#and for those following the fairy tale event

[little-pup-pip]

Hewo could chu do a moodboard of princesses? Me wub pwincessy stuff hehe ^^

Hugs 🤗

Sure!!

[tanoraqui]

In Which Space Orcs are Men

[AO3] A "what if humans are space orcs" take on Dagor Dagorath. (Aka the prophecied apocalypse of Middle Earth. Scifi story accessible to non-LotR nerds!)

Elves weren't really supposed to leave Earth. That's what they told us—the Elves, that is, told people thousands of years ago, when Elves could still be found here and there. When I was born, elves were nearly as much a fairy tale as they’d been on Ancient Earth.

Elves weren't supposed to leave Earth, the Elves said in the fairy tales, and in a few old scraps of records scattered around known space. They literally weren't made for it. They could only do it if they brought Earth with them—Arda they called it, leaves or dirt, water or a rare bubble of air, perfectly preserved in a white crystal. There are tons of tales about Elves losing their lifeline jewels—their hearts, their silimirs—and roping people into epic quests to get them back before they—the Elf—faded to nothingness. 

Even the jewels weren't enough, though. That's why there are also stories about Elves who fell in love with a person or a place and stayed there until they faded, or Elves who charmed someone into following them back to Fairyland on Earth...because whatever they said, Elves didn't really live on Earth. Humans have maintained their home planet as a monitored nature reserve since like the 40th century, open only to vetted research teams and serious Human religious pilgrimages. The most confirmed accounts of Elves that exist are of their ships appearing out of nowhere, with no trace of any tech that would enable it, at random, always-changing points within 100 miles or so of Earth.

Nobody ever came back from trying to follow Elves home. Mostly Elves tried to dissuade people from trying. But there are always crazy and curious people—and Elves usually attracted those, because any Elf who left the home they were "made" for was usually crazy and curious themselves. 

Those were the stories I grew up with. There was a cave near the orphans' creche which was supposed to be haunted by a faded Elf. I didn't really believe it—like I said, the last confirmed Elf was last seen like 5,000 years ago, and not even on my planet. People have met two dozen new sentient races since then. We've discovered that reincarnation is probably real (just functionally untrackable), prompting the Pan-Religious Reform Wars. The last person to see a live Elf was still traveling via natural wormholes—they literally didn't know that you could loop pi.

.

When the Human natal sun started to turn really red, it wasn’t that big a deal at first. It’s a very important, very sad event for any species, but it happens to everyone eventually. It happened to the Hectort just after we invented interstellar flight. There were some unusual gravatic waves around Earth’s Sol, but nothing worth noting to anyone who didn’t already care for personal reasons.

Then the Elves sent us a message.

The local Parks Service picked it up, of course. I bet the Humans meant to hush it up at first—though the Centaurian government still won’t admit anything—but someone leaked it immediately on the intergalactic net. It should’ve only been famous as a joke of a hoax, but…

It was basically just a metal box with rudimentary fire-thrusters soldered on the sides. It contained two things. The first was a recording/replaying device so antiquated that the only way they got it working is that it was already playing on loop, and didn’t stop until someone disconnected it from its power source.

The message was in Ancient Bouban, which some folklorist soon announced is the latest language an Elf could know, since the last known Elf went back to “Arda.” The voice somehow sounded melodic to every species with a concept of music, from the screeching Vesarians to the deep-sea sub-sonic Thinkers, even when translated through cheap, staticky speakers. And to most species, the speaker was audibly distraught.

They said,

This is the final message from the Firstborn of Eru to the Secondborn, and everyone else. The Battle of Battles has come, and we…are losing. If there are any who remember the ancient love and loyalty which bound our peoples, if there are any heirs remaining of Thargalax the Magnificent, of Nine-Fingered Frodo, of the noble Houses of Haleth, Hador and Beor—

The speaker drew a sharp breath, there.

—by great oaths and greater friendship I bid you now to raise your swords and ride to our aid. Ride as swiftly as you can!

We will hold for another year. We will, they said determinedly. After that, it is unlikely that…

Another, shakier breath. A smile forced into a voice which would rather weep.

Fëanáro and Nienna believe there is a way to destroy the Straight Road. If we must, if it comes to it, we will do so, and trap the First Enemy here in this dying world with us. Though I don’t know about—

Hair-aristocrat! a more distant, slightly less perfectly melodious voice called, in a language so dead that they needed computers to decode it. The walls are falling, we need to go!

If you never hear from us again, and no sudden discord arises among you, you will know we succeeded, the first speaker said quickly. If otherwise…I am sorry. Either way, I bid you all only, remember us! Oh beautiful flames, remember us, as we have ever remembered y— 

There was a sudden screech of tearing metal, a defiant, musical battle-cry, and a jarring silence. Then the message restarted.

And that wasn’t even the strangest thing in the box. The strangest thing was the recorder’s power source, which was powering the whole tiny rocket mechanism as well. It was an Elf-jewel right out of a fairy tale, a fist-sized, translucent not-quite-diamond—but instead of rock or water or a much-loved scrap of plant, the only thing it held was light.

...Kind of. It isn’t normal light. It arguably isn’t light at all, as we know it—scientists now think it’s technically some sort of plasmoid aether, except it only acts like a plasmoid aether about half the time. 

It has no detectable source within the jewel. It fully illuminates whatever space it’s in, no matter how big. Its visible radiation is a frequency, the scientists say, that matches a hyper-accelerated version of what the universe must’ve sounded like in the split second after the Big Bang.

It makes people remember things, when they see it in person or sometimes even across a holo. Some remember a similar light in a strange traveler’s eyes. Others, dreamily enchanted valleys where spring never faded, or tall castles, bright swords, and stern and glorious lords and ladies. And some of us got hit with a whole lifetime of memories in one go: an identical gem on the brow of a sober forest king, friends who slipped through trees like shadows save for their merry laughter, an impossibly beautiful gold-haired maiden dancing in a glittering cavern...

(And all the pain and loss that came with them.)

And some people just remember the sight of a distant star—in another world, in another lifetime.

Reincarnation was provable but untraceable…until now. 

The Thinker ambassador on Astrolax Station 5 was the first to kick up a fuss. Most Thinkers never leave their home planet, they're too huge and aquatic. But like I said, there's always crazy and curious people. The ambassador started bellowing the second che heard the message, without even seeing the light, because, "I know him! My Wisdom! We must send aid!" That made some news, and random other people shared their own, less dramatic revelations, and soon a compilation swept the net with timestamps showing that most of them were organically independent, not just jumping on the bandwagon….

Even that might've gotten written off intergalactically. The Thinkers are big in reincarnationist circles, on account of how they claim that deep in their planetary ocean they can hear echoes of their past lives. But being mostly planet-bound means they're not really influential on a big political level. Or it would've sparked another surge of the Reform Wars, and everybody would've remembered the rock, but not the recording. Or there would’ve been a fight over this potentially infinite energy source (though that is so last giga-annum)….

But first it was shown in person to the current Director of the Admiralty of the Astral Alliance, President of the X-ee Empire and Matron of the House of S,sh, Ch’ees/i’i S,sh. I was actually there—I was Captain of her ceremonial Alliance guards, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage my career after Zanzibus. Very ceremonial, considering the X-eee have laser-proof shells and pincers and I have, what, opposable thumbs? Vestigial tusks?

I wasn’t paying attention at first, too busy being suddenly assaulted by all my own memories. So I missed the President freezing mid-step and gasping (in X-eee), “Mother.” I also missed her rising alarm call of an attempt to speak Ancient Elvish without an Elvish tongue or lips.

I sure didn’t miss her snap back to X-eee for a sharp call to attention, and everything that followed: the call to arms! The rousing of the Alliance! A tour of the galaxy, to find anyone and everyone else in whom the Light could awaken ancient memories! And for the love of X'eeh, why had nobody figured out how to get back to Fairyland with this thing yet, and every warship in the quadrant?!

If I believed in the One Behind, or in any other creator god or gods—I'm not saying I do, but if I did, if there really is something out there all-powerful and all-kind—then it'd be because out of every soul in the entire universe, the probably one in the best position to act on the Elves' message turned out to have, from a past life, two parents and a much-loved twin still in Fairyland. Like, that's insane, right?

I stayed with the Director's ceremonial guards for the whole tour, actually more than ceremonial for once—it was the weirdest mission of my life, and I've been on a lot of weird missions. Or supposedly routine missions that got weird (and usually disastrous). My friends joke that I'm cursed. S,sh requisitioned an Inquiry-class ship, so the science boffins could study the Light and jewel along the way, and we started wormholing at weft speed, hitting a new planet every week. Sometimes every day. In each major spaceport and ground-city, S,sh stood with the jewel on the highest available point and gave a recruitment speech for going to save the Elves and fight the oldest enemy of all reality. 

Honestly, it seemed a little redundant? The Astral Alliance was made for this sort of rescue mission (and for escorting trade convoys). But I was...if not happy, then sure as hell more self-certain with my ancient memories restored, and most people who joined up seemed to agree. It was mostly people who remembered, when exposed to the Light, who joined—so before long, we had a whole tag-along trail of mostly civilian ships, trying to get up to Alliance Fleet standard on the road in less than a year.

Three different religious sects tried to kill S,sh for "profaning the mysteries." Five others tried to steal the jewel because we were apparently appropriating a holy object. The boffins announced that, bar the can't-prove-a-negative possibility, the evidently sourceless Light should be counted as an infinite energy source, and at least seven different groups, ruthless financiers and sustainability idealists, immediately tried to steal it for that. And I still don't know what the rival thief-queens of Likkiliani were about, except that I got tied up upside-down from a palmdar tree for two hours trying to stop one, the other paid me 700 cron then threw me off a cliff, and in the end they recognized each other from past lives and just made out on worldwide live-holo before joining our growing fleet. 

It turned out they were the Director's past life's great-grandparents, and a Canid pop princess was her niece. The Thinker ambassador was some sort of ancestor, too. Crazy extended family. 

Most people who remember just remember the sight of a star in the sky. A buddy of mine from Fleet Academy remembered looking up at it as a Human sailor. The historians—and you’d better bet we picked up some Earther historians on this mission as well!—say this jewel or one like it was probably astrologically conflated with the planet Venus by early Humans.

(The more time I spent around the jewel, the Silmaril, the more I remembered, of my first life and more. Lifetime after lifetime with bad luck dogging my steps, killing loved ones in my arms, destroying cities I was supposed to save… One restless, haunted night, I met a Rigilic in the cafeteria who’d been awake with some of the same nightmares, who’d been my dead older sister once.)

The tour was cut short when word came from the Earth system that there was a black hole growing in the center of their reddening sun. 

No, the sun wasn’t compressing into a black hole millennia ahead of schedule—one had just spontaneously manifested within it, like it’d teleported in. No, not literally—that was impossible. We were pretty sure. No, the sun wasn’t falling into it…somehow. Yet. The black hole was only 17 quectometers wide, but it was growing at an erratic but unceasing rate. If their best estimation of the pattern held, it would consume the sun 2 months before the Elves’ deadline, and the Earth 4 to 950 minutes later.

We pulled back to Earth—well, to the dwarf planet Eros, on the edges of Earth’s star system. That’s where the nearest shipyard of any note was, and we were gathering the whole Astral Alliance. This is exactly the sort of thing the Alliance is for. 

I was released back to ship duty. Zanzibus was still a black mark on my record, as was Jorab, and really everything on the AAS Endeavor…and that thing in third year of Fleet Academy… But no matter how bad my curse, I was an experienced captain and one of the best pilots in the Alliance. For this, we needed all the best.

The boffins had pretty quickly mastered limited manipulation of the Light, using modified aetheric resonators, and every day they came up with something new for us to test. They focused the Light into a laser cannon like no one has seen before. They laced it through plasma shields until a fully shielded ship glowed like a distant star. They managed to nearly replicate the Silmaril’s crystalline structure, so they could make “copies” that shone like the original for first a few hours; then, with refinement, a full week…

The one thing they couldn’t pin down with any real confidence was how to get to Fairyland. The frequency of the Light resonated with large bodies of Earther saltwater in a particular way, and models suggested that if the Light source moved horizontally along the water within a certain range of distance and velocity, the resonance would create a wormhole-like ripple in space—but wormhole-like, was the key word, and models suggested. The closest anyone had seen to that spatial distortion was in a logbook of dubious veracity from the Delta Quadrant, four hundred years ago. Alteia, my Academy buddy who’d been a Human sailor, took the Silmaril in an M-wing on a series of highly monitored test flights above the Atlantic Ocean, and space did repeatedly start to hollow in front of bom—so bo had to stop every time, rather than risk vanishing with our single, maybe-one-way ticket.

Then Earth’s moon stopped shining in the sky. Its albedo just dropped nearly to zero, from one night to the next. There was nothing wrong that anyone could figure out—nothing with the orbit, nothing with the surface rock, nothing with the artificial atmosphere. Inhabitants reported feeling colder by several degrees, but no measuring equipment recorded anything.

The black hole slightly off-center in the middle of Sol was now 844.9 zeptometers, and growing more steadily.

We didn’t have time to keep testing. We needed to raise our swords and make our ride, even if we only got one shot at it.

I was given command, for seniority, skill, and because I was the one who managed to talk S,sh out of leading the fleet herself. (If my lives had taught me anything, it was the importance of having someone, anyone, ready to be emergency backup.) Ironically, I was back on the Endeavor, with most of my old crew—though we got permission to rename the ship, in honor of the mission. A lot of people did. Alteia was now commanding the AAS Elendil on my right flank, star-friend in Ancient Elvish. That Canid pop princess had taken over a hospital ship and renamed it Rivendell. An Earth Park Ranger, of all things, remembered being my dad—briefly—and he was leading the Rangers plus my Rigilic drinking buddy on the EPSS Elfsheen. 

We weren’t sure if any ship but the one with the Silmaril would get through. The fleet numbered in the hundreds in battleships alone, not counting scouts and scuttlers. Twelve races had sent ships on top of their typical Alliance Fleet tithe, and S,sh had brought about half the full force of the X-ee Empire. We all just locked tractor beams and hoped. 

I was piloting as well as captaining, with the Silmaril between my forehorns. It was held in place by about a dozen wires and other connectors to the ship, like an old-timey pilot’s headset. We took off in orbit around Earth, as close as possible to the surface—not very close, in warships of Class S and higher, but within range of the oceanic resonance. A Likkilianian thief-queen stood at my shoulder, ready to advise if anything “Musical” started to happen.

Think about what you’re trying to get to, and why, the boffins had advised, so I did—bright-eyed kings and dancing maidens; lost friends, families, cities, planets and all. The jewel got warmer against my skin and shone brighter with every pulse of the engine, brighter than we should’ve been able to see through.

The silver-gold Light twisted and diffused as space did around us. But there was no familiar rippling wormhole boundary—instead, spacetime thinned to a curtain like driving rain, like Vesarian silver-glass.

A ghost appeared next to me. She looked like the oldest, grumpiest writing teacher at the crèche, though I knew that was only in my head.

“There you are,” she said, impatient and relieved like I’d been hiding in the sandbox again, rather than coming to class on time. Her sewing scissors went snip snip snip as she darted them around my body—and a chain on my soul faded into guiding threads.

Before she’d even disappeared again, I punched the engine and blasted through the silver-glass curtain.

