#all of the above tyvm

[fierceyetflawed]

DAVID TENNANT??????

DAVID TENNANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*sighs* david tennant–

[gregoryeddiesgoldchain]

don't get me wrong i still love and believe in teddie but they're not feeding us right now. i'm starving y'all and i'll take what i can get lol

[suzannahnatters]

all RIGHT:

Why You're Writing Medieval (and Medieval-Coded) Women Wrong: A RANT

(Or, For the Love of God, People, Stop Pretending Victorian Style Gender Roles Applied to All of History)

This is a problem I see alllll over the place - I'll be reading a medieval-coded book and the women will be told they aren't allowed to fight or learn or work, that they are only supposed to get married, keep house and have babies, &c &c.

If I point this out ppl will be like "yes but there was misogyny back then! women were treated terribly!" and OK. Stop right there.

By & large, what we as a culture think of as misogyny & patriarchy is the expression prevalent in Victorian times - not medieval. (And NO, this is not me blaming Victorians for their theme park version of "medieval history". This is me blaming 21st century people for being ignorant & refusing to do their homework).

Yes, there was misogyny in medieval times, but 1) in many ways it was actually markedly less severe than Victorian misogyny, tyvm - and 2) it was of a quite different type. (Disclaimer: I am speaking specifically of Frankish, Western European medieval women rather than those in other parts of the world. This applies to a lesser extent in Byzantium and I am still learning about women in the medieval Islamic world.)

So, here are the 2 vital things to remember about women when writing medieval or medieval-coded societies

FIRST. Where in Victorian times the primary axes of prejudice were gender and race - so that a male labourer had more rights than a female of the higher classes, and a middle class white man would be treated with more respect than an African or Indian dignitary - In medieval times, the primary axis of prejudice was, overwhelmingly, class. Thus, Frankish crusader knights arguably felt more solidarity with their Muslim opponents of knightly status, than they did their own peasants. Faith and age were also medieval axes of prejudice - children and young people were exploited ruthlessly, sent into war or marriage at 15 (boys) or 12 (girls). Gender was less important.

What this meant was that a medieval woman could expect - indeed demand - to be treated more or less the same way the men of her class were. Where no ancient legal obstacle existed, such as Salic law, a king's daughter could and did expect to rule, even after marriage.

Women of the knightly class could & did arm & fight - something that required a MASSIVE outlay of money, which was obviously at their discretion & disposal. See: Sichelgaita, Isabel de Conches, the unnamed women fighting in armour as knights during the Third Crusade, as recorded by Muslim chroniclers.

Tolkien's Eowyn is a great example of this medieval attitude to class trumping race: complaining that she's being told not to fight, she stresses her class: "I am of the house of Eorl & not a serving woman". She claims her rights, not as a woman, but as a member of the warrior class and the ruling family. Similarly in Renaissance Venice a doge protested the practice which saw 80% of noble women locked into convents for life: if these had been men they would have been "born to command & govern the world". Their class ought to have exempted them from discrimination on the basis of sex.

So, tip #1 for writing medieval women: remember that their class always outweighed their gender. They might be subordinate to the men within their own class, but not to those below.

SECOND. Whereas Victorians saw women's highest calling as marriage & children - the "angel in the house" ennobling & improving their men on a spiritual but rarely practical level - Medievals by contrast prized virginity/celibacy above marriage, seeing it as a way for women to transcend their sex. Often as nuns, saints, mystics; sometimes as warriors, queens, & ladies; always as businesswomen & merchants, women could & did forge their own paths in life

When Elizabeth I claimed to have "the heart & stomach of a king" & adopted the persona of the virgin queen, this was the norm she appealed to. Women could do things; they just had to prove they were Not Like Other Girls. By Elizabeth's time things were already changing: it was the Reformation that switched the ideal to marriage, & the Enlightenment that divorced femininity from reason, aggression & public life.

For more on this topic, read Katherine Hager's article "Endowed With Manly Courage: Medieval Perceptions of Women in Combat" on women who transcended gender to occupy a liminal space as warrior/virgin/saint.

So, tip #2: remember that for medieval women, wife and mother wasn't the ideal, virgin saint was the ideal. By proving yourself "not like other girls" you could gain significant autonomy & freedom.

Finally a bonus tip: if writing about medieval women, be sure to read writing on women's issues from the time so as to understand the terms in which these women spoke about & defended their ambitions. Start with Christine de Pisan.

I learned all this doing the reading for WATCHERS OF OUTREMER, my series of historical fantasy novels set in the medieval crusader states, which were dominated by strong medieval women! Book 5, THE HOUSE OF MOURNING (forthcoming 2023) will focus, to a greater extent than any other novel I've ever yet read or written, on the experience of women during the crusades - as warriors, captives, and political leaders. I can't wait to share it with you all!

[kakushino]

Being a papa is not that bad

Platonic relationship - Giyuu and his daughter

The girl wraps him around her little fingers and never lets go.

Tags: hurt/(comfort), fluff, pregnancy mention, Giyuu being a girl-dad, 3rd person POV (F!Reader as background character), Giyuu being whipped (OOC because he's with his kid c'mon) Word count: 1,4k

Masterlist

AN: So the age of consent in Japan was 13 til recently (it's 16 now), which is super weird, but I had to check before I wrote this to fit the KNY timeline. This is set in Taisho era so everything is legal, tyvm. Shamisen is a japanese string instrument.

Now have a hurty fluff.

Written for Girl dads collab of @suyacho

Having a child before Muzan was dealt with was not in his cards, at least that's what he had thought… until a tryst with one of the kakushi happened and he was to become a father. It was humiliating - his lack of control - and the guilt he felt towards the kakushi for ruining her for any other future was great, weighing him down more than the mantle of a Pillar.

He hadn’t wanted to marry so young either, but shame would have destroyed him, his shame would have destroyed her - he thought - so he married her on a white January day, her belly round and full with his child- his child!

It was born a week after his eighteenth birthday. He wasn’t there for it. He wasn’t anywhere in the prefecture the Butterfly mansion was in either; he was on the other end of Japan taking care of a demon, while another future ghost to haunt him was being born. 

Giyuu arrived back at the Water estate at the end of March, his wife sleeping beside the baby on a futon. He had only wanted to check if his wife hadn’t burned the house in his absence but the sight struck a cord in him, like a shamisen being plucked by Fate's fingers, playing him to its pleasure and none his own.

The baby was… cute; hair midnight black, tiny hand clinging to its mother’s hand, a picture of perfect innocence that reminded him of the reason why he fought so hard, why he hunted demons for living.

This. All of this.

His eyes focused on his wife; it was still strange to refer to anyone as his. Her eyes had deep bruises under them, indicating a severe lack of sleep, her hair disheveled, and sleeping yukata askew. One of her breasts had a wet spot on it - she must be dripping milk, he realized. 

Giyuu had likely not seen her in a less put-together state and yet, she was pretty. His lips pressed together as he mulled over that thought, silently slipping from the room to bathe and sleep as well. 

They would talk in the morning, he decided.

Giyuu left three days later.

He didn’t get to speak to his wife, because the moment he stepped in to hold his baby for the first time, she gave a sigh of relief and fell asleep right away - sitting up, leaning on one of the columns holding up the roof. How could he wake her, when she was so obviously clinging to the last fraying strands of her sanity? 

He took a seat beside her and stared at his child - his child.

Kocho had left him a message, somehow knowing Giyuu would have no social graces nor time to speak to his wife. It read:

Congratulations, Tomioka-san. Your baby girl was born healthy, and the name picked for her is Shizuku. Treat her well. - Kocho Shinobu

Tomioka Shizuku.

He would treasure her above himself.

Though he promised himself that, Giyuu remained mostly absent from Shizuku’s early life, working overtime to keep his prefecture as demon-free as he could; he even set up a nightly patrol near his residence with Ubuyashiki to keep his flesh and blood safe. 

