’s attention, who eyes him with characteristic suspicion.

“Hail Caesar.” Quintus replies, not satisfied with the fact that he had not yet given the centurion permission to speak, but he doesn’t mention it. “And you are…?”

“My name is Gaius, Dominus.” the man explains, his gaze momentarily falling on you, and he gives you a slight bow out of respect. You nod at him in response before his attention shifts back to your husband. “I oversee part of Capernaum when it comes to—”

Quintus smiles one of his oddly fake grins and holds up his hand, giving a small shake of his head. “Don’t even bother with that right now, Gaius. Can’t you see my wife and I are busy unpacking? You may return in half a day or so, once we have settled at least a little bit.”

“As you wish, Dominus. Forgive me for the intrusion.”

He turns to leave and you are finally able to ask the question you had been meaning to bring up. “Quin,” you pipe up with a pet name that wholly replaces your calibre to call him darling, or dear , or love , which are three terms you are certainly not assigning to him for neither fits his personality, “I would like to withdraw myself to our residence, if that is alright.”

Your husband looks at you with a furrowed brow as if you had just asked the most ridiculous thing you could have, but raises his voice to call back the guard that had just left the chamber, “Gaius!”

The summoned guard once again appears with a dutiful look on his face. “Yes, Dominus?”

“Please escort my wife to our new residence at the end of the street. Make sure no one gets their filthy paws on her - even better, make sure that no one so much as looks at her, do I make myself clear?”

Gaius’ eyes shift to you. “Of course, Dominus.”

“I will see you soon, darling,” Quintus says, walking closer for a kiss. When you don’t move your head to meet his lips, he presses one against your cheek before withdrawing, resting one hand on the small of your back, “Tonight.” 

There is a look in his eyes that alerts you of what he wants and you shudder unpleasantly, dread already setting in the pit of your gut. The fact that you have not yet borne him an heir is often subject of your domestic squabbles, even though it is unfair that he blames your barrenness on your character and nothing else.

“Naturally, Quin.” you breathe before following Gaius outside, who soon halts to have you catch up to him. There is a certain stiffness in his shoulders that makes you wonder what he is so nervous for. 

“Tell me something about Capernaum,” you query, Gaius looking at you from the corner of his eye. “What is it like?”

“Restless,” Gaius replies with a tight-lipped expression, as if he is afraid he will say the wrong word, “Things have been worsening around here ever since our previous Praetor… Prematurely retired.”

You hum, letting your eyes fall on a pair of orphans that sit on the edge of the street with a cup in their hands. The denarii in your pocket are burning against your leg, pity making you feel sick to your stomach at the sight of their fallen, pockmarked cheeks. 

“My husband will live up to his reputation,” you state matter-of-factly, knowing that there must be a reason that Quintus had been selected and sent all the way from Rome. “I am sure that things will become better around here, soon.” The promise is perhaps a wish, for you miss your friends and family, whom you had to leave behind in favour of Quintus’ profession.

Gaius gestures to the right to have you turn the corner. You follow his instruction and are met with a decent house made from dark basalt stone, groups of slaves moving chests of items inside. A few of them gawk at the pair of you, causing you to drape your Palla over your hair to cover up a little, feeling scrutinised.  “Hurry along!” Gaius barks at one of them lingering in the doorframe. They all scurry away, continuing their work. 

The residence is not large but spacious enough, and when you mention the room that Quintus has promised you, Gaius helps you find it. He is a silent man and attempting to start a casual conversation is off the table almost immediately, prompting you to follow him in silence.

“This must be it,” you tell him upon entering a room that contains most of your chests, where a few tall shelves have already been placed against the walls. There are two windows, which look out over the town square. Despite the village being cramped, you can count yourself lucky with a corner room like this one, which gives a false sense of space. Gaius nods, giving you a small bow with a hand on his chest, and leaves you to yourself, the only sound left being the men downstairs carrying furniture into the house.

You sigh and look around the still quite empty space, but soon envision where you want your sofa to stand as well as your desk, and you begin to unpack your belongings that are already standing on the floor. You finger the brass SPQR etched onto the small chest, unsure of how much to unpack. After all, you have no idea for how long you will be staying here.