Fairy tales said there’d be a peerlessly beautiful land on the other side, green with eternal spring, full of endless light and laughter. They said there’d be sunlit shores and shimmering waves, with welcoming docks for sea-ships, sky-ships and space-ships all…

We flew into the worst battlefield I’d ever seen, in any lifetime. It was more desperately vicious than Jerusalem V at the height of the Reform Wars, more ruined than Glaurung’s wake, more desolate than Zanzibus after the nuclears fell.

Either a massive supercontinent or a small moon had been shattered, leaving nothing but a roiling debris field. The brand-new meteoroids ranged from pebbles to rocks the size of a small space station, and included space-frozen corpses, forests, and what might have once been city blocks.

I gave the helm back to my Pilot Officer—zer had, I can admit, slightly better reflexes for dodging debris—and focused on captaining.

Most of the life signs were clinging to the larger rocks. There shouldn’t have been atmosphere for them, but walls of thunderstorm wrapped around every shard with even a single life sign—wind and water desperately hand in hand to safeguard the last of the Elves. The only thing visible through the impossible storms was the Light of a second Silmaril, on a meteoroid shaped like half a broken eggshell.

A corpse lay at the epicenter of the explosion—what might’ve been a corpse, if it wasn’t also shattered. The broken pieces of a massive stone humanoid, taller than my ship if it’d stood beside her, still bleeding lava so hot that it burned even in frozen space. Another titan knelt at the shards of its head, a figure of towering bark and leaves, wailing with grief even worse than the end of the world. 

A slimmer tree-woman stood with one hand on her shoulder, comforting, and the other wielding a skyscraper-sized club spiked with incandescent wildflowers. Guarding her sister’s heartbreak, she fended off a swarm of bat-sized monsters with wings of darkness and whips of flame. 

Bat-sized relative to the gods of Elves and ancient Humans. About the size of an M-wing, in flight.

Countless more of the bat-things flung themselves at the storm-bubbles, like carnivores chasing the prey hidden inside. They were fended off by an equal army of creatures with wings of light and swords of lightning, led by a towering figure who seemed to dance from one bloody battle to the next.

The biggest battle by far was the farthest away, over where the sun had been. In this dimension of stories over science, Sol was another woman-shape, smaller than the others but burning just as brightly as her star. Also just as blood-red. The light was centered on a fist she kept clenched at her chest, and instead of containing the black hole, the unseeable thing that it was here surrounded her, striking at her with a thousand hungry jaws and grasping legs, and she had only a one-handed whip of a solar flare to fend it off—

But she didn’t fight alone. A warrior tore at the Darkness’s spidery limbs with his fists, image on the cameras flickering impossibly between every hero I’d ever heard of. A snarling figure bit at it with jagged teeth, gored it with horns, shredded it with claws and talons, and generally made every ancient prey-instinct in me scream. And a queen with a crown of stars, a shield like the night sky and a sword like a streaking comet, stood dauntlessly at the sun-holder’s side. 

With all that, and with the speed of even her most exhausted strikes, I thought the sun-holder could probably have gotten away if she’d tried. But I knew how a person fought when they weren’t willing to leave a friend, and a smaller, silver figure lay at her feet, unmoving and drained of light.

But even the battle for the sun wasn’t what grabbed my eye. No—all my attention, all my guiding threads of fate and the quick temper that always used to get me in trouble, before (and sometimes after) I learned to leash it in an Alliance uniform— All of that took me straight to the fight happening orthogonal to the stone giant’s corpse.

It was another one-versus-many. Morgoth, the First Enemy of Elves and Men— Master of Lies, Maker of Chains, Sonofabitch Curser of Bloodlines—towered over even his fellow gods. His shape changed constantly, sickeningly, but it was always black-armored with eyes like dying stars that hated you personally. His maul dripped with lava and every other kind of blood.

He fought against three great gray figures who moved as one. The tallest wielded a star-studded scythe with swift, efficient strokes, and wore the dark gray of corpse-shrouds. The shortest shimmered with more colors than even a Stamotapadon could dream of, and his weapon shifted likewise. The third was the clear, clean gray of skies after rain or tears run dry, and fought with only a shield—and hit harder with it than either of her brothers.

Around their heads darted the only Elves on the battlefield, in small fliers more like sea-ships than aircraft. But they moved fluidly, pestering the Dark Lord like flies, pricking his skin and threatening his burning eyes.

Until Morgoth swung his maul with a roar of fury that traveled even though soundless space. My ship and heart both shuddered. The gray gods all staggered back, and the Elves fell from the no-longer-sky—all but their leader, more fire than flesh, who wore the third Silmaril. Morgoth caught him in one massive black hand and with sharp claws plucked the jewel away, as easily as a ripe berry from a tree—

“All power to fore-cannon and fire,” I ordered—and the jewel on my brow shone bright again as several stored months’ worth of infinite Silmaril-Light slammed into Morgoth’s chest with all the force that the best scientists in the Astral Alliance could engineer. 

He stumbled. He dropped both the jewel and the elf-king (who’d been trying to bite him). The Lady of Mercy tossed her shield to catch them, staying low and out of sight—though she needn’t have bothered. The so-called “Lord of All” had already found his next enemy.

“All ships, move forward and join shields,” I ordered, and met his burning stare though the viewscreen. “Then broadcast me on all external frequencies.”

The wires on my forehead shimmered as we shifted Light-flow to the shields—and to my right, so did the Elendil, and to my left, the Cosmian Blade, and all around us the Minas Tirith, the Elfsheen, the Muse, the Rivendell, the Heart of Zanzi, the Longbottom Leaf… They were still soaring out of the silvery distortion behind me, tractor- and Silmaril-towed: sleek Rigilic eels-of-prey and Centaurian cruisers full of Humans eager to fight for their homeworld, Betan mine-ships and Canid X-M-wings and my own Hectoan starlighters, a full third of the X-ee navy with their X-eee–shaped six-engine dreadnoughts, and hundreds more. 

“This is Captain Pel Cinia, once Túrin Turambar, of the Astral Alliance ship Gurthang,” I said. My words were broadcast from every ship on every frequency in every language that the people of Arda might know, as the Fleet assembled from forty-plus different worlds flew into position. Our Light-infused shields blazed and locked together, until we formed a seamless wall right in the Enemy’s face, with the Elves and their other allies safely behind us.

I’ve never felt more proud to recite the most cliché line in the Fleet:

“We got your distress call. We’re here to help.”

[misshoneyimhome]

250 FOLLOWERS FESTIVAL

“I like waking up with you” I Nico Hischier

Summary; While Nico Hischier may struggle with expressing his emotions, leading to occasional frustrations and arguments, a strong relationship can withstand any challenge.

Tropes & warnings; no warnings; strangers to lovers, couples fight; very mild-smut descriptions;

Other notes; so as I finished, I sort of realised that it doesn’t really have much plot - it’s just pure fluff; still hope it’s readable 😅 inspired by the lyrics from ‘PILLOWTALK’ by Zayn Malik 🤍

Word count; 1.7K

➼｡ﾟ

You and Nico fell in love quicker than you ever imagined possible. In a way, it felt as if fate had brought you together on purpose, weaving your lives into a beautiful tapestry of love and passion. It was as simple as the fairy tales you grew up with; from the moment you met him on that crisp autumn evening, you knew your life would change forever. It was love at first sight.

Your love story began at something as simple as a charity event for the New Jersey Devils, right at the start of the hockey season. It was a night filled with glamour and excitement, the room adorned in the team's red, white, and black colours.

You were there as a friend of one of the team’s partners, however, as the event had unfolded, you suddenly found yourself standing alone, without the companion you’d arrived with.

Yet, in a mere moment, lost in thoughts as you gazed into thin air, among the buzzing crowd, your eyes suddenly met Nico Hischier's. His big, brown golden eyes captivated you instantly, sparking a connection you simply couldn't deny.

And to your surprise, Nico confidently made his way through the crowd in your direction, never breaking eye contact. And when he stood before you, his smile was nothing but magnetic.

"Hello," he said, his voice smooth with a hint of a sweet yet rough accent. "I couldn't help but notice you from across the room. Would you mind if I joined you?"

Though his boldness took you aback, there was just something about him that had you drawn in. And before you knew it, you were engrossed in deep conversation, completely oblivious to the world around you.

"I must admit," Nico said with a playful glint in his eyes, "I didn't expect to meet someone as captivating as you at this event."

His words warmed you, causing a blush to rise to your cheeks. "I could say the same about you," you replied with a soft smirk, completely unable to look away from him.

And as the night then progressed, you felt an unexpected strong and deep connection to the Swiss captain, as if you'd known each other for ages. So as the evening slowly drew to a close, you couldn't shake the feeling that this might just be the beginning of something extraordinary.

**

To say the least, you were absolutely right. As the weeks passed and turned into months, your connection with Nico only grew stronger. And before long, despite your initial hesitation, you moved from being just good friends to something definite more.

It was no secret between you, that you’d had concerns, influenced by the idea of dating a professional hockey player with a demanding lifestyle and packed schedule. However, Nico dispelled those worries with his steadfast commitment to you. He didn't just start calling you his girlfriend sooner than expected; he proudly introduced you to everyone as his partner anywhere you went, demonstrating his dedication through every word and deed. In a way, it was quite remarkable how, despite the demands of his career, he always found time for you, placing your relationship above all else.

Because Nico's life as a hockey player did indeed involve frequent travel, rigorous training sessions, and the pressure of performing on the ice. There were nights when he returned home exhausted, his body aching from a challenging game. Yet, even in those moments, he never failed to show you love and appreciation. Whether through a heartfelt text before bed or a lengthy phone call while on the road, he made sure you felt valued and cared for.

And especially one aspect of your relationship that remained constant was the physical connection you shared. The chemistry between you was electric, igniting flames of desire that grew hotter with each passing moment. Your intimate moments together were nothing short of explosive, leaving you both breathless and exhilarated every time.

Incredible sex became a defining feature already in the very beginning of your relationship, the kind that would make the neighbours blush and the walls tremble. But you never paid any attention to the noise complaints or the curious glances from passers-by. In those moments of passion, it was just you and Nico, lost in each other's embrace, consumed by the intensity of your love.

During those intimate moments, you felt the deepest connection with Nico, as the barriers between you dissolved and you revealed your souls to each other in the most vulnerable and intimate way possible. Every time you lay intertwined in the aftermath, your bodies still tingling with pleasure, you were certain that you were in love.

However, naturally, challenges arose along the way. No relationship is without its flaws, including yours. Arguments erupted over missed dates or suddenly cancelled plans, tensions escalating like an impending storm. Yet, as always, Nico had a knack for smoothing over rough patches, turning conflict into connection. With just a smile or a tender gesture, he could transform the atmosphere between you from a war zone into a paradise.

It was a turbulent relationship, to say the least. Nico's ability to express his absolute joy and deep love for you was unmatched, his affection evident in every touch and whispered word. But beneath that outward display of affection lay a layer of resilience and reticence when it came to his concerns and fears.

And it didn't take you long to notice that he tended to bottle up his negative emotions, keeping his worries hidden deep inside. Nico was skilled at putting on a brave face, particularly as the team captain, even when the weight of the world seemed to be bearing down on him. And while you admired his strength and resilience, it also led to frustration and tension between you.

There were times when you wished he would open up, and share his fears and insecurities with you. However, whenever you broached the subject, he would shut down, enveloping himself in silence. In those moments, the distance between you almost felt insurmountable, like an unbridgeable chasm. But, no matter how bad your arguments could be, Nico never let you go to bed angry or sad.

One evening, after a rather heated argument, you sat on the edge of his bed, tension thick between you.

"I'm sorry, y/n," Nico said softly, his voice tinged with regret. "I didn't mean to shut you out like that. Sometimes I just feel the need to be strong for everyone else, and I forget that it's alright to lean on you too."

His words resonated deeply within you, highlighting the complexities of his role both on and off the ice. You reached out, taking his hand and gently squeezing it as you met his gaze.

"You don't have to be strong all the time, Nico," you reassured him, your voice gentle yet firm. "I'm here for you, through thick and thin. We're a team, remember?"

And a faint smile slowly grew and played on Nico's lips as he nodded, gratitude shining in his eyes. "I know," he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. "And I'm thankful for you every day, y/n. I don't know where I'd be without you."

Navigating the highs and lows of your relationship required a delicate balance. Yet, through it all, your love for each other remained unwavering, and you were determined to face the challenges together, hand in hand.

In fact, maintaining this steadfastness was surprisingly simple; Nico never allowed you to even consider the idea of walking away. And truth be told, you had no desire to. Despite the ups and downs, everything between you felt pure, raw, and intensely passionate.

**

The past year had been nothing but a whirlwind for both of you, with highs of victories and lows of defeats. Throughout it all, you had been each other's support, standing strong through thick and thin. And with the off-season offering a brief break from the hockey season's demands, you cherished every moment spent together, aware that Nico would soon be back on the ice, fully engrossed in the game.

Then as the autumn leaves then began to change, marking the start of a new season, Nico's excitement was beyond palpable. He simply couldn't contain his joy at the prospect of another year filled with his beloved sport and the woman who had captivated his heart.

And as you lay together in the gentle morning light, Nico's words enveloped you like a warm embrace, filling you with love and affection. His vulnerability caught you off guard, as his declaration of love lifted your spirits.

"I like waking up with you," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion, echoing the sentiment you had shared countless times before.

Your heart fluttered at his words, warmth flooding through you at the depth of his affection. You gently reached out, brushing your fingers against his stubbled jaw as you spoke softly, a smile gracing your lips.

“I like waking up with you too…” you murmured, your voice filled with tenderness.

But it was evident there was more on his mind. "I can’t believe I have you in my life... I love you, y/n…" Nico's voice quivered with emotion, his gaze locked on yours as if seeking reassurance.

And you couldn’t deny the way your heart swelled with love for him, mirrored in the depths of his gaze. "Nico," you whispered, reaching out to stroke his hair, "I love you too, more than words can express."

The moment hung heavy with emotion and possibility. Then, with a surge of determination, Nico voiced the question he'd been pondering for a while.

"Move in with me, y/n," he implored, hope and longing evident in his eyes. "Please. I want us to wake up together every day, fall asleep in each other's arms. Will you move in with me?"

And you couldn’t help but let a tear slowly well in your eye at the sincerity of his request, overwhelmed with love for the man before you. So without hesitation, you simply enveloped him in your arms, whispering your answer in his ear.

"Yes, Nico," you choked out, your voice thick with emotion, "Of course I'll move in with you.”

As you held each other in the gentle dawn light, surrounded by the promise of a new beginning, you knew this was just the beginning of a beautiful chapter in your love story. With Nico by your side, you felt ready to face whatever the future held, confident that together, you could overcome anything.

[housewilson]

A MASTERLIST OF ALL THE BOOKS I COULD FIND IN TIM'S BOOKSHELVES

As someone who basically sees Tim Laughlin as my own version of Jesus Christ (I kind of wish I was lying but I have a 'beyond measure' tattoo branding my skin so perhaps I'm entirely serious), I simply needed to know what was on those shelves of his. And this was a hard task to achieve, believe me... but I got much farther than I initially thought I would.

(I've got so much to say about all of these books and how they might string together to create a deeper understanding of Tim as a character but I won't go into it here... maybe in a future post or video essay, who knows).

If you wish to help a girl out and attempt to figure out any of the other books I simply can not crack no matter how I look at the screenshots and mess with the adjustments... here's a folder full of 2k sized screenshots of those shelves.