The times he came home, he spent every waking moment with his child - playing with her, teaching her to call him papa, to say her own name. He drew pictures with her, helped her take her first steps, took her to town on 'adventures'. He was dutiful; no matter the task, if it involved his Shizuku, his child, he would do it.

As she grew up, now nearly three years old, he often took her to the garden, training but making in fun for her - so far, Shizuku liked it the most when he did pushups and she ‘braided’ his hair while sitting on his back. She also loved to watch him practice swordsmanship, absolutely captivated by his movements with the bokken, little mouth hanging open as she sat in the shade of a tree. After his katas, which often earned him an applause for his 'performance', he had a ‘tea party’ under the same tree with her, telling her stories - embellished, of course - about his demon slaying, how he learned total concentration breathing, and other such tales from his life - all wrapped in a fairy tale way. 

Giyuu thought Shizuku took them as just stories.

Until…

He was getting ready to leave - Ubuyashiki had called a Hashira meeting - when he reached for his haori only to find it gone. Frantic, his thoughts went to his wife - did she put it in the laundry? Only, checking the 'dirty' basket, it wasn’t there; checking the line of clothing hanging outside, it wasn’t there.

Where is it?!

A panicked search inside of his estate yielded nothing. He couldn’t even ask his wife because she was in the town - he was set to leave when she returned so there could always be someone in the house for Shizu-

Shizuku!

Where was she? Nowhere inside. The garden? 

Giyuu swiftly made his way to the place he spent most of the time with his daughter. 

Sure enough, Shizuku was there, his haori dwarfing her frame as she tried to replicate his meditation exercises. Relief flooded his chest, a smile overtaking his face as he stepped closer to her. 

“I believe you have something of mine, Shizu-chan,” he said, crouching in front of her, not making any move to take his clothing back. 

The little girl quickly reached behind her for the bokken - which she also stole, he noted - and leaped at him with a mighty battle cry. “I’m the great Wa’er Pillar, demon! It’s you who stole som’thing from me!” 

Acting startled, Giyuu put his everything into making the landing soft for her as he ‘tumbled’ backwards, ‘crying’ out dramatically, “Oh nooo- this foe is too strong for one as puny as I! This must be my end!” His uniform was probably dusty now, but he could shake it out later. 

“Ahahaha! Fear me - and die!” Shizuku had let go of the bokken during their ‘fight’ so she used her tiny fists to beat his chest, laughing and squealing in joy at having bested the ‘demon’. 

Seeing her smile made his departure all the more bittersweet. 

Any day he could die, but this joy would guide him in the moments he breathed.

Giyuu sat up, laying her onto his thighs and tickling her neck, a soft smile still playing on his lips at her adorable face, so much like his own. Blue eyes the same share, black hair in two small braids he had done for her that morning - his daughter. 

“Now that the demon is slayed, the mighty Water Pillar needs to go on to do his job, my little clam. So I will be confiscating the haori you’re wearing,” he told her, tugging the garment off her body easily as it was so big on her, leaving her pouting.

“Do you really need to go?” Her pout was not making it any easier.

Nevertheless, he remained patient and gentle. “I’ll be back soon, so don't worry, Shizu-chan.” Giyuu picked her up with one arm, throwing the haori over his shoulder with his other hand, and carried her to the engawa. Shizuku sat dutifully and let him dust her off. “Besides, you have your mother here.”

He took off his jacket and shook out the dirt, nearly missing her whisper. “But mama is not papa.”

Giyuu put everything together on himself - her soft sniffles nearly clogging his throat with heartbreak - and crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Shizu-chan, do you know what papa is?” 

She nodded, “A pillar.” Tears glistened on her face. 

“Yes, but papa is also brave.” What a big fat lie. “And do you know what Shizu-chan is?”

“Nu-uh.”

He squeezed her hands briefly. “You’re just like papa - a brave warrior. I need you to be brave for me, Shizu-chan. I need you to protect our home while I’m gone. Can you do that for me?”

She wiped her face with one of her sleeves and nodded. “I’ll be like papa and protec’ mama.”

“That’s my girl. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Having a child before Muzan was dealt with was not in his cards, he used to think, but perhaps, being a father was not all that bad.

dividers by the amazing @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

Part 2 will be focused on Giyuu's relationship with his wife (the mother) when? idk

[fatesundress]

⭑ observations. tom riddle x reader

part ii here.

summary. you've been going to hogwarts for four months, and find this whole school-wide obsession with tom riddle a little bit ridiculous, and a little bit contrived. surely not all the rumours are true...

tags. smut (minors dni -_-), fem anatomy, fingering, reader who is soooo in denial, trying to worm into tom's brain like a parasite and failing miserably (me projecting), i think reader is implied to either be short or tom is implied to be tall, ooc tom because i am so far from the belief that he would ever just spontaneously hook up with someone but… it is what it is.

note. this is my first post so support is much appreciated!! god forgive me, i've never written smut in my life, and it's safe to assume any smut i write within hogwarts is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also, i tried my best to make reader fairly neutral, but it's late, and if i've fumbled over some description bc i'm sleepy i shall fix it in the morning ♡

word count. 5.1k

Your first observation is that nobody has Tom Riddle quite right.

He’s beautiful, yes (obvious, repetitive, shallow), and undeniably intelligent (being paired with him in Potions has proved that in a matter of weeks), untouchable (this one is a bit interesting), and, above all, unusual. The latter you like the most. It makes you feel unabashedly exceptional in all the very unexceptional gossip about him. No one ever uses that word to describe him. A rarity of charisma and charm — austere, refined, and clinically polite. Unusual has a negative curve to it that most people don’t attach to the elegant litheness of Tom Riddle, but your observations cannot be stated without the word.

It’s prompted and peddled by Selwyn’s much-too-enthusiastic vehemence in the wake of your first.

You narrow your eyes at her and say it again, no less certain than the first time. “Tom Riddle has not had sex with half the school.”

It’s a bit of a jump. Some necessary context is removed.

Riddle, once more, rarity of charisma and charm and austere blah blah blah, has been rumoured since you arrived this year from your last school to be some silent conqueror, oh-so nimble with his hands and nimbler even with his other appendages, and you — you’ve only been here four months and it’s laughable how many people believe it.

Backtrack to untouchable (this one everyone agrees is a primary characteristic of Tom Riddle, there’s no debate there) and the reason you find it interesting. Untouchable doesn’t exactly work if everyone in the bloody castle has been touching him this whole time. And it’s not as if he could hide it, not as if people wouldn’t be giddy to tell their friends of their exploits with the beautiful, revered Head Boy. And such exploits would be whispers among the halls in a matter of hours. You’ve considered this, with almost scientific determination, and it’s impossible. Tom studies all day, and when he isn’t studying he’s corralling Slytherin first-years away from forbidden corridors, attending to Dippet’s newest errand, escorting third-years to Hogsmeade, dining with the Slug Club, and — point is, someone would have noticed by now if he was disappearing into broom closets with a new lay every weekend.

But Selwyn shakes her head, because this rumour is such an integral part of Tom’s allure. He is, somehow, both untouchable and a master at touch. Distant until he isn’t, and then he can break you apart with practised, perfect hands. It’s all very mythical.

“Look,” she says, “maybe if I’d only been here four months, I’d think so too, but everyone else knows—”

“Maybe it’s because I’ve only been here four months that I have the objectivity to recognize how ridiculous you all are. He’s not a god, Selwyn, he’s a scholar, and an obsessed one at that — has it ever actually occurred to you he might not have had sex at all?”

This, now, is sacrilege. 

Selwyn gapes at you, and you shake your head in surrender before you burst out laughing at how offended she looks. “Fine, whatever. Consider the matter dropped. I give up.”

You don’t really give up. It’s very fun research.

Your second observation is that unusual is not an apt enough word for Tom, and maybe you don’t possess the vocabulary to think of one that is.

