#and everyone knows the answer is follies

[sepublic]

Post-Hoot with Dana Terrace!

            Dana’s put over 200 hours into games she’s missed since the finale; Octopath Traveler, Little Nightmares, etc. Sarah Nicole-Robles cried harder than she ever did when she said I learned a language I’ll never forget, a whole chapter of my life is over, during the King-ceanera. She said the line once and was suddenly sobbing because of how meta it was. 

         Rebecca has a ‘sona during the bit with Barcus in the epilogue sequence. Cissy also cried when watching with her family, her kids asked her about it; Sarah was really excited as she watched the finale.

         No sequel happening, but we can always hope; Dana would like to do more, but Disney owns the IP and needs to give them permission. Dana knew the prequel line in the finale was ham-fisted as hell but still went with it because she was pissed (she said Fuck to express her rage). Rebecca went back to the Anger phase of grief after watching the finale after realizing what they missed, but Sarah was also in Acceptance because it was hard to regret something that ended so well.

         Dana doesn’t cry that much, but TJ’s remix in the soundtrack made her cry. Dana brought back everyone for BBBYYYEEEEEEE, noting this was every character’s last line, and wished Hooty had more lines. Alex improvised a cut line after the Bye with Hooty expressing appreciation for the finale and readiness for his spin-off.

         Dana won’t say much in hopes she’ll get to do more for TOH in the future; A Youtube reviewer (shoutout to all, Zachary Ax, Man of a Thousand Thoughts, Rebecca herself), the Third Bill got it right on Hooty, and Dana won’t be more specific about that.

         They found out about the shortening during S2; They had an ending in mind that Dana had in mind since development, but it needed too much setup and so they couldn’t pull it off. All of Season 2A was written before knowing the cancellation; Follies at the Coven Day Parade was the first episode fully written knowing the show was shortened, hence the tonal change. The Galdorstones was an arc Dana planned more on, as well as the Coven Heads; Bat Queen; It was a hard situation choosing what to leave out.

         There weren’t whole episodes written that had to be trashed; Just one-sentence ideas on a whiteboard never fully outlined or scripted. But Dana is still happy with what came out, because it was pretty damn cool.

         Rebecca Rose once saw someone with a King sweatshirt like hers at Disneyland and said hi, but they just side-eyed her and didn’t respond; Despite this, Rebecca hopes they had a happy day and believes they were just having a bad time. Sarah joked about not being so forgiving.

         String Bean’s inspiration: Owlbert is in the title of the show, String Bean indeed was there the whole time! The S wasn’t completely intentional at first, but Dana flipped the logo around and figured it out. When making the first episode, the logo wasn’t finalized. They always liked the idea of Luz being connected to snakes, it’s what she brought to school and they liked her reclaiming something she terrorized her classmates with. The Snake-Shifter idea specifically; Zach Marcus just said “Snake-Shifter” as they brainstormed ideas and Dana, being a sucker for lame puns, was sold.

         That was indeed Dana being represented as a student in the epilogue! She was Beastkeeping and Oracle; Dana can see the future of the show, and really likes animals. Raine’s palisman was indeed hidden within the violin’s design; Hunter and Dell worked to fix the palismen after Raine broke it trying to stop Belos. The violin is more akin to the staff, anyhow. Dana considered responding to a question about general Caleb, Evelyn, and Flapjack lore, but Sarah insisted she stay silent in case they get to answer it as an actual story later.

         Dana liked to think while writing Thanks to Them; No, Evelyn’s spirit isn’t in Flapjack. But to Philip, he saw Flapjack as the culmination of the corruption in his brother Caleb; He saw Flapjack, if it weren’t for YOU. You can see a hint of it in Masha’s story, Evelyn entices Caleb with Flapjack, who was Caleb’s introduction to magic. Evelyn was probably disguised as a human, and trusted Caleb for seeming reasonable and less violent. Perhaps like Dog owners passing each other by and suddenly becoming friends over this.

         Evelyn and Caleb’s relationship was sweet, from platonic curiosity to romantic. Eda doesn’t know she’s descended from them, nor does Hunter; And Dana has more to say, but will keep it hidden. Luz will stay the majority of her stay in the isles as she goes to college. Camila bought the shack leading to the human world, which allowed Luz to visit during holidays, weekends, etc.

         They never got to explore it, but it could’ve originally been the home of Philip and Caleb, long abandoned; Eda emerges after discovering the portal. In the next thirty years, she fixes up the shack as she builds the Owl House. Dana also advised fans to google Death of the Author, since she’s technically no longer working on the show, and thus gives permission for fans to write their own answers.

         Eda became the Owl Lady before Owlbert, due to the curse; They planned to do an episode where Eda learned palismen carving with Dell, and how Eda reclaimed the Owl identity to carve Owlbert. Dana stills has the outline of that episode in her head…

         According to Rebecca, Caleb and Philip’s graves were in the basement of the shack, based on this church in New Haven Dana passed by every day on her way to school (Gravesfield is based on some places in Connecticut). However, Dana realized the graves didn’t fit into the story. They also had an ‘original’ Belos design for him taking over animals. Marina Gardner did some amazing Belos designs, and Thanks to Them alluded to it.

         The Portal’s eye comes from the Titan’s missing eye!!! Hunter is bisexual, Willow is pansexual, this is how Dana always wrote and imagined them in her mind, but it’s not explicitly stated so technically it’s more headcanon. Dana noted how some people just picked it up. Dana likes to think Amity and Lilith rekindled their student-mentor relationship. Having worked in the library, Amity was interested in Lilith’s knowledge of history. Dana suggested to Zarya(?) from the design team to add notes to Lilith’s museum blueprints. A helicopter passed over and they joked it was Disney trying to stop spoilers.

         Cissy only got her lines and didn’t know any other details about the finale, to Dana’s surprise; Dana explained that people not getting a full script is due to the pandemic. Before quarantine, actors would get the full script. They have to rely on Eden Riegel and Dana for context a lot. Bosook Coburn spoiled Luz’s death to Rebecca Rose during the celebration party. They came up with a lot of designs for dying Luz, trying to figure out how they can hollow out her head how much. Dana mentions it’s up to the showrunner to show how much they want to the actors.

         Thanks to Sarah, they kept in Luz saying her own SFX during her fight with Eda in O Titan, Where Art Thou; She heard someone do it as part of the mock script and wanted it. When Dana voiced Eda and Luz at the end, Dana was crying. There’s a recording of Season 2B and Season 3 of Dana doing a voice-over of the script to get approved by executives.

         Dana clarified everyone would’ve had more of a chance to talk with each other, such as Hunter and Amity; Hunter would’ve talked to Vee, as well as more human realm kids, literally everyone would’ve had a little more time with each other. Dana loves Luz and Hunter’s sibling dynamic. Dana was sorry they couldn’t have Luz and Raine hang out, but they had the Hexsquad storyline. Luz finished high school in the human world, with the renewed motivation that she’ll go back to the isles. Knowing she has a safe space outside of high school made it more bearable, as was the case for Dana growing up.

         Cissy brought up Gus’ hair in the epilogue, which she loved; Emmy Cicierga did the design for Gus and Raine. Harpy Lilith was by Emmy; Dana did Emira, Eberwolf, and Skara’s timeskip designs. The name of the Titan is unpronounceable for humans.

         Dana can’t say much about the Archivists; The Collector never had a flash-forward design, as they age much more slowly than everyone else. Maybe the Collector got just a tiny bit taller. The idea of the Collector came from creepy dolls, as well as a nightmare; John Bailey Owen had a google folder filled with cool references of creepy dolls with a starry aesthetic, liminal minimalist nightmare-scape. They knew who the Collector was gonna be, what role they’d play, but the vibe still needed to be decided.

         Dana confirmed the Collector was always a part of the show before the shortening, and they solidified their placement after the announcement. The Collector has indeed stayed connected with the others, visits occasionally. Dana has seen fan comics on this and teared up.

         Hooty doesn’t have to be vacated from the Owl House if he doesn’t want to; When the door isn’t active, Hooty could be present. The new portal can probably fold up, and Hooty is busy as a curator for Hooty’s new museum.

         Dana said Raine and Eda’s business is their business; Not all love stories end in marriage. It’s their thing and it doesn’t diminish any love, but they do live in the Owl House together (Raine moved in).

         Mattholomule getting a palisman is something Zach Marcus can answer, since he made the character and Dana respects the lore he made. It’s hard to say for Dana if Vee and Masha are dating, since Masha didn’t show up in the finale, but Vee definitely has a crush on them. Again, Dana encourages the Death of the Author approach, if the headcanon makes you happy.

         Alador and Odalia got officially divorced after the finale, and the kids happily lived away from her. They might visit her if they have the energy, but also recognize she’s a toxic influence they can cut off at any point. Dana gave a shoutout to Rachel McFarlane’s voice acting, praising her performance for Odalia.

         In regards to the tower King was born in, Dana has an answer; It was related to a character we all know, who now may have amnesia.

         There was a plan to explore Gus and Willow’s glowing eyes, and do it for other characters; Amity wasn’t going to have that, strong emotions are indeed connected to magic. It was mostly a worldbuilding magic rule they could’ve expanded on, that Dana wishes she did early in the story.

         In the boards, Dawn Han(?) did Clouds on the Horizon, and did the scene of Amity and the twins hiding in the factory as their parents talk about the Abomatons, Alador is worried since it seems like a tad much. Alador had T-rex arms in the storyboard, and it reminded Dana of Remy from Ratatouille, so when they got to the scene of them looking into Alador’s lab, Ratador was drawn in his place as a joke. Dana laughed so hard she decided to keep it in, with Dana handwaving it as Alador’s palisman.

         According to Dana, a show should be appreciated for as it is; But the other way to enjoy it, under the context it was made, is also important to her; Both ways are valid. It was easier for Sarah to voice depressed Luz since she was also depressed. The writers preferred to put their feelings into the show, VS a more happy-go-lucky approach as others did; It was kind of dark for a bit, especially during quarantine. Sarah felt her own experience validated with Luz’s depression, but she and Dana appreciated the balance of having a happy ending too.

         What made the crew hopeful was knowing the characters would always have a happy ending; Luz could continue her studies in full-force, a new family. They KNEW it would end happy. Dana acknowledged how the fandom misinterpreted “I hate the term happy endings,” and Sarah knew about the quincenera when asked during previous Post-Hoots, but couldn’t answer.

         Rebecca commissioned 3D-printed Funko Pops of S2A Lilith and S1 Luz, and gave them to the others as gifts; Rebecca didn’t know about Avi’s appearance until two days before the Post-Hoot, otherwise she would’ve had a Funko of Raine made. Dana’s stand for Luz had to be made with painter’s tape (she appreciated it) due to Rebecca running out of the other kind, and planned to place it beside her Peabody award. Elizabeth Grullon, Camila’s VA, had to call her mom in the middle of a session to translate her line about maduros into English.

        Cissy clarified this wasn’t intended to be the final Post-Hoot! And the video was ended with a BBBBYYYEEEEE!!!!!

[overthinkinglotr]

I was watching LOTR with friends the other day and someone pointed out that a major reason film!Elrond is upset about Arwen being in love with Aragorn is because of Elrond's own broken relationship with Isildur.

In the films Isildur and Elrond are kind of set up as....a broken failed parallel to Aragorn and Arwen?

Arwen reassures Aragorn that "he is Isildur's heir, not Isildur himself," and "is not bound to his fate"-- but Elrond disagrees, confident that Aragorn will be just like Isildur.

Film!Elrond is so certain that trusting in mankind is a mistake that will only lead Arwen to misery because he once trusted in mankind, and the man he trusted ended up failing him. His ally from the line of Elendil ended up falling to the power of the Ring and dying; he believes Aragorn may do the same thing. He doesn't just want to save Arwen's life and keep his daughter by his side; he wants to prevent Arwen from experiencing the same betrayal/heartbreak he experienced. Film!Elrond is very stoic and unsentimental, but there are all these hints at Elrond and Isildur's past relationship throughout the series. Everyone likes to make the joke "why didn't Elrond just toss Isildur into the fire?" but to me the answer is, partially, because he cared about Isildur. They were allies who fought side-by-side. After describing what happened in Mount Doom all those years ago, Elrond tells Gandalf that "It should've ended that day, but evil was allowed to endure." And I think it's interesting that he goes into passive voice for a moment, instead of saying that Isildur specifically allowed to evil to endure--because he's also blaming himself for allowing evil to endure, blaming his own failure to be harsh with Isildur and take the Ring from him by force. He's regretting that he was merciful and didn't "just toss Isildur into the fire."

His complicated emotions about Isildur also appear again in the Two Towers. After insisting that Arwen needs to give up Aragorn as a lost cause and travel into the West, Elrond has a conversation with Galadriel where she guilt-trips him for abandoning Middle Earth/mankind. When she asks him "do we let them stand alone?" Elrond walks into the study, and spends a long moment looking at his mural of Isildur.

He then, in the film's canon, agrees to send military support to one of Isildur's descendants."I don't care about Isildur anymore, men are weak," Elrond says, standing in front of his elaborate mural of Isildur and his shrine dedicated to Isildur's sword.

And yes this is all, again, a drastic departure from his characterization in the book-- most of the Aragorn-Arwen-Elrond stuff in the films is a drastic departure from the book. The films radically alter their dynamics, including eliminating stuff like Elrond being Aragorn's adopted father and all the "their bloodlines are related" stuff and etc etc etc etc etc. But honestly, now that I see it, this interpretation makes the film!Elrond-Arwen dynamic engaging in a way I hadn't recognized before? In some ways it puts Isildur into the role that Elrond's mortal brother Elros played for him in the books, because Elros is cut from the films entirely. Isildur is the reason film!Elrond knows what it's like to have some kind of close relationship with a mortal and then watch them die. When Elrond angrily speaks about the folly of trusting men, or insists to Arwen that Aragorn "is not coming back" so she should just get over him, he's speaking from experience--he's projecting his own weird failed broken betrayal-ridden Thing with Isildur onto Arwen and Aragorn. And in this context, his hopeless monologue about how Arwen will regret staying by Aragorn's side also feels like it's partially from his own experience. "If Sauron is defeated, and Aragorn is made king, and all that you hope for comes true, you will still have to taste the bitterness of mortality." When he fought three thousand years ago Sauron was defeated, and Isildur did become King, and yet... TL;DR : Film!Elrond had a nasty kind-of breakup with a mortal man 3000 years ago and instead of dealing with it he decided "Men Are trash Weak" and began projecting all of his drama onto Arwen

[mypoisonedvine]

𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙙𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 • alpha!eddie munson x reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 • eddie's chances of being an alpha are quite small. your chances of presenting as an omega, especially while still in high school, are almost none. almost.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 • 10k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 • SMUT (18+ only, technically dubcon due to heat, omegaverse, unprotected sex), knotting, possessiveness and protectiveness, mentions of pregnancy/slight breeding kink, size kink (alpha!eddie is Large in every way), brief trypanophobia warning, mentions of/implied deceased parent (not reader's they're fine),

“The official term is enhanced sexual dimorphism, sometimes abbreviated as ‘ESD’,” Mrs. Mittelman explained, “but, you’re probably all more familiar with the names for the two enhanced sexes: Alpha, and omega.”

You sighed as you rested your chin on your fist.  Health class was always boring, and awkward.  Most of all, it didn’t seem very useful.  In all of Hawkins, you knew of six omegas and eleven Alphas.  Why did the curriculum need to dedicate a whole month to this when you, and everyone you knew, were going to end up not presenting at all and just be betas?

“Due to modern fertility advancements, these sexes are becoming more and more rare,” she continued to explain.  “Alphas and omegas, when in a mated pair, are significantly more fertile than a beta pair.  However, times are changing: after all, I think all of you have beta parents, don’t you?”

You didn’t even know anyone had raised their hand, until Mrs. Mittelman pointed behind you to someone in the back.

“Yes?” she prompted, and you turned around.  You were pretty sure his name was… Freddie?  No, wait— Eddie.  You’d seen him around, and he was sort of hard to forget with his… ostentatious styling, but you weren’t sure you’d ever heard him talk in class before.

“Uh, actually,” he cleared his throat, “my mom was an omega.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Mittelman nodded, looking a little wide-eyed.  “I didn’t realize that.  Well, then maybe some of what we’re talking about today will be more familiar to you.  I hope you’ll bear with us.”

Was.  There’s no going back after presenting, of course, so she must not be around anymore.  You saw him look down, and wondered if he regretted bringing it up at all, before you returned your focus to the board where the teacher was pointing to some particularly uninteresting charts.

“The window of development for Alphas and omegas is actually very narrow: about ninety percent of enhanced sexual presentations take place at age twenty-one,” she continued.  “The odds of presenting after age twenty-two are so astronomically low, that anyone who turns twenty-three without presenting is immediately registered as a beta.  Can anyone remember from this week’s assigned reading—”

Everyone groaned, realizing she was about to spring a pop quiz on the class.

“— what an individual’s odds are of presentation if their parents are an Alpha and an omega?”

A girl in the front row raised her hand, and the teacher pointed to her.  “Um, eighty-two percent?”

“Correct!” Mrs. Mittelman smiled.  “Okay, what about the odds of presentation if one’s parents were one Alpha and one beta?”

The boy that sat next to you on the right— James Richey, which you wouldn’t know if you hadn’t been paired with him on far too many assignments— raised his hand.  “Forty-five percent,” he answered.

“Ohh, a little lower,” she winced with her gentle correction, “anyone else wanna give that a try?”

Intimidated by James’ folly, it took an awkward pause for someone else to take a guess.  It was your closest friend in class, and likely in the whole school, Helen.  “Thirty?” she proposed.

“Well, twenty-nine, but yes,” Mrs. Mittelman.  “What about if the pair is one beta and one omega?  Mr. Munson, you should know this one— since it applies to you.”

The whole class turned back to look at Eddie, who was awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.  “You see,” he began, “I agree with you that I should know that but, uh, I didn’t exactly… read the chapter.”

Mrs. Mittelman sighed slowly.  “Right, um, well… maybe someone else who did can tell us?”

“Twelve percent,” somebody behind you, from the other side, announced, and the teacher smiled.

“Yes!  That’s right,” she replied.  “Okay, last one: how likely is one to present if their parents are both betas?”

You raised your hand, because this one was the easiest to remember.  When you were called on, you answered: “The odds are less than one percent.”

“Yes, good job,” she smiled.  “Congratulations!  You all passed today’s pop quiz.  Your prize is… not having a pop quiz tomorrow.”

The bell rang; everyone reached for their backpacks and sighed with relief.  

“Tomorrow, we’ll be covering the rest of the chapter, so if you forgot to read it,” she said pointedly, “now’s the time to do so!”

You didn’t know a lot about the guy— hell, you’d forgotten his name— but you figured Eddie Munson was not going to read the chapter, even when given a second chance.  You don’t end up on your third senior year by reading the assigned material.  I wonder if it bothers him, being twenty years old and still in high school, you wondered, it would sure bother me.