Inside are your golden clips, hair pins and other jewellery. You store them in your desk, that has been shoved against the wall where you don’t want it standing. Taking a mental note to ask Quintus to get it moved later, towards a spot where you’d have more natural light coming in, you continue the task at hand, getting installed to your best ability.

Your tunics are already neatly hanging in the wardrobe, several pairs of sandals stored at the bottom. Somewhere during the afternoon, a female slave brings you water and some figs, which you thank her for. The dullness in her eyes causes the money on you to weigh down on you again, but you know that Quintus would be livid if he found out about you secretly slipping some money their way.

The lowering of the sun has already cloaked the fishing village in hues of pink and orange when Quintus finally appears on the threshold of your room, dark circles under his eyes. “Finally,” he murmurs upon seeing you, and you look up from your thoughts, an unopened book resting in your lap. “If everyone is as incompetent as the workers I’ve seen today, I doubt I’ll have any employees left by the end of the month.” Knowing him, he’s given at least five of them the sack already.

When you don’t reply, Quintus clears his throat. “I hope that you’re satisfied with your room here, darling.”

“I am,” you tell him with a genuine smile, “I love it.”

“Good.” he retorts with a rather sarcastic edge to his voice, adding: “It’s the best room in this place, you better be thankful.”

“I am.” you repeat, although different in tone this time, with your smile falling from your lips.

Quintus crosses his arms over his chest, observing the way you have put away your belongings. He drags a finger over a shelf that had already been hanging on the wall and looks at the dust that gathers on his skin with chagrin. “Would have expected them to deliver this place clean, at least. Moving to Upper Galilee is bad enough as is, with all kinds of vermin scurrying about. Let me know how you want your furniture arranged, I’ll send someone over soon enough. For now, follow me, dear.”

You rise to your feet and put your book away before heading after your husband, who leads you through the residence that is already fuller than it was when you entered hours prior. A few slaves that are still unpacking cower at the sight of him, falling silent in their whispered chatter, not daring to make a noise. He leads you to your shared bedroom, a rather large space with an adjacent, open washroom containing a small basin as well as a polished mirror on the wall above a small dressing table, where your perfumes and powders were already on display. 

“This is our place,” says he, already taking off the heavy pendant necklace that sits around his shoulders. “We will sleep here together.”

You give him a tight-lipped nod, swallowing the comment that you had already figured that out by the sight of the large bed, and you fold your hands in front of you expectantly.

Quintus clicks his tongue and steps forward, cupping your cheek in his hand. You resist the urge to move away from it, enabling your usual habit of just closing off your mind to the disdain that seeps through your veins whenever he touches you.

His fingers are already on your Palla , and he unravels it with ease, like he has done plenty of times before. “How is your cycle?” he quizzes. You are unable to sell him the lie that you are in your infertile days of the month, sighing deeply before responding.

“Fertile.” 

“Good,” Quintus breathes, letting go of your cloak, letting it pool around your ankles. “Undress and join me on the bed,” he mutters with his lips against your temple, pressing a cold kiss against your skin.

And you do as you’re told, shutting your mind off, fulfilling your marital duties to the man you loathe so much, distancing yourself from your own form as he takes you.

Once done, Quintus pushes you away with a disinterest that he doesn’t even bother to cover up. You turn away as he steps out of the bed, not wanting to see his naked form withdraw to the bathroom, where he washes himself without so much as a word of thanks.

Defiled in the sheets, you force back your tears, drifting away into a slumber that teases the hope that he’ll be gone once you wake up, so that you can cry properly without his judgemental sneers.

A waft of cologne tickles your nose and a readily dressed Quintus appears in your field of vision, prompting you to look up. 

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“No.” you say apologetically, “Sorry.”

He lets out a sound of slight indignance before repeating the comment you had apparently missed: “I said, I am planning on throwing a party tomorrow. I’ll be inviting the men amongst the higher ranks. Gives me a chance to introduce the new rules I’m planning on issuing around this mess of a village. As for you, you better show up looking your very best. Didn’t marry you for nothing.”

You hum and give him a small nod. “Of course, Quintus,” you tell him, knowing that saying no is not an option, and you lay down back on the bed, closing your eyes. He sighs, turning towards the door, where he momentarily halts on the threshold. 

“Oh, (Y/n).” 

You once again look at him. “Yes?”

“Don’t wear your purple stole tomorrow. Can’t look too rich around here.” 