You’re in the Restricted Section. This is unrelated to your Tom research, and perfectly sanctioned, with a key granted by the librarian who you feel sorry to admit you have not remembered the name of, and the library, by all means, is still open. It’s a late Thursday night, but not past curfew. You’re there with a study partner you rather wish you weren’t — Gregory Godefrey, Gryffindor (the alliteration is nauseating), and the only half-decent fellow in your Ancient Runes class, but not especially bright. You feel more like his tutor than his partner. In short, the regular books on the topic you’re writing your end-of-term essay on are slim pickings, and thus — Restricted Section.

“So,” you say, “the scriptures might look the same, but they’re written in vastly different time periods, so the meaning has changed. If you were to charge a spell with one of Ashe’s runes now, there’s almost no doubt you’d get a completely different result.”

“I don’t get it,” Godefrey grumbles sleepily into his sleeve. “How’s anyone meant to use runes if they can just change like that?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Any magic can change, Godefrey. Half of the stuff we learn is based on intention and skill. Uagadou barely even uses wands — all of this is arbitrary.”

“My head hurts.”

“Then… just… just go to bed. I’ll finish up here and we’ll try again on the weekend.”

He grins with heavy eyes, lugging his bag over his shoulder and leaving you a packet of sherbet lemons you bitterly wish he’d pulled out sooner. “Wicked — you’re the best. See’ya.”

“See you…” you mumble, unwrapping one and popping it in your mouth.

You don’t stay for long, twirling the key to the Restricted Section around your finger as you tuck your books back into their shelves.

“It’s ten past curfew,” says a voice from behind you, all cool, measured authority, and you nearly collapse.

You stare up from where you’re grabbing onto your knees for balance, your heart halfway out of your chest.

Tom Riddle is there, his Head Boy badge somehow still glittering in the dim light of the library, and it’s only by the half-smile quirking at his lips that you can detect his words weren’t some sort of threat.

“Right, thanks.” You gather your breath. “I was just leaving.”

“Pity about Godefrey.”

You blink. Having worked with Tom in Potions since September, you’ve become perfectly adjusted to speaking to him… only about Potions. He indulges in polite small talk, he smiles freely, but your distance from him is the same as it is with everyone else, if only for the fact that, you suppose, you aren’t actively pursuing anything closer.

Oh. That is interesting — would he be so easily intrigued? It’s a bit cliché, but you suppose he is too.

You’re making an awful lot of assumptions from the words ‘pity about Godefrey,’ and then, you don’t actually have a damn clue what Tom could mean by that.

“Sorry?” you ask.

“Godefrey,” he repeats. “I assume you’re being made to tutor him.”

Right. He must have seen him on his way here. That would make sense.

“No, actually. It’s entirely voluntary — he’s my study partner for Ancient Runes.”

His chin lifts in some nearly imperceptible way, smiling still, and you know he’s a polished thing, an unusual thing, but it reads as an especially fake smile then. “Ah.”

… Oooookay?

“Well —” you start, a mechanical smile of your own forming — “curfew, then.”

The charm fixes onto his face like a damn ornament. You want to flick it away with your finger. “Of course. I’ll see you in Potions?”

You nod, leaving the key behind the librarian’s desk as you slink awkwardly away. Into the corridor. Off to bed. Yet another note to scrawl on the enigma of Tom Riddle.

You see him again first thing in the morning. You’re yawning into the archway of Slughorn’s stuffy classroom, eager to dump your bag over your table and empty the many contents necessary for today’s lesson. 

There’s one girl, the oldest of the Lestranges, who glares daggers into the back of your head every class. Tom is, as always, nonplussed, asking you about your morning as you both prepare your phials and ingredients. You can’t help but shake your head at him this once, a bemused smile on your lips as you glance between him and the Lestrange girl.

“Have I offended her somehow, or is it just that I’m paired with you?”

He laughs under his breath. “I daresay that is the offense.”

You can’t help it. You’re mumbling to yourself in amazement at the bizarre, borderline cultish devotion this school has to Tom Riddle. “Unattainable commodity that you are, Riddle…”

“Well," he begins, his smile small but his voice amused, “I hope you don’t think of me as quite that far outside your grasp."

You freeze.

Are you — have you missed something? Has your casual (really, very casual and not at all unwarranted or peculiar) research for the sake of dispelling Selwyn’s obsession skewed your memory of Tom? Has he always said things like this to you? Have you always read into them like this?

One of his eyebrows rises, and it might be his notorious flattery — but if so, he makes it sound like an obvious truth, and you stammer over the jar of foxglove in your hand. Then you look away, unscrew it, do well not to put too much weight on his words.

“Hm. I have no need for you to be within it, Riddle." You say it with all nonchalance you can muster. To spit it at him in some aggressive dismissal would be to treat it like a big thing. 

It isn’t a big thing. He’s talking to you like he talks to everyone else.

But you catch the barest flicker of disappointment on his face, a flash of something that might even be annoyance. Then, though, it’s gone, and he’s back to that same unshakable, confident smirk.

As the lesson proceeds,  he’s once again the sharpest thing in the room.

You watch for him in the library that weekend, a bit distracted while you and Godefrey study. Without your guidance, there isn’t much studying occurring at all. Godefrey is sort of skimming the pages of a textbook, yawning, as always, like he’s never had a good night’s sleep in his life, and you’re suckling sherbert lemons until the roof of your mouth feels raw.

“What was it you said about Calarook’s Method?”

Your eyes snap from the empty doorway to Godefrey’s face. “Huh?”

“Calarook’s Method.”

“Oh.” You sink boredly into your seat, twirling your quill between your fingers. “It revolutionised the usage of runes globally. She incorporated — um — a much simpler means of translating the scriptures for different methods of magic.”

“Ohhhh, I remember now. Did you write that down?”

“Yes, Godefrey, I wrote it down.”

The final hour before curfew dwells agonisingly longer than it should. It feels like three, at least, until you’re packing your things and bidding Godefrey goodnight, tired legs dragging you down the corridors.

And then you straighten. You stand tall. (You’re absolutely normal about the sight before you.)

Tom smiles at you as he turns the corridor to approach.

“On patrol?” you ask in a friendly tone.

You’re… friends, right? Being someone’s Potions partner for four months qualifies as some degree of friendship, does it not? After all, he did say not to think of him as too far outside your grasp. That was a line if you’d ever heard one, but — you could be Tom’s friend the way everyone is his friend: wholly detached until you were needed.

“Leaving detention,” he answers with a timbre to match.

Your eyebrows raise at that.

“Leaving the second-years I watched in detention, I should say.”

You shake your head. “I should have known.”

“And you?”

“Studying again.”

“Ancient Runes?”

“Mhm.”

“...With Godefrey?”

“That is the concept of a recurrent study partner, yes. It’s recurrent.”

He doesn’t look very much like he appreciates your sarcasm.

“So, then,” you mutter, clearing your throat. “Curfew, I suppose.”

“You performed well in Potions today,” he says after you. It feels like the sort of thing someone says when they don’t want someone to walk away.

You bite your cheek between your teeth — such assumptions will get the better of you. Such assumptions will lead you down a path of crude, obsessive analysis (though you suppose you’ve been doing that all this time, haven’t you?) where you think, in some unspooling knitwork, that there are really only a select few reasons he could want such a thing. Your mind draws to the irresponsible conclusion, as he walks toward you again, a new glint in his eyes, that it’s exactly the sort of thing someone says before rumour has it they disappear into the nearest broom closet with the one they approach. This, you’ve decided an observation ago, Tom Riddle does not do.

“Thank you,” you say carefully. “So did you.”

“We make for a good pair, don’t you think?”

Crude, obsessive analysis. “Slughorn certainly does.”

“And I am asking you.”

He stops a respectable, inviting space before you. His weekend attire is a grey jumper and black slacks, his dark hair in its regular, pristine waves, hands laced behind his back. Everything about him is a request to be met, and not to step forward and close the distance himself. Close the distance, pristine waves, inviting space — you’ve lost your damn mind. You sound like Selwyn. The sugar of a whole packet of sherbet lemons has rendered you imbecilic. You’ll be off to bed, then — sleep this absurdity off.