Before I list the books one by one, I want to make a couple observations:

1) Almost all of the books I was able to pinpoint are non-fiction. The ones that aren't are children's books.

2) Topically, we see an interdisciplinary interest in:

History: from a book on a king in 4BC, to a survey of landholding in England in the 11th century.

Somewhat current historical events: books on World War I and II.

Western Philosophers: specially from the 16th to the 18th century.

Aesthetics: there's at least 2 books on the subject matter, but I couldn't find the second one, sadly.

Spirituality: not only christian/catholic; some of these books touch on Eastern practices such as Buddhism and Hinduism.

Fairy tales / children's books.

Psychology: specially in regards to mysticism and sexuality.

Science and scientific discovery/research.

3) A lot of the history, current events, and spirituality books are autobiographies/memoirs.

4) A lot of books (specially those on sciences and philosophy) tend to be more so anthologies or overviews on a subject matter rather than a book written by one specific author on one very concrete topic.

Overall, this all reflects very well an idea Jonathan Bailey himself expressed in a brilliant interview you can watch here if you haven't yet:

"Tim has buddhist flags in his 1980s flat in San Francisco, he has crystals, he is someone who is always seeking other ways to understand human experience. Which is probably tiring for him. Throughout the decades, he sort of appears as completely different people. At the crux of it there's this extreme grinding, contrasting, aggressive duality between feeling lovable and not feeling lovable. There's such shame in Tim. But it's the push and the pull which keeps him alive.”

This desire to understand human psychology, spirituality, and the ways of the universe through as many diverse lenses as possible, as well as a predilection for non-fiction, expresses very much to me that insatiable thirst for truth that defines his character so strongly.

OKAY, THAT BEING SAID. Here's the list in chronological order of publication.

PS. if you decided to click on any of the following titles it'd definitely not take you to a google drive link of the pdf file where you could download and read these books for yourself. Because that would be illegal and wrong.

Journeys through Bookland by Charles H. Sylvester (1901?) (1922 Edition)

I don't know which specific volume he owns, sorry, I tried my best but the number is not discernible (hell, the title barely is). If anyone wants the download link to these hmu because I'm not about to individually download all 10 right now.

10 volumes of poems, myths, Bible stories, fairy tales, and excerpts from children's novels, as well as a guide to the series. It has been lauded as ‘a new and original plan for reading, applied to the world’s best literature for children.’

Pilgrimage by Graham Seton Hutchison (1936)

This book provides a view of the battlefields of WW I through the eyes of the average fighting man. 

One curious thing about this book is that it's author, a British First World War army officer and military theorist, went on to become a fascist activist later in his life. Straight from Wikipedia:

"Seton Hutchison became a celebrated figure in military circles for his tactical innovations during the First World War but would later become associated with a series of fringe fascist movements which failed to capture much support even by the standards of the far right in Britain in the interbellum period." He made a contribution to First World War fiction with his espionage novel, The W Plan."

The Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton (1948) 

The Seven Storey Mountain tells of the growing restlessness of a brilliant and passionate young man, who at the age of twenty-six, takes vows in one of the most demanding Catholic orders—the Trappist monks. At the Abbey of Gethsemani, "the four walls of my new freedom," Thomas Merton struggles to withdraw from the world, but only after he has fully immersed himself in it. At the abbey, he wrote this extraordinary testament, a unique spiritual autobiography that has been recognized as one of the most influential religious works of our time. Translated into more than twenty languages, it has touched millions of lives.

This book requires no introduction. It's the one he keeps the Fire Island's postcard in and the one we see him re-reading in episode 8 after Hawk brings it to the hospital with him at the end of episode 7.

Just a little detail I noticed:

Apparently he liked the book so much he visited Gethsemani, which was the home of its author all the way up till 1968.

For all we know, he might have even met its author!

Sexual Behavior in the Human Male by Alfred Charles Kinsey, Wardell B. Pomeroy (1948)

When published in 1948 this volume encountered a storm of condemnation and acclaim. It is, however, a milestone on the path toward a scientific approach to the understanding of human sexual behavior. Dr. Alfred C. Kinsey and his fellow researchers sought to accumulate an objective body of facts regarding sex. They employed first hand interviews to gather this data. This volume is based upon histories of approximately 5,300 males which were collected during a fifteen year period. This text describes the methodology, sampling, coding, interviewing, statistical analyses, and then examines factors and sources of sexual outlet.

Yes, Charles Kinsey is indeed behind the Kinsey scale that has done so much for the LGBTQ+ community.

Their Finest Hour (1949), The Grand Alliance (1950), and Closing the Ring (1951) by Winston Churchill

Winston Churchill's six-volume history of the cataclysm that swept the world remains the definitive history of the Second World War. Lucid, dramatic, remarkable both for its breadth and sweep and for its sense of personal involvement, it is universally acknowledged as a magnificent reconstruction and is an enduring, compelling work that led to his being awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1953. 

The European Philosophers from Descartes to Nietzsche by Monroe C. Beardsley (1960)

In so far as we reflect upon ourselves and our world, and what we are doing in it, says the editor of this anthology, we are all philosophers. And therefore we are very much concerned with what the twelve men represented in this book--the major philosophers on the Continent of Europe--have to say to us, to help us build our own philosophy, to think things out in our own way. For the issues that we face today are partly determined by the work of thinkers of earlier generations, and no other time is more important to the development of Western thought than is the 250-year period covered by this anthology. Monroe. C. Beardsley, Professor of Philosophy at Swarthmore College, has chosen major works, or large selections from them, by each man, with supplementary passages to amplify or clarify important points. These include: Descartes - Discourse on Method (Descartes), Thoughts (Pascal), The Nature of Evil (Spinoza), The Relation Between Soul and Body (Leibniz), The Social Construct (Rousseau), Critique of Pure Reason (Kant), The Vocation of Man (Fichte), Introducciton to the Philosophy of History (Hegel), The World as Will and Idea (Schopenhauer), A General View of Positivism (Comte), The Analysis of Sensations and the Relation of the Physical to the Psychical (Mach), Beyond Good and Evil (Nietzsche).

The New Intelligent Man's Guide to Science by Isaac Asimov (1965)

Asimov tells the stories behind the science: the men and women who made the important discoveries and how they did it. Ranging from Galilei, Achimedes, Newton and Einstein, he takes the most complex concepts and explains it in such a way that a first-time reader on the subject feels confident on his/her understanding. Assists today's readers in keeping abreast of all recent discoveries and advances in physics, the biological sciences, astronomy, computer technology, artificial intelligence, robotics, and other sciences.

The Heavenly City of the 18th Philosophers by Carl L. Becker (1932) (1962 reprint)

Here a distinguished American historian challenges the belief that the eighteenth century was essentially modern in its temper. In crystalline prose Carl Becker demonstrates that the period commonly described as the Age of Reason was, in fact, very far from that; that Voltaire, Hume, Diderot, and Locke were living in a medieval world, and that these philosophers “demolished the Heavenly City of St. Augustine only to rebuild it with more up-to-date materials.” In a new foreword, Johnson Kent Wright looks at the book’s continuing relevance within the context of current discussion about the Enlightenment.

I find the particular choice of adding this book very curious and on brand, since it explores the idea that philosophers of the Enlightenment very much resembled religious dogma/faith in their structure and purpose. Just... A+ of the props department to not just add any kind of book on philosophy anthology.

Herod The Great by Michael Grant (1971)

The Herod of popular tradition is the tyrannical King of Judaea who ordered the Massacre of the Innocents and died a terrible death in 4 BC as the judgment of God. But this biography paints a much more complex picture of this contemporary of Mark Antony, Cleopatra, and the Emperor Augustus. Herod devoted his life to the task of keeping the Jews prosperous and racially intact. To judge by the two disastrous Jewish rebellions that occurred within a hundred and fifty years of his death -- those the Jews called the First and Second Roman Wars -- he was not, in the long run, completely successful. For forty years Herod walked the most precarious of political tightropes. For he had to be enough of a Jew to retain control of his Jewish subjects, and enough of a pro-Roman to preserve the confidence of Rome, within whose territory his kingdom fell. For more than a quarter of a century he was one of the chief bulwarks of Augustus' empire in the east. He made Judaea a large and prosperous country. He founded cities and built public works on a scale never seen before: of these, recently excavated Masada is a spectacular example. And he did all this in spite of a continuous undercurrent of protest and underground resistance. The numerous illustrations presents portraits and coins, buildings and articles of everyday use, landscapes and fortresses, and subsequent generations' interpretations of the more famous events, actual and mythical, of Herod's career.

Readings in the Philosophy of Art and Aesthetics compiled by Milton Charles Nahm (1975)

A college level comprehensive anthology of essays written on the arts and the field of aesthetic philosophy.

The Mustard Seed: Discourses on the Sayings of Jesus Taken from the Gospel According to Thomas by Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (1975)

This timely book explores the wisdom of the Gnostic Jesus, who challenges our preconceptions about the world and ourselves. Based on the Gospel of Thomas, the book recounts the missing years in Jesus’ life and his time in Egypt and India, learning from Egyptian secret societies, then Buddhist schools, then Hindu Vedanta. Each of Jesus' original sayings is the "seed" for a chapter of the book; each examines one aspect of life — birth, death, love, fear, anger, and more — counterpointed by Osho’s penetrating comments and responses to questions from his audience.

(You don't know how fulfilling it was to find some of these books and just sit there like "oh my god, yessss, he'd SO read that".)

A Third Testament by Malcolm Muggeridge (1976)

A modern pilgrim explores the spiritual wanderings of Augustine, Pascal, Blake, Kierkegaard, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Bonhoeffer. A Third Testament brings to life seven men whose names are familiar enough, but whose iconoclastic spiritual wanderings make for unforgettable reading. Muggeridge's concise biographies are an accessible and manageable introduction to these spiritual giants who carried on the testament to the reality of God begun in the Old and New Testaments. - St. Augustine, a headstrong young hedonist and speechwriter who turned his back on money and prestige in order to serve Christ - Blaise Pascal, a brilliant mathematician who pursued scientific knowledge but warned people against thinking they could live without God - William Blake, a magnificent artist-poet who pled passionately for the life of the spirit and warned of the blight that materialism would usher in - Soren Kierkegaard, a renegade philosopher who spent most of his life at odds with the church, and insisted that every person must find his own way to God - Fyodor Dostoevsky, a debt-ridden writer and sometime prisoner who found, in the midst of squalor and political turmoil, the still small voice of God - Leo Tolstoy, a grand old novelist who swung between idealism and depression, loneliness and fame and a duel awareness of his sinfulness and God s grace - Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a pastor whose writings and agonized involvement in a plot to kill Hitler cost him his life, but continue to inspire millions

Portraits: The photography of Carl Van Vechten (1978)

Can't find a file but you can borrow it from archive.com in the link provided.

During his career as a photographer, Carl Van Vechten’s subjects, many of whom were his friends and social acquaintances, included dancers, actors, writers, artists, activists, singers, costumiers, photographers, social critics, educators, journalists, and aesthetes. [...] As a promoter of literary talent and a critic of dance, theater, and opera, Carl Van Vechten was as interested in the cultural margin as he was in the day’s most acclaimed and successful people. His diverse subjects give a sense of both Carl Van Vechten’s interests and his considerable role in defining the cultural landscape of the twentieth century; among his many sitters one finds the leading lights of the Harlem Renaissance, the premier actors and writers of the American stage, the world’s greatest opera stars and ballerinas, the most important and influential writers of the day, among many others.

Report of the Shroud of Turin by John H Heller (1983)

Heller, while a man of science, was nevertheless a devout man (Southern Baptist). He viewed his task concerning The Shroud with great scepticism; there have been far too many hoaxes in the world of religion. The book describes in great detail the events leading up to the team's conviction that the Shroud was genuine; last - not least - being Heller and Adler's verification of "heme" (blood) and the inexplicable "burned image" of the crucified man. Although carbon dating indicates that the image is not 2000 years old and that the cloth is from the Middle Ages, there is not enough evidence to disprove Heller's assertion that the Shroud is indeed genuine.

Context for those who may not know (though I doubt it's necessary): The shroud of Turin "is a length of linen cloth that bears a faint image of the front and back of a man. It has been venerated for centuries, especially by members of the Catholic Church, as the actual burial shroud used to wrap the body of Jesus of Nazareth after his crucifixion, and upon which Jesus's bodily image is miraculously imprinted."

It is a very controversial subject matter and I definitely don't know that from going to an Opus Dei school since the day I was born till the day I graduated high school.

Mysticism, Psychology and Oedipus by Israel Regardie (1985)

I've tried my hardest but despite many Israel Regardie books being on the world wide web, I can't find a copy of this specific one.

Mysticism, Psychology and Oedipus, from the Small Gems series is one of these mysterious alchemys which Regardie and Spiegelman crafted for the serious student of mysticism. Mysticism, Psychology and Oedipus by Dr. Israel Regardie and his friend, world renowned Jungian Psychologist, J. Marvin Spiegelman, Ph.D. was created to reach the serious student at the intersecting paths of magic, mysticism and psychology. While each area of study overlaps they also maintain their own individual paths of truth. One of Regardie’s greatest gifts was his rare ability to combine these difficult and diverse subjects and make them understandable.

Domesday Book Through Nine Centuries by Elizabeth M. Hallam (1986)

In 1086 a great survey of landholding in England was carried out on the orders of William the Conqueror, and its results were recorded in the two volumes, which, within less than a century, were to acquire the name of Domesday, or the Book of Judgment 'because its decisions, like those of the last Judgment, are unalterable'. This detailed survey of the kingdom, unprecedented at that time in its scope, gives us an extraordinarily vivid impression of the life of the eleventh century.

The following two are a fuck up on the props department part because they were published after 1987 but we'll forgive them because they were not expecting for me to do all this to figure out the titles of these books, I'm sure:

The One Who Set Out to Study Fear by Peter Redgrove (1989)

This book barely exists physically, rest assured it does not exist online... LOL.

The author of The Wise Wound presents here a re-telling of Grimm's famous fairy tales, written in a manner and spirit more suited to the present day. Each story is rooted in the original, but cast in an energetic style that is both disrespectful and humorous. 

Essential Papers on Masochism by Margaret Ann Fitzpatrick Hanly (1995)

The contested psychoanalytic concept of masochism has served to open up pathways into less-explored regions of the human mind and behavior. Here, rituals of pain and sexual abusiveness prevail, and sometimes gruesome details of unconscious fantasies are constructed out of psychological pain, desperate need, and sexually excited, self- destructive violence. In this significant addition to the "Essential Papers in Psychoanalysis" series, Margaret Ann Fitzpatrick Hanly presents an anthology of the most outstanding writings in the psychoanalytic study of masochism. In bringing these essays together, Dr. Fitzpatrick Hanly expertly combines classic and contemporary theories by the most respected scholars in the field to create a varied and integrated volume. This collection features papers by S. Nacht, R. Loewenstein, Victor Smirnoff, Sigmund Freud, Jacques Laplanche, Robert Bak, Leonard Shengold, K. Novick, J. Novick, S. Coen, Margaret Brenman, Esther Menaker, S. Lorand, M. Balint, Bernhard Berliner, Charles Brenner, Helene Deutsch, Annie Reich, Marie Bonaparte, Jessica Benjamin, S.L. Olinick, Arnold Modell, Betty Joseph, and Janine Chasseguet-Smirgel.