As if the residence itself isn’t ostentatious enough as is.

“Of course, Quintus.” you comply

He mutters no final greeting, the pad of his sandals becoming a distant sound as he leaves. 

You allow your tears to flow freely now, sliding down your face towards the duvet, where they are absorbed by the rough linen that was witness to your misery, sobs of agony shaking your desecrated form.

Next chapter Chapter list

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Fic writer asks: 31/32 as one question, 46, and 50 :D

Thank you for your service in sending me distractions 🙏🏻

31: What's your ideal fic length to write? | What's your ideal fic length to read?

Bestie, I literally cannot answer this. The length of my chapters is all over the goddam place, & I've only ever committed in a serious way to fic one (1) time & that's with my current project(s?). I think that, like, if I am pushed to think about it, just in terms of Longfic-Chapter-Length, I really hit a sweet spot with my early chapters in SOTF where I hovered around 8-12k, & everything after that has been...IDK me literally being insane & not knowing how to shut up because I committed to my formatting. I haven't finished any fic since...I wanna say high school (& even then it was all written out in longhand in spiral notebooks) & I only finished one or two of my innumerable projects. So I guess longfics get there when they get there, final word count be damned. Who TF knows with my shorter stuff, those all exist on vibes & vibes alone, & they're done when The Spirit Of Writing tells me they are. Shorter stuff does tend to top out at 2k (or thereabout), though.

In terms of reading, tbh I've never read a lot of fanfic. IDK, I just never really thought about it because I tend to be very isolated & "I can entertain myself" when it comes to fandom experience. I also sort of read fic like I read books (see: it takes me forever), so you could set me down with something of pretty much any length & I'll eventually get it done. There is no length determination, only if I fuck with the writing style & plot.

46: Do you prefer writing on your phone or on a computer (or something else)? Do you think where you write affects the way you write?

I definitely prefer writing on a computer, my mom was kinda militant about me learning how to type when I was young so I have a really high wpm now & it's just faster. That said, I'm not opposed to writing on my phone. I wrote the vast majority of the currently published chapters of my HOTD fic on my phone because I didn't have a laptop for 3 years, & I'm not going to write "cunt" on a work computer, even if it's during my lunch break. So I'm writing hybrid phone/computer even though I do have one now. I got good enough at writing several thousand word chapters in the app version of google docs with naught but my thumbs that I'll go with "whatever is convenient for the location I'm currently in." Computer is definitely where I'm thriving, though.

50: Answer any question of your choice, or talk about anything you want to talk about!

There's only 2 that are currently in the fic, & then there's one planned one, but no one talked about the 2 that were there at all & so I have to just get them out there. Also my Patented Misa Foreshadowing That Makes Me Giggle And Kick My Feet But No One Picks Up On Because My Thought Pattern Cannot Be Reproduced.

Chapter 6 has a minor "right in front of my salad" reference

I named the brothers of Borros Baratheon's wife after Peter and Edmund Pevensie from the Narnia series & gave them the same age gap. I foreshadowed Yorick's dragon by having his personal arms be a black dragon & have him get assigned to play at having one that color when he played with his cousins. I foreshadowed Ella's betrothal/husband by having her wear a dress with roses on it at a tourney, & the favor she gave her dad was yellow roses (the real-world equivalent to the heraldry exclusive gold of House Tyrell). But no one mentions these things. They make me happy, but I want someone to point at it & be like "oh hey!"

I have an upcoming easter egg with Ella's son/first child. I'm naming him Griffith because, sure, actual Griffith from Berserk sucks, but his name fucks & I like Berserk so why shouldn't I co-opt his name? It's mine now. Yoink. Enjoy being a footnote in the list of "media Misa likes that can be referenced in something else"

[obitohno]

mini ramble ⤸

so, i know that no one is interested, but years ago, i studied eng lit and creative writing at uni, and because i was constantly writing, with very little appreciation, i ended up falling out of love with it. i didn’t write for years after i graduated, and it was only when i joined tumblr last august that i decided to give it another shot.

i know that most—if not, all—writers go through periodic phases of disliking their works, or lacking the motivation to create pieces, and i am guilty of doing this myself. when i first started writing again, i was proud of myself for breaking away from that abstinence, and although my writing style will probably change over time, for the first time in literal years, i was beginning to feel proud of the writer that i’ve become.