“Of course, Tom,” you say with a polite smile. “It’d be hard to disagree with the grades I get in that class.” You grab onto your bag to have something to do with your hands, to perhaps signify you’ll be making your exit now.

He seems a bit amused to have to contort himself through the specifics of his meaning. “I was referring to our… rapport.”

“Rapport?”

“We work well together. We communicate efficiently.”

We communicate efficiently? Damn if you couldn’t suddenly make sense of the rumour he’d be applying for the DADA post in the future — that one was definitely true.

“Yes, we do.”

He steps closer. “And I remain far outside your grasp.”

You blink, and there’s a stark, sinking feeling as your eyes drift over the unmarred ivory of his skin, his jaw, his throat, his — no, absolutely not his hands — and you let yourself wonder for the first time if the rumours, albeit exaggerated, have even a shred of truth to them. One exploit, perhaps, to satisfy his endless curiosity. Something academic, like — oh, God, like the way you’ve been studying him for weeks. His hands carving a path down someone’s body to etch it in his memory, another skill added to his arsenal, a new way to work his fingers without a wand, a new way to work his mouth without a word.

It’s only a moment that you wonder it. Some flash of pictures in your head. It is, nonetheless, a moment far too long, and one you don’t know that you can return from.

Tom looks at you from under his eyelashes with an expression that suggests he's the only one in on a very funny joke, and the air is… different. Thick like the Potions room but in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar, not cloudy with the steam of cauldrons but hazy with the proximity of him, cologne and quill ink and something you can’t catch because you’re trying too hard to breathe it all in at once.

But he steps forward again, and seems to say in the slow way he moves, that if you’ll let him, he'll place a hand on your shoulder, and if you’ll allow that — well — then he'll move that hand up to gently frame your cheek. And then, and you no longer consider yourself at all versed in the realm of Tom Riddle, but you think you know what’ll come next.

You allow all of it. You know very well in advance you’re going to allow all of it.

And still, like it’s a surprise, you shiver at the feeling of his hand on your cheek, at the gleaming, certain look in his eyes. Your gaze flickers to his lips for just a second (a fleeting, tiny second you pray fruitlessly he doesn't notice) but his lips curl into the barest of smiles. Something so like him, small but unrestrained, like it never had any hope of growing bigger, but then — you’ve seen the way he grins at you sometimes when you say something stupid in class — you know he’s capable.

“You know what I'm going to do, I assume," he says quietly. It's not a question, per se — more of a statement, and he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on yours as he says it. He's so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. And then he leans in so slightly it might be imperceptible if you weren’t staring, holding your damn breath. “Are you going to let me?"

“I..." You're humiliated to find you are actually struggling to speak. His lips are so close to yours you can feel the ghost of them, can imagine what they might feel like on you. Your mouth is very dry. “We’re… friends, right?”

His voice only wavers for a moment, even as his lips inch ever closer to yours. His voice is tauntingly low, and there's an intimate sort of smile there, a chastising, humorous gleam to his eyes. “Friends," he breathes, and then his lips do close that short distance, and you feel the barest trace of his mouth against yours — his lips, soft and supple against your skin. A moment's kiss. Gone as quickly as it came. “Should we be friends?”

You gape at him, breathing far too heavily for such a chaste kiss, and you imagine your eyes are blown wide, and you lick your lips for a reminder of his taste but it isn't enough. You don't think before standing on your toes to find his lips again. Of course, Tom is stood impeccably straight, his chin almost pointedly jutted so that he can look down at you, and you actually — it's horribly embarrassing — you groan, or whine, or make some sound of blatant discontent at the fact that your kiss doesn’t reach him.

To his credit, his laugh is a very small one. Had it been the other way around you would have been far less forgiving. “I suppose the answer is no, then?" he says, with the implication that the next move might be yours.

“Tom," you as good as hiss (really very foolish of you to use the word forgiving to describe Tom Riddle), “you're being... you're being mean." And you refuse to make the first effort again, even though you probably appear to be a train wreck, your chest is heaving, and you... you want him.

“Am I?" he asks, and he tilts his head to the other side, almost as if to get a better look at you. “How so?" You think he's enjoying himself far too much. But he remains where he is: close enough for you to reach him if you would just yank him toward you and be done with it, and far enough away that you can't take that step without giving him the win.

You stare at him for a long moment, and then with teeth gritted so tight you might chip one, turn to walk away. Tom makes some very hollow, annoyed sound at your stubbornness, and thank god you feel him behind you: soft, lulling, not so immovable as you. 

You stop. His fingers brush your hair to the side. His mouth hovers over the skin of your neck. You shudder.

“Tom..." you sigh, half-exasperated, half-sighed, half-surrendered, but he doesn't answer or stop or do so much as acknowledge your mumbling. He only presses forward, until his breath is right by your ear and his lips, soft, gentle, are against the junction of your exposed neck, and you feel his mouth, the gentle pressure of his lips against your skin... so tender, so light that it doesn’t feel at all like something merciful.

It feels singularly, purposefully cruel.

Your third observation (if you can manage the thought) is that Tom is driven by your reactions. Every little mewl, every shudder, every gasp, he wants more of. He wants whatever you're willing to give him, and you suspect it wouldn’t be hard for him to take it all. Every movement of his hands, his mouth, his — oh, oh no — his tongue, abide by whatever you respond to most. He draws in patterns. He stops. Appreciates the speed of your pulse on the curve of your throat for a moment and then tastes it again. It doesn't seem like he particularly cares what he gets out of it. The intrigue for him is having the proximity (he greatly enjoys that you’ve allowed him it) and capacity (that, you think, he’s always had) to make you fall apart.

He's spinning you then, so you're pressed facing the wall, his chest against your back, and the way he whispers against your skin makes you shiver. You dare to think he feels it, his chest heaving against your back, his breath warm and steady by your ear. And as he kisses you you can't help but imagine what might happen if he were just a few inches lower, if he were to sink to his knees, kissing the soft flesh of your chest, and down, and down, and down…

Your eyes flutter closed, and it's clear you like what he's doing by the sound that escapes you — something loud enough for him to stifle your mouth with his palm. Perhaps a little too much. Perhaps you’ll be embarrassed about it later. But right now his tongue is brushing against your skin again, and there’s something very dizzying and hot that starts with his mouth on your neck and works its way down until it's a challenge just to stay standing. You wonder if he can tell just how weak in the knees you are right now, whether that only makes him push forward, and —

And that must be it. He must know, because you think you're trying to say something but you can't form the words, and he has to feel the reverberations with his teeth bracketing little violets on your neck, he must feel the way your legs buckle, how you're held up only by the weight of him behind you.

He must know.

He pushes forward, his fingers bury in your hair, and he pulls your head back slowly — not necessarily to expose you further, but to better see your face. Your eyes lock with his over your shoulder, and there's that hunger there, lips swollen with the print of you... and his voice, when he speaks, is as if he's only barely stopping himself. “Do you want me to stop?"

You shake your head before you think he’s actually finished the question, swallowing the cotton-dry feeling in your throat. No, no — him stopping is the very last thing you want — you feel entirely rational and not at all melodramatic in saying you might just die if he stops. You want more, and he's looking at you like that’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

He bites down gently on your neck, and you gasp as your knees finally go out from under you (you almost think he planned for this with how quickly he catches you), and you wonder if he'll do something you can't bear; if you'll be reduced to a mewling, drooling mess before he's finished with you.

Your fourth observation — which really is the last one you can muster before it starts to melt into something else — is that you make him human in the only way he can understand: panting into him, fingers in his skin, white-hot and damp at the centre of his obsession. The object of his affection. You make him understand something more singular than ambition. 

Want.

And then his spare hand is dipping past your skirts, and you dig your fingers into his wrist — the combination of the hardness pressed against your back, his hands marking a path to forbidden territory, his finger curling into your mouth as his lips continue their assault on your neck — it's too much. It’s deliriously, disastrously not enough. Your vision is starting to blur.