Let's not forget another book we know has been present in his shelves at some point:

Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe (1929)

It is Wolfe's first novel, and is considered a highly autobiographical American coming-of-age story. The character of Eugene Gant is generally believed to be a depiction of Wolfe himself. The novel briefly recounts Eugene's father's early life, but primarily covers the span of time from Eugene's birth in 1900 to his definitive departure from home at the age of 19. The setting is a fictionalization of his home town of Asheville, North Carolina, called Altamont in the novel.

And Ron Nyswaner mentioned in a podcast (might be this one? I'm not sure) that he scrapped from the script a line where Tim recommends this poem at some point:

He specially emphasized the line "If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me".

And lastly, if anyone wanted to know:

His copy of the bible is the Revised Standard Version by Thomas Nelson from either 1952 or 1953.

Because why the hell not figure out what specific translation of the holy bible a fictional character was basing his beliefs on — as if the set designers cared nearly as much as I do.

[synergysilhouette]

Things I'd want for an an "Ever After High" reboot

As much love as "Monster High" has gotten--and as much attention as it's gotten, thanks to 2 reboots--I think it's time for a reboot of Ever After High, for the lore/show if nothing else (and yes, I know it was all for the dolls). And note: I say "reboot" instead of "revival" because the show had a gaping flaw with it, and I'll include it in one of the things I'd like to see in a Gen 2 of EAH:

More nuance--The BIGGEST issue with the show was how biased it was when it was trying to see itself as a complex story. The Royals were written as selfish, hypocritical, and vain when discussing the future and their legacies, and it made being a Royal unlikable, which was probably done by the writers to make us sympathize with the Rebels more, not to mention the fact that Raven was always kind and level-headed, making Apple come off much more disingenuous. It wasn't even a "the Rebels are slightly more right"; the Rebels were written as 100% right and the Royals weren't "good" people until they came around to the way the Royals thought. I'd enjoy them embracing the Royals' positive side (which have been shown when not involving the RvR debate), as well as highlighting the fact that following tradition isn't always a bad thing, and that those who followed their destiny didn't have to follow it to the letter, but were allowed to make changes here and there (ie Apple marrying a prince; it didn't have to be Daring). As such, destinies are vague, giving you a beginning and end while omitting the in-between parts. And given this change to what is considered a Royal, there are no in-between groups like Roybels.

2. Don't forget the guys--Part of what made EAH an engaging "girly" show for me was the fact that they still had significant male characters (usually it's like a 10-1 ratio; here it feels like 5-1), all of whom have unique designs and appearances. I'm pretty sure this wouldn't be an issue, but I still wanna point it out.

3. Headmaster Grimm is more altruistic and wise--I swear, "Wish" has ruined me forever. I'm on a Magnifico kick. Headmaster Grimm, while still lying to the students and kinda misleading them, doesn't do so just because of the flimsy "This is how things are done"; he's more of a lawful neutral/true neutral character, where he understood after years of seeing people try to change their destinies it either comes true anyway or ends up getting their own Happily Ever After, but it does more damage than good for everyone else. As such, he understands the fact that good cannot exist without evil, and vice-versa, explaining his own motivations for manipulating events at EAH, with the proposed destinies being what he believes to be the worst-possible scenarios. (Plus the evil headmaster at school is so cliche to me at this point. It feels very juvenile.)

4. More lore in the show--Albeit, less confusing. I don't remember the show exactly, and I didn't get into the novelizations, but I do recall that the books fleshed out the Legacy Day ceremony a bit more, citing that the current students at EAH were descendants (rather than children) of fairy tale characters, and embracing your destiny was something done for generations--with one disturbing detail being that Ashlynn's mother would eventually die and her father would marry one of her stepsisters, making the new stepmother's daughters Ashlynn's new stepsisters who would make her enslaved. AND EVERYONE KNEW THIS. This circles back to #1 by making being a Royal less terrible. Put emphasis on following your destiny and the history of the world, but I'd prefer to avoid the "we do this every generation" thing; the characters are still descendants of fairy tale characters, but it hasn't been a wash, dry, repeat cycle; it only happens when the descendants' circumstances start to match up precisely with their ancestor's, and it's believing that by following their destiny, they preserve the balance of good and evil. Not to mention, most of the other students don't get to accept or deny their destiny; they're just regular people in that respect, while the special descendants (let's say that Maddie, Raven, and Apple are only a small handful of people who have Legacy Day this school year) get to see what their futures hold. Not to mention it'd be fun to see more of the characters' lives outside of the school, ie Briar's relationship with her younger brothers and the fact that her mom is always tired and her dad (who needs a name; can we avoid nameless characters here?) is always slaying monsters.

5. More emphasis on fairy godparents (and magical characters in general)--I'll always question why Cupid coming to EAH didn't reinvent her as a fairy godmother or something similar. In any case, I like the idea of fairy godparents and their children being one the only major characters in fairy tales who's destiny was flexible and no one had any qualms about it; they were above good or evil (though they typically chose good), and had a business where people would pay for their services, powered by their wish and conviction. Grimm being a fairy godfather would also make sense for his grey mentality in the series. Plus I feel like we don't have enough magical characters, with Cerise, Farrah, and Raven being the few that come to mind.

6. It's not just about Raven--Something I liked about "Monster High" was that while Frankie started off as the main character (before she sadly became underrated), many other characters got the spotlight outside of her. Given that the EAH webseries was story-driven, they gave Raven the spotlight. But I'd like to focus on other characters who may be dealing wit the consequences of following/rejecting their destiny, as well as more people fighting with their "inborn" morality issues, similar to Raven fighting her evil urges.

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader ❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut ❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love. ❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior. ❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

English is not my native language, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know.

Published on AO3 like FleurRi

❣ Prologue: Roses scarlet like blood ❣

 Every story has a beginning: a magical, inexplicable moment—an elusive contact between reality and dreams. When thoughts emerge from the edge of consciousness, a stream of colorless letters appears on the parchment of our fate, eventually becoming an event. Life's intersections, fragments of various plots, are continuously repeated, lost, or deliberately forgotten. They are like unwritten melodies; the echo of their angelic voices follows us through life, like the bright tent of a wandering circus that incessantly makes noise. is full of tinsel, and raves with dreams.

  There are millions of them. No. Billions, like the sleeping stars, sway peacefully on the sky-blue wire; their scattered light tells the wayward souls the way in the velvet folds of the night's darkness. These are our memories. Some are dazzlingly bright, as fresh as summer breezes, while others are barely flickering, covered in the marble ashes of time and a diamond crumb of emotion. And they all live so far away and at the same time prohibitively close together, there, in the labyrinth of the underground sky and on the endless roads of the blood rivers, where it is impossible to find them: in our memory.

  Just as a pebble thrown into the ocean sinks into the murky depths, so does memory. Drowning into the viscous muddy depths without a bottom, in that rich and uncharted area that we call “oblivion,” it sinks in time. And few of us have been given the opportunity to preserve living images of memories of the feelings we have ever experienced: to drown in the bittersweet water of sorrow and joy; to fill our consciousness to the brim, like a vessel with golden honey, with the feelings of pain and keen passion, and to die. Die happy. The greatest privilege of all.

  Seconds, minutes, days, and years—colorful fragments of time; sharp crumbs scattered under our feet. Unlike us, those who plunge into eternal sleep, our memories that have insidiously dissolved in ink in our blood will not disappear. They fear death, flee from it, and hide in the thick of the earth that blossoms with fluttering glass, forget-me-nots and drunken petunias that, in their intoxicating happiness, kiss the eyelashes of the blind God. You hear them whisper, “I’ll never forget you…”

  My story begins with an innocent question that I’m sure you’ve heard more than once: “Do you like roses?”

  Once upon a time, I would have answered, "Yes, I love roses." But, as it turns out, all our words are followed by consequences, and small rosy spikes can be much more dangerous than they seem at first glance, just like in the fairy tales that we were told in childhood.   You know, there are things that we might call fatal: people who decide other people’s lives as long as they reach out to them like they're God. And then there are the flowers, which keep the mysteries tenebrous and ancient.   I'm almost a hundred years old, maybe more. I should start my story right now; this is the perfect moment.

  I will tell you about who I once was and who I am now. I will tell you about love, which is akin to obsession, and the death of her faithful friend. I will also tell you about the people, ghosts, or maybe illusions that were around me. They were with me once…   Now, there are others, but they’ll be in my story later. They will come into my life with a chorus of angelic voices; the sound of a heavy autumn downpour, and the pretentious solemnity of death. Yeah, they’ll be there, though, if you think about it, they were always there, from my first breath to my last breath, by my side.   But I’m forgetting what’s important.   I have to tell you about the roses, and only about them.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

Mina's long hair shimmered like luxurious silk under the early morning light. Bloody strands fell in curled doll curls onto her bare shoulders, as if in Baroque paintings. The lush blossoms of white roses woven together in her hair made her look like the ancient Greek goddess of spring.   Her appearance has always been astonishing, blatantly perfect rather than real, but that was sometime in the past. Now she was like a pale ghost of herself, a blurry reflection on a black surface of water on a moonlit night. The only thing that reminded her of her former beauty was her hair, which remained perfectly groomed and scarlet, like blood. Oh yeah, there are still roses.  These flowers… there was something unnatural about them, something otherworldly. Each petal was painfully perfect, as if made of satin. But the flowers were real; they were alive and breathing and too demanding. It seemed that just because they wanted this, Mina could wear them in her hair. It was their choice, not hers.  “Do you like roses, Rosa?” · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

This is the moment when my life changed forever. If I had known that this innocent question would be the beginning of my end, but can this be called the end? Would my answer have been different?

  I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Over and over again, I played this scene like a broken record, crossed my answer out of the script, wrote a new one, and made comments and footnotes, but…   But the answer was the same. I couldn’t change anything; it was destined. Much later, when I fall asleep in a warm bed, I will feel a gentle kiss on my closed eyelids and hear San’s angelic voice whisper in my ear that fate is never wrong. That they would find me or that I would come to them does not matter; in the end, we would still be together in life and in death. In eternity.

  I’ll come back to that later, I promise. In the meantime, I’ll continue. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

“They’re beautiful, Mina, but I don’t like them anymore.”  I sounded terribly rude from the outside, and I could see Mina’s eyes filled with tears, as if I had slapped her.

 “But Rosa!” Mina reached out her pale arms to me. “Look how perfect they are; don’t you care about their beauty? Doesn’t your heart beat faster when you look at them? O Rosa, these flowers are special; they never wilt.” She shook her head, as if confirming her words. “Yeosang gave them to me before I left” Her long, thin fingers reaching for the white rosebuds in her hair. “I want to give you one.” Hooking the flower, Mina gently pulled it out of her curls and stretched it towards me. I didn't have the desire to accept her gift; something in her behavior and her voice caused me anxiety. And there was this name: Yeosang. It wasn’t the first time I heard it, but it was a long time ago, and I still remember that Mina mentioned others with that name: Hongjoong, San, and Mingi. They sounded familiar to me as a song once learned by heart. She pronounced them in a special way: with a gentle intonation and an exciting euphoria. As if it had been repeated countless times at the same completely new to her.  All I could hear was the echo of that song, which came along with those names in the conversation. It was an ominous echo, like an impending, inevitable storm. Mina was still holding out a rose, and I looked at her hands. Arms with a faint web of blue veins that looked like dried stems of faint flowers. For some reason, I came up with the idea of sirens holding out their hands to pirates while their voices led them into the welcome embrace of death. Did they look like Mina’s hands now?

I remember these hands weaving long pearl threads into my hair during festivals. I remember the feeling of intertwined fingers as Mina led me down the dark corridors of my grandmother's old house. I remember them gently wiping my tears when I was rubbing my feet until I bled in ballet class.

I remember the touch of those hands… I know him. These cold fingers that so carefully hold the snow-white flower no longer belong to my sister. Their touch changed, becoming foreign and distant, as did the mysterious land where these perfect, never-fading roses grew.

Didn’t that sound like a fairy tale? Just in our history, there has been no magic mirror, no Queen-Witch whose crown shines like a star, and no apple full of poison, but there is a coffin of shimmering crystal, and a prince that sleeps in it. Of course, there are also roses—thousands of roses.

“Rosa” Mina turned to me again. “Please take them; you will surely love them. Just try to feel them…”

She put a flower in my hands. The drops of nectar froze on the wax petals, and the first rays of the dawn sun made them sparkle like diamonds. “This variety is special.” Her voice sounded soft. “It's called the Deva-Rosa. I want to show you where they grow. It’s so beautiful. I want you to come with me, Rosa. We’ll be there together, you and me.” Mina smiled dazzlingly, but something was wrong with that smile. The once-sensual kiss lips were painfully curved, the corners awfully lifted, like the forever-frozen smile of a Venetian mask, and the warm pink shade was gone.

I was always jealous of her lips. They were so tender, plump, and enticing. All her features attracted attention, but it was her lips that made Mina's beauty unique.

She shone like the sun, easily becoming the center of everyone's attention—a beautiful white swan. The main heroine of the story. 

Then there was me, only a shadow of her perfection—gloomy and pale as the moon, the complete opposite of the burning heat and the sexuality of my sister. Unlike Mina's, my features were not sensual and breathtaking; no, they were old-fashioned, like those of a porcelain doll. I didn’t find myself ugly or unattractive; just ordinary. One of a hundred million. The classic tragic heroine of a Gothic novel, someone like me, doesn’t make it to the finale.

Now looking at Mina, I can no longer see her life; her fire has almost been extinguished, leaving embers smoldering. And only her hair, like a burning sunset, was the only bright spot in her appearance. They crimson her white dress like blood rivers in the snow. 

 “Rosa, come with me.” The touch of her hands was icy and gave me a nasty shiver. It wasn’t Mina anymore. “Let's go, please. We can admire roses together. We can be together, Rosa. Remember what we promised each other when we were kids? Forever.”   Mina leaned towards me with her whole body, completely trespassing into my space, and with her intimacy came the suffocating, sugary smell of roses. It was a thick, enveloping aroma that instantly sat in the lungs. I thought that if I breathed it in deeper, these strange, unnatural flowers would sprout in my veins, intertwine with my bones, and create a new home for themselves in my body.

 “No!” I exclaimed, pushing Mina away from me. “I don’t want that, Mina. I don’t want you or those freaking roses in my life.”

  Suddenly on my feet, I took a few steps away from the pale Mina, who was staring at a rose that had fallen to the ground. Her posture was as vulnerable as that of a wounded animal, and her limp arms reached for the flower, which, surprisingly, began to darken and fade, touching the ground.   In her eyes, once radiant with happiness and dreaming, stood tears, and her lips began to tremble. It was as if a child whose beloved toy had been mercilessly abused had fallen to her knees, picked up a dying bud, and, in despair, pinned it to her lips.

“How can you be so cruel, Rosa?” Mina whispered, her lips gently touching the petals. “You hurt them; it breaks their heart. Can’t you just accept their love? Accept the roses?” She continued to kiss the petals.

 “What are you talking about, Mina? Whose love should I accept?” I asked cautiously. Her behavior began to frighten me.

 “You must give yourself to them, Rosa; I must give you to them.” Mina ignored my question, methodically kissing a faded flower. His dead petals began to fall away, slowly, baring his heart. “O Rosa, the rose is a rose; the rose is a deva; the deva is a rose; is a rose.”