now, as both a reader and a writer, i know how hard it is to remove yourself from the habit of comparing yourself to other artists/writers, and yet i can also appreciate the effort it takes to create something that you’re proud enough to share with the world.

lately, i haven’t been feeling very confident about both my current and previous works—something which, again, many fellow writers will sympathise with—and although i have my own personal doubts about my works, i try to remember the positive feedback that i’ve received over the last few months, and i know that even if i’m not as happy with them as i was when i first posted them, somewhere out there, someone is.

however, yesterday, someone decided to basically confirm what i had already felt: that my efforts aren’t good enough.

i know that people say that you shouldn’t listen to anonymous hate, and i completely agree, but in this instant, whilst i was already feeling pretty rotten, reading that anon truly hurt my feelings.

because, yes, i know that my works aren’t for everybody, just as other people’s works aren’t for me. and yes, i am aware that whilst i have favourite authors on here, the sentiment probably isn’t felt about me, but i still worked very hard to be the writer that i am now, and it cuts deep when someone says that not only will you never be as good as others, but that all of your hard work is for naught.

not only have i aimed all of my studies towards reading and writing, but my interests were heavily influenced by my mum’s talents as a successful screenwriter. i wanted to be like her so much, that my earliest story was written when i was still a child. this has literally been a passion of mine for most of my life.

i may not be your favourite author, nor may my works be your cup of tea, but i’ve worked too fucking hard for someone to tell me that all of my efforts are a ‘waste of time’.

it costs very little to scroll past something that you do not like. it costs even less to be a decent human being.

all of this being said, i hope that no one ever makes you feel the way that you made me feel, but unfortunately for you, i shan’t be following your advice. you do not—and will not—decide whether i give up or not. i may have allowed my emotions to get to me when you first sent that anon, but i can assure you that it won’t be happening again.

i will continue to ‘waste my time’.

maybe you should ‘waste’ yours upon some very much needed self-reflection.

[perereiii]

hhhhhhhhhh the last 500 words of the hurt/comfort gottingen duo fic plsssss

499 words <3

His voice waivers, betraying any attempt of a brave persona.

"I sunk my blade through your heart, to the hilt. It felt gruesomely real. Perhaps I had a moment of freedom after that, but still, the shock sunk so deep in my bones that I stood still, frozen in abhorrence at a deed committed by my own hand. This force must have sensed such an opportunity and quickly regained control over my actions. I—"

Rabenmark sighs, choking up more than he'd care to admit.

"I pulled the bloodied sword from your chest and aimed for your neck. I braced myself as best I could, as my eyes would stay open, my body would still move, and the sensation would still shoot through my body on impact. I ought to thank the Lord for what happened next, as the moment the blade hit you I woke up. Something intervened to save me from such pain, and I am forever grateful, though I still fear this is another of those dreams, and this conversation for naught as I kill you in some other spectacle.”

The air is thick as Rabenmark finishes recounting his nightmare. Morton waits, to be sure that there is nothing left to say of such a horrid moment, and leans up to embrace Rabenmark in a loving, short-lived kiss.

“My love, I cannot begin to imagine how much that hurt you, but please understand that I am here and safe. That you are here and safe—“

Rabenmark interjected, “And how am I to know that? I could seldom tell in the dreams before.”

Morton paused. He didn’t know how to help with this, after all, he had never experienced such a thing. However, in his still tired state, he had an idea. He suddenly pounced on Rabenmark, kissing him deeply. His arms wrapped around Rabenmark’s back as he made sure to savor the moment, the warmth and roughness of Rabenmark’s beautiful, scarred body and his lips. Much too soon, he pulls away, and combs his hand through Rabenmark’s hair.

“I would hope that short embrace was sufficient enough to show you that you are awake, and that I am well.”

Rabenmark smiles for the first time during this conversation, making a sudden movement and kissing Morton in response.

“Unfortunately for your argument, a kiss from you is always my dream.”

Morton’s cheeks flush as he stampers out, “That is not what I was intending you to take away from this, Rabenm-mmphm!”

The kiss is only interrupted by a gasp for air.

“It would be wise to retire to our bedroom for this, my dear.”

Rabenmark stands up, practically pulling Morton along, before he quickly swoops Morton up in a bridal carry. Morton squeaks in an effeminate manner.