His fingers stop at the curve where your thighs part and you bite gently down on him to quiet the noise that wants to escape you. He hums against your throat, continuing to kiss and lick and bruise you. You're dazedly aware of the cool air on your thighs as your skirts halo your waist, the heat inside, the shudder as his fingers find your core, and carefully begin to circle you. You feel self-consumed, immolated, devoured and spat out again. You feel like you're still falling, and Tom is the only force that keeps you standing.

He draws in slow, expert patterns — and you think, nonsensically, somewhere very distant where you still have sense, that they can’t be expert, he must have read something or observed some — oh. He’s pushing the thin fabric aside until his fingers are pressed directly against your flesh, and he makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat as the evidence of how much you need this soaks his fingers, as they begin to sink in without resistance. Oh. Right. You don’t remember exactly what you were saying. 

You gasp at the feeling of having him inside when they finally curl into you. 

His finger is pulled from your mouth with a small pop, and you can’t even really muster the capacity to be embarrassed by the lewd, wet sound of it. He watches you over your shoulder, at his fingers vanished between your legs, at the drool clinging to the digit he’d quieted you with. He’s smiling into your neck now, proud and grateful all the same.

“Mine,” you think he murmurs, but it’s more something you feel than hear, some vague, hazy consonants pressed to your throat. It would be very like him, so you decide that yes, that’s probably what he said. And there’s something funny about it — the idea of being his — about what it means for him to want you so badly that he says it out loud. It feels a little bit like he’s yours, too.

Tom’s breathing is harsh, the fingers inside you moving as if they have a will of their own. Every muscle in your body constricts and squeezes around them; every cell, every neuron, comes roaring to life; and you’re fucked. You’re so completely fucked. His teeth scrape against you again, wholeheartedly pleased. This is what he wanted to see — the utter loss of you — when you are nothing but sensation, barely aware of your limbs as they slump against him. Tom is it; Tom is the only thing you can think of.

Tom is, inexplicably, upsettingly good at this.

“Look at you," he says softly. And his touch changes; it becomes slower, more deliberate and careful.

You’re trembling hopelessly. The way you coil and collapse under his touch is just further encouragement. He doesn't even bother to speak anymore, only pants, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and slick when they attach to your throat again. Your whole body is on fire, and he's the one setting you alight — there is not a single inch of you that is not alive with the feeling of him, and you can barely breathe through the slow, heavy rush of it. 

You think you cry at the divine curve of his fingers carving inside you, slow and soft and then intense — when you grip his arm for more friction, and one of his hands is coming up to wipe a tear away but the feeling flares in your abdomen and you're only half aware of it, really — you think your eyes have rolled back. You think you've gone somewhere else. 

He keeps you just on the precipice, just shy of losing control, just far enough to leave you craving for more.

“To—Tom," you sob, gasps cleaving his name in two — you're on the brink of something incomprehensible, building inside you to something you can't help but think is about to shatter, your eyes clenching shut as you grip him so hard you're certain your fingers will leave marks. “I'm gonna—"

“I know," he breathes against your neck, hands running a familiar path along your body; he's so very, very proud that he's made you like this. He just barely bites into the spot above your collar, curls his fingers, and then you’re falling — something unfurls inside you and can’t be collected, something hot and depthless that your hands can’t clutch at from where they’re clinging so desperately to him — and you think, coming down from it with trembling, debilitating ecstasy, that he looks very much like he’d be proud to make you like this over and over again.

You're flattened, and that triumph in his eyes — the absolute satisfaction of seeing you this way, of knowing that that he's the one that did it to you — that feeling fills your mind and makes you collapse even more, makes you want to melt and flow into liquid at his feet; to give in, do whatever he says, even if all he says is just be like this for him.

He slowly removes his fingers as you come down, and your eyes are blinking for focus when he turns you around, his thumb coming up to brush over your bottom lip and you sigh at the taste of yourself as he pushes it inside your mouth. His other hand brushes away the damp, stray hairs that have fallen across your face, almost reverently, a silent worship as he takes you in, appreciates everything you just gave him.

He smiles gently at your half-blinking, half-vacant expression, his thumb still in your mouth; he watches you for a long moment in silence. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he's got a small quirk at the corner of his mouth as he pulls his thumb away and swipes it once more over your lip.

You're still not quite sure you can find words. Still not sure they'd form right as your tongue darts over the residue of Tom's finger and you flush impossibly hotter at the feeling of your own arousal on your mouth. Tom fixes your hair behind your ears and it doesn't seem like he's ready to stop taking you in in this state — your hair wild,  lips swollen, throat bruised and dress askew — and he leans in so tenderly it startles you, pressing a faint, almost imperceptible kiss to your forehead.

“Tell Godefrey he’ll be needing a new study partner. I think you’ll find yourself committed elsewhere." And with that he turns on his heel, perfectly composed, and disappears into the darkness of the midnight corridor.

Oh God, you think, and you’re too stunned to even react as you watch him vanish. It takes you a moment before you regain your senses, and you can only just manage to sputter out a breathless, miserable sigh into the air before you.

You are so completely, utterly fucked.

[miyamoratsumuu]

WELCOME BACK, Y/N!

We are currently booting up your PC! Kindly wait for a moment. {...} {...} {...} COMPLETE ! running default application now . . .

➢ WARNING!!! video contains flashing lights & bright colors

PUSH AND PULL TEASER: THE SELECTION

PUSH AND PULL

➢ for a while now, she's had feelings for the online friend she met months ago through similar preferences in music. they get along well, and he seems to take interest in her too. until she caught the attention of her favorite band's drummer, katsuki bakugou. who would be the victor of her heart in the end?

PUSH AND PULL masterlist 〣 mha masterlist

➢ taglist: open!!

@kovu-bunnbunn @loveelylacey @ac333s @sepptember @iloveroblox48

@captainshindo @sweetadonisbutbetter @sukunasbottomlefteyeball @sourbbyxo

➢ images, sound effects, clips, and music used in the video and character profiles above are not mine!! only the edits and character profiles themselves were made by me.

➢ the "origin" of each character is where they met/meet y/n in the series!

a/n: had to crack my knuckles and dig deep down in my knowledge of website coding for this one HAHSUAHAH I thought of just editing it as a video fully but I know all too well it would take me a whole year before I could finish this if I did that</3 the quality of the video is killing me though why is it so blurry 😞

the music that played when their profile was clicked is and are going to be the vibes the character will give off for the whole series in a way

ALSO I MESSED UP ON KATSUKI'S PROFILE IN THE VIDEO AGHHHH that's supposed to be 5'8" u guys 😞 and like technically all characters in this series are adults and/or grown up, but yes, I used Katsuki's first year stats bc I don't want to think of a random height or weight I'm sorry ☹️ pls excuse my terrible editing skills in the video as well tyvm<33

[1ovede1uxe]

hiii!!! may i request some fluff headcanons with esidisi? general ways of showing affection, pet names, pda, hugs, kisses, cuddles, etc.! whatever strikes u! tyvm! <3 :)

hi anon! :D thank u for the request!! i’ve never written for any of the pillar men before so it’s a little short, I still hope this is all to ur liking :) may be a little ooc, so I apologize in advance <3

fluff hc for esidisi!

- esidisi prob wouldn’t know how to give affection very much at first

- his s/o would have to show him the ropes for everything, but he’s a quick learner!

- acts of service is defo his love language (and he likes to show off)

- oh the couch is too heavy for you to move? he’s holding it above his head asking you where you want it

- not huge on PDA but in private will maintain some kind of physical contact with you at all times, even if it’s just sitting leg to leg

- likes to play with his s/o’s hair!