 “Mina!” I called her by her name in an alarm. The entire situation had me in a state of primitive terror.   Mina began slowly swaying from side to side in time to your words, all the while continuing to say, “Rose is a rose, the rose is a deva.” It was meaningless, like the ravings of a madman.  The words were repeated in an endless circle, like a prayer or a ritual chant. Mina’s voice grew louder, higher, and higher until it broke, and abruptly she stopped all movement, standing there like a graceful statue.

  Once I admired her every move; now I want to cover my eyes so I never have to see her again.   What happened after became the most traumatic thing in my life. I can never forget it, no matter how much I want it. It seemed to be imprinted on my eyelids, and even after closing my eyes in my sleep, I couldn’t get rid of those memories.

  Her movements were fleeting, like the wings of a butterfly. Here she is before me, tense and waiting, and then her throat crosses a ragged line, and blood rushes through her body like a waterfall.

  Eyes shining from tears are wide open and so resemble smooth black pearls, and lips are opened as if waiting for a kiss.   For a second, Mina's body stretched like a thin string and then softened, falling on the grass.   I heard someone start screaming; the sound was so deafening and heartbreaking that I wanted to curl up in a ball and cover my ears with my hands, so I couldn’t hear.

  I found myself screaming. I needed to call for help; I had to call an ambulance, and I had to try to help her. Put my arms around her neck and cover her gaping red velvet wound.

  But I was yelling about something else instead.   My name is not Rosa; you hear me, Mina!   I am not her. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I awoke in a frenzy, sweating profusely and with a wildly pounding heart from an endlessly recurring nightmare.

 This dream has haunted me for months since Mina’s funeral. Night after night, I have lived this sunrise over and over again. I didn’t like morning anymore; I started avoiding sunlight and hiding in the velvet folds of the night, sharing my loneliness with the darkness. I made the moon my friend, and the stars my silent witnesses.

  My memory is folded paper, folded a thousand times. Sometimes, I want to unwrap it, but not completely: open the brittle edges of the fragile sashes, smooth out the folds and creases with my fingers, spread out the time sequence. Unwrap it just a little, and then fold again, mixing letters and days, reality and dreams. I never want to open the pages where the memories of that morning are stored. Every time I get almost to the end, moments before the final, I run away to the safety of happy days.

  I try to come up with a new ending to this story, a different ending, but the dream comes to me like a cat, gently calling me into its embrace, and I find myself again in a place I don’t want to be.

  It’s early in the morning, and the sun is just rising above the horizon, shimmering like a limitless purple-pink ocean.

 In Mina’s crimson hair are snow-white roses, and her dress looks like an intricately woven ruffle and lace. Her pale hands holding flowers, her puffy lips in a painful smile, and her bare feet—the ground must be cold since it was the middle of October.  Her blood… and the roses.   And if it were possible to personify hatred and death, then for me, it would be roses.

  I hated and despised these flowers with all my heart. They brought only sorrow and gloominess into my life. The beautiful symbol of mourning solemnity.   They started it. They ended it all.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I was sixteen when Mina first called me Rosa. One January afternoon, she came home with a basket of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen in my life. Scarlet like the blood of a rose, they were magnificent and perfect. From that day on, I became Rosa. Why did Mina start calling me that? She never spoke.   But she completely forgot my real name. For the whole world, I was now Rosa.   After this case, every day in our small apartment, the roses became more and more numerous, until every inch of free space was filled with scarlet buds. Their smell was suffocating, thick, and sticky like honey. It is absorbed into the skin, hair, and dissolved in the blood. It made me dizzy and nauseous, and I could taste it on my tongue with every breath.   But it wasn’t just a smell. It was a color that screamed “red,” like blood itself. It poured over our house, coloring the entire apartment in a disturbing shade.

  After that, every day in our house, the roses became more and more numerous until they filled all the surrounding space.

  Soon, they became so numerous that our house looked like a tomb filled with scarlet petals hanging from the ceiling. We've been arranging here with all honors, breathing in a haze as imperceptible as rose-scented mist. 

  In all the time I lived there, not a single flower withered. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. Day followed night, and night gave way to day; but no petal lost its pristine beauty, and no bud bowed its heavy head in sorrow. There was not a single bouquet that would dilute this velvet sea with its mourning black.

  And if that did happen, Mina cried long and hard over these flowers and blamed herself for not saving them. At night, I heard the sound of her apologies and her fanatical prayers. 

  Whether she prayed to God or to the Devil, I couldn't tell. I'll find out for whom these prayers were intended many years later.

  Roses were always sent with a postcard and a box of expensive chocolates with some intricate filling. The box was necessarily in the form of a heart. The signature was also one; once the unchanged calligraphic handwriting deduced only one phrase, “For you,”

  Mina never told me who gave her these magic flowers or why the roses didn’t wither.

  I tried to ask her these questions several times, but she only brushed them off, throwing her long hair from one shoulder to the other and angrily declaring, “You must love them; you don't need to know more.”

 Mina also dyed her hair scarlet, like roses.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. Constantly surrounded by these flowers was unbearable, and one day I packed up all my things and moved in with a friend, leaving Mina alone in her regal rosary.

  My first night away from home, away from the roses and Mina, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned anxiously in bed hour after hour; but the dream never came, and then the phone rang. Mina called. Crying, she begged to come home, and when I asked her why, she barely whispered, “The roses are wilted.”

  I hung up, and Mina never called me again. Two years had passed. My life had changed, and I think my luck had smiled. I found wonderful friends who were eccentric and bright. I had a great and caring boyfriend, and the internship at ballet school was promising. Everything worked out perfectly, and there were no more roses.

 Until my twentieth birthday, a huge bleeding bouquet of scarlet roses tied with topaz-embroidered ribbon appeared in my new apartment. The candy box was heart-shaped, and the caption read, “For You.”

  I burned the bouquet, threw out the chocolate, and tore the note apart, and blew it to the wind.

  No one was supposed to see or know.   Even me.    Exactly eight days after these flowers appeared, I got a call from former neighbors in the apartment complex Mina was still living in.   I was urged to come and deal with the situation; the smell of rot and death was unbearable, and Mina didn't open the doors or answer the phone.   I opened the door with my key. Opening it wide, I crossed the threshold and could not contain a short scream. All the once-luxurious roses had rotted, dripping thick, stinking jugs on the floor and accumulating in gleaming poisonous lakes. Every corner of the space was occupied by large vases with black velvet buds and tall candles. After my move, Mina got rid of all the furniture, leaving only the big bed, which was now covered with dried stems strewn with thorns.

 This place was like a grave — cold and dark — where my sister was supposed to rest.   Going deeper, I found no hint of Mina's presence. Absolutely nothing.     Only putrid roses and an empty heart-shaped box.

  Mina was gone. For a whole year, I tried to find her without success. Old friends, distant relatives, acquaintances, and any other connections she might have ever had—I checked everything, but there was nothing to help me find her. It’s like she never existed.

 In the two years we’ve been apart, I didn’t know anything about her. Mina didn’t call, and when I tried to contact her, she would reply with a short message, always the same: "Roses have wilted; come back." just like the night I left her.

  All Mina had ever thought about since that unfortunate January day were these sinister roses.

  The police began an investigation. Two years after her disappearance, Mina became officially missing.

  And a year after that, she showed up at my door in the twilight of the fall morning, barefoot, in a sophisticated lace dress with a rose crown on her head. From the Mina that I knew, all that remained was her hair—long, silky, and crimson like blood and roses.

  She still kept calling me Rosa, calling me out, and promising that we’d be happy together. That it will be only us, forever. She promised to show me where these strange flowers bloom, which she called the Deva-Rose, although these were not her words, but those of someone distant and unfamiliar to me, Hongjoong.

  And then...then Mina died. The dawn painted her body in pink shades, flooded the grass with sparkling gold, and dyed the white roses of her crown scarlet. She slit her throat. Ragged a sharp spike into it. As it turned out, even the tiniest rose spikes were deadly.   It was a nightmarish and, at the same time, majestic end to her story.   The image of Mina haunts me in dreams even now—this distant gaze in her pearly eyes and a complete absence of fear of death. No, Mina wasn't afraid. She welcomed death as an old friend, graciously opening her arms.

  It was her exodus.   I remember screaming loudly. Blood thundered in my ears, and tears flowed in an endless crystal stream. I screamed that my name wasn’t Rosa; that I wasn’t her, and never would be.

  Her funeral was truly a royal one. Rain and thunder rattle in the sky, as if raising a toast in her honor. The flat haloes of the black umbrellas swayed peacefully as the guests made their sorrowful speeches.

  Mina seemed to fall asleep, dressed in an old-fashioned wedding dress, lying there like a princess, drowning in thousands of roses.   The flowers were brought at dawn. Their color was deep and dark, as if every petal was filled with the gloaming of the night. They mourned with me.   But I knew better. It wasn’t the end; it was the beginning.  Death follows life in an endless cycle of rebirth. When one flower fades, plant a new one.  Back home that night, I found a black envelope at my door, sealed with a monogram wax seal.

  It lacked an address and the sender's signature. The message was clear and concise. "I live for you, my Rosa."

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   I went to the window and opened the curtains with my newfound determination. It’s time to stop being afraid and run away. Whatever it is, I’ll find out what happened to Mina. Let her start it all, but I’ll be the one to finish the story.   The last surviving girl.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   How naive I was then, how stupid. The moth always flies to the flame, attracted by the warm fluttering light; he himself goes to his death.

I was that moth. Without realizing it, I came to my inevitable fate, which has been waiting for me for centuries, maybe longer. Their hands have stretched out since the darkest times, when the light didn't exist, and the Devil was as real as you and I. At that time, everyone knew his face, felt his hot breath on his skin.   The story I’m going to tell you isn't going to be bright and sweet; we’re going to go down to hell and come back. I'll take you through the dark woods to the horrors of uncharted lands where barefoot priestesses rock their sharp teeth in alluring smiles. I will take you to the castle where the prince rests in a crystal coffin and make you drink wine that tastes like blood.

  Now I have to ask you, "Are you afraid of the dark and what’s hidden in it?"   But my question is, "Love, do you like roses?"

[epilogue-and-prologue]

Blue Moon

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (movies) Ship/Pairing: Eomer x Reader (one mention of reader wearing a dress) Trope: Noble x Humble worker Note: IT’S SOTWK’s FAULT. We talked about Eomer’s hands and here we are. The title « Blue Moon » is a reference to the song « Blue Moon », my favourite rendition being sung by Ella Fitzgerald. Warnings: Horses? Word count: 1 595 Tag-list: @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @fizzyxcustard @sotwk

There was something hypnotising about his hands.

The way his palm moved along the planes of the horse’s back. They were delicate. Deliberate in their care for the animal. Several times today, you had caught your gaze lingering a little too long on his slender fingers and their dexterity. Several times you had wondered what they’d feel like against your skin, in your hair weaving braids during a quiet evening. Those were fairy tales. You did not dwell on them, even when it kept you up at night; heat clinging to your skin, the chilly wind doing nothing to help your wandering mind.

It seemed to appease his uneasy nature to come here. He would go in the early hours of the day, only to come back in the middle of the morning. To the outside world, he was a leader. Someone they could trust and follow into depths unknown. Here, he was only Eomer. You considered yourself lucky to have witnessed both.

Others were concerned by his willingness to spend so much more time with you instead of them. You had dismissed them easily enough, but the thought had lingered. Why was he only asking you to help him? A bucket, water, hay, a brush for the horse’s mane. You were not willing to fathom an answer, especially if it was the wrong one. Seeing him like this it made you happy enough. You were content with this, whatever this was.

From time to time, he would ask about your day and you would always answer the same things. Fine and good. Excellent, perfect or grand. Never would you have said what you wanted to say. That it was him who made those days fine, and good and excellent and perfect and grand. Until meeting him, working with horses had been your life’s dream, and you were fulfilled by it. When he was there, you weren’t so sure anymore. It felt as if all of him was completing what you had and did not know you were missing.

“What are you thinking about?”

Barely above a whisper, his question lingered in the air between the two of you, almost as if he had not meant to ask it aloud. He was still working his fingers through the hair, looking beyond the horse’s back, away from you. If he had looked at you, you could have traced a lingering hint of a pinkish hue on his cheeks.

A chilly breeze rose, and you had to tighten the cloth around your shoulder, crossing your arms close to your chest.

“Nothing important, Sire.”

A laugh echoed through the wooden box around you.

“Then why are you boring a hole in my skull with your staring?”

Your cheek felt warmer than they had been moments ago.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sire. If you need me to go, I… — No. Stay.”

Eomer had not meant for his voice to grow this loud. Nor to turn around so abruptly. The nerves in him, electrified by your eyes, led him to act so.

It had grown almost suddenly, this affection he had for you. First, you were something to behold. Once he discovered your face, your features, the way you moved and talked, he only ever wanted you to be near him when the mask fell off. When he could be himself and not who he was supposed to be. Second, you never pressured him into talking, going silent for hours on end, just being there with him and Lia. She was not his usual horse. He preferred not to overexert Firefoot, especially after the events he had seen on the battlefields. You were the one to care for her when he could not, even before he started mounting her. The mare had a gentler temper, dark robe and larger body. She adored you and if instincts served him right, animals were always the true tellers of someone’s nature. Thirdly, and lastly, your presence calmed him like no one else could. Except when you were threatening to leave. Or when you were looking at him, behind his back. He never wanted you to stop looking at him like that. When your eyes were observing and kind on him, his weary body and his weary mind, he felt that he could take on another thousand wars just to find you here again, safe and sound, watching him. He only hoped you could say the same about him.

“As you wish, Sire.”

The goosebumps on your arms and the way you protected yourself from the cold struck him then. With the winds of winter approaching, the weather had gone incredibly cold, and you were only wearing a thin linen above your usual dress and robes. He stepped out of the box, coming closer to you as he’d ever been. He grabbed for a cover lying around. Those were used for the horses but they’d have to do. He wrapped it around you, as tight as he could. It smelled of the stables and hay. A hint of pink shattered across his cheekbones in the morning lights. Your breaths were leaving your lips in hot clouds between you. The way he settled his palms on your shoulders, securing the cloth around you, drove a whole different kind of shiver down your spine. You could feel his fingers over the fabric, his overexerted hands catching some threads, before he took them off you, gently. You could not help the sharp inhale you took when he did.

“Would not want you freezing to death on my account.”

His smile did not reach his eyes, but you felt the warmth it procured you down to your toes. At a loss for words, you smiled in return, trying to hide your face. Your arms were still secured against your chest but your heart was not as protected as you had hoped it would be.

In a thoughtless step, Eomer leaned down and brought his lips to your cheek. He could feel the burn of them under his skin. The way you looked up at him, bewildered and hopeful, brows knitted together in confusion, only made his mouth ache for more. Still, he would not do it unless you said so. He had already overstepped and behaved un-gallantly enough. Hence his surprise when he found your hands gripping at his lapel, obviously not willing to let him go. A soft curve graced his mouth, a pleasant feeling growing in him.

“Can I…?”

Your vigorous nodding let him know exactly what he wanted. Only then did he pull you closer, his hands drawing you in, the warmth you felt from his lips and the tenderness with which his fingers nestled against your jaw below your ears, enough to make you forget about the world around. Delicately, his mouth danced with yours, eager to please and swift to do so. Soon, his wide hand drew you in, pulling you at the waist. Your fingers met his heart through cloth and flesh and bones, beating in a rhythm only known to you both.