But that was the last time you thought about Eddie Munson for about two weeks.  You didn’t plan on thinking about him again until maybe graduation, which you did hope to see him at, but you were forced to wonder about him when he was absent from class for an entire week.  Frankly, you were pretty sure he couldn’t afford a vacation.  A rumor had spread that he was in jail for dealing marijuana, but that was all you had to work with.  Helen thought maybe he was gone for good, moved back in with some other family— you hadn’t even known before this that he lived with his uncle, so maybe his dad was somewhere out there and he was spending time with him.

All the rumors were dispelled in an instant when Eddie returned.  As near-impossible as it seemed, it was even more impossible to deny when you saw it for yourself.

You were ten minutes into the midterm exam for Mrs. Mittelman’s health class when the door opened; in a silent room, it was instinctive to look up, but you choked when you saw him come in.  It was Eddie, for sure— that hair and Hellfire Club tee were unmistakable— but he was… different.

Completely different.

He was taller, to the point that Mrs. Mittelman was craning her neck to look up at him (though to be fair, she was already pretty short).  He was… bigger, specifically more muscular— his body was straining against his clothes, the half-sleeve of his shirt exposed the prominent veins of his forearm, even his ripped jeans struggled to hold him in anymore.  

“Sorry I’m late,” he said quietly to the bewildered teacher, and even when he deliberately spoke softly, his voice was clearly deeper.  She handed him a blank exam and he attempted to slip through the rows of desks to find his own seat.  You certainly weren’t the only pair of eyes following him across the classroom, or the only one noticing the way he struggled to fit back behind his own desk due to his radical change in size.  He cleared his throat and shifted in the chair, starting to take his test— and either not noticing, or successfully ignoring, the stares he was receiving.

At the same time, you and Helen looked at each other with wide eyes, and she mouthed something to you: What the fuck?!

Your entire class was specifically prepared to appreciate the anomaly of probability that this was.  Still, statistics be damned, it was clear that in the time Eddie Munson had disappeared, he’d become an Alpha.

Three months later…

“Oh come on,” you rolled your eyes, “that’s bull and you know it.”

“I’m not sure if you really believe that that attitude is going to help you in any way,” Principal Higgins frowned, “but to be completely clear: it will not.  Three dress code violations add up to an after-school detention.”

“But these are stupid violations!” you insisted.  “It’s not like I was walking around in a mini-skirt— look, this one says my sneakers were untied!  That’s ridiculous.”

“Arguing with me is considered disrespect of authority,” Higgins reminded you, leaning in closer, “which is also punishable by after-school detention.  I’d recommend that you stop now before you end up with two dates with me this week.”

You shut your eyes to stop yourself from rolling them, but relented.  That said, you were playing the interaction over and over in your mind as you sat at that desk in detention, arms crossed and lips curled in a sneer as you imagined really telling him off instead of laying down at taking it.

You jumped when the opening of the door startled you out of your fantasy, and there was Eddie— wow, he was even late to detention.

You looked down sheepishly as he crossed the room and took his seat, but once he was settled in front of you and off to the side, you had your first chance to get a good look at him after his… transformation.

It was a good thing his jacket was sleeveless, because it didn’t look like his arms would’ve fit through the sleeves if it had them.  It wasn’t that he was just outrageously ripped now or something, or that he was specifically some outrageous height… he was just big.  Alphas were built that way.  He towered over nearly everyone in school now; he stopped getting bullied immediately after he came back, that must’ve been a nice perk.  Still, for a guy who got so massive and so well-known practically overnight (or in this case, overweek), he didn’t seem that… happy?  

You looked down into your lap again.  Who were you to judge his emotions?  You didn’t know anything about him.  It was just that, well, he’d had a reputation for his antics and dramatic behavior before, but lately he was uncharacteristically quiet.  He never made a scene in the cafeteria anymore, he never talked back to teachers (which he’d apparently done plenty before, you’d seen it once or twice and Helen said it happened near-daily with Ms. O’Donnell), he was just… existing.  Maybe he was finally being normal.  The only problem with that theory is that, while you didn’t like to buy into stereotypes, you were confident that Eddie Munson would’ve been among the first to become better behaved after presenting as an Alpha.

You weren’t trying to be sexist, really!  Alphas were hormonally predisposed to aggression and impulsiveness, it was just a fact of the matter, especially when omegas or other Alphas were involved.  To be fair, that wasn’t really an issue in his case, in a school where literally no other students had ESD.  Technically, there was one other Alpha here, but he was a teacher… he was not only mated, but mature, and no one was exactly worried that he and Eddie were going to end up brawling on the lawn or something.  Alphas were always fighting over unmated omegas anyways, of which there weren’t any in Hawkins.

It made you wonder why Eddie stayed, if he had no chance of finding a true mate here.  Alphas and betas didn't get together very often, for reasons that weren’t explained in much detail in your health textbook.

Torn from your thoughts by the Principal clearing his throat and addressing the room, you looked up quickly.  “Now,” he began sternly, “all my regulars know I believe in working detention— labor is good for the soul!  And there’s lots of work to do on campus today so you three,” he gestured at some boys in the front, “you’re gonna be in the garden out front with our landscapers.  And you four in the back, you’re sweeping up the wood shop before you give our gymnasium a good mop.”

The other students stood, and you glanced at Eddie as you realized he was the only other person left sitting.

“Uhh, you two,” Higgins noticed, “you can go clean the cafeteria.  But we’re all out of mops, so, just grab some rags.”

“Rags?” Eddie noticed.  “We’re cleaning the entire cafeteria floor with rags?”

“Oh, not just the floor.  Table and chairs too.”

“Hopefully not in that order,” you breathed.

“Get to it,” he snapped, and Eddie gave you a quick look over his massive, hard shoulder before shrugging— god, his neck just seemed thicker when he did that.

Your eyes still found themselves lingering on the hulking mass of his body as the two of you were on your hands and knees wiping the laminate cafeteria floor.

"So," Eddie broke the silence, "you, uh… I haven't seen you in detention before."

"No," you agreed, "this is actually my first time."

"Oh wow," he smiled, "a detention virgin!  Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

You snorted, shaking your head as you looked at the floor again, but the off-color joke made you feel a little strange.  You blinked quickly and tried to get the image of Eddie being gentle out of your head.

"What are you in for?" he asked.

"Dress code," you nodded.

"Woah!  Something skimpy?"

"Not at all," you chuckled, "just, like, ripped jeans and a visible bra strap?  Apparently?"

"Aw, that's a shame," he smirked.  "I was thinking I missed you showing up in some sweet little number."

You raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing, mainly because your throat was suddenly a little dry.

"A-anyways," he mumbled, "I'm sorry you're here."

"Ditto," you offered, "but I know you're here kind of a lot."

"Yeah," he sighed, focusing harder on one spot that he rubbed with the rag intensely, "not as much as I used to be, but yeah…"

"Used to be… before…" you pressed.

"Before I… got big, yeah," he nodded.

An interesting way of describing it.  Certainly an accurate way.

"Um," he cleared his throat, "I skipped class, that's what they popped me for this time."

"Which class?"

"Shop."

"Oh god, I don't blame you, that's my least favorite class," you hummed.

"Really?  People always say they like it cause it's easy," he shrugged, "thought I was the only one that hated it."

"No, it's so annoying!" you assured.  "First of all, most people aren't being safe and I'm always on edge thinking somebody's about to lose a finger— and the assignments are so stupid!  Building birdhouses and clocks?  Like, isn't the whole point of a high school education to be able to get a job so I can afford to just buy a birdhouse for a dollar?"

"I don't mind the part where we build stuff," he admitted, "I just don't like that we have to build it exactly like he says.  Why can't there be some room for creativity?"

You nodded in agreement, clearing your throat quietly but not quite getting the catch in it; you were looking at the floor, and noticed that you were seeing spots, but simply tried to blink them away.

"I hate it even more now that I keep accidentally breaking stuff…" he continued, trailing off.

"Accidentally?"

"I'm still getting used to it… I'm stronger, you know."

Was it warm in here all of a sudden?  When you first came in, it was a little chilly— normally this room was filled with warm bodies to heat it up, so it was pretty cold when it was empty… or, it had been.  Now you were starting to feel your clothes cling to you, face beginning to flush. 

"I broke a hammer.  Splintered the handle— I guess I was holding it too hard…"

That was when you lost your balance and had to sit on the floor, leaning back against the leg of a table.  The orange light of dusk, coming in through the blinds in stripes, was blurry and disorienting.  A numb heat started to rush through your body, and the quick shallow breaths that filled your lungs did little to keep you from getting dizzy.

“Hey,” you heard Eddie’s voice— his hand was hesitantly holding your shoulder now, and just that made you soothe slightly.  “You okay?”

"I…" you began, but you didn't know what to say.  “Eddie,” you said softly, “I don’t… I feel weird.”

His hand moved up to your forehead, and you sighed and shut your eyes to savor every moment of his touch.  “Christ, you’re burning up.”

Your hands reached out blindly, grabbing onto his thick thigh through his jeans.  You heard him cough slightly.  “Something’s wrong, just… just need you to stay with me,” you breathed.

"Um, o-okay," he agreed hesitantly, kneeling in front of you.  

It was like a sharp pain— a tightness that twisted inside you— and you hissed in a breath through your teeth as your sneakers slid on the tile.

"Do you need some water?" he wondered, and when his hand cradled your face for a second, you shuddered and relaxed against the table leg behind you.

"No, I just need… I…" you panted.  Just touch me more, you thought, though you didn't understand why.  Another pang hit your gut and you clutched your stomach, hunching forward with a wince.

"I-I'm gonna get the nurse," he promised, but you suddenly grabbed onto his arms tightly, stopping him from getting up.

"No, don't go," you panted, "don't leave— you can't leave me here, Eddie!"

"Okay, okay!  I'm not gonna leave!" he promised, frustrated at first but softening up when he saw how scared you were.  "I'm not gonna leave, I swear."

"I don't know what's happening," you whispered under your breath.  "God— what's happening to me?"

"You're just…" he began, trailing off, "you're— fuck, I don't know.  But I think it's… I don't know how, but I think you might be—"

"Just tell me!" you sobbed.

You were clawing at his jacket, desperate to touch his skin, desperate for anything he would give you.  That was when you first felt the heat gather between your legs, a pulse inside you just before a gush of wetness that almost made you worry you were wetting yourself— until you felt it, felt that need arch your back and throb in your channel.  It felt like being turned on, it wasn’t like you’d never felt that before, but it was so much more intense that it almost felt like a new sensation entirely.  Even though your mind didn't understand what was going on, your body was calling out for him: Alpha, Alpha, Alpha—

Something changed in the air then.

"What did you call me?"

His voice was just as dark as his eyes, and suddenly you stilled.  Oh god, you'd said it out loud.

"Say it again," he ordered; for what little you knew about all this, you knew why your body gave into his demand like it couldn't do anything else but obey. 

"Alpha," you whimpered, looking up at him.  But you knew what he was already— right then, you were realizing what you were.  Only omegas were susceptible to an Alpha's voice like that.  This isn't possible, this is not possible… I'm too young, my parents are betas, how is this happening to me?

"You're going to be okay," he promised, "I know… I know it hurts.  But I can make it better, I can help you."

You nodded, panting, going along with it because you just needed him, needed the help he was promising.  You felt dizzy and delirious, but somehow the feeling was sort of addictive— like you craved the cure as much as the sickness.  With Eddie here, it was tolerable, even though the waves of pain made you shudder and whine through your teeth.

“I’m gonna help you,” he whispered, again.

You blinked at him, trying to clear the haze from your eyes, and saw the dark shimmer in his own— his pupils had blown out wide, his nostrils were flaring; he kept shaking his head, like he was trying to clear his thoughts, and it made his fluffy hair rustle.  “How?” you finally asked.

His hands tightened as they gripped your shoulders, and you clutched at his chest, whimpering under your breath as you felt the strong muscle under his thin shirt and hot skin.  “Do you trust me?” he replied instead of answering.

You nodded.  “Anything, Alpha, please—”

“Fuck,” he choked, and you gasped as his face buried in the crook of your neck.  His nose brushed against your jaw, his mouth was right up against your pulse as he spoke.  “I can smell you, you know— I can smell what you are.  It’s… I read about it, but I never knew…”

Your eyes had already fluttered shut as you hung off of him, and you could smell him too; you were so overstimulated that it was hard to focus on it, but it was sort of musky and warm and smoky— and sweet.  Like a Christmas fireplace with roasted chestnuts and caramel just starting to toast on the stove; it was like a memory you hadn’t lived yet, nostalgia for a home you never had.

You whimpered slightly as he pulled away, reaching out for more of his touch, but he just looked at you with his mouth open a bit to let his heavy breathing pass through.  “I— I can help you, I’m gonna help you,” he kept insisting, speaking hurriedly as he opened his belt and jeans.  It was slightly disconcerting, but your need was growing and you were in no place to reject his help— not when searing pain bloomed from your gut, crawled up your back and into your mind where it demanded the touch of an Alpha.

Still, you had some sense left in you.  As well as plenty of fear; your eyes nearly popped out of your head when they caught a glimpse of his cock.  "No— no way," you shook your head, trying to scoot away, "it won't… it can't—"

"It'll fit," he insisted, his grip tightening for a moment on his concerningly-massive erection, "you're an omega.  You're made to take it."

Even as terror clawed at your mind, arousal was coursing through your veins; hearing him talk like that, seeing his body, it all called to something incredibly primal inside you.  Something you didn't even know you had… technically, maybe you didn't until just now.  Or maybe it was always there, waiting for Eddie— after all, you'd presented after being around him for the longest (and closest) you ever had.  

"I won't hurt you, I swear," he breathed, but you could hear his desperation, too.  It must be hard, presenting young in a town like Hawkins where all the omegas are already long-since mated and married— and maybe a little mature for a twenty-year-old anyways, if that mattered.  And as for betas, well, you'd heard that it was… difficult, for Alphas and betas to mate.  Now you saw directly why: it could kill them, trying to take this.  You were still afraid it would kill you.  "It won't hurt, it's… it's going to feel good.  It's natural."

"Okay," you nodded, "okay, just… talk me through this, please— Alpha, I'm scared…"

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.  It should've been awkward, hugging a relative stranger, but it was so comforting… you sighed and held him, too, a bit of the ache inside you stilling.  And yet, your anticipation was growing: you felt another wave of slick start to leak out of you, and you whimpered slightly.

"Please," you whispered, "help me… I want you to."

"Shit," he blurted out, letting you go just long enough to peel his jacket off quickly.  "Just lay down, okay?" he offered as he put the jacket down on the floor behind you, not much padding from the hard tile but at least some protection from the coldness of it.  

You laid back, shivering as he climbed on top of you.  "Have you ever done this before?" you asked suddenly.  "Not just sex— helping an omega, specifically…"

It was kind of a stupid question, because where the fuck were these hypothetical omegas Eddie might have been with?  But you weren’t exactly thinking straight at the moment, understandably.  "Well, uh, no," he mumbled, "but I think I know how to do it.  I mean, I think I've always known— I couldn't tell you how, but… I can feel it."

You swallowed nervously.

"Trust me," he insisted.  "I know how much it hurts, I… just trust me.”

He was alone when he presented, after all; you finally put that together, and the thought of it inexplicably made your heart twist.  You knew nothing of the perils of presentation for an Alpha, but if anything like this… and he didn’t have anyone to hold him like he held you, to tell him it would be okay, to take the pain away… god, how did he survive it?

When he started to lift up your shirt, you did your best to help him— the wave of cool air on your overheated skin was almost a relief, until suddenly you were freezing.  You pulled him down close to you, feeling the warmth of him even through his shirt, and sighed happily.

He helped you out of your pants next, and you should've felt incredibly strange being completely naked in your fucking cafeteria.  But you didn't, you felt better even, you felt more natural than ever as his eyes drank you in and his hands carefully parted your thighs.

"See, all this— this is your slick," he explained, dragging two fingers through your swollen folds until you jolted from his touch.  

There was so much, you'd nearly soaked through your jeans, and just one swipe had soaked his thick fingers with clear, shiny arousal.

"It's gonna help you," he continued, panting slightly as he stared at his glistening hand.  "Fuck, you can smell it, right?  It smells so good."

You could smell something, but you wouldn't necessarily call it good… it was sort of earthy and sour, not like a perfume or candy or something.  Maybe it smelled different to him, or maybe he was just attracted to it anyway.  

"I think if Mr. Maxwell was here, he'd be able to smell it— from anywhere in the building," Eddie explained.  Mr. Maxwell was the only Alpha teacher at Hawkins High… you were suddenly very thankful he wasn't here.  He certainly didn't seem like the type to go after his own student for being a brand-new omega, but what did you know?

"What would happen, if he did?" you mumbled.  "If he smelled me?"

Eddie considered that for a second.  "I… I don't know.  I think he's able to control himself."

Well, that response begged a new question: "Can you?"

You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, his gaze still trained on where your thighs glistened with your need.  "I don't know," he admitted.  "If you asked me to go now…"

He tensed his jaw, and met your gaze.

"I don't know if I could stop," he informed you sternly.  "So don't ask me to, and we won't have to find out."

You shuddered and nodded; you wouldn’t ask him to stop, not when you needed him this badly.  Not when the idea of being alone, of being away from him, made your gut sink.

Still, your heart was racing— you wondered if he could hear it, too, since it was deafening inside your own head— as he reached for you, that intimidating cock still curling up from his opened jeans.

He gripped it with one hand, petting your thigh with the other, guiding himself right up against you; your quivering cunt flexed against itself, another wave of slick leaking down to the floor under you— coating him, before he was even inside.

“Trust me,” he breathed, “trust me— please, let me do this.  Tell me I can fuck you.”

“Y-you can fuck me, Alpha, please,” you whined.

Holding on tight to your hip, he pushed his thick head inside; you were crooning and gasping already, trying to push down for more even though it was already almost too much, but his strong grip kept you still and perfectly helpless.

“More,” you begged under your breath, “god, please?  Wan’ everything, need all of you— Alpha, my Alpha…”

His tongue and lips were all over your neck, hair tickling your chest and face.  “So good, omega, you’re doing s’good, just stay still.”

It didn’t hurt until he was halfway in, and you whined loudly as you grabbed at his thigh under your own, hoping to slow him down.  He was breathing just as hard as you, hot air spreading over your skin that was wet with his spit now, sensitive from the assault of his lips and teeth.

He didn’t warn you that he was going to give you the rest, he just pushed it in all at once and groaned as you choked out your sob.

"Fuck," he said with a gasp, "I— ah, god— I didn't know it would be like this…"

And neither did you, you didn't know how quickly your pain would fade and your body would give in to him.  He was right, it didn't hurt much… there was a sting, yes, and a stretch, but it was good pain.  It was pain you were made to take, like he said.