- defo a big spoon or a “wrap around” cuddler accompanied with kisses on s/o’s head :)

- a lot of trust between u two since he could probably easily crush you

- “bear hugs” in private

[meanbossart]

Hi, just a warning for the following unhinged question. (I'm getting baby rabies.) I love seeing Dadstarion and Famstarionnstuff all over tumblr- AND of course that lil thing you drew with Drow and Astarion and fucking little Bhaalings into his belly sparked the question-

DOES DROW WANT KIDS SOMEDAY? UNCONSCIOUSLY? SUBCONSCIOUSLY? Like with the whole Sarevok, epilogue reveal, is it spoilers to ask how your Drow would deal with the new sudden urge to procreate? (Sorry if this is actually a spoiler for ANE future chapters) BUT If so, how does it manifest? Does he start nesting? Hoarding even more shiny crap and dirty rags than usual? Does he start adopting every mangy orphaned cub they come across? Does his dirty talk in bed just get progressively more and more disturbing and natally oriented that even he starts thinking "wtf" post encounter? Does he ever think about putting a round bundle under his shirt and pretending it's his and Astarions dhamphir love-child?

Also IF yes to any of the above, What would Astarion's reaction be?

TYVM

Unhinged fan of yours

First of all I love unhinged questions. Those are my favorite questions. This is an unhinged couple and It's what they deserve, so thank you for this LOL

This topic, at least in this context, never comes up in ANE so I think i can answer it without anything being considered a spoiler.

"Currently" I definitely don't think either of them consider the idea of children in the slightest, while both probably get on with kids relatively well, in their own weird ways (kids love weird people) they're strongly in the "don't want kids and never will" frame of mind despite any joking and uh thematic dirty talking.

THAT BEING SAID, they are both bound to exist for a long time. Depending on how things turn out for him, Astarion's lifespan is either a good 700 years or a big Ol Forever. Drows also live for up to seven centuries and I don't even know whether or not DU Drow's particular kind of Bhaalspawn-ness doesn't affect that, as you could argue he's some type of demigod. The idea that they may change their mind at some point is not out of the question.

In regards to DU drow getting a baby fever in the future, I do think it will be something they have to deal with. Obviously, him and Astarion can't procreate as they are, and even if magical options exist DU drow is still aware that it would be a bad idea to follow through with it. I have honestly no clue how a desire like that would externalize, but - and I hate to be a downer but I assume you want my sincere answer here - based on Sarevok's letter I don't actually think it would be as fun as the bedroom talk or the cracks he makes - it sounds like it would be a spiraling depression and state of unfulfillment that they would simply have to learn to cope with if he is to remain childless, peppered with a profound yearning for a More he can't quite pin down. Luckily I think Astarion's character has demonstrated time and time again that he has the ability to be extremely sensible towards that type of thing, and he would be pretty much the ideal partner in those circumstances (especially if we're talking an older, more mature Astarion). An adoptive child could sate that, or it could not, I have no idea, but I don't think he would ever just say "yeah fuck it lets have/get a kid" in response to it.

Either way, as I mentioned above I believe it's not out of the question (if not inevitable?) that they could come to become someone's guardians someday regardless, especially if they ever become more firmly settled in life and the people they are. I doubt it's something they will ever actively seek out (I don't really see them ever completely retiring from a dangerous lifestyle of their own will) but maybe they stumble upon an orphan or, more likely, kill some kid's actual parents and out of guilt keep it for long enough to develop a bond. Lets say this happens out on the road - maybe they want to at least drop it off at a city somewhere where the thing would have a better chance, but ultimately decide against it for whatever reason... Yeah I could see something like that happening lol It's a cute thought, and funny enough I don't think they would make the Worst parents, assuming their character developments continues in a generally positive direction.

[causenessus]

Home. | Sebastian

sebastian x reader

she/her pronouns

song recc: let the light in by lana del ray

word count: 719 words

whenever i say not edited (literally every post) i at least read through it once but this has no reread whatsoever and was written in one night, i just needed to write about seb cuddling someone on a couch tyvm :) happy new year loves <3

.

for those of us out there still looking for our homes <3

.

.

and for those of us who have found it: welcome home.

Sometimes home became too much.

Was it even truly home if that was the case?

Where he was going now felt more like home.

The basement had become too stuffy for him. It didn’t help hearing footsteps above him, nor had coming upstairs and seeing Demetrius.

Perhaps, after meeting her, he was no longer content with staying in the dark. To stay trapped and confined. Quiet. Walking on eggshells and memorizing schedules so that he’d be able to leave the basement with no one around.

That was fine, though. Now he was going home. To somewhere safe. 

Even the walk there made him feel better, he could breathe again, unlike in the basement where he felt that he was suffocating.

Sure, it was past midnight and a little cold, but he couldn’t complain. He was thankful she lived close, and he looked forward to the warmth of her home. 

It was both a physical and an intangible warmth that she carried with herself even outside of her home. Her arms felt welcome and safe, he’d never felt judged or uncomfortable there.

Now he was at her doorstep, all he had to do was knock. Perhaps it was rude of him to show up so late. She was always working hard, especially recently with her plans to restore the Community Center that she had told only him about. 

Here his mind went, racing and doubling back over itself. He stood paralyzed at the door, fist relaxing and clenching again.

Suddenly the door swung open and he was momentarily blinded by warm, soft lighting.

Had he already knocked without realizing it? Maybe he’d just been waiting this whole time.

“Sebastian!” Arms wrapped around his neck, he hadn’t even made it inside yet but her warmth erased any presence of the frigid air. He felt a warmth spread from his heart to the rest of his body, further calming him down on the inside as well.

“Come inside, it’s cold,” she pulled him inside by the arms, closing the door softly behind him. “I thought I heard someone on the deck, I should really just give you a key at this point, I’m so happy to see you,” she smiled, still holding onto his arms as she faced him.

He was still a little shocked, perhaps by the quick change of events. How one person could make such a difference in his life, he could never understand. Already, the world seemed brighter and better from just a few actions. “You would trust me with a key to your house?”

“Certainly I would, my love,” she brushed a stray hair from his face. “You’re welcome here whenever you’d like. Even if I’m not home or sleeping, my door is always open for you. You’re lucky tonight, I just got home from the desert and couldn’t quite sleep yet. I’ve just been on the couch reading a book.”

“Can…Can I stay with you tonight?” he mumbled, melting into her touch.

Her face narrowed with concern; again, such a simple gesture that was so rare it made him want to wrap his arms around her and whisper ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ over and over.

“Of course. Is everything all right? Do you wanna talk about it?” When he shook his head she cupped his face, giving him a quick kiss. “That’s alright, Love. Go ahead and sit down, do you want coffee? Tea?”

“Tea, please.” He responded, making his way to her couch. She followed behind quickly after with two steaming mugs, a tea bag hanging out of each one. 

She laid down on the couch and he was quick to collapse onto her, his head resting on her middle, arms wrapped around her waist, and the rest of his body laid between her legs. 

She ran a hand through his hair, humming softly as she picked up her book with her other hand.

Everything felt perfect in such a peaceful moment. Gone were any feelings of frustration or discomfort that had built up in one day. All was forgotten in her warmth.

Perhaps home wasn’t even a place, but a person; he could be happy anywhere as long as she was with him.

When he needed help and was craving home, he didn’t need a place, he needed her.

He was home.

[nicojoe]

I wrote my own fanscript of THE OLD GUARD 2

The screenshots above are samples...

... I got tired of waiting for Netflix, so:

I tried to incorporate the following:

TOG 2 casting (Uma and Henry) plus some locations where the movie was shot last year (as seen in set photos, etc)

my own personal "wish list" of details, but hopefully in a way that makes sense within the larger story (tried to avoid making it just a self-indulgent, shoe-horned laundry list lol) and in a way that it could conceivably be greenlit by the industry -- ie: I'd have loved to write 2 whole hours of them just hanging out playing board games and reminiscing, but that would never be made into a movie.

a few ideas inspired by some of my favorite meta posts/fan art/etc (some of y'all are SO much more creative than the people actually making these movies, istg) -- try to spot them all!

favorite "action" scenes from the Force Multiplied comic, despite this script not being a true adaptation (it just borrows the broader strokes)

the decision not to make Quynh a villain; she's arguably got a hero arc in this, tbh (the top 1% and their use of institutional/systemic oppression to exploit and control the masses is the real villain, actually!)

no new immortals or explanation of immortality, tyvm; I tried to focus on the Family of Six and their shared history as much as possible.