“I…”

You bit your lip while you could see him observing you through hooded eyes, his fingertips sending shivers down your arms. He was tracing the hollow of your cheek with his knuckles, leaving you breathless once more. He looked as if he had seen the most marvellous creature in the entire world. You could not believe it was you on the other end of that fantasy.

“I… do not know what to say… I… — Then you don’t need to say anything.”

His fingers found their way down the length of your throat. He looked positively charmed, yet you pulled back, hesitant. What if this had been… just a fling? Just something he could do, just because he wanted to. No other reason. No feelings involved. What if he was playing with you?

“I will. — What?”

He chuckled at your incredulous expression.

“I will say something. — Oh.”

He brought you back to him again, kissing your cheek.

“I…” He kissed your nose. “…will never…” your other cheek. “…ever…” Your fingertips now. “…let you…” This was getting on your nerves and he knew it, smirking behind your hand. “…be seen by anyone else but me, in this state.”

The last words murmured against your cheek, to the shell of your ear, elicited a burning anticipation deep in your bones.

“My King, I would never ever let anyone but me see you in this state. — I don’t think anyone had ever really seen me before you.”

His candid answer surprised you. In a tender caress, he stroked your back through the fabrics of your clothes, not thick enough to keep his touch at bay. A thumb ventured below your breast, too close to be accidental. You inhaled sharply.

“And I will never let anyone else see me like this. If you’ll have me, of course.”

His declaration hit your heart at an arrow’s speed.

“You really mean that? I’m not just a… — You’re not just anything. You are the world and beyond. You are everything. I hope to be everything to…”

Before he could finish, you pulled him down for another kiss. This one arousing and passionate; desires trapped, finally meeting in the middle.

“I will. I absolutely will.”

A heartbeat passed in his arms, trying to keep your hands to yourselves.

“You were asking me to… — … court and eventually marry you? Yes. And you said yes, you cannot take it back now.”

Your laughter rang through him as it rang through the stables, enlightening the new day ahead.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hello! I’ve been following you for a bit now, and all of your recommendations have been super cool and interesting! If you don’t mind me asking, do you have any recommendations for really long indie ttrpgs? One that could match the length of dnd or CoD books, I mean. The specifics don’t matter as much, I just really like sinking my teeth into long game books like that.

THEME: Long Indie Games

Hello friend! Fear not, I have a multitude of long indie games to recommend for you!

Chuubo’s Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine, by Jenna Moran.

Length: 578 pages.

The Chuubo’s Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine RPG is the diceless RPG from Jenna Katerin Moran, author of the well-regarded Nobilis and an important contributor to Eos’ Weapons of the Gods and White Wolf’s Exalted RPG.

Chuubo’s is a special beast. I personally don’t know how one actually plays this game, but the book itself is fascinating to read. It has recognizable parts such as character skills, Health Levels, and XP, but I think I’d want to sit down with a physical copy to be able to properly read it and get a handle on how you play through a story. If you enjoy a challenge, or even just something enchanting and evocative, I’d recommend Chuubo’s.

Part-Time Gods, by Third Eye Games.

Length: 318 pages.

The gods of today are shadows of what the old gods possessed. Their power has been heavily diminished, and many choose to live a regular, mortal life, revealing themselves as gods only when absolutely necessary. The reason for this is twofold. First, fate doesn’t like it when the gods share their secrets with a mortal. Unless they are the god’s worshipper, terrible events and horrific accidents have a way of happening to the people closest to the god. Secondly, divine works attract creatures and monsters called Outsiders, created by the Source (after its capture) to destroy any god they encounter.

This is a game that’s on my TBR shelf - and it might stay there for a while, because this is another pretty lengthy book. I am very grateful for the index at the back of this book, because I think this would be pretty difficult to navigate. Part-Time Gods is set in the modern-day, but the premise behind your god-hood is very unique, so one of the first chapters is dedicated to telling you what exactly it means to be a part-time god, part-time taxpayer. The book also contains small pieces of prose set in the world, meant to give you a flavour of the genre and tone intended by the designer. I’m really interested in the concepts expressed in this game, and I hope I have enough brain space to read it in the future!

We Are All Mad Here, by Shanna Germain.

Length: 226 pages.

Jack climbing the beanstalk. The little mermaid finding her voice. Alice struggling with the madness of a place unruled by the laws of reality. The queen. The child. The woodsman. The knight. When you think about fairy tales, who do you become? Where does your imagination take you?

We Are All Mad Here is a tabletop game about fairytales and mental health, providing you with new options for the Cypher System while also creating a setting about visitors to a magical land called the Heartwood. In the fiction, only those who have had some kind of struggle that affects their mental health are able to travel to this magical land. Germain intends this to be a way to tell a narrative about mental health using allegory and metaphor. The Cypher system itself is pretty complex, and you probably won’t be able to play a game of We Are All Mad Here without the core rulebook, so it might be worth it to take a gander at the Cypher System Rulebook while you’re at it.

Coyote & Crow, by Connor Alexander.

Length: 484 pages.

More than 700 years ago, a massive disaster changed the course of history. The world was plunged into centuries of darkness, but the event also introduced the Adanadi — the Gift — a strange mark that appeared on all life. This mark would have an enduring impact on humanity. Centuries later, the Earth is healing. New, advanced nations have risen. Ancient legends stir.

Coyote & Crow is a pretty extensive and unique game, using pools of d12s pulled from your stats, as well as narrative beats such as character motivation, Gifts and Burdens to help give your character a personality. Because it introduces an alternate history and a drastically different future, the core book as a decent amount of lore to acquaint you with the city of Cahokia and the world that surrounds it.

This game has quite a bit of support out there, with adventures such as Stolen Heart, Laughter Lost & Found, and The Case of the Great Underwater Panther.

Impulse Drive, by Adrian Thoen.

Length: 242 pages.

Play a crew of misfits and scoundrels living a life of danger and adventure as they explore space and try to make their ship a home in a technicolor sea of stars. Fight dangerous organizations, investigate unnerving mysteries, and find trouble in a game that rewards you when your characters face their shortcomings. Grow your characters and ship with new gear and abilities as you discover and create the universe together, as a group.

For a PbtA game, Impulse Drive feels pretty substantial. It provides a quick primer on Powered by the Apocalypse games, and includes advice for the players as well as the GM. This might be because the game includes a lot of details about gear and vehicles, as this is a space game that cares what your party has on hand and what their ship can do. There’s also advice on changing the game, extra moves, and a roll table for mutations! If you’re looking to see how to play out a space adventure in a more narrative-focused system, you might want to check out this game!

The Shrike, by Alice the Candle.

Length: 162 pages.

The Shrike is a game about fantastical voyages aboard a skyship. It's inspired by Avery Alder's The Quiet Year, John Harper's Lady Blackbird, Italo Calvino, Ursula K. Le Guin, and utopian and dystopian fiction. It features four complete adventures (two multiplayer, two for solo play). 

This indie game is on the short side of this list, but it’s definitely long by indie standards. The author has provided 4 different adventures that you can read through, which will likely spark your imagination along the way. Interestingly, the voyages are placed in the first half of the book, while the information about Solo, Co-operative. and Guided Play embody the second half of the book. I’m not sure how I feel about this layout choice, but if you’re mostly looking for a book that you can read, flipping through the voyages might be more interesting to you than the rules of play.

Games I’ve Recommended in the Past

Lancer, by Massif Press. 431 pages.

The Wildsea, by Felix Isaacs. 364 pages.

Exceptionals, by Sahoni. 253 pages.

Gubat Banwa, by makpatatag. 399 pages.

Monster Care Squad, by Sandy Pug Games. 176 pages.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Wille's Month - Fashion/Style

wow day 15! @youngroyals-events tack! <3

AU. Crown Prince Wilhelm finally meets his favorite artist, Simon Eriksson, at the Met Gala.

read below or on ao3. (T, 1.4k)

Wille took a moment to steel himself, inhaling one long, deep breath, before he’d have to face the inevitable. He could already hear the shouts, the camera clicks, and none of those were even for him yet. It wasn’t often he found himself surrounded by this many other famous people, especially not of this caliber, so he was a bit nervous. 

It was his own fault, really, that he’d found himself sitting in a black town car, in a stuffy suit, waiting to enter the most notorious fashion event of the year. But, with all of his duties as Crown Prince of Sweden, all of the handshakes and baby-kissing and ribbon cutting, he’d needed to carve something out that was his own. While he adored helping people and finding those tiny moments of joy in an otherwise suffocating role, Wille craved something that was just his. Delving into fashion had been his own personal fuck-you to the Royal Court at the beginning. They hadn’t been too keen on a big ‘coming out’ – and honestly, neither had Wille, not wanting to deal with all the drama – but the clothes he had a little more leeway with. Meeting with designers and learning about fashion was one of the few ways he could bring a bit of Wille into his position. If he wore things that were a bit more feminine or not-fitting for a straight crown prince, so what? The headlines would be what they were. It all helped him breathe a little easier, too, knowing that this part of his life was still his to control.

The theme of this year’s Met Gala was ‘Grimm Couture: Origins of Fashion’ and the dress code followed closely as ‘A Fairytale Encounter’. The royal-ness of it all hence why the Crown Prince of Sweden would be in attendance. Wille was honored, he supposed, to have been invited in the first place. It did seem a little bit too much like all the other events he usually attended – a night of rich people flaunting their wealth and pretending there were zero problems in the world – but the Court had insisted. Once he found out that Simon Eriksson would be attending, Wille had stopped putting up any sort of fight. 

With a final gulp of air, he nodded to the driver. A moment later, the car door opened, and a million flashes and shouts hit him all at once. Blinking away the initial shock, Wilhelm stood and waved politely, the perfect-prince mask slipping into place. Not wanting to draw too much attention to himself but wanting to fit the dress code, Wilhelm had leaned into the fairy tale aspect. He chuckled slightly at the thought of Erik seeing him now, parading around in a light green and gold suit decorated with lily pads and willow branches. It felt nice to still have an inside joke with him, imagining Erik laughing at his little brother, The Frog Prince, attending such a prestigious event. 

Slowly, he was guided, buffeted by multiple security guards, toward the main event and the main red carpet. He tried not to look too obvious as he glanced around, only really looking for one person. The saturation of fame in such a small space was astounding. Wilhelm was a different kind of famous from these people. A few tweets would be sent out by random people questioning his identity or purpose for being there and (hopefully) complimenting his suit. The rest of this crowd, though, were real famous people, renowned around the world. Like, for example, Simon Eriksson. The man was three-quarters of the way to an EGOT, and he was only 24. He also happened to be Wilhelm’s favorite music artist and the main star in his dreams. They followed each other on socials but had never spoken in real life. Tonight, Wille hoped, that would change.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Wilhelm spotted him. An absolute vision of sin, Simon Eriksson wore a deep purple affair, dripping in silver jewelry and pants so long and layered they might have been a skirt. His jacket was cropped and open in the front, revealing a bare, toned chest and midriff.  

Voices shouting his official title shook Wilhelm out of his trance, and he let his eyes linger a second longer before turning to the photographers in front of him. Wilhelm made his way up the stairs distractedly, posing and half-heartedly answering interviewers questions. He simply could not look away from Simon, who was working his way up the other side of the stairs. 

A few times, Simon caught Wilhelm staring and smirked devilishly at him. Wilhelm would whip his head back around and attempt to smooth his features, having to ask the poor journalist to repeat their question. Halfway up the stairs, Wilhelm zeroed into an interview Simon was giving right behind him. 

“Simon, Simon! Tonight’s theme is all about fairy tale encounters. What fairy tales inspired your look tonight?” 

Wilhelm couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder as Simon let out a warm laugh. 

“Well, I’ve never been much of a believer in fairy tales. But looking around tonight,” Simon said thoughtfully, then turned and made direct eye contact with Wilhelm, “it seems I might find a prince of my own.” 

Wilhelm, aware of their surroundings, sent a kind smile back, then quickly turned away to hide his blush. 

The rest of their travel up the carpet continued as such, sending flirty glances at each other across the distance and adding piles of fuel to the media fire Wilhelm was sure to hear all about tomorrow. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. Still, he did his best to answer the interviewers questions, wanting to be respectful of their time and also to plug some of the charities he was proud to work with. 

As soon as he made it to the top of the carpet, Simon disappeared into the crowd. Wilhelm didn’t see him for hours. In fact, he thought he might’ve left. It wasn’t until the evening was beginning to draw to a close, and Wilhelm was beginning to accept the fact he’d never get more than a teasing look from a distance, that he ran into Simon in the men’s restroom.

“Kronprinsen,” Simon said in a mocking tone, dipping into a small curtsy. His pretty voice echoed slightly in the tiled room.

Wilhelm groaned. “Please, no. Just– Just Wilhelm is fine. Wille.” 

Simon’s eyes were playful, and, at this closer distance, Wilhelm could see the intricate black and silver eyeliner accentuating them. Thankfully, it seemed the bathroom was empty, so no one would see just how weak in the knees Wille was feeling.

“Okay, Wille,” he nodded, “I’m Simon.”

“I know,” Wille blurted. “I mean, how are you enjoying the evening?

“Ugh,” Simon rolled his eyes, “I hate these things. All the fuss kind of makes me sick, but I’ve got an album coming out soon, so the label insisted. Plus, who am I to turn down Anna Wintour?”  

“Well, you look absolutely incredible, regardless. I’m a little worried you’re in the background of all my photos and stealing my shine.” 

The immediate light in Simon’s eyes was worth the slight blush on Wille’s cheeks. Unknowingly, they had both stepped forward, bringing them closer in the already small space. 

“Oh, dear,” Simon drawled, raising a hand to grasp at Wille’s lapels, “Are you nervous that people are going to notice you’ve been staring at me all night?” 

At their sudden close proximity, Wille swallowed dryly. His eyes flickered down when Simon wet his lips, as if in invitation. 

“How could I have looked anywhere else?” he whispered into the space between them. 

Simon hummed. “Were you planning on staying much longer, Your Highness?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Wille groaned again and reached out to wrap an arm around Simon’s waist, then pulled him in. “But, no, In fact, I was just leaving.”

The last bit of space vanished between their bodies and Simon tilted his head up tauntingly, revealing even more of that beautiful neck of his. “I see. Me too.”

“Do you need a ride?” Wille asked, breathing the words into the sliver of air separating his lips from Simon’s. 

“I’d love one.” 

That was the last Met Gala either of them attended. Three years later, the notorious fashion event had a much smaller audience as the majority of the world turned its attention to the highly anticipated summer wedding of an Ex-Crown Prince Wilhelm and EGOT-winner Simon Eriksson. 

[thewertsearch]

I never really thought about it before, but John was throwing bombs around earlier, on this planet covered in oil. He's honestly pretty lucky that it took this long for it to catch fire.

Is this... is this fixable? Has Jack just destroyed another planet?

The whole world revolves around its Heir.

Alright. What do you have to say for yourself?

AG: I was the one who put you to sleep. [...] EB: you can do that? AG: Yes, that seems to 8e the limit to what I can do to your primitive species.

For now, at least. I'm sure you're working on it.

...hey, never mind her psionics. Can Vriska steal luck between sessions? Because that would arguably be worse.

EB: why would you put me to sleep and put me in this predicament? AG: John, soon you will understand that you are meant to rise to gr8tness. AG: This can't possi8ly happen unless you are challenged.