"Are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.  You could only nod; words had abandoned you.  Well, except one.

"Alpha," you moaned, and you heard him growl beside your neck.

"I'm here, omega," he promised.  "I'm gonna give you what you need… you're gonna be okay, you're safe."

You held on tighter to his shoulders, hiding your face in his neck, and he started to move.  The stretch was so intense that your legs were shaking with every movement, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything, you wouldn’t give up this friction inside you for the world right now— it was a salve for the pain that had been clawing you open from the inside out, but just as intense as the pain had been, now you had this hunger instead.  This… need.

“Feels so good,” you heard him whisper against your ear, “fuck, omega, you feel so good inside, you were made for me.  You were made for this, I know— I know you’re mine.”

You nodded quickly, biting your lip.  As he held you close and moved inside you, time moved differently— slower, but all at once, like you were stuck in a dream.

Everything else faded away— the fear that someone would walk in, the awareness of where you were and how this happened, anxiety and confusion and pain— and you were just drowning in every sensation: his tongue laving at your neck, his fingers holding your waist tightly, his cock inside you and stretching you.  He didn’t say much at first, he didn’t need to, but when you shuddered and another wave of slick leaked out around him, you felt him smirk.  “So wet,” he praised, “so good for your Alpha.  Do it again.”

You were almost self-conscious about how wet you were, maybe you would've been if it wasn't for Eddie being enraptured by it— he was looking down at where your bodies were joined, amazed as he watched you soak his cock over and over with more of your arousal.  You could hear it, the filthy wet sounds somewhat distant and fuzzy in your ringing ears, and your face was hot— your whole head was feverish, really, and your eyes were teary just from how overwhelmingly wonderful it felt.

"Fuck," you heard him grunt under his breath, "it's so— god, how do you feel?  Are you okay?"

You opened your mouth to try to tell him that it was perfect, he was perfect, but only a pathetic moan came out; you nodded quickly instead.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered.  "You look beautiful like this— so pretty for me."

A pained whine jumped out through your teeth— even though you felt good, his words brought back some of that ache from before, and your back arched up off the floor dramatically.

You were about to relax a bit and lay flat again, until you felt his hand move up your thigh, over your mound where his palm rested while his thumb brushed over your clit.  Your body jolted; you were confident you'd never been that sensitive there before.

"Alpha!" you whimpered.

"Shh, it's okay," he soothed, "you need to come— it's gonna help you.  You trust me, right?  Let me help you."

But the feeling inside you was already pushing you to your limits— his cock was already so deep that it felt like it was going to hit the back of your brain or something.  

He rubbed your clit as fast as he could, holding your hips steady with his other hand so you couldn't try to buck away from his touch.  You convulsed and moaned, holding onto him with all your fading strength.

“Alpha, Alpha, please!” you sobbed.  “It’s— too much!”

“No, you can take it,” he promised roughly under his breath.  “Just come for me, let go, little omega— please, let go for your Alpha, this is what you need.  You need to come for me— come, right now.”

Shivering and crying loudly, your body went limp— except for inside, where you were pulsing uncontrollably, bearing down on his thick length.  It was so intense, it almost hurt, and yet it was your favorite pain you ever felt.

You hadn’t noticed that your hands were grabbing his arm until they let go, leaving just a bit of moisture on his sleeve from the clamminess.  “Did you…?” he began to ask.  “I mean, is it better now?  It hurts less?”

You tried to process his questions, but you were still coming down from it, still catching your breath.  “It’s… it’s a little better.”

“You need more?” he asked, and fuck, it was a totally genuine question, but the way he said it…

Nodding, you pulled him down on top of you and buried your face in his neck.  “Just don’t stop,” you pleaded, “Alpha— don’t stop, m’gonna be good for you…”

It was impossible to define what compelled you to say that, but it didn’t really matter.  Your first orgasm had numbed your body and mind enough to let you just submit to your instincts, to trust not only your Alpha, but your own body and its ability to do what it was made to do.  It felt better, when you stopped worrying and accepted your place.

And no, despite what some sexists might say, your place was not beneath.  Your place was not serving, pleasing, obeying.  Your place was simply in his arms.  Your place was with your Alpha.

“I— fuck, I don’t know how much longer I can last,” he admitted lowly.  “You just… you feel so good, omega, you’re my omega, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you promised.

“Loved feeling you come on me,” he grunted through his teeth, “can you do it again?  If I tell you to?”

“I’ll do— I’ll do a-anything you tell me to,” you stuttered as you tried to swallow past the dryness in your throat from panting so hard.

“Then come,” he demanded again, renewing the movements of his thumb on your clit— but honestly, you didn’t even need it.  Just his voice, just an Alpha’s voice ordering you (as well as the overly-sensitive feeling your last orgasm had left behind) was enough to send you over the edge in just a few moments.  He praised you all the way through it, every kind word like another shock of ecstasy through your body.  “So good,” he said again, rough and deep as he rested his head on your shoulder, “so good for me, omega— feels so good when I make you come.”

You smiled through your exhaustion because it felt so good to make him feel good— to know you were pleasing him.  

"You know what's gonna happen, don't you?" he whispered.  "I'm gonna… knot you."

"Fuck, please," you choked.

"It might hurt a little," he warned, "but it's gonna— fuck, s'gonna be so good, if you just trust me."

"I trust you, Alpha," you promised.  "Want your knot, please…"

“Beautiful,” he grunted as he fucked you harder and faster, “my beautiful omega— mine.”

You whined through your teeth, clutching his shoulders tighter.  “Alpha!”

“Whose omega are you?”

“Y-yours,” you choked, “yours, Alpha, Alpha…”

“Tell me again,” he demanded.

“I’m yours!  Yours, Eddie—”

He cut you off with a rough kiss right away; you didn’t even question it.  You felt him coming inside you and your mind went blank, your body went crazy, your senses went haywire.  He was coming inside you, and nothing had ever felt so good.  You sobbed with joy, holding onto him tighter as you felt the base of his cock swelling— you already thought you were at your limits, and yet his knot kept growing inside you and you just kept taking it.

“Alpha,” you whispered with the last of your breath.

He couldn't move as much with the knot growing, keeping him buried inside you, but he still ever-so-slightly rocked your body, grinding his hips against yours.

You fell back onto his jacket on the floor with a sigh, panting so hard you thought your chest might not fit all the air you were gasping for.  Finally you felt almost like yourself again, almost lucid, though still sort of numb all over; which, considering the incredible fullness inside you, was a good thing.

You tried to adjust your hips, wincing as it disturbed the delicate balance within you.  Your bodies were interlocked now, and your returning logical mind remembered that this part might last for a while— that was the whole point, evolutionarily speaking.

“Fuck,” Eddie grunted, finally stilling completely and propping himself up on his arms above you.  You watched him catch his breath, admiring the shape of his jaw, the way his lashes looked extra long when his eyes were shut and they fell over his cheeks; you reached up and brushed some hair away from his face, and that seemed to get his attention.  “I-I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

“What?  Eddie, no— thank you, thank you so much,” you sighed, “the pain’s gone.”

“For now,” he warned.  “It’ll come back— if it’s anything like mine was.  You’ll need more… a lot more.”

You worried, for a moment, that he was telling you that you needed more than he could give.  You couldn’t imagine anyone or anything else helping you now— you needed him, that much was clear.  You grabbed a handful of his shirt, and he looked down at that hand on him before he looked at your face again.

“I’ll take you home,” he said.

“Like this?” you panted.   “What am I gonna tell my parents?”

“N-no, my home,” he corrected, and you were surprised, yet somehow you soothed at the same time.  “I-it’s not much, just a trailer, but you can nest there and I can… I can take care of you.”

Your heart was singing; you’d never been cared for before.  You never wanted to admit that you needed it.

~

You were sort of on autopilot; you’d been gathering random linens and clothes of Eddie’s and piling them on the corner of the bed.  You couldn’t say exactly… why, but Eddie explained it was natural.  At least when you were doing this, you weren’t so needy that he had to stay and hold you— he could actually go out and get some provisions for the both of you.  

He told you that this whole thing could take up to a week, but you could stay here and Wayne was going to find somewhere to crash until you were done; he told you it was going to get worse before it got better, and come and go in waves.  Most importantly, he told you that he would do whatever he could to help you.

You could hardly believe he was a near-total stranger to you this morning.  There was still an awkwardness there, especially on his part, but you felt this impossible connection with him now— you felt so safe with him, in fact you never felt safe without him.  Which was why you smiled with excitement the moment you heard his van pull up outside.

By the time he was at the door, you were already opening it for him.  “Hi,” you beamed.

“Hey,” he smiled back, a bit more hesitant.

You reached for the grocery bags.  “L-lemme help you with those—”

“Nooo way,” he denied as he lifted them over your head while he stepped past you, “let the big strong Alpha do it, sweetheart.”

The door swung shut and you thought you could swoon.  Sweetheart.  This kind of shit would’ve made you roll your eyes yesterday.  Now you were such a sucker for it, and he was just being friendly.

“Plenty of food for the next few days,” he explained as he sorted the contents of his bag into either the pantry or fridge.  “Nothing, you know, fancy, but… it’ll keep your energy up.  And mine.”

You watched him, clutching your hands together in front of you, though you weren’t sure what exactly you were waiting on.  You just liked watching him, really.

“Oh!  I got some ice packs too,” he remembered.  “You might get really hot, o-or crampy, so those can help a lot.”

“Okay,” you nodded, smiling.  He shut the pantry door that he’d been leaning behind and looked over at you.  After a quick moment, he stepped up in front of you, and you tilted your head back to look up at him; he smiled, and reached up to hold your face in his hand.

Looking straight forward, you were right at eye-level with his Hellfire Club shirt.  You reached to where it ended, just beside his black faux-leather belt, and you started to lift it up off of him.  Smirking a bit, he helped you take it off of him— you immediately held the ball of fabric up to your face, inhaling his scent.  You hardly even noticed his toned chest dotted with hair and tattoos, you were too busy realizing you’d just found the perfect final piece for your nest.

You ran to the bedroom and pounced onto the bed, stuffing the shirt in with the other clothes and things, smiling contentedly as you buried yourself in them.  A long, deep inhale filled your lungs with the smell of Alpha, and it made everything feel alright.

You felt the bed dip as Eddie climbed onto the mattress with you, and you poked your head out from your little cave.  “Doin’ alright in there?” he asked, and you bit your lip as you nodded.  “I’ll just leave you be until you need—”

“No,” you interjected quickly, grabbing his guitar pick necklace and tugging him closer.  “No, stay here… you were just gone for so long…”

“Yeah, we needed food,” he reminded you.

“But I didn’t like you being gone,” you breathed.

“I thought you were okay with it!  You said I could go,” he remembered.

“Y-yeah, but then, you know…” you trailed off.  Your eyes wandered over his bare torso, over his arms and shoulders…

When you looked at his face again, he was smiling a little, and he reached up to push his hair out of his face.  “But then?” he prompted.

“I just missed you more than I thought I would,” you sighed.

“Yeah?” he hummed, scooting up on the bed to be even closer to you.  “I missed you more than I thought I would, too.  I probably still reek of you— and your slick.”

You whimpered.  “Do I smell like you?”

“You fucking better,” he said plainly, like it wasn’t so hot that your thighs quivered briefly.

He pulled you close to him, pressing your face against his chest; when you breathed in, you got a big whiff of his skin, of the heady scent of your Alpha.  It silenced every anxiety in your mind and body, and you realized you’d never felt this comfortable— this safe— in your life.  Something instinctive told you that you were going to be protected and loved; you felt whole.

You snuggled into his arms, nuzzling at his chest, and he sighed as he kissed your head.  “You’re cute,” he informed you quietly, and you smiled as you looked up at him.

“Really?” you hummed, and he nodded.  “You’re… big.”

He laughed.  “I’m still getting used to it,” he admitted.  “All of it.”

Your eyes drifted to his chest in front of you, and your fingers drew random shapes in his thin body hair— then moved to trace his tattoos.  “What’s it like?” you asked.  “Going through all this…”

"It's… honestly, it sucks," he laughed lightly.  "It's like puberty all over again."

"Fuck."

"But worse."

"God," you whined, letting your head fall onto his chest.  "Tell me I'm not gonna have to do this alone."

His hand reached up and pet your head.  "You're not gonna have to do this alone."

Your heart hurt as you imagined him doing this alone— of course, presenting is different for Alphas and omegas, they have ruts while you have heats, but it must be similar compared to everything else.

"Are we gonna… do we need to talk about it?" he asked.

"About what?"

"About how we woke up this morning as basically total strangers," he replied.  "About how I wasn't even sure if you knew my name.  And now we… now I…"

You nodded against him.  “It’s weird how right it feels.  Like, I know I should be questioning it.”  You tilted your head up to put your temple on his shoulder, so you could look at his face.  “I know it shouldn’t make any sense.  But it does.”

“Maybe it’s always like that,” he wondered.

“Maybe,” you offered.

He kissed your forehead.  “Or,” he breathed, “maybe it’s just that you really were always supposed to be mine.”

You didn’t reply to that with words, just a shiver and an arm slipping around his torso to hold onto him tighter.  As much as it was far too romantic for anything you were willing to believe, there was a growing mountain of evidence that implied he was right— that you were his from the start.  First of all, you presented early, and suddenly, when you were close to him for a while.

His gentle kisses moved in a path down your face, finding your neck and teasing you there carefully.  “Do you like being mine?” he asked softly.  You nodded as you held onto him tighter, moaning when he dragged his teeth over your skin.  “I’m so fuckin’ lucky, got this pretty omega all to myself.  Every Alpha’s dream— sweet little cunt in heat to breed.”

He rolled you onto your back and descended on you, pressing his body weight into you, and you spread your legs without even thinking about it.  

It wasn’t as bad as the first wave, but it still made you hot and needy, it still robbed you of logical thinking and turned you into a desperate, mewling little thing beneath him.  You were too caught up in the dreamy fog of it all to even be embarrassed, to care about begging for him so pathetically— he didn’t even have to make you beg, he never teased you, he gave you everything you wanted.  Still, you were a broken record: please, Alpha, fuck me— need you, Alpha, please, please—

“Knot me,” you begged, too, and he groaned as he held you tighter.  “Please, s’the only thing that makes the pain go away, please?  Alpha, give me your knot, wanna be full—”

“Shh,” he soothed, “I know, I know, baby… but maybe— fuck, maybe I should pull out this time.”

“No, please!” you sobbed.  “Feels so good when your knot’s inside me, Alpha.”

“You could… you can get pregnant,” he reminded you thinly, even though it was sort of obvious— that’s the point of all this, biologically.  “It’s not as likely your first heat, you’re still just presenting, but… you could.”

“I don’t care,” you breathed, “just please, Alpha, come in me again, please please—”

“Okay,” he promised with kisses all over your face, “it’s okay, I will, m’gonna help you.  Just need you to come one more time first.”

“Can’t,” you shook your head, but then again, you’d said that last time and he still made you do it.

“C’mon, omega, just wanna feel one more?  You can do it,” he cooed, “you can leak a little more slick with that pretty hole, I know you can, I know— it’s gonna hurt but it’s worth it, just one more…”

You were about to tell him you really couldn't do it, that three was your official limit, even though your heat-brain hated the idea of saying no to Alpha.

"Just one more," he pleaded, "for me, sweetheart?"

And before you knew it, you were nodding and bracing yourself, letting every sensation wash over you even though you might explode from being so overwhelmed.  You didn't explode in a literal sense, but you almost felt like you did— it hit you like a train and you sobbed out his name pathetically as you tried to take it all.

His knot swelled inside you a moment later, bringing the only real relief you got from this.  Eddie seemed to think that your orgasms were the key to staving off your heat-induced delirium, but it was his that soothed your body and mind the most.

Those moments you spent forced to be near him as you both waited for the swelling to go down enough for him to pull out… those were the moments you could think clearest, but your sanity was wasted on simply laying there letting him coo at you gently, praising you, kissing your face and neck.  Those were the moments you really remembered that this was Eddie Munson, that guy in health class, a relative stranger— and everything you needed.

"Oh, it’s all messed up,” you mumbled as you looked up at the pile of clothes you’d carefully arranged on the bed, seeing it had toppled over in the heat of the moment.  You tried to reach for it to fiddle with it, but Eddie laughed softly as he guided your face to look at him again.

“Welcome back,” he greeted, pecking the end of your nose with a kiss.  “The nest can wait— just talk to me for a minute, please?”

You smiled and kissed him back on the lips— just for a second, until he held your face tighter with both hands and kissed you harder and longer.  You hummed into it, feeling him smile against you, and he finally let go to nuzzle his face into your neck.  “Your hair is tickling me,” you complained as you tried to sputter enough to get one wayward wavy strand out of your mouth, but he shook his head just to make it even worse; you giggled and turned your face away, still getting pelted with hair as you laughed harder.  “Stop!” you whined, feeling his hands hold you at either side to keep you pinned under him.

He only stopped when he suddenly rolled onto his back, holding you tight and pulling you with him— you still couldn’t separate from each other, and so you were laying on his chest and straddling his hips with your weak legs.  “I can feel it when you laugh, you know,” he told you, still smiling.  “Inside.”

You shivered, holding him tighter.  Why was that so hot?  You clenched, intentionally, to see if he’d react, and he hissed in a little breath.  “You can feel that?” you realized, and he nodded.

You did it again, and he hissed and gripped your hips.  “Don’t do that,” he warned, “unless you want me to fuck you again.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, he grinned back at you.  

“Okay, wait,” he breathed, “that was basically asking you to do it.  Just… wait until the knot goes down, okay?  I don’t recover as fast as you.”

You nodded, resting your chin on his chest and blinking up at him as he sighed and relaxed under you.  His hands stroked your back, mostly mindlessly, while you found yourself reaching up to play with his hair.  

“Are you still gonna want me around?” he asked suddenly, looking down at you again.  “When the heat’s over.”

You hesitated, opening your mouth and then shutting it again.

“I shouldn’t ask that now,” he sighed, shaking his head slightly as if frustrated with himself.  “You can’t know yet.  I guess what I’m trying to say is… if you just want this to be… this, that’s okay.  I can help you out and then we can go our separate ways.”

You swallowed thickly; he made it sound easy, but imagining it was impossible.  You couldn’t be separate from him, it would be excruciating.

“But, you know, if you wanna… go out sometime,” he stumbled over his words, “a-after this is all over, and we can leave the house again—”

“Are you asking me out?” you realized, eyes widening.

“Um,” he stalled, laughing slightly, “yeah.  Trying to, at least.”

“You’re literally inside me right now,” you reminded him, “and you’re hesitating to ask me to be your girlfriend.”

“Woah, woah,” he scoffed as he raised his hands, “I just said a date, let’s not rush things—”

You laughed and shoved his face away in punishment, but he held you by your wrists and sat up, keeping you perched in his lap as he kissed you— both of you still giggling a bit as you moved your lips together.