PDF FILE OF SCRIPT

[thegamingcatmom]

How would the sisters react when reader is in a bad mood? What would they do to get reader in a better mood? 😏

Hey, 😏!

And so sorry for getting to your ask(s) only now! I got two more of yours next in line, so keep an eye out! 👁️

Right so, I think it's safe to say that this:

-would roughly be their initial reaction. 🫠

Like, moody hooman means either one or ALL of those things:

they´ve done something

they got caught doing something

they failed to do something

they forgot to feed hooman (their doom is certain, if that´s the case)

No matter which one it is:

They better fix it, and soon. Lest they wish to spend the next few weeks in the doghouse. They despise the doghouse. It´s cold and lonely and lacks the mouthwatering smell and it´s not soft and smooth and-

...They gotta fix it, ASAP.

OR:

What the sisters would do to get out of the doghouse make their moody hooman feel better:

.

.

.

Tanya Denali: The Strategist 📝

as a leader, she´s nothing if not attentive to the needs of her coven members

and especially her mate

also, as a leader, she´s got a battle plan prepared

a leader always has a plan

Step 1: Communication

she will talk about things before making rash decisions that might end up doing more harm than good

in her opinion, communication is almost always the key

if that fails (which is hardly ever the case because she just has a way with words, sexy mf), she´s gonna proceed to-

Step 2: Proximity

she´s just gonna...remain for a bit

yknow, just being there to gauge MC´s reaction to her prolonged presence

(it´s like treading a minefield: every step must be thoroughly considered)

if Step 2 is a success, it almost always ends with her getting Some

she loves Step 2

if Step 2 fails (this world is cruel, truly), she´s gonna proceed to-

Step 3: Entertainment

this is the tricky one, the last resort

what she wouldn´t give to be neck-deep into Step 2 rn

but, instead-

she´s gonna try and be...funny

this feels most alien to her

that´s Kate´s thing

ofc she has her funny moments, lots of them

she´s a blast to be around, tyvm 😤

but this? making a fool out of herself?

ridiculous, laughable, utterly insane-

*a light smile that´s totally still full of grump starts spreading across MC´s face*

Tanya: ... 🫠

for her mate? with that beautiful smile as her reward?

she´d make the biggest fool out of herself anytime without hesitation

Kate Denali: The Clown 🤡

out of the three of them, she´s the funniest to be around

she knows this

everyone knows this

cmon

it´s Kate the Great

bish pls

she´s got this

*cracks her knuckles*

unlike Tanya, she has no plan

at all

she´s all about improvisation

no risk no fun and all, yknow

but also: she´s a warrior

which means she´s gonna face the foe (her Mate the Grump) head on:

(bad) jokes

funny faces

stories about the times she bested her sisters in whatever (good times indeed)

when that doesn´t manage to make MC burst out laughing (she doesn´t get it, those stories are the funniest shit), she opts for a more...serious approach

(believe it or not, she is capable of such a thing)

like, yknow, she´s always down for shits and giggles

but she also realizes when those are neither needed nor wanted

"Hey..."

no reaction

"Princezná, please...talk to me."

still no reaction

right

time to pull out the big guns:

"...Pretty please?"

all pouty lips and big eyes

MC: 🙄

...

also MC: *the lightest of smiles starts spreading*

also MC: *lightly shaking her head*

also MC: "...You´re such an idiot."

Kate: 😁

also Kate: ❤️ "Yours."

Irina Denali: The Disciplinarian 📏 (❤️)

unlike her sisters, she´s not one for jokes in such a situation

her mate is displeased

which means she´s displeased

she cannot stand the sight

no matter if she´s the cause of it or not

it pains her

even more so if she was the cause of it

she will fix this, if it´s the last thing she does

like Tanya, prefers communication above all else

unlike Tanya, won´t let up until her darling mate opens up

she can be a bit...overbearing, when it comes to these things

but she means well

truly

(she´s like a hound scenting its prey)

(sniffing for every little clue)

(won´t let up until she´s got a tight grip)

she´s gonna be most considerate in her choice of words

but she´ll also be honest

yknow, some tough loving

"Maličký, how am I meant to help if you won´t tell me what troubles you?"

all stern ☝️

but in a loving manner 🫶

big eyes and all 👁️👁️

when MC does crack (and she will, you can´t say "no" to all that tough love), Irina will reward her by giving her anything

literally

anything that might make it better

ice cream? chocolate? a movie night? a romantic walk in the park? a candle light dinner? a bath? a massage? hugs? cuddles? kisses? declarations of love? the moon and the stars?

(if she could, she would)

if she can, she will

anything for her sweet Angel

.

.

.

Thanks a lot for your ask! 💋

[thelordofgifs]

helloooo congrats once again on 600 followers!!!! could i prompt you with valacar/vidumavi + #9 (in public) from the kiss prompts? tyvm beloved <3

In the afternoons they liked, when they could, to spend time with the children as a family. Valacar had duties aplenty with which to occupy himself, and his household was not wanting for nurses and servants; but he would not give up these brief hours for anything. Today it was warm and clear, and they had decided to sit on the rooftop garden as the children played.

Vidumavi was dressed very lightly and simply, in a loose white dress: she was not yet accustomed to the heat of Osgiliath in the summer, which felt to her often oppressive, and this pregnancy had been harder on her than the two she had undergone in cool Rhovanion. Guilt twisted anew in Valacar’s heart to remember it – how carefree had been her smile, then, how light her footstep, how merry and unrestrained her golden laugh!

Yet she was cheerful even now, his gracious lady, bending down obligingly to examine the earthworm their son had found amid the flowers, and encouraging their small daughter when her clumsy little fingers struggled with the daisy-chain she was making.

“Eldacar,” Valacar called. “Come here – come to Ada.” He held out his arms.

Eldacar cast him an uncertain look. He was not yet fully accustomed to his new name – hard, to explain to a five-year-old that his very name would bring down suspicious eyes upon him, and that he must give it up if he had any hope of ever being beloved. Again Valacar wondered whether he had done the right thing.

His sister cast aside her daisies and burst into tears.

“Sweet!” Vidumavi exclaimed. She bent with some difficulty, and picked the child up, and then murmured to her in her own tongue, “I think it was very beautiful, even if it did break, darling.”

Valacar bit his lip. “Eldacar,” he said, in clear, enunciated Westron, “will you not show me your worm, too?”

His eldest was good-natured above all, and disinclined to hold a grudge. After a moment’s deliberation he toddled over to Valacar, and presented his treasure; and Valacar, his heart swelling with relief, crouched down to marvel over the earthworm clutched in Eldacar’s grubby little fist, and surreptitiously inhale the baby-sweet scent of his hair as he did so.

Of course they were not truly alone. You could never be alone, if you were the only son of the Prince-Regent of Gondor, and had married a foreign princess beside: there were eyes on Valacar and his small family everywhere they went. Even now passers-by in the street below were slowing their steps, eager to catch a glimpse of the unconventional little family, and murmur to each other about the slight swell of Vidumavi’s stomach (for true-blooded Númenoreans did not often bear children in such quick succession) and perhaps to learn for themselves whether the boy who would one day be their King was, in looks at least, one worthy of them.

“Look, Eldacar,” Valacar murmured in his ear. “Look over your city. Is it not fair in the sunlight? You will rule over it all, one day.”

If he said it enough times, he could make it true, breathe some of his own long life into his boy’s veins, make it so that he would endure long enough to inherit his due.

Vidumavi was watching him with very soft eyes. Balancing their daughter on her hip, she came to stand beside him, the afternoon sunlight on her fair hair crowning her with gold. She took his hand in her cool one. “Is all well?” she murmured.

“Yes,” said Valacar, needing it to be so; and, conscious of the many eyes below them, the city of his boyhood transformed suddenly into a watchful stranger, he dipped his head to kiss her warm sweet mouth, and the summer breeze lifted their hair, raven and gold, and sent it mingling behind them like a war-banner; and they stood like that until their daughter began to squirm and Eldacar, bored, wandered off to play in the dirt again.