Again - Sburb is challenging enough without you making things worse. Exactly how miserable do you want John to be, before you're finally satisfied?

Oh, right.

There isn't an upper limit. You're just going to keep pushing and pushing and pushing until someone who cares about John realizes what you're doing, and puts a stop to it.

EB: if you're seeing my future, and you know those things are the outcome, then why are you going back and… EB: i guess, involving yourself with these events? see what i mean? [...] AG: You are going to 8ecome a gr8 hero, that much is sure. AG: 8ut I want to 8e the one responsi8le for it!

Well, this is nonsense - but it's very Vriska nonsense.

I'm reminded of the Discworld novel, Witches Abroad. The villain of the story is a fairy godmother, who uses her magic to turn the people around her into characters from various fairy tales - Cinderella, Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty and the like. These people are then forced to follow the 'plot' of the story they've been shoved into, whether they like it or not.

She's accrued plenty of wealth and influence from doing so, but her primary motivation is to feel important. Lily derives enormous satisfaction from being the cause of the stories around her - of being the one behind the curtain, the fulcrum around which the narrative turns. At the end of the day, it's pure ego.

Vriska is the same. She's trying to mold John's journey into The Thief's Apprentice, a story with herself at the center. She doesn't really care about this action's effect on the timeline, and she'd certainly never admit that she didn't really have any agency in this event.

All that matters is that, as far as Vriska is concerned, this is her story now.

[sesskag-week]

SessKag Week 2024 Theme Breakdown

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You'll find the week's prompts here!

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Day 1

Canon Compliant

Canon compliant fics follow the canon exactly and don't alter the setting or canonical plot events too drastically. An example of a canon compliant fic would be for example a retelling of a specific scene from another character's point of view.

VS

Modern AU

Modern AU is a fic that takes place in a contemporary setting instead of the work's canonical setting. In SessKag, modern AU fics are typically set in modern day Japan. They can either still feature youkai and miko, or be all human AUs as well.

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Day 2

Canon divergence

Canon divergence fics follow canon up to a point. They take place in the canon setting and may follow the canonical plotline fairly closely, before they began to spin off to their own direction. "What if Kikyo didn't die?" "What if Kagome never went back to the Feudal era?" "What if Kagome met Sesshoumaru first?" are all types of canon divergent fic scenarios.

VS

Historical AU

A fic that takes place in an alternative setting that's in a different time period than the canonical setting. For SessKag, this could be anything any other time period than Sengoku era and up to the 1990s. SessKag in Heian era? Meiji era? Regency England? Any other time is a fair game.

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Day 3

Missing Episode

Missing episode, or a missing scene fic, is canon compliant fic that is set between specific canon events, but it is a moment that's never actually shown to the audience.

VS

Fusion AU

Fusion AUs are types of crossovers, where you take the plot and/or setting of Fandom 1 and the characters from Fandom 2 and mash it all up. If you see a fic described as "SessKag Star Wars AU" or "SessKag Pride and Prejudice AU", those are type of fusion fics.

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Day 4

Pre-Canon

Pre-canon, or pastfic, is a fic that is set before the events of the canon. It could be a flashback or delve into the character's backstory.

VS

Fantasy/Scifi AU

Fantasy or Scifi AU could be any kind of AU that incorporates fantasy or scifi elements in it. It could be a fairy tale retelling, some kind of a Isekai scenario, a Fae/Werewolf/Vampire AU or a zombie apocalypse.

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Day 5

Canon Reunion

Broadly, this could mean any canonical reunion scene. With SessKag, though, the type of canon divergent modern era reunion fics where Sesshoumaru and Kagome meet again in modern day after Kagome never returns to the Feudal era are popular, so I had those in mind when I chose this theme.

VS

All human AU

All human AU is an AU in which the characters that are not human in the canon (e.g. Sesshoumaru) are human. High school or College AUs are a popular type of an all human AU. An all human AU does not have to be set in a modern day, however.

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Day 6

Post Canon

Post canon or a futurefic is a fic that takes place after the canon has ended, usually several years later.

VS

Royalty AU

Royalty AU is a type of an AU story in which one or several characters are a member of a royal family. Whether the story takes place in a historical, fantasy or contemporary setting is up to the writer. Tropes that go hand in hand with this type of AU are arranged marriage or bodyguard fics, for example.

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The fantastic banner features this artwork by the fabulous @valuvi

[angelasscribbles]

Bad Parenting Chapter 3: Settling In

Series: Bad Parenting

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings for series: (Riley x Liam x Max) + Riley x Drake

Featuring: Leo, Oliva, M!OC Hudson Rys and F!OC Lilith Nevrakis

Rating: G

Warnings for this chapter: None

Word Count: 1,622

A/N: Wow. I posted chapter 2 almost two years ago! 🙃I had thought this was more or less abandoned at this point but.... well, here we are.

My other stuff: Master List.

Original series this spun off from: Bad Romance. More specifically Bad Romance Disney Adventure.

After the events in Disney Adventure, Leo finds himself in possession of his thirteen-year-old son Hudson for the summer. Unfortunately for him, Hudson isn’t that impressed with Leo’s newfound desire to be a father.

Hudson reluctantly agreed to let Leo show him around the palace. His sulkiness gradually gave way to awe as his errant father regaled him with not only tales of Cordonian history but his childhood growing up in the palace.

“Ok, you and Uncle Liam I get. Why did the other kids live here?”

“Oh, well,” Leo grew serious. “They lost their parents. Well, Liv lost both of hers. Drake and his sister Savannah lost their father, then their mother kind of…. Left them here and went back to the U.S.”

Hudson’s face hardened. “So, they had a mother like mine?”

Leo’s heart went out to the kid. Genevieve had rather abandoned him to pursue her own interests. Guilt sliced through him as he wondered if being in his son’s life sooner would have made a difference. “Bianca had her reasons. The ranch her father left behind really did need her, and she was sunk in her own grief. I’m not saying it was right, but her kids were given a choice, and they wanted to stay here.”

“Must be nice to be given a choice.” Hudson slotted his hands into his pockets and turned his head away. His usual surliness had been replaced with sadness.

Leo wasn’t good with emotions…. Or words…. But he was good with adventure. “Hey, want me to show you the secret passageways?”

“What?” Hudson’s head jerked up and his eyes widened. Curiosity sparked through him. “Honest to God secret passageways?”

“Oh yeah. Some of them are used by the guard, but there a few that only the royal family know about.”

Won over by the thought of being let in on an exclusive secret, Hudson felt excitement stir in his chest. “Yeah, that sounds cool!”

After a morning of exploring the palace, they met Regina for lunch.

“I thought the dining room would be bigger.” Hudson glanced around the elegant, but perfectly normal sized dining room.”

“This is the smallest one actually,” Leo informed him, “For the exclusive use of the royal family. We host guests in one of the larger dining rooms.”

“How many dining rooms does this place have?”

“Eight,” Regina answered as she crossed the room to greet them. “Four small, private dining rooms, three larger banquet rooms and of course, the grand dining hall for state events. Leo, how lovely to see you. It’s been far too long.” She hugged her stepson tightly and then turned to eye the carbon copy that had followed him in. “And you must be Hudson. I’m so happy to finally meet you! I’m Regina.”

Hudson executed an awkward bow. “Nice to meet you too, Your… majesty?”

“No need for that, young man. You can call me Regina, or Grandmother, if you like. Can I hug you?”

“Sure….”

She embraced him, then held him at arm’s length as her eyes ran over his face. “You look so much like your father did at this age!”

“I do?” Hudson sounded surprised. He wasn’t sure he believed it. His eyes slide sidewise to take in the man that had fathered him. Leo was objectively good looking. The very image of a fairy-tale prince. He didn’t look like that, did he?

“You do! Now, come, sit. I’ve had the kitchen prepare cheeseburgers for lunch. I was told you like those, is that true?”

The boy perked up at the mention of his favorite food. “Oh, yes!”

They sat at a long table. Hudson counted ten seats. Food was deposited in front of him, in addition to the cheeseburger, there were French fries, tater tots, and onion rings. Regina assured him that their chef had thoroughly researched American cuisine. There was also salad but only Regina had any.

Regina seemed nice, and he warmed up to her quickly. It wasn’t her fault that his father was a deadbeat.

Halfway through the meal, Leo’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, his face lit up. “Oh! It’s Bert! Max must have told him I’m in town!”

“It’s okay,” Hudson told him, “Take it. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m inside a fortified palace with my grandmother.”

“Right.” Leo felt a pang of disappointment that the kid was fine without his attention, followed by a sliver of relief at getting a break from the constant crushing disappointment that fatherhood had so far turned out to be. “I’ll be right back.”

Regina hadn’t ruled by Constantine’s side all those years without learning to pick up on subtext and body language. “How are things going with your father?”

Hudson snorted. “He’s not much of a father, is he?”

“I’m not excusing Leo’s behavior,” Regina said carefully, “but I think he finds it hard to connect with people because of his trauma, so he tends to keep them at arm’s length. Again, I’m not excusing him for not being in your life up until now, but there’s a good chance he stayed away because he thought he was doing you a favor.”

“Doing me a favor, how?”

Regina sighed as she wiped the grease from her fingers on a monogrammed linen napkin. “I know it’s hard to tell from his blustery manner and constant sarcasm and jokes, but Leo struggles with feelings of self-worth. He was abandoned by his birth mother, that has a lasting effect on a child.”

Hudson felt that like a gut punch to the stomach. “Yeah, well, then he should have known better than to abandon his own child.”

Regina gazed at him appraisingly for a long moment. It wasn’t her intention to sew division between the child and his mother, but she did want to defend the man she thought of as her son. “Are you aware that he didn’t know you existed until you were ten?”

He paused with a french fry halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“You were eight years old when the paternity claim was filed. You were nine by the time we had the results. The crown receives at least twenty paternity claims a year against one member of the family or another. The men in question never see most of them. They get vetted through our legal department. If there’s enough evidence that the mother is telling the truth, a paternity test is conducted. You were nine by the time it was determined that Leo was your father. Child support, including retroactive support, was approved by your Uncle Liam. Unfortunately, Leo was out of the country, and by the time he was located and advised of your existence, you were ten.”

“Still…. That’s two and a half years….”

“As I said, I’m not excusing anything. But it’s not like he knew from the beginning.”

Hudson hesitated, his eyes darted to the doorway, then back to his grandmother. “You said he experienced trauma?”

She nodded.

“What kind of trauma?”

“His mother left. His first stepmother was murdered. He was the victim of an assassination attempt, and then his brother was injured in an attack that was aimed at him. He carries that guilt. He carries the guilt of abdicating and dropping all this on Liam. And his father was not emotionally present. He had no role model for this.”

“I mean… his brother seems like a good dad. He could have tried.”

“He’s trying now. Maybe that could count for something?”

Hudson made a noncommittal hum as he returned his attention to the chocolate milkshake the kitchen had made especially for him.

Despite his disdain for his father, he couldn’t deny that the entire palace had rolled out the red carpet to welcome him.

A kid could get used to this.

They spent the afternoon swimming. The palace pool was impressive, but it didn’t take long before he was complaining of boredom.

“How could you get bored in this pool?” Leo gaped at him. He brought him to the largest of the palace’s three pools. The one with water slides, waterfalls, fountains, bubblers, a lazy river, a volleyball net, three basketball hoops, and four hot tubs.

“I mean…. It’s great, but it would be better with more people.”

“People that aren’t me, you mean?”

Hudson shrugged. “Just…. Kids I mean.”

“I could call Max and get Ellie and Xander—”

“I mean kids my age!”

He liked his new cousins just fine, but they were much younger than he was.

Leo grinned. His son finally wanted something he was good at. “We could throw a pool party. Invite all the noble families that have teenagers. We could even include the kids of the palace staff, make sure there’s a lot of people. It’ll be a real banger!”

“Really?” It was the first time Hudson had responded to one of his ideas positively.

“Oh yeah. We’ll hire a live band or a DJ, or hell, both! We’ll serve a lot of food, maybe have door prizes or something. Whatever you want.”

“But I don’t know any of those people…”

“You will. This can be your introduction to Cordonian society. A welcome party.” He leaned in with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re a prince. Everyone is going to be clamoring to get to know you. Trust me on this.”

“Right, a prince.” That still didn’t seem like a real thing. He had grown up in a middle-class suburb in California. Until recently, he had attended public school. He had been raised by a single mother. Nothing in any of that screamed privilege, much less royalty.

But here he was, spending the summer in a palace, having the kitchen cater to his likes, and being told he could throw a massive party like the ones he’d only ever seen on TV.

Yeah, a kid could definitely get used to this.

Maybe the summer wasn’t completely ruined after all.

[frickingnerd]

frickingnerd's 3K follower event

for my 3K event, i'm presenting you with 30 tropes / prompts, that i'll be each writing a oneshot for! you are free to request fandoms & character from this list!

those are the tropes / prompts you can pick from:

Artist × Muse (Wakana Gojo)

Bakery (2B)

Ball (Keigo Takami)

Betrayal (James Ironwood)

Bullying (Chie Satonaka)

Coffee Shop (Akihiko Sanada)

Coworkers To Lovers (Kaede Akamatsu)

Damsel In Distress (Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd)

Enemies To Lovers (Klavier Gavin)

Exes To Lovers (Junko Enoshima)

Fairy Tale (Maya Fey)

Fatal Injury (Luka Couffaine)

Flower Shop (Penny Polendina)

Found Family (Phoenix Wright)

Good Girl × Bad Boy (Pyra)

Kidnapped (Aerith Gainsborough)

Mafia (Blake Belladonna)

Mistaken Identity (Goro Akechi)

Partners In Crime (Hubert von Vestra)

Poor × Rich (Byakuya Togami)

Proposal (Claude von Riegan)

Reincarnation (Makoto Yuki)

Rescue (Zack Fair)

Roommates To Lovers (Shoto Todoroki)

Secret Admirer (Trucy Wright)

Slow Burn (Apollo Justice)

Spy × Target (Yomi Hellsmile)

Stalker × Victim (Takaya Sakaki)

There's Only One Bed (Aerith Gainsborough)

Wedding (Shinjiro Aragaki)

everyone is allowed to request one prompt. if a prompt is taken it'll be marked red. if you send in a request, but the prompt ends up taken by someone else, you can send another request, until one of your prompts is taken.

once all spots are taken, i'll start posting the oneshots at the beginning of the next month, which will likely be august or september.

if you have any questions, please ask me under this post, as others might have the same question & it'll help clear things up for everybody! :)

[starry-teacup]

Because of some cool art you made I want to dip my toe into the Mechanisms.

where do I find the story?

So I don't know how much you know about them, but the basics are:

The Mechanisms is a band in which each member has a persona. They are a crew of immortal space pirates, roaming the galaxy in search of violence, fun, and stories to tell. Each persona character can be referred to as a mechanism, as in a member of the crew, but they each also have a mechanism, a clockwork prosthetic of some sort that was installed after they each had their own tragic story and made them immortal.

When they find a good, long, juicy tragedy, they turn it into an album. They also have two anthology albums, with some songs connecting to the wider stories and some completely independent of them, and a couple containing mechanisms lore. Their last album is from the live show of their final performance.