One week later…

"You understand why your case is so important to us," the doctor explained, smiling politely as he looked at you.  "Presenting at eighteen is rare enough, even for someone with a much higher likelihood of having ESD.  But with two beta parents… those odds make winning the lottery seem likely."

Eddie had already joked about buying some Powerball tickets, but you still weren't sure if this was all incredible luck or misfortune.  That said, you did feel better with his arm around your shoulders; he'd insisted on coming into the exam room with you, despite the exasperated nurse explaining you were meant to come in alone.  You were impressed she stood up to an Alpha for as long as she did, but she gave in eventually, and you were thankful for it.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to run some tests," the doctor continued.  "If we understand your unique case, we may understand the entire concept of dimorphism better.  Would you give your consent for our research?"

You were swinging your legs as they hung off the exam table, watching your bare feet brush against Eddie's shoes; the hospital gown wasn't enough to shield you from the coldness and sterility of the air, and you leaned harder into Eddie for warmth.  Looking up at the man in the white coat, you only hesitated a second before nodding.

"We'll need a few blood samples," the doctor enumerated as you sighed through another understanding nod, "and a cervical sample."

"Cervical?" Eddie repeated.

"Yes, from the cervix?  It's—"

"I know what the cervix is," Eddie frowned.  "How would this sample be collected?"

"Um, well, I would insert a brush up the—"

"Nope," Eddie interrupted firmly, "no, no way."

"I—" the doctor started.

"Nothing's going up anything, okay?  Nothing's going… in her."

"I understand that you're feeling protective at the moment," the doctor sighed.  "That's a normal hormonal reaction."

You blinked and stared down into your lap, where Eddie's hand was holding yours tightly, just under the plastic bracelet that had your information on it.  Name, birthday, patient ID number, and of course, sex.  You expected to see an F there, like you always had on any form or ID or paperwork.  You were still getting used to what you saw instead: O.

A normal hormonal reaction.  Does that mean it's not really real?  That it's a phase that passes, and you'll just be strangers again?

You squeezed Eddie's hand, feeling him squeeze yours back; it felt so real now, though.  You couldn't imagine life without this, even though that's exactly what your life had been until just a week ago.

"That said," the doctor continued, "she needs to make her own medical decisions.  If we feel that your presence is putting her under any duress, and therefore interfering with her right to informed consent and medical privacy, we will have you removed from the premises."

You almost wanted to see them try, three beta security guards versus one Alpha running on mating instincts.  But you shook your head and spoke up instead.  "It's alright," you interjected, "I— I don't want an internal exam, please.  But you can take as much blood as you need."

Even that seemed to frustrate Eddie, who huffed a little and gently squeezed your shoulder, but kept his mouth shut.  The doctor smiled.  "It won't be that much," he assured, "just a few vials.  And a cheek swab, if that doesn't count as internal."

“That’s fine,” you nodded.

When the doctor left to get the tools needed to draw your blood, you laid your head on Eddie's shoulder as he gently played with your hair.

"I don't think that guy likes me too much," Eddie whispered, making you smile and tilt your face into the crook of his neck.

"He's just trying to make sure you're not controlling me," you assured.

"But compared to your parents he's, like, my biggest fan," Eddie added, and you smacked him lightly on the chest as you laughed.

"Shut up," you mumbled, "they don't hate you… they're just trying to understand all this.  So am I, honestly."

One of his strong hands came up to hold your face, thumb petting your temple, as he kissed the top of your head.  Wayne had been the first to deliver the news to your parents, and you would never have enough money in your life to repay him for being the one to knock on their door and say hey, funny story, your daughter's an omega and she's currently getting her brains fucked out by my nephew, anyways see you in a week when she gets her logical reasoning back and also might be pregnant, toodaloo.

(You figured he found a better way to say it than that, but still, that was probably what they heard.)

It was a couple days before you were stable long enough to go over there yourself, Eddie close by your side the whole time, trying to explain it as best you could in a way they would understand.  They, too, had made Eddie leave to speak with you alone— even though it made you feel like you had to leave your heart in the other room— and asked you if somehow he was making you do this.  It seemed like no matter what you said, people had trouble believing that Eddie saved you, that you needed him now and that he needed you, too.

Not that you could really blame them, because it wasn't something you could put into words, either.  You just felt it.  It was basic, natural instinct.  It's like trying to explain why you eat multiple times a day or why you have to get up and walk to be able to cross the room.

You were snuggled up in Eddie's arms when a nurse came in, rolling a cart with the essentials for a blood draw on top.  You bit your lip when you saw four vials, knowing how those were going to get filled.

"Are you afraid of needles?" she asked.

"I… have a healthy respect for them," you replied, making her laugh a bit.

"That's fair," she nodded, grabbing your wrist and gently pulling your arm so she could wipe down the area she was going to prick.

You turned your face into his chest, closing your eyes, since you figured looking would only make it worse.

As she tied your arm and searched for the vein, Eddie held your head to his shoulder tightly, soothing you gently.  "It's okay," he whispered against your head, "you're okay…"

He winced almost as hard as you did when she finally did it, and you knew that this was hurting him, too.  You felt the same way when he accidentally cut his finger, or when he told you about some of the more difficult stories from his past; his pain was your pain.

"All done!" the nurse announced with a little too much chipperness as she untied the tight rubber from your arm and taped down a cotton ball to the small dot of a wound.

You exhaled slowly, and Eddie kissed your cheek.  "You did so good, sweetheart," he praised.

"That's sweet," the nurse cooed, sweetness quickly slipping into condescension.  "I guess you two are mates, huh?"

You wished you had the guts to blurt out the first snarky thing you thought of: No, he's my tax attorney.  Of course he's my mate, are you blind?

"Yeah," you offered shyly instead.

"How long have you been going out?" she asked, making conversation half-heartedly as she cleaned up the rolling cart and threw away what she didn't need.

"We haven't actually, uh, had a chance to go on a real date yet," Eddie interjected, making you wince and look down.  "Unless this counts— but I was thinking something a little more traditional for our first date than a drive to the hospital and a blood draw."

The nurse made a little face, like she was trying to be nice, not even looking at you.  "Well, that's… sweet… I'm surprised they let you back here together."

"Doctor Ali knew it was important to me," you explained quickly.

She nodded.  "You're young… everything feels important when you're that age."

"What does that mean?" Eddie snapped.

"Well, it's just that… you know, first love and all," she shrugged.

"You don't get it," Eddie laughed coldly.  "You're a beta, you could never understand.  It's different for us— we mate for life."

Your throat caught.  If that was true, it never came up in health class…

You waited until Eddie was driving you home to bring it up— but you’d been imagining asking about it ever since he said it.

"Do we really…?" you asked, looking down at your hands in your lap as you sat still in the passenger seat.  "Are we mates for life now?"

He swallowed, glancing down.  "We don't have to be.  It's not like every omega stays with the first Alpha they meet— actually, maybe most of them don’t.  But that’s how it used to be, back in the day— mates stayed together, always.”

That sounded nice; your heart beat a little faster just imagining it.

“I just…” he began, trailing off and starting over.  “I'm starting to wonder if it wasn't a coincidence.  Even if it seems pretty random— we didn't know each other at all, before— I think it happened for a reason."

You shivered, but nodded in agreement.  “I think so, too.”

"I think you're supposed to be mine."

You smiled, looking down into your lap shyly once again.  “I don’t know about supposed to, but… I know that I want to be.”

“Let me remind you, one more time,” he smirked, “that we barely know each other.”

But you knew everything that mattered about each other, and so you smiled to yourself.  “I don’t care,” you insisted.

You blinked quickly, looking at him and out the window, when you realized he was pulling the van over.  When you were parked on the side of the road, he leaned over the console and held your cheek in one hand as you looked up at him.  His face was determined, yet soft; his eyes were even bigger than you remembered.  “Do you wanna be my mate?  Really?”

“Eddie,” you sighed, “of course— can’t you tell?”

“No, I know,” he shook his head, “I just mean that if we do this— if we really do this, the whole mated pair thing— it’s just you and me, for the long haul.  Together.”

You reached up and put your own hand on top of his.  “That’s what I want.”

“And I should warn you now,” he added, “that if you let me… I’m gonna breed you.”

You shivered.  “I… I want that, too.”

He growled, quiet but enough for you to hear and gasp as it seemed to rattle through your body, as he pulled you into a kiss.  You whimpered into it, clutching at his jacket needily until he smiled at you.  “Sweetheart,” he whispered, and you shivered again.

“F-fuck, Eddie, can we…?  Now?” you asked.

“Here?” he smirked.  “In the van?”

You glanced at the back for just a split second, but he noticed, and laughed lowly in that way that made your thighs clench together.  

“You wanna get in the back?” he noticed, and you nodded, looking at him again with half-lidded eyes.  “I really don’t deserve you— it’s not fair, you know, me having the sweetest omega in the world all to myself.”

“Just take me,” you pleaded, sick of the teasing, desperate for him to make good on that promise to breed you— logic be damned.  “Alpha…”

“Shh,” he soothed, kissing your neck instead as you melted into his arms, “m’right here, sweetheart.”

[astralexpressarchives]

The Renheng Iceberg Explained

Alright so there's this renheng iceberg on twitter that I was recently informed about. I'm wayyy too deep into the lore so I skipped to the bottom and everything there was stuff I was already more than familiar with.

So I figured why not put all this information to some use and make a post explaining the more obscure items on the iceberg and leaving out the self-explanatory ones, doing my best to reference as well as possible.

Blade gazing at Imbibitor Lunae statue

This was a hidden interaction where you could find Blade standing near the statue of Imbibitor Lunae at the scalegorge after revealing Dan Heng's vidyadhara form. He says he is 'mourning for folly' and asks you if Dan Heng is happy. You can watch a video about this here.

Good friends who are bad for each other

This is Kafka's description of what she knows about Blade and Dan Heng's history in her companion quest. This answer is a "truth" in her game of truth and lies.

"Apparently, they used to be good friends... Well, good friends who were bad for each other. Bladie forgot nearly everything, so he doesn't remember well. Together, they did something bad — something terrible. It led to horrific consequences. That's the information I managed to piece together. Bladie refused to tell me the details."

Dan Heng gets nightmares about blade

We see this in-game in the cinematic leading up to the Xianzhou questline. This is also suggested in the Only Silence Remains lightcone description.

Matching Jade Ornaments

Referring to this idea.

There is also a vidyadhara egg that says:

"You edge closer to the pearlescent shell and have a dream in which you are a Pearlkeeper who rides the waves, and travels across the ancient sea with your true love. The time you have spent with your lover is full of happiness, but the time of hatching rebirth is determined by destiny. You secretly put a jade pendant in your mouth so your lover can recognize each other in the next life."

And considering that DH:IL 4 story has him refusing to speak during the entirety of his interrogation, death sentence, and final verdict, it definitely leaves room for imagination.

Bracer Lore

This one encompasses a few of the other ones on the iceberg, too. Really, it's worth reading the entirety of the Passerby of Wandering Clouds relic set lore. Keep in mind all relic sets are in chronological order of head/gloves/body/feet. The bracer also mentions this part about 'That owner also once shared company and drinks with the unnamed, the two of them simply gazing at the moon with no words exchanged.' This has an interesting meaning in CN that tells us this drinking was an engagement ceremony. People thought this must be a typo but, despite many tickets from people, their only response has been that they're unable to comment further. They still haven't changed it as of patch 1.4.

Dan Heng polishes and gaze longingly at Cloud Piercer

A recent addition in patch 1.4 where Pom-pom now says:

"Passenger Dan Heng often carefully maintains and polishes his spear. Although the Express is very safe, it seems that he is not willing to drop his guard. Hmm, Pom-Pom can tell that when he polishes his spear, there isn't just alertness in his eyes, but a glint of longing, too. Don't underestimate me, Pom-Pom had dealt with all kinds of different passengers!"

I'm sure by now everyone knows that cloudpiercer was made by Yingxing (Blade).

You can see screenshots of this interaction in this post.

Mirror Inverted Colours

Apparently, a big part of CN character design focuses around the concept of inverted colour palette designs for ships. Because Blade and Dan Heng share inverted colours, this is considered a good sign for the ship as it indicates they were most likely designed together.

Danmei Coded

Danmei is the CN genre for mlm. It has a lot of stereotypical tropes that are very common in this genre and apply to renheng also. My personal opinion is that renheng is very similar to something written by Meatbun in particular - this is a danmei author who wrote erha, yuwu, and casefile compendium. The associated tropes are:

Lovers to enemies back to lovers angst timeline often including misunderstandings involving tragic betrayal

Black/red character x white/blue/green character

Under the moonlight

Amnesia and/or reincarnation themes

Protag did something that made everybody turn on them + complicated political drama plot

Redemption in death/isolation/retreating from the world at the end

Waiting frankly ridiculous amounts of time to be with the lover again

One character pursuing the other character literally

One character considered dead or demonic in some capacity, the other is ethereal and godly

Mortal x immortal

Afterlife/spirit realm shenanigans usually involving fractured souls as a result of torment

Contrasting personalities + others don't think they should get along/are bad for each other (usually the deviant personality is considered to be corrupting the noble/revered personality in some way which often involves a rebellion)

Mirrored Ultimates

Their ultimate animation sequences are very similar with close eyes with weapon - open eyes - attack.

And both of their ultimates take place in different versions of the same location:

Vidyadharas can't identify items belonging to their past yet Dan Heng got the bracer, jade pendant(?), and cloud piercer

There is an NPC named Lingling in the alchemy commission who is responsible for assisting in vidyadhara hatching rebirth. She collects the personal belongings of vidyadhara who claim that they want to keep the items for their next life. She says that:

From what I've seen, most Vidyadhara lack emotions fresh after their rebirth, and are unable to understand the sentiments of their previous selves. Not a single one has ever been able to identify which one of these items used to belong to them.

This is a big indicator that DH = DF and that their romance will be continuing in this life, too. We know from Passerby of Wandering Clouds relic set that Dan Heng is still in possession of the bracer because of the line: "His fingertips could still faintly feel the temperature from the other."

The stars always accompany the moon

This is a reference to their names in CN where the Xing in Yingxing means moon and the Yue in Yinyue jun (Imbibitor Lunae) means Moon. Their ship name Xingyue means Star and Moon, which is often why you will see them referred to with the Star/Moon emojis as well as the sword/leaf emoji.

Blade came to see Dan Heng blushing when Xiyan asked him to act the character in his story

This is referring to this video on weibo where Dan Heng is talking to Xiyan. You can see the characters in the crowd then Dan Heng starts blushing. The next time you see the crowd, Blade has arrived third from the right.

"Eternal Regrets of a High Elder" and "Dreams from a Past Life"

These are arias from the Cloudcry Songbook written by a Vidyadhara named Lingjie who reincarnated into Chunfen. Lingjie was an opera singer and apparently a big fan of Dan Feng and his romantic life.

My friend wrote the poem analysis of both of these arias. I would strongly recommend reading her translations.

TW: These translations do include mentions of a new leaked poem. Some of the content is NSFW.

Dan Heng named himself "Dan Heng" due to the "Dan" character carved by Yingxing/Blade

We know that Vidyadhara do not usually name themselves based on their past lives as they have no attachment to them. The other iteration of Dan Heng was named Yubie for example. Dan Heng's name in CN is  丹恒. The Dan 丹 means red/pellet/powder/cinnabar. You can see Dan is inscribed on his spear that Yingxing made for him, thus the logical conclusion is that Dan Heng saw the inscription and chose it as his name.

The Star of the East (Jupiter, Wood Star)'s god is Ying Xing, and their guardian beast is Azure Dragon/Canglong/Qinglong

This one is the only one I didn't understand when I first saw it, so I had to request the help of my CN knowing friends to figure it out.

Yingxing's name is 应星 (where the 星 means star).

The CN god of Jupiter Taisui Xingjun 太岁星君 is known as Yin Jiao 殷交

Jupiter is the planet associated with the Chinese wood element, known as the wood star

Azure Dragon is known as Canglong or Qinglong in CN. This is the guardian of Jupiter (the wood star).

Blade's fansong equates Yingxing with 听星 (judging star) which is an alias for Taisui Xingjun

You can read my friend's explanation of the relevant line in the fansong below.

Dan Feng's crime was inspired by Chang'E, the moon goddess for stealing an elixir of immortality and Yingxing was inspired by Hou Yi, a mortal and husband of Chang'E (he was given immortality but didn't, this parallels and contrasts Yingxing's immortality)

So there's actually a bit more to this. I'm going to just use my friend's explanation here:

According to Shang dynasty’s Guicang, It is said that there is a moon maiden who escaped to the moon after stealing an immortality pill. This story was eventually given more details: The moon maiden became known as Heng’e 姮娥, who was the wife of Hou Yi - the hero who shot down the 9 suns. Hou Yi was given an immortality pill/herb as a reward, but Heng’e stole it and flew to the moon. In some versions, upon finding out, Hou Yi tried to shot down her to prevent her from floating to the moon, but he hesitated and ended up choosing not to in the end because he still loved her. In the moon, Heng’e stayed in a palace called 廣寒宮 (the Vast Palace of Coldness) and cursed to be separated from her husband, alone with only the moon rabbits and the immortal osmanthus tree forever. Later on, her name was changed to Chang’e 嫦娥 because Emperor Wen of Han’s name was 劉恆 Liu Heng, and so the 姮 Heng part of her name became a taboo. The interesting here is that 姮 (Heng’e), 恆 (Liu Heng), 恒 (Dan Heng) are all alternative ways to write the same character, 姮, which originally means moon, Heng’e. In addition, we also have a lot of official artworks depicting Dan Heng with the moon and osmanthus flowers:

Yeah so I think that just about covers everything. I left out the ones that were self-explanatory but if anyone is still confused about any of them I can try to elaborate further in the replies.

[haladrielficxch]

Author Reveals are here! Read below the cut to see who wrote your favorite fics!

don't let it in with no intention to keep it by alicuntisms for @nuclearnik

galadriel is in need of a human - halbrand is in need of a warm place to sleep. a bargain is struck. if only galadriel knew who she was striking a bargain with....

A Lust for Light by cozy_ships for @liminal-zone

The magic is always just there on the periphery of his lands, threatening to spill over. Sometimes he swears he can feel it in the earth beneath his feet, taste it in the water, clear and bright and so utterly unlike his own. The flowing currents of it had drawn him to these lands, led him to stake his own claim and build his fortress along the borders of the Golden Wood. He knows who resides within, hiding herself away amidst the forest’s glittering bowers.

Tempered by eye_of_a_cat for @cozy_ships on Twitter

She focuses instead on smaller things. She notices the edges of him: the sewed seams of his bracers, the way they press against the skin of his hands; the shadow at his neck where the cloth of his collar falls loosely; the way the fuzz of hair on his arms glows a little in reflected firelight. He is all edges and joins, scars and soldered seams. There will be a way to break him apart.

at the dawn of our folly, we took from the tree that was rotting by ichabodcranemills for @lisenberry

Stranded togehter in the middle of nowehere, political rivals Galadriel and Halbrand learn they have more in common than they could've possibly imagined.