[itchyeye]

For 🐅, maybe Jon or Sasha? They’re my favorites haha. Thank you!

tyvm for giving me specific characters!!

i'm not sure this is "unusual" so much as it's "against broadly accepted and wildly inaccurate fanon" but i do not think sasha was some sort of hypercompetent sleeper cell who would have made the perfect archivist

jon was the perfect archivist specifically for completing the magnus archives' ritual. no one else could have done it. he was chosen by the web and by jonah.

also i don't think sasha was cold and calculating and shrewd. gertrude was, and gertrude admired sasha. but sasha had all the same characteristics as gerry and michael which made her an admirable assistant in gertrude's eyes. she was headstrong, rash, unafraid in the face of danger. she was not above manipulation and illegal activities to get the information she needed.

sasha is a great character and her relationship with jon was clearly warm and meant a lot to him. i love the aftereffects that her death and replacement send through the narrative. but she (by virtue of being a woman and of being alive for only 40 episodes) has been squashed down into the UBIQUITOUS "fandom mom" trope of being "the only competent one" or "the only one with the brain cell" which is every progressive fandom denizen's favorite way of removing an annoying woman character from the equation by sanding off all of her flaws, complexities, and dimension in favor of making her an emotionless, hypersmart, capable, independent robot.

who needs female characters with characteristics when we can instead talk about how much we love women by making them totally featureless. j'adore!!!

[localsya]

Wake up bestie its lore time. So, i was wondering what about all those stones in marika’s chambers, taking a look around i could see there was also scripts in the ground, like if someone had been  writting/reading in there and just left them cause they were unimportant, after all its paper, unlike the other ones stored in the room.

i also took notice on how the writing is very clear, very runic-like, and i was curious if it was the common spoken language in the lands between, turns out, it is but only half way through it.   I visited the alexandria library of elden ring aka. the Carian Study Hall to check on the book pages, the writting is different, much more composed and the kind of pen used its different too, that only besides the wider parts of the paragraphs.

Next parade was Stormveil and the Raya Lucaria Academy, the writting was similar to the one found in Liurnia -Carian Study Hall-

Which made me think, maybe the language Marika was using, either for reading/writting, is different to other known languages, i checked the BlackKnife blade print, since Black Knife assasins are also Numen kind, and the runes inscripted in the blades are indeed, similar to Marika’s writting.

BUT, as soon as i got to check the notes the merchant nomades sell you, and the official monuments to commemorate certain events, are also written in the rune kind of alphabet.

This may indicate that after Marika’s conquest, she either learned the language of Leyndell, or she stablished her mother tongue as the ruling one, which is most likely cause the whole ER story is just religious colonialism.  SO NOW TO THE POINT, why does Marika has so many stones in her bedroom, i took a closer look at them and they are written in a different language, more refined on the edges as if they were more polished, like writting normally to then writte italics.

So since Marika and the Numen kind are clearly Roman/Old Greek oriented, i took a look at the ancient alphabets. This is how Greek “cancilleresco” (sorry i dont know the english word) looks like on paper.

And this is ancient greek from athens looked like written rough 

Obviously is very different, but, why would the Queen make “drafts” of the writtings in common letters before turning them to italics on stone? WELL, HOLD UR PANTS DARLING, in ancient greece, at some point the laws were only chantered by voice, which greatly benefits the aristocracy ofc, however, this changed with the arrival of Draco, the very first lawgiver, known to have written the most brutal laws that the ancient greece ever got to see, he was the first one that firstly wrote his laws on wood, as “drafts” and then, he did on stones, the image above is a part of them. They were known as the “Draconian Laws” 

These laws where known for being specially cruel and ruthless, very extreme, some examples were that minor crimes like stealing bread, meant death, or -this part specially relevant in ER- if someone was in debt, they person they owned had the right to take them as slaves (heavy coughs , trolls, bla bla bla you know you know). /EDIT took away albinaurics, @dankesdarkman​ corrected me about their position and they dont fall under the category of slaves. So, IN CONCLUSION, i wouldn’t be surprised that the table stones we found in Marika’s chambers are her laws, the equivalent of Draconian laws written in blood for how cruel they were. Its a really pretty comparison taking on point a good chunk of Marika’s character is old greek/roman oriented, the very architecture of Leyndell speaks by itself. That was today’s ted talk tyvm, Marika’s stones are the equivalent of “laws written in blood” Gn gamers.

[tacticalhimbo]

WRITING REQUESTS OPEN!

Howdy everyone!

Remaking this post since it's overdue, but I've joined the writer's portion of the @ficsforgaza initiative to help encourage fundraising for the Palestinian cause!

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This includes, given the nature of some fandoms on the following list, violence, explorations of mental health, and so on.

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I WRITE FOR...

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[ruinmegently]

WIP INTRO — These Barren Wilds

A mysterious figure spat up from the sand journeys with a fortune seeking cutthroat looking to sell him to the highest bidder.

- GENRES - dystopian • magical realism • lgbtq+

- THEMES - friends to enemies • enemies to lovers • post-environmental-apocalypse • classism • oppressive government regime • disability representation • dark themes • redemption arc • found family • unrepentantly queer • journey through foreign lands

- VIBES - your wheelchair has crab legs and it's still a bitch to handle • i'm not a cowboy i'm a cowperson tyvm • eat sand and die trying • cooing at your serrated blade because it's the only child you'll ever have • loving the unlovable • not quite a western but eh close enough • byoa (bring your own anarchy)

oh shit that's me. hey writeblr! you can call me ruin. i'm a 32 year old college dropout, unpublished, who was on track for a B.A in English with a concentration in Creative Writing, like, back when dinosaurs rode men. i'm a nerd for The Process (even if The Process often corners me in a dark alley and beats me up for funsies).

#these barren wilds has been living in my head for months now, and ya'll inspired me to finally try to write it. mostly gonna be posting world building, character development, and rough unedited snippets on here, under the tag above.

if you're writing something similar, or if this genre just vibes with you, you are always welcome to spam my ask box so we can geek out about our ideas together!

anyways, i never know how to end these things, ily k bai.

.oo1 — july 31st

Big man lays an old hag flat on her face. Roughs her up with a boot on her hand. Whole crowd hears the crunch, unappetizing, but that doesn’t stop their steady procession shuffling single file to cash in the day’s food vouchers. The lines stretch farther than eyes can see, occluded by a dusty afternoon haze. Vouch Shops close in a couple hours. Sad saps at the back won’t make it before they lock up.

The big guy twists his heel in the lady’s hand. Who knows why. She screams and no one in my line turns but me, like the sound digs actual nails through the back of my skull, so jarring I can’t help but watch.

Hope she shuts up soon.

Ain’t uncommon to see Bruisers at market anyways, but they’ve been showin up more and more. Enforcers sent from way out in Wave came last month to train the dustbloods lucky enough to get a Career Shift Card. To keep the peace, they said. Too much gang activity. Too many deserters.

Right.

The Enforcers are bad enough, but when they send the dregs of Wave to train the dirtiest of Dust, well. You don’t really get new Enforcers outta all that.

“Next!”

“Hey Pops,” I say, elbow on the cracked sandstone counter of the Vouch Shop my line leads to. Gotta bend in half just to plant myself down. Casual, easy, like me and Pops are old friends. Met the guy last week but sure, friends fits just as well as anything else.

“You have it?” Pops asks, beady black eyes squinted against the glare of the sun.

His shop’s west-facing. Most face north or south. I asked him why he wanted to go and stick out like a sore thumb, our first meetup. He told me out west’s where hope’s found, if you can drag yourself far enough onward to find it. He likes the view. He likes knowing there’s more out that way. I told him you gotta scale the walls first, or blunder through em, unless you’re lucky enough to get a new job with a fancy CSC. But then you’ll always be a dustblood, won’tcha?

You can leave the desert but the desert never really leaves you.