All of these albums stand on their own, and there is no particular order you need to listen to them in. They each contain characters and places from classic stories, putting unique sci-fi spins on them all and following queer narratives. I'd say bury your gays, but honestly, it's more like bury your gays and the entire planet they lived on, along with everything they ever held dear.

here's a summary of each, stolen from the mechs blurbs themselves:

Once Upon a Time (In Space)-

This tale tells of those embroiled in the rebellion against the tyrant of New Constantinople, Old King Cole. It tells of the love of Cinders for her captured Rose, of the treatment of Rose at the hands of Cole's genetic scientists, and of the bold but savage leadership of the rebel General Snow. And it tells of the final fates of all of these.

fairy tale but make it a rebellion. their first album, contains many of their most popular songs. solid. not personally one of my favorites, but the one I'm most likely to be listening to a song from on any given day. our boy jack and pump shanty are excellent.

High Noon Over Camelot-

A tale of hope and despair aboard the Fort Galfridian, long lost to the outside world, where the chaos of centuries of solitude has been brought in check at last by the guns of the Pendragon Gang. But the visions of the mad prophet Galahad, and the schemes of the Pendragons' lieutenants Mordred and Gawain, threaten to cast the station back into anarchy. And all the while, the Sun grows hotter...

arthurian legend has just become a space westerner in which everyone rides motorcycles and a fiery death threatens them all. haven't listened to it yet, but I've heard great things. Blood and Whiskey is a banger, and Arthur, Lancelot, and Guinevere are in a polycule, something I didn't know I needed until I heard it suggested.

Ulysses Dies At Dawn-

Ulysses Dies at Dawn. That's the word on the street, at any rate, if you talk to anyone who saw what went down at Calypso's Bar the other night. Who is behind the thuggish band known as the Suits - Heracles, Ariadne and the others? What is Ulysses's secret? And what is hidden within the security of the Vault?

I'm going to be completely honest with you. I think this is no-contest their best album. It's greek mythology in noir film style, with heavy usage of blues and rock. I don't even like blues, but I love each and every song. This one is also a little easier to follow than the others. I'd recommend starting here.

The Bifrost Incident-

The Bifrost Incident. Any schoolchild could tell you about it. The fall of the old order; two hundred years of Asgardian hubris come together in a single epoch-defining event. The maiden voyage of a train through the stars, vanished without a trace...

Remember how I think the last one was the best one? Well, this is still my favorite. Norse mythology framed as a mystery on a train, with a twist completely out of left field that leaves you reeling. Thus, it is probably the most difficult to follow, or at least, it was for me. The art you liked-which wasn't mine, unfortunately, credit to the artists is on the post if you want to check those blogs out-featured variations of the narrator from this album. let's just say I'm. not so normal about them.

well. ANYWAYS. this was...probably longer than what you wanted. Or than what I should have given. I don't get asks a lot and an excuse to talk about the mechanisms is always something I am willing to abuse.

If you do end up listening to any of their music, please tell me what you think! I'd love to hear it, and it's always nice to talk about them with someone else :)

[mask131]

So you want to know about Oz! (2)

In 1986, an anime was released in Japan: Ozu no Mahoutsukai (which is just "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" in Japanese).

This animated series was an adaptation not just of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", the first Oz novel by Baum, but of all those that would follow! You had book 2, "The Marvelous Land of Oz", and book 3, "Ozma of Oz"... But then we jump to book 6, "The Emerald City of Oz", which forms the grand conclusion of the series. Book 4 and 5 were not adapted... completely cut out.

Why? Because these two books are, unfortunately, skippable.

Last time I left you on the enormous, ever-growing success of the original Oz trilogy. Now I want to present you... the curse that befell the creator of Oz.

L. Frank Baum wasn't just "the guy who wrote The Wizard of Oz". He was an author for children first and foremost, and he wrote a LOT of other books outside of his Oz stuff. His other most famous children work to this day, the only one able to rival his Oz creation, was his 1902's The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus, which was a work of fictional fundamental in the development of the modern image of Santa Claus:

But this was truly the only one of his other works that escaped the shadow of the Oz-mammoth... Before and in parallel to his Oz trilogy, Baum had written many other things. "Mother Goose in Prose", "American Fairy Tales", "The Enchanted Island of Yew", "Queen Zixi of Ix", "Sam Steele's Adventures on Land and Sea", "John Dough and the Cherub"... But none of these books became as successful or famous as his Oz novels. Worse: they sold really bad.

Everybody wanted Oz books. More Oz books, more Oz books! And while Baum had quite some fun working on "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" and "The Marvelous Land of Oz"... he had never intended to serialize them. For him they were stand-alone novel, and that was done. But since his audience only asked for more Oz books, and disdained his other works, well, he had to do what paid! And so he continued the Oz novels... but with a certain "bad will" that clearly transpires in his work.

This already pops up by the third Oz book, "Ozma of Oz".

The first two Oz novels followed a specific rule: the story must happen in the Land of Oz, which is a magical land enclosed and shielded from the rest of the world. The Land of Oz is surrounded by a gigantic desert that one cannot cross unless exceptional events. Beyond this, is the human world... Yes, that's something people tend to forget: in his original vision for the Land of Oz, Baum wanted this magical land to be... somewhere on the American continent. Right in the middle of the 1900s American nations. Hence how a simple tornado can carry a little girl from Kansas to Oz... This is also explicitely told in the second book, where the characters cross the desert by accident, and discover "the world Dorothy came from".

But by Ozma of Oz, the rule was broken. Dorothy gets carried away by a storm in... a new land, the Land of Ev, who as it turns out exists outside of Oz, beyond the desert... Ozian characters cross the desert and join Dorothy in this new land, and most of the story is spent discovering this entire new setting.

While it is very pleasant and delightful to read, and brings some interesting worldbuilding, this already betrays the annoyance Baum was starting to feel towards Oz itself... He had written two novels taking place in Oz, and he was starting to run out of ideas. He had conceived two self-contained novels, two "one-shots" if you wish, and had no idea how to continue within Oz itself. So his solution was to take the characters everybody loved and wanted (he did brought back Dorothy in "Ozma of Oz" BECAUSE his audience kept asking him "Why wasn't Dorothy in the sequel?), but place them in a new "magical land" where he could have a breath of fresh air and work a new plot. This is what makes "Ozma of Oz" so interesting... But it was what would cause the start of the Oz downfall...

In 1908, Baum published "Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz", the fourth book of the Oz series. And a good part of this novel is... Dorothy, alongside the Wizard of Oz himself (who returns after his last appearance in the original novel), ending up sent into an underground realm, and exploring various magical chthonian lands as they try to make their way back to the surface... The last portion of the story does take place in Oz, mind you, but the bulk of the story is in random lands and realms Baum invented just for this book and never reuses later. Because at this point, Baum, who was stuck into doing Oz books but didn't want to continue Oz-stories, had decided to use a trick: only have the Oz protagonists but not the Oz land. Have Oz appear in the last chapters, but only after two thirds of adventures everywhere but in Oz. This was his way to still give what the audience wanted (more Oz adventures) without actually writing Oz books, but rather other fantasies that happened to connect with Oz...

This formula would be repeated with the fifth book of the series, which I'll talk about later, and unfortunately it creates a sincere drop in quality in those two novels. While very inventive, and entertaining to a certain extent (if you ignore some heavy doses of racism and old-fashioned xenophobia here and there), these novels are not as good or memorable as the original trilogy, and for one precise reason... They have no over-arching plot. They are just... travel stories. You have a set of characters, swept away into magical lands, travelling the lands, then partying in Oz and returning home. Gone is the "Quest to have our wish granted" of the first book, gone is the "national revolution mixed with a quest for a lost heir to the throne" of the second book, gone is the "let's save an imprisoned royal family" of the third book... Now it's just "Oh, looks like we randomly dropped into a fairy-land! Let's promenade a bit and then return home". An "Alice in Wonderland" type of non-plot, basically... but without the Alice in Wonderland charm.

Things are even sadder when you look at the fifth book of the series, "The Road to Oz".

At least with "Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz", there was a semblance of a mini-plot at the end, when everybody arrived in Oz. You had criminal charges and a trial, and competition-debates as to whether mundane or magical beings are better... But with "The Road to Oz"? You have literaly zero plot. The characters just get dragged from vision to vision, from land to land, and when they arrive in Oz, it is just to have a party, and then they literaly return home once it is over.

But the true desperation of Baum comes from this specific party... Because what Baum did in this novel was maybe the first "crossover event" of the history of American literature. All of the guests at the party are characters that never appeared before in any of the Oz books so far... They are characters straight out of Baum's other, non-Oz, children books! Characters from "The Magical Monarch of Mo", "Queen Zixi of Ix", "John Dough and the Cherub", and many other books you probably never heard about (and that the Oz readers at this point also never heard about!). Yet these characters were described in detail and given quite a space in the final act of the book...

This was because Baum was tired of Oz hogging all of the attention and money. He was so sad at seeing his other children works be forgotten and ignored by mass audience that he literaly decided to bring them into his Oz series in hope that it would interest his Ozian readers and encourage them to check out the other books he did. Yes you heard it right, this novel... as just an big ad for Baum's other books. That's how tired he was of Oz.

And, unfortunately for him, it did not work...

Cut to 1910. L. Frank Baum releases his sixth Oz book "The Emerald City of Oz"... that he also intends to be his final.

With "The Emerald City of Oz" we have the grand finale! Dorothy decides to leave Kansas and to settle permanently in Oz! She brings with her Aunt Em and Uncle Henry who are given a complete tour of the Land of Oz! Meanwhile the greatest and most terrible ennemies Oz ever faced gather for an invasion! And, in the final chapter, Glinda the Good Witch decides that enough is enough, Oz had enough troubles from the outside world: she casts a spell that will make Oz unreachable by anyone from the human world...

And thus, Baum with teary eyes says goodbye to his character, and encourages his audience to say farewell to Oz, as the gates of the Marvelous Land close forever...

THE END

...

Who are you kidding? No, not the end! Cursed, Baum was, CURSED! Despite him writing EVERYTHING needed for the grand, conclusive finale, despite him literaly writing "IT'S OVER GET OUT"... His other books didn't sell. His other series didn't start. And he kept being pressured by all sides to write more and more Oz books.

As such, by 1914... a seventh Oz book was made. Opening with Baum writing basically "Sigh... So you know how I told you no other Oz story could be made, because there's this magical barrier and I will never know what happens behind it anymore? Well... sigh... turns out they have radio, somehow? And so... double-sigh. And so I have broadcast in Oz, which means... you'll get more Oz books."

Next post: How we got a HELL LOT of more Oz books

[imnotasuperhero]

Wanna get lost in you.

Wanda Maximoff x Reader.

Summary: An old necessity to walk deep into the forest had you driving on automatic once you made your way back to your town. The magnetic force surrounding it alluring you to discover its most treasured secret.

A/N: DAY 4 OF PROMPTOBER IT'S HERE! 2 days late but wtv.. blame adulthood for the delay. I'll try to get days 1, 2, 5 and 6 out this weekend since I've been approved to take the exam for the belt graduation so I'll be taking 3 hours off the little time off I've got during the day, lol. But! Since I also go to the gym daily, I'll be taking the weekends off to give my body a break and kick my muses' asses to get productive. LMAO. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this drabble turned into fic.

-

The first time it happened, you were probably a 10-year-old, when you've come camping with your family and had the sudden need to wander through the creepy forest in search of proof. All your friends in school were talking about these magic lights that shone in the nightly hours and, of course, you wanted to be a witness to such a magnificent event.

Feeling the fresh air feeling your lungs with every step you took deeper into the orangey foliage, the energy around you had switched into an alluring one, like if a magnetic field had you gravitating towards an energy you were too young to understand. But before said dome could close hermetically, your brother had come running after you, claiming that those stories were tales that only lived in the imagination of children. As he saw it, those "magic lights" were nothing else than dragonflies.

As the years passed, your life had brought you all over the country with your dad's work and your own achievements. And after twelve years, you were finally about to reveal the itchy mystery your soul had beared all this time.

Killing the engine of your car, you quietly got off, making sure you were gentle not to startle the animals that could be in your proximity. Filling your lungs with the same fresh air you learned to love, you then ventured into the yellow and orange leaves scattering the soil, almost forming a path for you to follow. The energy you felt all those years ago, started to become stronger the deeper you walked into the forest and you knew there was no turning back, now.

Allowing the enchanting atmosphere to enclose you, your mind disconnected from your body, moving in automatic, as if you've been in this forest all your life. The eerie sounds did nothing to scare you, on the contrary, it seemed as if your spirit greeted them, like an invitation to come out and play with you.

It wasn't until you found yourself surrounded by trees that went for miles and miles whenever you looked at that your attention had fixated on the dim scarlet lights that started to float all around you like fairy lights guiding you to what would be your biggest discovery. And so, as your curiosity took charge, your relaxed body moved towards the source of such amazement. You weren't sure if the image in front of you was real or if it was a product of your imagination, but the most beautiful woman you had ever laid your eyes upon was standing a few steps ahead of you, with red whisps coming off her slender fingers, with the softest smile you've ever seen grazing her features. But the creak of a branch dissipated the entrance and you cursed yourself for such idiocy.

"Sorry," you breathed softly, scared the woman would disappear into thin air. "I-"

"You shouldn't be here." The stern yet calm voice spoke.

"I could say the same about you," you straightened yourself. "You could get lost."

A sardonic laugh filled the silence, sending shivers down your back. "I've been in this forest all my life. I know every corner better than I know myself," the brunette clicked her tongue, finally closing the distance between you, like a predator about to catch its prey.

But against all the alarms in your body warning you to run away, you started to walk forward on trembling legs. "Why don't you invite me in, then?" The words escaped your lips, making you cry with the cringe of the moment.

"What makes you think you're worth of such wonder?" Her sculpted eyebrow hovering over her dark eyes had your heart constricting quite exquisitely.

"If I told you, there wouldn't be place for discovery," you shrugged nonchalantly, trying really hard to contrast the cringy feeling invading your insides.

Smiling wickedly, the woman closed the distance and extended her hand. "I'm Wanda," and oh, boy, had you become addicted to her name already.

"Y/N," you offered quietly, almost melting at the feeling of her soft hand against yours.

To say the rest of the evening was a blast was an understatement. With Wanda starting to slowly but securely open up to you, the dark night had been lighted up by her magic, with little shiny polka dots hanging on the air, giving the creepy wood a welcoming, inviting appearance.

"It's late," Wanda brought your intertwined hands to her lips, kissing the back of your skin. "We should head back to town."

"Thank you for tonight," you smiled softly as your eyes fixated on the soft faction on her face, trying to memorize every little detail of it.

"It's been a while since someone saw the real me and didn't run away, so thank you."

At her words, you couldn't help the sudden urge to wrap your arms around you, securing her in your hold. All your insides melting away when, after a few seconds, Wanda relaxed in your embrace, laying her head on your shoulder.

"Let me show you the way out," she smiled standing up, extending her hand for you to take.

If someone had told you coming back to your hometown would be a one-way ticket, you'd laugh at them. The busy and cosmopolitan city of Chicago had become your home despite the sporadic need to escape to the middle of nowhere. But now that you were in the look of new horizons and having met someone as magical as Wanda, you weren't sure you could decline the offer. The captivating persona in front of you became something you wanted to get lost in, surrendering to her will, as if your soul had found its purpose.

Taglist: @wandabear @red1culous @xxxtwilightaxelxxx (If you wanna be tagged in Promtober's works or in all my fics in general, let me know)