Love is heavy and light, bright and dark by lisenberry for @softlighter

There was a time in Lady Galadriel Artanis Noldor’s life when all she had to worry about was keeping her face out of the sun and her feet out of the mud. Her nose in her embroidery and her hands soft as lambskin. Her brain empty and her mouth shut.

Many things had changed since then.

and I feel like I just got home by Lizzen for @eye_of_a_cat on Twitter

A third age haunting of a sort; an alternate version of life as seen through the looking glass, and the impact resonate.

She is Everything You Want by MyrsineMezzo for @alicuntisms

As he looked at that tight braid with the light reflecting in her hair, Halbrand realized he knew who she was. Everyone knew who she was. Galadriel Noldor. She was the best and the brightest; the pride of the university who had been profiled in the recent campus magazine because she was on a sure ride through the NCAA fencing tournament system even as a sophomore. He realized Mel had followed his gaze when he heard a low scoff.

“Noldor. A loner who thinks she’s above it all. Now there’s a challenge worthy of the highest of prizes.”

the only song i want to hear by MyrsineMezzo for @ichabodcranemills

5 times Halbrand kissed Galadriel in exchange for a secret, and one time he did not.

Set throughout the first season of Rings of Power.

Deeper, Darker Things Than You by nuclearnik for @formerlyIR on Twitter

He is effortlessly charming—and everyone besides Galadriel seems to eat it right up—but something hiding just below the surface, coiled and restless, calls to her.

don't answer me (i'm calling just to hear you scream" by poeticmemory for @the-sweet-hibiscus

One year after her eldest brother‘s murder, Galadriel and her friends find themselves in the sights of a horror-film obsessed killer.

everything (except what it is) by softlight for @myrsinemezzo

“And what are you going to say?” “That I can be civil if you can."

Rival teachers Galadriel and Halbrand sign up to run the school show. Things do not go as expected.

the Curse of Linhir by TheSweetHibiscus for @justatinycollector

The morning of October 28th I, along with my unwilling companion, managed to flea the decrepit town of Linhir. I had ran, cloaked in nothing more than a t-shirt and the threadbare soles of my brother's old hiking boots, nearly twenty miles to the Regent's port home in Númenor. Each step was agony – the ill-timed impromptu marathon more than enough to cause my lungs and thighs to burn like coal cinders. Yet it was nothing compared to the sinking dread — a fear I hadn't gotten far enough away.

By the Moonlight by justatinycollector for @wyrd-syster

It would seem to Galadriel, in their first few encounters, that Halbrand would always leave her with something. Later, she’d come to learn that he never left a place empty-handed.

The Highwayman AU.

stones that move (and trees that speak) by Wyrd_Syster for @bad-surprise

Halbrand wants power and Galadriel wants her inheritance. There is no cost too high, no price too steep, to stop them from taking what they want.

A Macbeth AU with a dash of Sleep No More.

[hamliet]

BSD 112: War and Peace

Now that the manga has finally caught up to the anime, I shall say that I am still pretty convinced Fyodor will pull a Jesus and be fine.

That said, I hella loved this chapter. The themes, man. Essentially Fukuchi is inviting Fukuzawa to become God, though I would NOT be surprised to see a certain new character show up considering this entire chapter is basically Fukuchi and Fukuzawa trading paraphrased quotes from A Certain Novel.

It's a battle of free will vs peace, and how we walk that line as individuals and societies... war is futile and hell, and pointless because what even is a state anyways besides some arbitrary idea we've all agreed to for... reasons, and yet if you remove the ability for war and conflict as a whole, you don't really have humanity but instead mind-controlled slaves.

War is not a polite recreation, but the vilest thing in life, and we ought to realize this and not make a game of it... as it stands now it's the favorite pastime of the idle and frivolous.”

Every action of theirs, that seems to them an act of their own freewill is in the historical sense not free at all but is bound up with the whole course of history and preordained from all eternity... Man lives consciously for himself, but serves as an unconscious instrument for the achievement of historical, universally human goals.

It's true that people are born where they are born, and caught up in the stories that are grander than they are. Everyone likes to imagine what they know and what they experience and what they want and believe is True, but is it? Or is it merely a product of how they've grown? Is it a product of the centuries and millennia of people before us who create wars and conflicts and use us in them?

Yes, humans are used as unconscious instruments. But is that all they are? All they should be? Fukuchi seems to think yes. If they're currently used as instruments of war, then why not use them. as instruments of peace?

Fukuzawa, however, thinks otherwise.

It's an existential question humanity has been wrestling over since human beings have existed, and it won't be answered anytime soon because there is no neat answer. It's the paradox of human nature and human existence.

He had learned that, as there is no situation in the world in which a man can be happy and perfectly free, so there is no situation in which he can be perfectly unhappy and unfree.

Dictatorships are known, obviously, for suppressing free will and free expression.

Now, in War and Peace, Tolstoy's answer is love. And God, who is Love. But love first and foremost since Tolstoy himself wasn't super religious when writing it (later on he was though).

Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one thing we are interested in here.

Yet, if you remove the ability to choose love or violence, then:

A man having no freedom cannot be conceived of except as deprived of life. 

And it's pretty clear what lesson Fukuchi has to learn:

Life is everything. Life is God. Everything shifts and moves, and this movement is God. And while there is life, there is delight in the self-awareness of the divinity. To love life is to love God. The hardest and most blissful thing is to love this life in one's suffering, in the guiltlessness of suffering.

Life sucks. War is hell. It makes life feel like it's not worth living. But without free will, you are not alive at all.

For if we allow that human life is always guided by reason, we destroy the premise that life is possible at all.

Anyways, even if Leo Tolstoy does not appear as an actual character with the supreme ability of "War and Peace," well, he sure is influencing this arc a lot.

[jyeshindra]

The Folly of a Water Sign

Hey folks. The Cancer Full Moon just passed and I'm feeling heavy and watery and emotional. What better way to process than to reflect on our aquatic feelers of the zodiac?

As a sidereal Pisces/Scorpio combo, I have a pretty good understanding of water energy and exactly how our energy gets so fucked up. Water is...formless. It's shifting, or being poured into, or being diluted, or being mixed with others. It is both infinite and deep. Both independent and exposed. We are everywhere, in everything, and connected to everyone. Scorpio is probably the best at hiding their softness and Pisces the least. I presume all three are a bit too raw for the world. Too aware of what dwells in their hearts. So what is our folly? I believe our karma has a lot to do with boundaries, emotional intelligence, and conflict resolution. We must learn about our own emotions and how we use those emotions to respond to situations or affect our path. What we deserve, like all humans, is to be happy, to experience joy, and to free ourselves from situations that do not serve us. It is the path to learning such things that we of water find our challenge and our lesson. For water, it's often a matter of emotional investment. Where is that emotional energy going? What you put your heart into will either serve you or hurt you tenfold. If discernment is not implemented, if there is no self-awareness, then you will remain stuck in harmful cycles. Scorpio can be so attached to an outcome, to success, and to achievement. Pisces can be indulgent and too forgiving. Too caught up in whims to lay two steady feet on the ground. Cancer is so attached to what they feel they won't make room for anything else. We're sentimental and emotional--liable to get stuck on feelings and people and moments and substances and habits. Our other achilles heel, victimhood is alive in the shadow of each water sign. We all at one point or another shout into the void and demand some sort of validation for our pain and misery. It must be something else. It must be them or that thing that happened four years ago or this person who never showed up for me. And what to say of Forgiveness? Pisces excels at this, to the detriment of their own soul. Contemplating forgiveness merely leads me down an equally challenging path and I fear for both myself and the water signs who don't learn this. What is forgiveness? Is it for me or for you? Do I need to know why I forgive you? Does forgiveness mean betraying myself? Is forgiveness even guaranteed? I don't know the answer to any of these questions. I'm trying to figure it out myself. And so, I release this letter into the ether. To my fellow water sign brethren and all those who are lost on their way home, I invite you to pray and reflect with me. There are years of questions, and years of answers. I await the answers.

-jyeshindra

[howlingday]

As Ironwood is leaving after giving the order to arrest team RWBY the door opens to reveal a VERY angry Vulkan who overheard everything, the Primarch of the Sakamanders decides to declare the general unfit for duty and take command of the entire atlas military.

General James Ironwood, headmaster of Atlas Academy and general of the Atlas military, glanced over his shoulder to the rebellious team he had taken into his care. The four girls had shown great promise since their arrival, and even now, he felt his near-instant graduation to licensed huntresses was no mistake. However, they had betrayed his trust, and the trust of the people of Atlas by allying themselves with the rogue element known as the Happy Huntresses.

"We won't let you take us!" Ruby Rose said as he passed his Ace Operatives, the elite of his elite specialists.

"I know." The door opened and he stepped through, ready to lock it behind him and fully enact his martial law. It was a difficult choice, but one that had to be-

"And just where do you think you're going?"

All the blood drained in the general's face as he was suddenly stopped by a wall of green ceramite as a voice as angry as a volcano spoke down to him. Looking up, he shivered at the sight of red eyes peering down with righteous fury into his very being. What else would one feel when on the receiving end of a primarch's ire?

"General Ironwood, I have heard many tales about your steadfast adherence to order," pushing Ironwood back into his office, everyone in the room gave the two a wide berth as the massive man began shouting at the formerly tallest one, "and I will admit, I feel a sense of nostalgia. You remind me of my brother, Dorn. But even he would see the folly in your decision to enact martial law!"

"Y... You don't understand, sir!" General Ironwood shouted back, surprising everyone that the mountain of a man not only outsized the general, but also outranked him! "Our kingdom is under siege of a terror most ancient and foul! A monster who intends to destroy all of Remnant!"

"A monster I have seen many a time, General." The primarch huffed. "But not once was imprisoning your people ever the answer to any of these crises."

"The enemy is in our homes, sir!" General Ironwood shouted still. "They have killed our people, have taken hold of our relics, and these girls have betrayed us all!"

His eyes passed over the girls standing ready with their weapons. The largest of them held her fists up to defend herself, likely in a fisticuffs manner that would likely be similar to his brothers Russ or Johnston. The one next to her held a crouched stance, as if ready to strike with agility, not dissimilar to his brothers Corax or even the vile Curze. On the far end of the group was a girl who held an elegant pose that he couldn't help but compare to his insidious brother Fulgrim. Last, but leading the group was the smallest of the four, but held the largest weapon that reminded him of his brother Mortarion, but her eyes seemed kinder, even with anger and fear pouring from them. He couldn't really compare them to any of his brothers, but instead of the children of Nocturne. It brough a smile to his face, however brief it may have been held.

"Is this true?" He asked. "Have you betrayed us?"

"No." The small leader replied with a steady heart. "We didn't."

The giant was quiet for a moment, then turned to the general. "Remove your martial law."

"But sir, if Salem-"

"Remove your martial law." His voice was more firm, and his eyes more focused. With a shaking hand, Ironwood removed the martial law from his scroll. The small leader took hold of her scroll and began conversing with someone on the other end. This must have been their rudimentary vox system. "Now, general..."

General Ironwood gulped.

"Let us discuss this problem proper." He then smiled. "I'm sure my sons would love to provide you aid."

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Secret Meetings

@cilil Here is the result of so many late-night discussions...Firebird, another ship you've injected into me with a long, scary needle haha

I hope this is to your liking <3

Characters: Eönwë x Gothmog

Words: 2 410

Warnings: tension, trauma, attempted masturbation, a handjob, and an abduction, NSFW

“This is a terrible idea,” Mairon hissed, eyeing the Balrog in front of him with evident dismay. “Why would you heed the call of that feathered fool?”

Rolling his eyes, Gothmog shrugged lopsidedly; he had come to inform his superiors of his appointment, not to ask for their permission. The perimeter was safe, and all the regular guards were at the ready—there was consequently no reason for him to stay in Angband when he was needed elsewhere.

“Let him have fun,” Melkor intervened, hanging off his throne in a contortion that was both exceedingly enticing and truly alarming to his lieutenant and lover. “It’s so boring here anyway.”

“He might have important information,” Gothmog grunted, trying to save face.

“You’re going to fuck the bird—you know it, we know it, everyone except Manwë knows it,” Thuri commented in a bored tone, making Gothmog jump. He had hitherto not noticed his colleague, hanging from the rafters, and—with her in the mix—he could but accept his defeat and slink out of the fortress in mortified silence.

In his heart of hearts, he was torn—he had never actually done the deed of which they all spoke so flippantly, but it seemed easier to just let them labour under that misconception than to explain what was really going on.

In truth, he had clandestinely met Eönwë—herald to Manwë, the Relentless—more than once, and he had always been struck by three things: firstly, the bird was mouth-wateringly appetising, secondly, he was incredibly skilled in warfare, and thirdly, Eönwë was suffering from an insidious, evidently crippling kind of trauma.

Even now, Gothmog could not fully comprehend what folly had moved him to offer his help initially—he surely had never expected Eönwë to take him up on the offer—but he had always known that he would heed the call if it ever was to come.

Of course, he also did agree that it was potentially reckless and definitely dangerous to meet an avowed foe without the support and reinforcement of at least a few of his minions.

Nevertheless, he didn’t want to spook Eönwë, and so he sallied forth bravely, once again failing to realise that he was being followed by the sneaky, lethally silent bat; Thuringwethil was often exasperated by his antics, but she was also a true friend and would never have allowed him to put himself in peril without back-up.

“Bird?” Gothmog called as soon as he reached their secret rendezvous spot, hidden between forbiddingly jagged rocks and dense, dark trees. “Are you there? What’s the matter? Did the pile of shit your Master calls a tower collapse?”

He sniggered at his own joke but was startled out of his merriment by the sudden appearance of Eönwë, looking absolutely wretched. His clothes hung limply off his muscular frame as if he had been doused in water before taking off, and his sensual, full mouth was downturned and tense.

“What happened? Are you all right?” A different kind of alarm made Gothmog’s scales tingle as he took in the picture of abject misery before him.

“You are an amoral demon, right?” Eönwë asked, his voice so absurdly hopeful that Gothmog was not sure how to answer. Despite the words being undeniably insulting, it was clear that Eönwë was hoping for a confirmation.

“One might say that,” Gothmog finally replied cautiously. “Why? Are you in need of amoral deeds?”

When the winged hero merely nodded, the fire spirit almost burst into flame out of sheer confusion and astonishment.

“I am in a…tough spot,” Eönwë muttered, looking at the ground beneath his feet as if bowed by unbearable shame. “The predicament has gone on for quite some time now, and I really don’t know what to do anymore.”

On account of the considerable size difference between them, Gothmog decided to sit down on the cool, rocky ground to be less threatening—he certainly did not want to give Eönwë the impression that he was judging or patronising him for whatever absurd confession he was about to let loose.

As a matter of fact, he had heard the most nonsensical and alarming things from the winged Maia before—from letting his Vala do unspeakably questionable things to him to being afraid that someone might steal his soul if he enjoyed a kiss too much—so the Lord of Balrogs was struck dumb by this new, entirely unexpected peak of naïve idiocy when it was finally put into words.

“I…can’t get it under control,” Eönwë murmured sorrowfully, pointing at his groin. “I just feel—strange the whole time, and I…am afraid that someone will notice and—”

The distended breeches—looking suspiciously soiled already—unambiguously told a tale of woe and discomfort which drew a clucking, empathetic sound from the tight throat of the Balrog; he was no stranger to the painful throes of unwanted and untimely arousal, and his heart went out to the disconsolate bird.

“Did you try to…you know…take care of it?” Gothmogh then asked sheepishly, mimicking vigorous masturbation.

“Yes, but I think I am not doing it right—it’s not working! Can I show you? Maybe you’ll have some pointers for me.”

The tremulous note of reluctant trust and utter despair in his voice made Gothmog suppress a guffaw of disbelief; instead, he nodded very seriously and leaned back on his elbows, schooling his face into a mien of benevolent neutrality.

He had never seen Eönwë entirely naked thus far, so the vicious, almost angry struggle of the herald with his own fine garments was another welcome but highly disconcerting surprise.

As soon as he had cast off his raiment, Eönwë proceeded to encircle his half-hard cock in a vice-like grip and tug at it brutally.

Jumping to his feet, Gothmog closed his own clawed fingers around the white-knuckled hand. “Slow down, bird. Do you want to tear it off?” he said, trying to make his voice sound playful and light.

“Maybe,” Eönwë groaned. “It has certainly caused me enough trouble to warrant such a drastic step.”

With a regretful, reprimanding shake of his impressively bulky head, Gothmog pried Eönwë’s cramped fingers off his by now fully erect cock and lifted them to his fiery maw.

“Look here, bird, you have a lovely body there. Truly, that is a truly admirable, charming form which perfectly complements your sweet nature,” he cooed, pressing little kisses on the trembling hand of his inveterate enemy. “You are so much closer to the other Valar—I’d recommend consulting Yavanna, Vána, or even Aiwendil about this. Maybe, it’s just your…well…season.”

Huge, blank eyes gazed into his pleadingly, and Gothmog felt his heart mellow.

“Now, I understand that this is not a nice state to be in—especially after everything you’ve told me about the expectations and rules of your home—but if you’d let me, I can try to help.”

“Yes,” Eönwë almost sobbed. “Yes, I thought that you might be able to assist me. You’re—you don’t care about these things, do you?”

It was an insult, an accusation, and a touchingly vulnerable plea all at once.

“Tell me what it is like,” Gothmog asked gently and accepted without protesting when Eönwë wrenched his hand free and turned around as if he was unable to bear being perceived during the stammering, halting explanation of absolutely natural and normal experiences of carnal lust.

“I just—I wake up and it is there, this need, this yearning, and I don’t understand. It’s like being expected to know the answer to a question that has never been put to me, and it annoys me. Throughout the day, I feel as if I am about to burst into flame—no offence to you—and yet I am so paralyzingly cold all the time. Something is missing, and I know I need it, I’ll die if I don’t find it, but I don’t even know where to start looking or what I am seeking.”

Humming in sympathy, Gothmog pondered these words for a long moment.

He had the overwhelming urge to speak to his masters for—while Melkor knew and understood needs and impulses better than anybody else—Mairon would know exactly how to proceed; he was a prodigy in the making and pursuing of plans.

Unfortunately, neither one of them was available, and so Gothmog simply followed his instincts.

“Let’s start with the easiest part,” he rumbled comfortingly and pulled Eönwë onto his lap and wrapped his solid, warming arms around that shivering frame. “Better?”

“Yes,” Eönwë admitted. “You are so hot—warm, I mean, but also—”

He hiccupped frenetically. “See? I am doing it again! I am bad—all my thoughts and actions are despicable!”