“A warning would have suffic-mmmmph!”

Keen on showering his living, breathing, dearest with love, Rabenmark disregarded the comment with a short kiss and swiftly locked the door before placing Morton on their shared bed for an early morning filled with affection.

okay I play fast and loose with the definition of alliteration and I’m too tired to add any other literary devices and stuff like that but I love alliterations/near alliterations so much

what I was thinking when I wrote it: not much honestly I was in the zone and it Felt Right

what’s going on in the character’s heads: okay so rabenmark had just been killing his boyfriend in his dreams the past however long his dreams were and he still thinks he’s dreaming and will have to kill his bf again so. not the best situation for him. morton is in panicked boyfriend mode and all he wants to do is help rabenmark feel better. tldr rabenmark is being haunted by the Horrors, morton has not seen the Horrors and is trying to help despite that which is so so sweet of him hhhhh

why I chose certain words: alliterations, an attempt at the language of the time, I’m new at writing so really just playing around with things like big words and pretty descriptions

what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic: this is the end during/after rabenmark’s recounting of his nightmare. It’s the comfort part of the hurt/comfort

lots of awful puns: unfortunately not right now buuuuut perhaps in the future, whatever that may mean

anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track: this does not follow that format which is in part why there are no puns but I can say that I love to add symbolism stuff in my art and now fics. The One fic that I showed you and no one else obviously and there’s definitely stuff in this that could be pulled out (that I cannot think of at the moment :p) so keep your eyes peeled huhuuu

[spreadwardiard]

5, 6, 12, 14, and 30 please! I would love to hear what you have to say in response to those questions :)

What do you wish someone would ask you about Crossing the Line? Answer it now! I wish someone would ask about Megatronus' and Orion's flirting ohhh my goodness. It is one of my favorite aspects of that AU I haven't really gotten to write much about yet. Their primary means of flirting with one another is a silly game between them that starts after A New Kind of Word Sparring. It becomes like a game for them and many of their debates past this point devolve into a contest to see who can get the other's fans blowing first. Megatronus is surprised that Orion wins about half the time.

What’s one fact about the universe of Naught But a Ghost that you didn’t get a chance to mention in the fic itself?

I never got a chance to mention Megatron and Orion Pax's friendship with Soundwave, and I haven't really had a chance to explore that yet in the follow up pieces either. Soundwave is Megatron's amica and also a good friend of Orion's. I wanted to explore that in that fic but just could not make it fit right. which segues into another fact about Soundwave in that universe: he is the one who guides Orion on Kaoni courtship traditions and pushes Megatronus into accepting Orion's clumsy attempts at pursuing him romantically. two for one! Another thing though I never mentioned in that fic is that Orion actually cares a great deal for the whole of the Decepticon army as well as their sympathizers. He is their leader's Conjunx after all, and even after Megatron renounces that role at the end of the war, Orion never stops seeing the Decepticons as his people.

12. Are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you?

This kinda depends how we are defining 'tropes'. If we go with the defintion : "something such as an idea, phrase, or image that is often used in a particular artist's work, in a particular type of art, in the media, etc." then the answer is mechpreg. When i first started reading Transformers fic I did not care for it at all, I was hypercritical of it because it felt too organic for me, but it kept showing up in fics I was reading and i enjoy it now as much as I enjoy the more asexual methods of mech reproduction. (Like, i know my first 2 fics mention it, but thats because this trope change happened BEFORE I started writing for Transformers. though... I started reading Transformers fics like... the week before I started writing for it so this change happened pretty quickly, but its the biggest trope I can think of really that I can think of that my mind changed on.)

14. Are there any tropes you would only read if written by a trusted friend or writer?

XDXD Yes. And it's actually YOU, my friend, who writes it! In The Many Lives of Optimus Prime one of the major tropes is reincarnation, and I am really uninterested in reading other's takes on this trope to be honest. (sorry everyone else, I am only being honest 😅😅😅)

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

YES. Pretty much all of 2 Sides to a Coin is somewhat outside my comfort zone! The biggest thing is that I have almost always been an exclusively NSFW writer and this AU is SFW, This made me have to really think about other ways to express intimacy, emotional bonds and physical closeness, which has made my ability to write romance in general much better than it was before.