“Don’t worry, so am I,” Gothmog laughed and carded his sharp claws carefully through the dense, fluffy feathers covering Eönwë’s broad wings. The full-body shiver and suppressed moan this tiny caress provoked emboldened him, and he repeated his movement with a little more pressure. “Do you feel closer to that answer now?”

“Maybe a little?” Eönwë squeaked in a breathless voice as his head tilted backwards to come to rest against Gothmog’s smouldering, gem-covered shoulder with a muted thud. “I should not enjoy this—”

“But you do? Tell yourself that I am just one of the terrible, wicked defilers Manwë always warns you about,” the Balrog whispered, denying his own deeper, better nature in the name of bringing succour to one in need. “None of this is your fault!”

“Will you steal my soul if I let you kiss me?”

“Yes, but just a tiny bit. You know, we Balrogs love evilness so much that we will suck it out from others to have more of it,” Gothmog fibbed even as he snaked his hands around Eönwë’s torso to let his gleaming claws rake across the taut skin of his stomach all the way up to his woefully neglected, oversensitive nipples.

“You may then,” Eönwë moaned, arching into that first touch with self-forgotten eagerness and twisting his head—taking full advantage of his nature’s mobility—to welcome the searing, blinding kiss that was pressed upon his trembling lips.

“Let’s try this again,” Gothmog groaned, willing his own cock not to breach containment in some ludicrous way that would freak Eönwë out.

Then, taking that shivering white hand into his own, he guided it towards the gently swaying, abundantly leaking cock and wrapped Eönwë’s fingers around it loosely once more.

“This is not your enemy,” he hummed. “I am.”

“I don’t like this,” Eönwë cried, jerking his arm to pull back. “This is wrong—I don’t want to do this.”

Then, a mere moment later, he added pitifully, “Can’t you…do it?”

No, Gothmog had never penetrated Eönwë, and—by the way this meeting was going—he would not do so anytime soon either, but he obliged happily, replacing the reluctant hand of righteous justice with his despicable paw of depravity.

“Nice and slow,” he said as he started pumping carefully. “You are good; thus, you deserve to be treated well, even by yourself.”

For some reason, it was tremendously important to him to get that point across. Once he got back to Angband, he would scour the few resources they had at their disposal and maybe even throw himself at Thuri’s mercy for information, but, for now, he would simply try to quench the torturous fires roasting his little bird alive.

Small gurgling sounds of dismay and involuntary rapture escaped Eönwë despite his best efforts to withstand and defy the menacing wave of red mist burgeoning in his befuddled mind.

One hand stroking a shivering wing and the other curled carefully around Eönwë’s cock, Gothmog peppered tiny, nipping kisses—the only concession he made to his disavowed desire for the creature writhing in his lap—onto that gleaming, overstretched throat, thrumming with mounting tension.

“It’s all right, bird,” he promised. “I am exactly the kind of demon who’d take advantage of your rare moment of weakness.”

Ground to dust under the pressure building in his core, Eönwë whined softly. “No,” he then said in a rough pant. “No, you’re helping me. You’re being—hmmm—so good to me. This—it’s the answer.”

For the first time since this whole ordeal had started, he felt light enough to take flight without wearing himself out—his whole body felt tense and powerful, warmed to the core by the heat emanating from the Balrog’s embrace, and Eönwë’s confused, contradictory senses told him undeniably that he was finally safe.

With a resonating shout, he bore down on Gothmog’s groin with all his weight as he came undone, spraying hot seed across their entangled legs and the unforgiving, uncaring ground.

Of course, he knew nothing of the agony he had put the other through when he collapsed against a rock-hard chest and tucked his golden-haired head under an angular chin like a fledgling taking refuge from a storm.

“Well done, bird,” Gothmog crooned. “Are you feeling better? Do you think you can go home and sleep? If you ever need me again, I am just a message away.”

He smiled wistfully at the barren rock and the ominous trees—he was far from satisfied, but his heart was at ease.

“The hell you will,” another voice cut in. “The bird is in heat—everyone can smell that from a mile off.”

“Thuri,” Gothmog screeched, startled and distraught. Of all the citizens of Angband, she was the one he did not want to be caught by with his pants down.

Eönwë as well bristled and dazedly groped for his weapon which he had discarded rather carelessly at the beginning of this most healing of experiences.

“Relax, chicken,” Thuri laughed. “Winged solidarity here. Gotty, listen, you cannot send him back like that. It will get a lot worse before it gets better, and he’s been one miserable sentient drumstick since he arrived here despite your ‘help’.”

“What do you propose then?” Gothmog snarled—the outburst would have been much more threatening if he had been standing rather than cradling a boneless Eönwë on his burning lap.

“In the name of the Dark Forces of Angband,” Thuri declared, her eyes flickering with delight, “I officially take Eönwë, Maia of Manwë, hostage. Come, bird, Gotty will draw you a hot bath and get you some nice seeds. And then, I hope, he’ll fuck you silly, because whatever this pity play was, it was painful to watch!”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November

[separatist-apologist]

The New Romantics

Every day is like a battle, but every night with us is like a dream

Summary: Gale Dekarios has come to terms with the end of his life- really, he has. It's only fitting he return to the sight of his folly- to the ruins of Karse, hidden deep within the Dire Wood, where he plans to let the orb overtake him. Still, he can't resist stopping in Baldur's Gate, just to see if there is anything that might help him.

If Gale Dekarios was looking for absolution, Baldur's Gate was the wrong place to go. But if he was hoping for revenge? Well, the city might just answer.

Read on AO3

“Please,” the voice pleaded for all Elara cared. Standing before her, Enver Gortash’s dark eyes were focused not on the bloodied scene before them but her. 

“Do you believe me now?” Elara asked, head cocked to the side. 

Gortash took a step forward, gloved hand stroking her cheek. “Yes,” he breathed. If Elara wanted, they could bathe in the beautiful visage before her. She didn’t, though—not yet. She had other things she needed to do, boxes to check off before she indulged in her lesser urges. Turning, Elain’s dagger sailed through the air, slicing into the tender, unprotected flesh of that last, living victim.

The symphony of bloody death filled Elara’s chest like warm sunlight. Oh, the urges sang, that’s beautiful.

Another, softer part of her balked—guilt tried to claw its way up her spine where it could better sit in her throat. Once, Elara would have sobbed herself hoarse after such a scene, but now…now she didn’t care. Guilt was a useless, soft emotion.

She was the spawn of Bhaal—his favorite daughter, his only Chosen. Standing behind her was the Chosen of Bane. Like her, he was young and he was hungry, desperate to prove himself. Unlike her, he thought this alliance would result in power and tyranny when Elara knew the truth: any union between her Dread Lord father and Bane would end in ruin and death.

Liking him was immaterial, truly. And yet…

“Find me tonight,” Gortash urged, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Do not keep me waiting.”

It was a game between them. Whatever order he issued, she was to break. Then he’d do his very best to punish her, soliciting power even when they were undressed in the dark together. 

Elara merely nodded, slipping from his grasp to half-vanish into shadow. With a few soft whispers, Elara was invisible to anyone looking, her magic blotting away her feelings. 

Magic had always been there. Before she’d known the truth of her heritage and had merely thought there was something very, very wrong with her, magic had been a friend. There was no morality to it, just the ever present feeling of rightness. No where else did Elara feel that—not even when she gave in to her murderous impulses. 

Tonight, though, Elara could be nothing but the Unholy Assassin. The Slayer. The Spawn. The prodigal daughter who informed her father on things happening before her butler Scelaritas could. Elara made her way through still congested streets, weaving in and out of crowds unaware she was among them. That was how Elara preferred it. The city would rally around itself should they ever learn a Bhaalspawn terrorized their streets.

And she’d had eighteen years worth of experience trying to control her urges. Not everyone needed to be a victim, not every night needed to result in a bloodbath. She’d already killed more than enough, all in Bhaals name, to satisfy Gortash’s desire to know once and for all what she was capable of. His unwillingness to obey his Lord would be his downfall…and she would miss him when he inevitably died.

He was the only real friend she’d had in years. Maybe ever, truly. 

Elara shook the thought from her head, pushing bloodstained, blonde hair from her face. She looked like any other moderately pretty woman roaming the streets. Not so beautiful she stopped and turned heads but not so unattractive she couldn’t charm her way through a door if she needed to. Elara glanced down at her hands, unhidden and cut from slippery blood and her excitement holding her blade—she’d sliced open her own fingers more than once. If she could have seen her face, she’d have caught the trio of slashes marred against the tan skin of her neck.

Life as a Bhaalspawn was a violent one. That encounter had nearly cost her her life—and Elara wore those scars the way fine ladies wore pearls around their necks. 

Sighing, Elara’s boots splashed into fetid water. She recognized cultists toying with a refugee on rotting docks, though she ignored all of it even when they nodded their heads in deference to her. It was as things should be, even if it still made her uneasy.

She’d been just a girl, once. An ordinary person with parents, with a life that belonged only to her. Now…Elara shook her head. She ought to be grateful there was anything greater waiting for her at all. That her murderous urge served a purpose rather than just betrayed someone deeply sick. 

The temple always felt like a welcome reprieve from the world at large and her own thoughts. There was no room for weakness among the Bhaalian horde and Elara knew better than to let them suspect she had doubts or any fears at all.

Especially when Orin was swanning around. Elara could hear her voice echoing from the high stone, mingled among the screams of ecstasy and pain. There was no point seeking Orin out—not unless she wanted a fight—and Elara had other needs, besides. Ignoring those who looked, she made her way down steep, stone steps to a throne she’d spent the last six years seated upon.

If her sister had her way, there would not be another six years. 

It was tempting to demand everyone leave the room so she could be alone, and something delicious about knowing she had a direct line to Bhaal the rest of them wished they did. Let them see her—she didn’t care. With a deep breath, Elara closed her eyes and called upon the urges in her blood.

When she opened her eyes, only bloodstained darkness remained. There, standing in a pool of red liquid, was her god father peering back at her with bright eyes.

“Elara,” he began, his voice rough and jagged. “I trust the Bannite understands our position?” Elara rolled her neck. “I showed him who he was dealing with. Whether he respects that or not, well…”

A dark chuckle filled the silence. “And what of what he told you?”

Elara drummed her fingers on the stone throne. “He claims the Crown of Karsus exists and is being held in a vault in the hells.”

“Do you trust him?”

“No,” she admitted, daring to look her father in the eyes. “With your permission, I would travel to the ruins of Netheril and see for myself.”

There was a pause as the Lord of Murder considered this. Elara dropped her gaze into the abyss beneath her feet, ever deferential to the orders given to her. Whatever he decided, she’d do—just as she always had. 

“Go,” he finally said, steps whispering against a floor she could not see. “Determine the truth of the Bannite’s word. If he’s telling the truth, I want you to lead the raid and it will be you who crowns the brain.”

“Yes, father,” Elara promised, heart thudding in her chest.

“He cannot know we do not intend to share power. Do you understand?”

Elara nodded her head. “I do.”

Electricity charged through the air, betraying something unsaid by her father. Something he was holding back, information that would be helpful if he wanted her to know it. That was the thing about being the Chosen of Bhaal—he loved his little tests. It was all a game, throwing her before murderous lunatics to see how she fared. If she could survive, if she could slaughter in the way he wished for her to. 

Whatever obstacles he knew were waiting, Elara would best them just as she always had. Still, it would have been nice to have a warning, even if he wouldn’t tell her the whens and hows. She knew better than to press, well aware that the only thing he liked more than obedience was punishing her brutally. It mattered not whose blood was made in offering—and if her death was offered up to him, he’d take it greedily, without complaint.

There would always be another spawn, after all. Someone better, someone who wouldn’t disappoint Bhaal the way so many others had. Gorions Ward…Elara shook the thought from her head as the world began to clear, bringing bright candlelight to her vision. She’d heard of Gorion’s Ward, of course—who in Baldur’s Gate hadn’t? They were a hero to everyone but Bhaal, and to her that story wasn’t about personal triumph but tragedy. 

He’d forsaken his own bloodline, burning away the darkness with light. 

Elara stretched out her neck again, wondering how long she’d been sitting there. Surely not more than a few moments? It felt like she’d been there for days. Elara didn’t look at anyone—not even Orin, who stood at the top of the steps, framed by that stone cut face just behind. 

“What was that about?” she demanded, falling into step with Elara the moment she reached the top.

“Ask our Lord yourself,” Elara snapped, reminding Orin of her place. Orin thought being the granddaughter of the failure Sarevok meant something—but it was a stain on her line, on herself. Orin was too obsessed with beauty, besides, to ever be an effective Chosen, and impulsive to a fault. Elara had tried with her—she truly had. Orin was simply unteachable. 

Orin stalked off, shrieking about the unfairness of it all. One day, Elara would have to kill her. Did Orin know it, she wondered? Was she prepared for the inevitable showdown between them? Elara wasn’t. If she was honest with herself, she might have admitted that she’d let Orin live simply so there was someone to carry on if she ever managed to leave. 

A back-up plan she would come to regret, certainly. 

Elara didn’t bother spending the night in her chambers, nor did she spend another moment in the temple. It felt like a dream, descending upward into the city. She could hear the soft sounds of lovers murmuring and drunks stumbling, the sound of music from nearby taverns welcoming folks in for a meal and a drink.

She had an apartment above one of them—a space she kept simply for herself when she needed a reprieve from it all. When the lust for blood overwhelmed her and some of the light came flooding back in. Her father had been a cleric for Lathander before…before. Elara had never felt his divine presence personally and suspected the Morninglord had never had much use for her. And yet…and yet when she was drenched in blood and delighting in the death she’d wrought, she swore she felt his fingertips brush against her brow.

Maybe that was merely the memory of her pretend father. 

She felt it, though, passing by a familiar street of modest homes. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look—

“All is ash and meat,” she whispered to herself, head turning of its own accord. Among the neat rows of homes lay an empty lot, still untouched all these years later. The grass was neatly kept, with dotting yellow and white flowers swaying in the moonlight. The home had burned to the ground, killing the family inside. Elara still had the paper from that day, noting the three inside and the corpses so badly charred that they’d been otherwise unidentifiable. 

Her heart ached at the memory, one she refused to truly examine. If she did, the guilt might consume her and who knew what she’d do, then? Elara kept walking, turning her eyes back toward the streets in front of her. If she kept walking, she’d end up in the Upper City where Gortash resided—and in his bed, which was where he wanted her.

But tonight Elara wasn’t interested in games of pretend. Turning abruptly, she made her way toward the cemetery and a familiar grave.

“You’re an asshole,” she whispered, picking the lock that would let her into the tomb. She and Gorion’s Ward were related, after all—they had the same sire. She ought to have the right to rob him of his gold whenever she felt like it.

Of course, she could have just plundered the temple, but Elara wanted to look at that carved, attractive face and offer them her middle finger. As if the once Bhaalspawn cared about her at all. It was just… “How did you do it?” she wondered once the heavy door of the tomb slammed shut behind her. 

How did someone defy a god? Why, too? Elara wandered the musty, dark space until she couldn’t stand it. Only then did she snap her fingers, willing the candles to ignite under the command of her magic. 

“I can do better than you,” she told that statue, staring upward like a defiant child. “I can succeed where you failed.”

Then why are you here, child of Bhaal? A voice whispered in her mind, caressing her thoughts.

“I don’t know,” she admitted out loud, sitting on a bench across from the statue. “I wanted you to know that I hated you.”

If you say so, she swore that voice replied, their words laced with humor. I trust you’ll follow the right path.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she said snappishly, though Elara didn’t bother getting up. She felt peace…and warmth. Looking upward at the ceiling, Elara flashed that middle finger at the watching god. “I don’t belong to you.”

She swore she heard an answering laugh before a softly whispered, we’ll see. 

GALE:

Baldur’s Gate was as foul as any city Gale Dekarios had ever stepped in. It was certainly no Waterdeep, at any rate, with its trash strewn streets and drunks stumbling about. He’d never had any interest in seeing Baldur’s Gate, and yet…

Gale sighed, rubbing at his chest. He intended to sleep for a night and continue his journey deep into the surrounding forest where, ideally, no one would be harmed when he finally let go. It had been months of trying to keep his arcane hunger under control, but he’d only become more ravenous which meant he was more of a danger than he’d ever been.

And Mystra was silent. 

He’d hoped Sorcerer's Sundries would have something that could help him, but that had been a fools errand. There was nothing—no wizard had ever absorbed Netherese magic and therefore hadn’t thought to write down what might come of it. He had left behind a journal, hoping it might be helpful to the next mage who came after him, though for all he knew it would be published among the comedic drawings for all to laugh at. 

Sighing again, Gale intended to continue toward The Elfsong Tavern when something caught his eye. A flash of red in the otherwise inky dark, making its way up a wall. Gale looked, surprised to find a young woman walking along the top of a watchtower, peering down at the streets below. She raised a foot and too late, Gale realized she was going to jump. 

With a quick, whispered spell, Gale leapt from the ground, flying upward just in time to slam his body roughly against her own. A muffled scream of surprise shattered the otherwise peaceful silence as the pair hit the hard ground in a tangle of limbs.

“Don’t jump,” he said, heart pounding in his throat. “You have so much to live for.”

“Get off me!” she demanded, shoving at his chest. Gale rolled over, one hand resting above the now silent orb hidden beneath his wizard's robes. Beside him, the woman he’d seen brushed herself off as she scrambled to her feet. In the torchlight, Gale saw a wicked scar streaked over moonbright green eyes. How had she gotten that, he wondered? 

Behind her, a rather well-made staff loomed over one shoulder, marking her as some kind of user of the weave. Another wizard, he wondered? She didn’t look like a druid…perhaps a Warlock? Gale’s fingertips crackled with magic, drinking in her own connection with the Weave. 

“What is wrong with you, wizard?” she snarled, facing him down. Despite her smaller frame, she looked lethal, her face devoid of any of the warmth he might suspect. 

“You were going to jump,” Gale said as he realized she was merely another arrogant sorceress. 

“Oh, for Ao’s sake,” she muttered, running a hand through messy braided blonde hair. “I was not about to jump. Not to my death, anyway.”

Of course not. She would have used a spell to keep her from splattering to her death and still…and still Gale couldn’t get death out of his thoughts. It was stalking him even now, hovering just behind as he marched toward his own. 

“My apologies,” he replied, offering her a slight bow. “Are you injured?”

She scoffed, running her hands over the tightly made leather wrapped around her body. “I’m fine.”

“Well—no harm done then, I suppose. I’ll take my leave.”

That should have been the end of his encounter. Whoever that woman was clearly had no interest in conversation and truthfully Gale had other places he needed to be. This was merely another embarrassment he could add to a long list as he consoled himself that it would soon be forgotten. No one would remember Gale of Waterdeep. Not fondly or with distaste, either. Perhaps they’d wonder and turn him into a cautionary tale, but that would be the extent of things. And this woman would never know what happened to the bumbling stranger who’d mistaken her for a jumper. 

Gale started to turn as warm, callused fingers reached for his wrist. “Don’t move,” she whispered, pulling him into the shadows. The pair ducked behind a rack of weapons as the sorceress whispered the familiar words to an invisibility spell. Gale turned his attention toward the walkway, where a group of three prowled. Something about them was off, he decided. They were decidedly unwashed and exceptionally pale, and as they got closer they dragged the smell of death with them.

Both he and the strange woman buried their faces in the sleeve of their clothes. He couldn’t make out the words they whispered among them, nor did he recognize the symbol emblazoned on one of their cloaks. 

“C’mon,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “This way.”

Gale followed behind her, making his way toward a wooden door. She all but shoved him through and he expected her to slam the door in his face, leaving him to make his way down the stairs alone.

“Go,” she ordered, the only sign of her the continued touch of her fingers. “Quickly.”

Gale did as he was told, curious as to why she hadn’t just left him there. “Who are they?”

“Disciples of Myrkul,” she replied, her feet silent as death behind him. “Couldn’t you tell by the smell?”

“I don’t make it a habit to cavort among the Death Three,” Gale replied with some indignation. He heard her snort of amusement, which begged the question, “How do you know what the Disciples of Myrkul look like?”

“Well, the insignia’s on their broaches clued me in,” she said, her amusement bright. Once they were back on the street, he waved his hand revealing them both beneath silvery moonlight. “But they always look like living corpses.” 

“Perhaps they are,” Gale suggested as he shook out his hands. 

“Sometimes,” she agreed, eyeing him with suspicion. “Better to avoid them than to end up shambling behind them as a mindless slave.”

“I’m tempted to ask how you know so much,” Gale said, wondering who, exactly, she was. 

“Oh, I’m Myrkul’s most devoted follower,” she replied, eyes bright as though she’d made the funniest joke. “And you’ll make a fine addition to my corpse collection.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Gale told her, thinking of the orb in his chest. “My blood is filled with necrotic magic.”

Interest ignited against her expression. “How did that come about?”

“It's a story for another time and another person,” he informed her. “I apologize for assaulting you, but now I think I ought to be going.”

She waved him off, though none of the interest in her expression faded. “If you say so, wizard.”

“I’m Gale. Gale of Waterdeep,” he replied, unsure why it felt important to say so. She sized him up and he had the sense that if she’d wanted, she could have laid him flat on his back. Perhaps those scars were a warning rather than true injury. And maybe Gale didn’t want to know how she’d gotten them. 

The sorceress offered him a warm hand. “Elara…of Baldur’s Gate, I guess.”

The magic between them met, tangling in shades of blue and red. He swore he saw the faintest spot of violet meet where their fingers touched, though when he looked back at her, she betrayed no recognition she’d seen it at all. 

“Enjoy your time in the city,” she offered, taking her hand back and turning toward the shadows. “Try not to assault any more strangers while you’re here. There are murders stalking our streets, you know.”

A soft chuckle punctuated her words. Was she thinking of the Myrkul-ites they’d nearly strolled right into? It was tempting to chase her down and ask…and to what purpose? He was on a suicide mission now and didn’t need anything or anyone to convince him otherwise. Gale let her go, turning once again for the road that would take him to the Elfsong Tavern and by the time he arrived, she’d been purged from his worried thoughts. 

He slept terribly, his dreams a vision of bright, burning light and the screams of innocents. He had to bathe away the sweat adorning his body, wishing the sunlight would dissipate. The world was altogether too cheerful about his impending death march. Sure, Tara and his mother would miss him…but could the rest of the world pretend like losing his life was a great loss, too? 

At least he’d leave Baldur’s Gate behind him. Gale had the grand idea to take himself to the ruined city of Netheril where all this had begun—that bit of Netherese magic was the cause of all his pain. Why not return it to its birthplace? It was strangely poetic and perhaps a deserving resting place to someone like himself. 

He needed to take a ship back up the Sword Coast and make his way into the High Forest and then just hope he made it to the Dire Wood before the orb got the best of him. Gale felt heavy, plodding toward the docks without observing the world around him. In Waterdeep, he could ignore his surroundings, but in Baldur’s Gate criminals were apparently undeterred by large crowds or sunlight which might easily identify them.

Gale must have been an easy and obvious mark. He felt the dagger against his throat as his body was shoved between two buildings, obscuring the pair of them from the busy populace.

“Turn out your pockets,” the dirty criminal ordered, eyes darting back and forth.

“You really don’t want to do this,” Gale warned, unwilling to give up the gold he’d brought for the journey. He’d be trapped in Baldur’s Gate, unable to even return to his tower where Tara almost certainly would have found his letter. She’d tell his mother and the pair would endeavor to keep Gale within their sight indefinitely, thwarting his careful plans. 

“Turn them—”

Blood sprayed Gale in the face, hitting his tongue before he could close his mouth. The assailant's eyes bugged with fear, his own mouth gaping wordlessly. Gale peered around the man where Elara stood, grinning ear to ear as she wiped her curved, lethal looking blade against the bottom of her boot.

“You make a habit of getting into trouble, wizard?” she questioned, ignoring the would-be attacker falling to his knees as he clawed at his throat. 

“I suppose there’s no harm as long as you’re around to assist me,” Gale replied, a little shaken by how casual she was. 

“Don’t they teach you self defense in those fancy schools of yours?” she asked, stepping back into the sunlight. She was pretty, he decided—not so beautiful it stole his breath, but not so ugly he would have to have lied if she’d asked if he found her attractive. Lovely, he thought, in spite of the blood flecked against her skin like freckles and that vicious scar carved against her eye. He spied a trio of them slashed over her throat, too and once again wondered what happened to her.

It wasn’t his place to ask. 

“Not with weapons,” Gale replied, looking for the dagger she’d hidden. Despite the warmth, she wore a red and silver robe half hidden beneath a onyx cloak collapsed at her throat with a matching, gleaming red gem inlaid in a silver setting. “Where’d you learn that?”

“On the streets,” she replied flippantly, eyes cutting to the now dead body between them. “Magic can’t fix everything.”

“Only a sorcerer would think so,” Gale shot back, strangely at ease with this stranger. 

“Dare I ask where you’re going so early?” she questioned, falling into step beside him. 

“The docks—”

“Well obviously,” she replied, ducking into a seedy looking tavern. Gale followed, realizing only when they were inside she was showing him a bathing room where he could wipe up his face. Outside the wooden door, she added, “Where are you traveling to?”

“The High Forest,” he replied, keeping the finer details to himself. He could be doing a million, magical things—no need to mention the ruined city of Karse to her.

There was a pause, and then, “So am I.”

He didn’t know what made him say it. Why he offered, knowing he was going to die. Perhaps it was his fear that caused him to reach for the one bloodied hand that had been offered to him. Maybe it was something divine guiding him. All Gale knew was he didn’t have full control of his mouth when he blurted out, “We should travel together.”

There was an uneasy pause between them, causing him to add, “For safety, of course.”

She was quiet for so long that Gale assumed she’d left him there and he was merely speaking to the door. He wiped up his face, noting he looked haggard in the dirty mirror. Haggard, even. Like a man who hadn’t had a good night's sleep in months. He wore too much in his expression, his heartbreak obvious even when he wished it wasn’t. 

Gale opened the door, legs heavy, to find her still standing there. She’d pulled her thick, blonde hair into twin plaits that laid neatly against slim shoulders and her face was somehow clean despite him occupying the only bathing space he was aware of.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” she told him once he stood before her. “But once we reach the forest, we go our separate ways.”

She hadn’t asked what he was doing, and Gale decided to offer her the same courtesy. Maybe he was better off not knowing what this woman was up to, given the ease with which she cut throats. 

Still, her acceptance settled some of the ever-present anxiety weighing him down. He felt lighter, knowing he wouldn’t have to march to his death entirely alone. And who knew—maybe she’d mourn him, when he was gone. Perhaps she’d think back on him fondly.

He’d take it.

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - April 9th

 Hey everyone! I read a lot of short things this week that were DELIGHTFUL and kept my mind busy as I wait for news on the personal front. Fandom is my favorite thing for that, and so many other reasons. Be sure to give your authors a comment or kudos if you like their stories! 

~*~ 

Everyone's a Critic by duc

Steve scrap booking with Jan. Everyone's a critic.

Shook the Bones of Me by Mireille

Tony and Steve have some rare free time together. Steve has plans for it.

last call by gottalovev

Tony didn’t prepare for Steve calling first.

It's been thirteen months, why now?

The Three-Date Opportunity by Annie D (scaramouche)

Tony gets three dates to win over a skeptical Steve. Three, no more and no less.

This Isn't What it Looks Like by FestiveFerret

Steve finds an antique mirror at a thrift shop, but it turns out to be more than just a mirror.

Five Kinks Tony Stark Does Not Have Anymore Thanks to Steve Rogers  (+1 He Still Likes) by greyduckgreygoose

"Hm ..." Clint paused in the bedroom doorway, surveying Tony as he lay in fetal position, sulkily clutching a hot water bottle to his groin. "Can't decide what to mock you for without more information."

festina lente (hurry slowly) by greyduckgreygoose

If anyone asked Steve – and a few reporters may well have, Steve wouldn’t know since Peggy had kept him from answering anything else outside controlled press conferences and faux-casual interviews – what his relationship was with Captain America, Steve would have said something like, “We’ve reached an understanding,” or, “He’s a good guy to have in a fight,” but nowhere in that statement would be the mention of friend, or partner or ally.

A role reversal fic featuring Steve Rogers (a.k.a Iron Man) as a billionaire, genius engineer with a heart of gold and Tony Stark (a.k.a Captain America) as a playboy American Hero who spent most of his backpay on his flashy lifestyle.

felix culpa (fortunate fault) by greyduckgreygoose

The first time Tony had fucked in his new body, it was with a USO girl five years his senior. It was his first time not being scrawny, first sexual encounter outside of back-alley blowjobs and hotel room visits with strange men in bars. First time penetrating.

It was bad. He didn’t judge his strength and left a dime-sized bruise on the girl’s breast. She had laughed, of course, been a sport as she ruffled his hair. “At least it’s somewhere easy to cover,” she had said, “But they sure weren’t kidding about that super strength of yours, were they? Wowee.” He had still felt like shit.

Bound to Take Your Life by greyduckgreygoose

“Bite me,” Tony had hissed the first time that they met, and to this day he doesn’t know just how close Steve had been to shoving him to the ground and sinking his canines into Tony’s neck, jaws clamping down until Steve’s mouth tasted of blood and sweat and Tony’s screams died down to a slow whimper.

Cry Uncle by greyduckgreygoose

Tony chuckled, flipping up his mask so that Steve could feel Tony's breath on his ear as he whispered, "But Cap, I promised that I'd make you beg for mercy." Steve's eyes widened, his body going taut as a bowstring in anticipation of being drawn.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand by NotEvenCloseToStraight

Tony is a snarky, sassy, college age disaster, making his way through the Ph.D program by way of spite, stubborness and unhealthy amounts of caffeine so lovingly supplied by the local coffee shop.

Steve is the barista hopelessly in love with the fluffy haired, sleep deprived, genius.

It happens exactly the way you think it does.

A Common Folly by royal_chandler

Alongside the growing skirt of daylight, a miserable hangover had greeted Tony the next day. Steve sputtering through awkward morning-after talk had only made it worse, his hands a busy flurry in Tony’s face and dizzying. To save himself the trouble of lengthy jail time, Tony had smothered him with a cotton-dry mouth rather than with a pillow he’d been half-seriously contemplating. And after that? Well Tony discovered that he quite liked kissing Steve and being kissed by Steve.

Unforeseen Side Effects by Fickle_Obsessions

In a quick effort to make Loki docile, the Tony Stark releases an experimental drug that only effects Asgardians. It gets Thor too, but hey, he had no choice. It works a little too well. Loki goes from trying to destroy the world to braiding Thor's hair as well as other things. Steve helpfully sticks around and clutches his pearls while Tony waits for the drug to wear off.

(Shipping this forever old fic to live in the same stable as my other fillies.)

Not just a river in Egypt (Tony is most certainly not in denial) by theoddoodisnude

"You are most definitely not in love with me, Cap, what you are experiencing is called cabin pressure," Tony explains, because he has a rational train of thought and he's met enough shrinks to have figured out their tactics by now. "And possibly, you know, sexual frustration, because it doesn't matter at all that you're, like, America's national icon, Fury still won't let you out. I know that, I see that, I acknowledge your pain, I feel with you, Cap, believe me, I do. And I get it, because I am a very good-looking fellow and we spend a lot of time together, stuck in this tower, and it's easy to--"

"I am," Steve cuts off, equal parts amused and frustrated and concerned. "In love. With you. Tony, I'm in love with you."

The Next Great Baker by Tacuma

Tony has been asked to be in a judge in one of the episodes of 'The Next Great Baker'. He doesn't really want to go, until he tastes the amazing donuts of one of the contestants.

Messily by mattmurderock

Steve grunted softly and kissed Tony hard, pulling him close with one hand on his ass again and one now twining into Tony’s hair. They fell onto the bed like that, a heap of limbs and mouths and gasps. Tony could feel Steve everywhere, from the strong fingers slipping into the back of his slacks to the rock-hard cock pressing against his lower stomach. His veins sung with pleasure, his heart beating faster than a bullet train. His blood chanted 'Steve, Steve, Steve, St-'

Cuddling by ladyshadowdrake

The thing he missed the most about Pepper – okay, that was a lie, he missed almost everything about Pepper – but the thing he was really surprised that he missed was the cuddling. So it shouldn’t have been anything new when he realized that Steve didn’t like to cuddle.

A Thousand Lives by Neverever, Perlmutt

Steve is planning to ask Tony to the Homecoming Dance and Tony wants to ask Steve, but neither has found the courage to actually ask. Until Tony steals a cosmic cube from Fury's office and accidentally reveals the red string of fate that ties him and Steve together.

Optimistic Decompression by exfatalist

To destroy all records of the Superhuman Registration Act before they could fall into Norman Osborn's hands, Tony Stark deleted his brain. In so doing, he forgot a lot of very important - and very terrible - things that he did. His life since has been spent attempting to reconcile how much his friends seem to despise him and knowing, logically, that he could have only ever acted according to his best judgment.

And while no amount of sensory input could possibly bring back such irreparably lost data, nothing was ever logical about the quiet moments when two people lay entwined together.

Frosty the Snowman by Captain_Panda

What's the meaning of Christmas? What is it, really?

Could it be the toys on Christmas day?

Or the friends we made along the way?

Are its joys discovered in a pile of snow?

Or those things that cannot be tied with a bow?

If it's not at the bottom of a glass of eggnog:

Then the meaning of Christmas must reside in a dog.

(AKA: The Christmas story where Steve Rogers adopts a dog, makes some new friends, and discovers that being a Scrooge is impossible with Tony Stark around.)

[tangledbea]

I remember way back, when the back half of S2 was airing and everyone was speculating over whether Adria or Cassandra would be the traitor. I genuinely thought it would be Adira because Cass seemed too obvious, with the door and nightmare sequence in rapunzeltopia, and the dark prince Eugene prophecy twist with him turning against her really threw me for a loop. But nope, it was Cassandra all along. But it does bring to mind the question, what was the point of the bit at the end of Rapunzel and the Great Tree where possessed!Hector tells everyone that if they follow Adira to the Dark Kingdom they’ll meet their doom? From a meta perspective it was probably meant to be a red herring, but why would possessed!Hector say that? I heard somewhere that possessed!Hector was supposed to be possessed by Zhan Tiri, and that Zhan Tiri!Hector was trying to mislead the group, but I always thought that possessed!Hector was supposed to be possessed by the tree itself, not Zhan Tiri.

Likely actual answer: Yeah, probably a red herring. Alternatively, they wanted to have him say something that sounded cool and foreboding, but didn't have a specific reason for him to have said it. I've mentioned before that they didn't really know what to do with Adira (and the rest of the Brotherhood, for that matter). It's entirely possible that, at the point that the episode was written, they were kicking around the idea of her not being trustworthy in the end. (This is entirely speculation, by the way. I don't know that they were ever kicking around that idea at all.)

But also, Hector already had issue with the way Adira did things. He thought she was chasing a myth by looking for the Sundrop, and that the letter of King Edmund's order was to keep people out of the Dark Kingdom, not to go looking for a solution. He was convinced, all on his own, that following Adira back to the Dark Kingdom was folly, because even if Edmund himself didn't kill them, them Moonstone would. It wasn't the tree or even Zhan Tiri warning them through Hector, it was Hector himself.

As for who exactly was possessing Hector, going with the lore provided in the episode, the tree was once sentient and good, but Zhan Tiri corrupted it and made it her stronghold. She was invincible, so long as she was inside it, because the tree would attack anyone who came near. Demanitus' spear -- the one that Hector pulled from the tree's heart -- put a stop to the corrupted magic.

Now, as Hector takes the spear, he says, "Forgive me for releasing the evil that sleeps within [the tree]." Nowhere does it textually say that Hector was possessed by Zhan Tiri herself, however the Great Tree can be thought of as an unwilling disciple of Zhan Tiri (like Rapunzel, Lance, Feldspar, Ulf and Friedeborg were in "Painter's Block"), and spread Zhan Tiri's corrupting influence from itself to Hector. So while it was not Zhan Tiri directly, it was her will.

[thebreakfastgenie]

oh i GOTTA know about hauntkeye

Sorry for the long wait! I got this after I went to bed and then I spent all day today thinking about how I was going to answer it well.

Hauntkeye is the document title name for my ghost AU, which I've talked about a lot on here but not so much recently. Hauntkeye/Ghost AU does have an actual title, but I'm not allowed to share it until I get more of it written.

The premise of the ghost AU is that Hawkeye dies, under circumstances very similar to Where There's a Will, There's a War, and continues to haunt the 4077th as a ghost. The ghost mechanics are based on the canon MASH ghost episode, Follies of the Living--Concerns of the Dead, so Hawkeye can't be seen or heard by anyone. There's an exception in that episode, where Klinger can see the ghost while suffering from a high fever, and this is something that will eventually come up in ghost AU, too. It's not a canon divergence from Where There's a Will, There's a War, though. It incorporates a lot of events from the show, reworked to include Hawkeye as a ghost, and some of those come from before season 10. Some of the events incorporated come from Oh How We Danced, Heal Thyself, Period of Adjustment, and more. It features the later cast, with BJ, Potter, and Charles, but Radar is still present.

Ghost AU was going to be my magnum opus until the time loop WIP took hold of me and now they're both going to be my magnum opus. I've sort of shifted my focus to finishing the time loop first, because it's slightly more manageable. Ghost AU is outlined at 13 chapters, plus a rather extensive epilogue. I've never finished something that long before, so it's intimidating, and I think having a finished project under my belt will build confidence and momentum.

The first chapter covers Hawkeye's death, and after that is divided between Hawkeye dealing with being a ghost and everyone else balancing their grief with running the unit without him. It's all from multiple POVs, so we get to see every character's thoughts, and occasionally we'll see living and dead perspectives on the same events.

This isn't really a spoiler, since it happens in the first chapter, so I'm going to tell you... Hawkeye gets wounded at the aid station, but he's brought back to the 4077th alive, where one of the other surgeons tries to save his life, but isn't successful. I'm not saying which one it is. :) You can guess; you have a 1 in 3 chance of getting it right.

Here are a couple snippets of the current draft, subject to rewrites:

The countryside, Hawkeye had noticed, always looked more scenic on the way back from battalion aid. Even in the dark, maybe especially in the dark; the wounds stood out less in the moonlight. Korea might be a beautiful country, he thought, if all the armies stopped blowing it to pieces. It was a shame to think he wouldn’t be here to see it, but once he left this place he doubted he’d ever have the stomach to come back. He never saw his patients whole, either. Father Mulcahy confessed to him once that he prayed for their lives, for their souls, and that they’d never come back. He’d seemed a bit anxious about whether the Pope would approve, but Hawkeye thought God—if he existed—would expect nothing less. 

He worked mostly by touch. The boy was in shock, but he was still breathing. He found the pulse easily, which was a good sign. It was rapid, which wasn’t such a good sign. The problem was the chest. Even in this gray light, he could see the shrapnel wound. It was big and bloody. Very bloody. 

I miss talking about hauntkeye and I miss working on it....... soon, I hope. There are a few scenes in particular I'm dying to share.

[iosagol]

I know that the cardinal rule for staying sane on tumblr is “ignore opinions that you don’t agree with”, but could you elaborate on why you think scythe is terribly written? I really enjoyed it and the writing, so I’m wondering what exactly you didn’t like. I agree that main duo (Citra and Rowan) are pretty weak, but to me the rest of the trilogy more than made up for it. Feel free to ignore this if you don’t feel like answering, but I’m legitimately curious about your opinions.

Hey there! Thank you for taking time to ask despite having a different opinion. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide the most varied textual evidence because I don't personally own all of the books, but I'll do my best to make my thoughts on this clear.

I would like to preface this by saying that I don't know Neal Shusterman and I don't intend to judge his skill as a writer. These are personal complaints that I have; they are opinions. Everyone is free to like whichever authors they want to. Now without further ado:

Writing issues with the AOAS series:

1) Dialogue.

Firstly, I find that the dialogue for each character is not in any way consistent. Faraday is a great example of this. One moment, he says something dark and wise that matches his experience, and then he speaks with the same vocal patterns as a young teen.

When Mister Shusterman writes a distinctly teenage character, this also happens:

"It's just that I haven't had anyone to talk to in like, forever!"

"So should I, like, know you?"

Another issue leading to a lack of distinct character voice is that pretty much every character quips and snarks and smirks. Rand quips, Munira quips, Curie smirks, Citra smirks, Citra quips, Rowan quips (having those two snark lords paired together is certainly a choice) Jerico snarks, and even Faraday quips if my memory serves me right. If so many main characters are the witty banterers in the book, it makes them all start to lose individuality and blend together.

And hey, I'm a Marvel rat, I'm used to quips during apocalypses, but even in Marvel there are some characters who quip multiple times in almost every kind of scenario, and others who are more reserved. It's these different line choices that set them apart.

Another issue I have with the dialogue is that it sounds somewhat… cheesy? The wisdom bits sound a little pseudo-wise, and the death threats are miraculously over the top. Sometimes the narration is overly dramatic. Even some random lines that are neither proverbs nor threats just sound off.

Examples:

"So tell me, Munira… Who will you be?"

"Are you so consumed by grief that you can't consume this fish?"

"His eyes had a careworn coolness to them as if he had seen more than he should and had stopped caring in order to save what was left of his soul."

"One can never truly master the art of driving, because no journey is ever exactly the same."

"I guess whoever holds the torch casts the darkest shadow." "Whoever steals the torch, you mean." "Well, it seems I can steal whatever I want."

"Ha! Citra playing a harp! How she would hate that!"

"Tonight we witness the spectacle of human folly and tragedy. Tomorrow, we shall live it."

"To live between the prospects of an unknown, eternal sky and a dark, enveloping Earth must have been glorious— for how else could it have given rise to such magnificent expression?"

I'll mention this briefly here and dive in further later: Robert Goddard says the most insane things that are probably intended to sound menacing but only make him sound like a comic villain.

Overall, the dialogue is my biggest issue with the writing in the Scythe series, failing to convey character and sometimes distracting from the plot. I'm afraid if you compare it to dialogue from other teen books like The Queen's Thief, or even something from Lemony Snicket, it's unfortunately subpar.

2) Sentence fragments.

A sentence fragment is series of words that doesn't qualify as a full sentence because it lacks either a subject or a predicate. This is a grammatical error. Some authors, some incredibly accomplished authors, can use sentence fragments in artful and interesting ways that set a unique tone for their story. However, Mister Shusterman uses sentence fragments in inconsistent, strange bursts that leave me wondering as to the purpose of them. I don't know if these were stylistic in any way, and this makes me think they are errors. For example.

"Through all of this, Scythe Rand said nothing. She had taken a seat and was watching. Waiting to see what Rowan would do. What accusations he'd make."

I'm sorry, but this is a basic flawed cluster of sentence fragments that would be better written as

"She had taken a seat and was watching, waiting to see what Rowan would do and what accusations he would make."

Another example:

"He tried to move his wrist, but found that he couldn't. Not because of any injury, but because he was restrained. Both of his hands, and his feet as well."

This should be arranged as

"He tried to move his wrist but found that he couldn't, not because of any injury but because he was restrained; both his hands and feet were chained."

Another:

"She felt vulnerable without her robe. Naked in a fundamental way."

All that's needed to fix this is a comma between Robe and Naked. That's it. I have no idea why an editor didn't swoop in and patch that gap. It would make the flow of the narrative infinitely less choppy.

Sentence fragments can make story sound like it is stuttering, and I think this is true for the Scythe series.

3) nicknames are used to create emotional beats to an excess.

This may seem like a random, small complaint to have. But if you go through all of the Scythe books and note every abrupt name change and meaningful first-name basis, the tally is very high. I find this to be a good tool, but it's negative when used excessively.

Examples:

"Jeri told Sydney--- because now they were most certainly on a first name basis…"

This signals a sudden leap from coworkers to friends. Instead of fleshing out the time Jerico and Sydney spent together, nicknaming works to hint that time has passed and events happened. Once more, I will say that I don't hate this tool. But it's going to be used again. And again. And it does function as a summarizer, and summaries can only take a story so far.

Tenkamenin is Tenka

Michael is whipped out when Mister Shusterman needs a soft moment for Curaday, same with Marie

Citra bounces between Anastasia and Citra (this is part of her identity struggle, I suppose, but it's very clumsy. Instead of just swapping a name to demonstrate his protagonist is putting on a persona/ready to behave more maturely, I think Mister Shusterman should have just relied on dialogue, body language, and verbal patterns to demonstrate her switches. Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde is an incredible study on this sort of style.)

Rowan dabbles in being Lucifer

Greyson learns Citra's first name? Suddenly they're able to communicate more fully and more intimately.

Goddard is Robert when Rand wants a moment with him, even though Robert is just such a dreadful name for an evil overlord and it just doesn't work. Think about Voldemort. Did Voldemort EVER let Bellatrix call him Tom or Marvolo? Not a chance. The one person who called Voldemort by his first name was his arch-nemesis, and Voldemort tried to kill said arch-nemesis for his irreverence. Goddard literally called himself an angel, I don't see why he allows himself to be addressed so casually without repercussions. It lessens his strength so much.

The moment I learned the high scythes' first names in the second book, I knew they were going to die, because whenever Mister Shusterman lets us know a first name, it's meant to make us have a deep connection with that character.

I mentioned this before with quips, and I'll say it again; if every character has a nickname and/or an alter ego that they flip and flop back and forth with to represent their inner turmoil, well… then it's not a unique trait, it's just a general device that's used over and over. It loses meaning, it loses its punch, and it loses uniqueness.

I don't want to accuse an author I don't know, but I personally believe that simply switching names to get across complex emotional beats is a weaker, quicker way to write. If there were complex emotional beats with body language and good dialogue and then names were conservatively sprinkled in after these important parts, maybe I would be less aggravated by it.

4) Telling things that should be shown or not mentioned at all.

As a general rule, narrators do not exist to make you like characters. The characters themselves are meant to win you over through dialogue, actions, and shows of personality. When the narrator decides not to let the characters show their personality and simply blurts the character's attributes to the reader, this is called telling and not showing.

"Citra was well known for her temper. It often arrived before reason, and left only after damage was done. Tonight would be no exception."

If this scene is going to demonstrate exactly what the narrator is describing, why describe this attribute at all? Simply let the scene play out, showing us Citra's temper, and we will deduce her personality from this.

"Every ship would have its own Cirrus, as wise and benevolent as the Thunderhead."

This is said at the end of the third book. We've spent three books with the Thunderhead. If we don't know what it's personality is by now, we must be illiterate. We don't need to be told attributes we've already been shown.

Part of the reason why Citra and Rowan's relationship feels so flat is because the narrator gives us a speedran summary of their relationship growth; we don't actually get to see anything beyond them yelling and snarking at each other one second and being desperately in love the other. We're told they care about each other. We're told they take actions and have conversations. We. Are. Not. Shown. These moments.

"She was now Citra once more; proud and headstrong, but with no impressive social footprint."

This is said in the second book, at which point we ought to know all this and more about Citra. If Mister Shusterman included this for readers who chose to start reading at the second book instead of the first, this is still a bad choice because he already showed us Citra's proud and headstrong nature in the chapter before the one where this quote came from. Any new readers should already have picked this up on their own. Again, he's stating something that the character herself should have been left to demonstrate.

This feature in the Scythe series leads me to experience aggravation of two kinds:

I feel that I am being given a summary of an event I have already witnessed/a person I have already met, even though the author knows I have witnessed the event/met the person. It's as though the author thinks I suffer from short term memory loss.

I feel that I am being given a summary of a YouTube video in words when the author has a cell phone and could easily take his phone out and show me the video himself, and would paint a better picture by doing so.

5) Goddard is a remarkably awfully written villain

This part is a combination of several different technical problems, and I considered integrating it into the other points I made, but I thought it deserved its own honorable mention.

The main issue I have with the main villain is that Mister Shusterman doesn't seem to know whether he wants Goddard to be a joke or a threat.

There is a paragraph in The Toll saying that Goddard could "twist your thoughts until they were no longer yours, but his. That's what made him so dangerous."

Only a few chapters away from this sentence is another one which says "Goddard spouted erudite gibberish with such regularity, Rand had learned to turn her ears off to it."

The contradiction is incredible. I have no idea who this man ought to be.

(I will also say that if the author has to tell me how a villain is dangerous, he most likely isn't.)

Some examples of strained Goddard dialogue/descriptions are

"He was brilliant in at finding shapes in the clouds of his fury."

"I am your completion! I am the last word of your unsatisfied, unsavory lives… I am your portal to the mysteries of oblivion!"

"He had strewn them there as a way to raise his troubled spirits. Surely their magnificence would bring him not just comfort, but elevation."

"We are angels of death," said Scythe Goddard. "It is only fitting that we swoop in from the heavens."

I haven't got the book with me but there's a line about the meat of his vengeance being relished

"I enjoy spectacles, and there's no reason needed beyond that."

"Embrace it, Rowan. Suckle at its transformative breast… The thrill of the hunt and the joy of the kill simmers in all of us."

"Now Goddard paces, whipping his fury into a caustic meringue."

Goddard clapped his hands together, truly tickled.

"Goddard is as corrosive as acid hurled in the eye."

It’s him!” “He’s so handsome!” “He’s so scary!” “He’s so well-groomed!” Goddard took a moment to turn to the crowd and sweep his hand in a royal wave.

In summary, Goddard comes off as a comic villain, and not a strong one. It sounds like he's almost trying to be Thanos and just falling so so short.

But he has such damaging effects? And it seems to be for no reason whatsoever?

He spews terrible dialogue but has absolute control? He supposedly is powerful, but he is vanquished by his own henchwoman when the heroes don't care enough about him to try and kill him themselves?

Literally Citra is trying to find reasons to stay on earth and she's like "Well I guess no one really needs me here" as Goddard has been spending the past years? mass murdering people? She just forgets about him as a threat?

Also he's named Robert How can I take a villain named Robert seriously, for the love of all that is good

When the main villain is simply cringeworthy, the series suffers as a whole.

BONUS Round! Just some thoughts

To this day I think about how Sydney Possuelo had to go into a vault and find two naked teenagers lying very deadish on the floor in each other's arms and I think about his reaction and you know what it definitely checks out

Honestly Astrid was awesome, she handled her situation like a champ

I still don't get why Greyson broke up with the Thunderhead tho, he genuinely fell in love with Jerico because she said hello in the same way the Thunderhead did lol

To be real, the deaths are always the best part of this series

Xenocrates tho

Rand's relationship with Tiger was very interesting

I'm still not sure what I think about it

.... ....

Now. You may be thinking that I despise the Arc of a Scythe series.

This is untrue.

I stuck with the Scythe series through all of my nitpicks and dislikes because the concept is absolutely incredible and can't be thrown aside. Mister Shusterman did an amazing job of creating an emotional, fast-paced plot with great locations, moral questions, and themes. I just desperately wish that the flaws that I personally noticed could have been left out of such an interesting story so that I could have been drawn even deeper into the world and loved the characters more than I do.

[echo-bleu]

Number 5 with Fingolfin, please! I imagine it would be sometime during the crossing of the Helcaraxë. 💙

Thank you for the prompt!

I thought it would turn out angsty as usual, but somehow it didn't! (Well, don't think too hard about things to come.) A sweet moment between Fingolfin and Idril on the ice.

I'm using their Quenya names since they haven't encountered Sindarin yet, so Ñolofinwë=Fingolfin, Itarillë=Idril, Turukáno=Turgon, Findekáno=Fingon. With surprise guest appearances.

On AO3.

5. Trying to walk on ice

Sometimes, thinks Ñolofinwë, Itarillë’s laughter is the only thing that gets him through the day.

She’s now spent nearly half her life on the ice. She barely remembers Tirion, or the light of the trees, or anything but the cold and the stars, and yet her laughter warms the frost out of their hearts.

She’s too young to walk all day, so she spends most of her time in one of the horse wagons sliding on wooden blades or, when it gets too cold to risk staying still, being carried on someone’s back. Turukáno and Elenwë take turns, with Findekáno and Ñolofinwë himself sometimes pitching in when they get too tired.

Or when they want to spend time with the only person still able to brighten their days, like now.

They’ve made camp for the night – or for the time being, at least, because with the Trees gone, night blends into day. It’s a good spot, the ice is thick enough here to hold everyone without fear. They might stay for a while until the horses are properly rested.

The snow glows under the stars. Were it not so cold, not so bleak a journey, Ñolofinwë would find it beautiful. He sits at the edge of his tent on thick layers of furs, little Itarillë in his lap, and together they watch a group of Turukáno’s people who appear to be doing something with batons and some sort of overshoe. They move back all at once to give space to the two they have equipped, who – somehow – start gliding on the ice.

Itarillë squirms in Ñolofinwë’s lap to look up at him. “What are they doing, grandfather?”

“I don’t know, but we could go ask them.”

“Can we?”

Ñolofinwë smiles at her and lifts her to her feet, after checking that she hasn’t kicked off her boots again. In Tirion, she went barefoot everywhere and she chafes at the need for shoes even here, but having any skin bare but their faces is folly. Even her ears are carefully hidden into the crown braid Turukáno has carefully folded her blond hair into this morning (evening, night – no one remembers to keep time any more).

They approach the group in the short, waddling stride that they’ve learned to take. The thin layer of snow over the ice crackles under their feet, treacherously hiding the slippery surface.

“My lord,” one of the elves immediately bows to Ñolofinwë.

“The princess is curious about what you’re doing,” Ñolofinwë says. “Ecthelion, is it?”

The elf nods. “We’ve devised a new method for moving faster on the ice!” he answers excitedly. Bending down, he picks up a piece of leather, to which is attached something that Ñolofinwë first takes for a wooden slate. “It’s a horse leg bone,” Ecthelion explains. “We drilled some holes into it and shaped the ends, and we tie them under our shoes. It allows us to glide, and push forward with the batons.”

“It’s fun!” another elf tells them with a large grin. He has a thick mane of unbound golden hair flowing around his shoulders, in the manner of the Vanyar – one of Elenwë’s, then. Ñolofinwë gives him a dubious look.

“Maybe the princess could try!” Ecthelion offers. “We’ve perfected the technique, it’s fairly safe. The ice is thick all around the camp, we’ve checked.”

Ñolofinwë thinks about it for a moment, but Itarillë looks up at him with such pleading eyes that he can’t resist. “Please, grandfather?”

“Alright, as long as you make sure she’s safe.”

Itarillë squeals and claps her gloved hands together. Ecthelion goes down to one knee on the ice to tie the pieces of bone to her boots, picking a pair that’s a little shorter than most of the others. It’s still a little too large for her.

“Stand carefully with your feet apart, Princess,” Ecthelion tells her, patient and gentle. He stands up again and holds out his hands. “Here, hold onto me.”

Her small hands are engulfed in Ecthelion thick gloves. He starts walking backwards, careful not to slip – he doesn’t have bone overshoes of his own – and pulls her with him. Itarillë glides forward on the ice.

“Oooh!” she exclaims. “Do it again!”

Ecthelion chuckles and obeys. Then, “Do you want to try too, my lord?” he asks Ñolofinwë cheekily.

“Maybe not today,” Ñolofinwë says. “But I can at least entertain my granddaughter and let you get back to your race.” He gestures at the rest of the group, who seems to have started a sliding race on the edge of the camp.

Ecthelion takes it for the request that it is. With all the care in the world, he pulls Itarillë closer to Ñolofinwë until she can transfer her grip from one elf to the other.

“Gradfather, it’s fun,” Itarillë says excitedly.

“I can see that,” Ñolofinwë smiles.

He gently pulls her around the ring of ice that the gliders have cleared from snow. She’s stable enough, so he speeds them up until he’s going as fast as he safely can walk.

Itarillë laughs her heart out. The sound seems to Ñolofinwë like the most beautiful thing in the world. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Turukáno and Elenwë watching them with smiles on their faces.

Even in the coldest night, he thinks, there is warmth to be found.

-

I'm not sure that I quite filled the actual prompt here but I couldn't resist elves inventing ice skating. They're using horse metatarsal bones here, which is one of the oldest recorded type of skate. I figure that they might invent metal skates at some point but they don't have a forge on the journey, so it will have to wait until they're in Beleriand.

The elf with golden hair is of course Glorfindel. Tell me he wouldn't love ice skating.