#more edits to come (hopefully)

[copia]

endless ghifs 16/? ⛧ source — dance for Absolution

[national-hockey-gay]

—the afterlife of my lost conviction ( @doreensladle )

[kheprriverse]

Ko’jin being a pest in dragon-form is one of my favorite things to think about. And I’m going to share with y’all part of this au-branch and why he’s a total nuisance below.

Everything about this au is completely the same as my main one (the best abbreviation i can give rn for the main one is “COTS”) except at some point near or after the end, Ko’jin offers to ascend Ballad. Theres a lot of events and decision making that spurs this kinda offer, and I promise it makes sense for him. Thats where it splits into the wargod au.

Ballad ends up with a lot of free time over the years adjusting to the new life. It takes a very long time (I’m not exaggerating when i say at least a couple hundred years) where he’s able to fully accept his new role in the world and finally be able to solidify himself as one of the very few deities currently alive. (I can imagine it was very hard for him to make the decision in the first place, knowing how important his family and original life is to him. And that in of itself is a whole other deep dive.)

It becomes kind of routine for him to meet Ko’jin in certain “touchdown points” where the moon serpent is taking time to rest. Ko’jin has had to spend years catching up on so much that he missed since his original falling, the battle against Majora that left him on the edge of death. These touchdown spots serves as a moment of peace for him to rest and regain what energy he had used up and are usually places of interest relating to the moon serpent specifically (shrines and springs primarily).

Eventually though, Ballad caves into an idea Ko’jin offhandedly suggested in the past; “if you want to be so busy you should just start a new ranch in Termina”. Because yk what? He does need to be busy! He misses his animals and he misses working. So why tf not?

I also imagine ko’jin returns home at the most inopportune times; always when Ballad is busy working or napping. Which also makes him out to be somewhat annoying, but what’re you gonna do when a gargantuan dragon god decides its cuddle time? Cuddle with em, obviously.

Basically slow ranch life simulator with two deities who bask in the sun with their farm animals and sometimes get into fights with other giant world-destroying forces. Very normal.

[enement]

kieran but he’s zorua

[crepuscularqueens]

"For the telling of tales is one thing, and the turf of the telling another."

pg. 247, Devil House, John Darnielle

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

a knife in the dark

[adar/oc]

This is a slightly unhinged WIP AU for my longfic, Awake, Arise or Be For Ever Fall'n. Highly recommend (ask/beg/implore) you to read at last the first like, 8 chapters of that first or you'll be... um... maybe a lil confused? PREMISE: Erenyë is reembodied in Valinor, but Mandos shrouds her memories of Utumno, hoping to spare her pain in her new life. But she is restless in Aman, sensing that something is missing... She boards a ship heading for Middle Earth, hoping to discover just what that is. [DON'T @ ME ON REINCARNATION MECHANICS, THIS IS PURELY A NONSENSE DRABBLE THING THAT WILL HOPEFULLY EVENTUALLY LEAD TO SMUT BUT MORE REALISTICALLY WILL JUST BE A LOT OF RIP-YOUR-HEART-OUT ANGST BECAUSE APPARENTLY THAT'S ALL I DO HERE. 🫠 ]

She makes her voyage on an elven ship that is nearly empty.

Why would you go across the sea, the other elves ask her, mouths agape, in the days before her departure. Bliss lies here in the West—you will find little comfort on the shores of Middle Earth.

Erenyë cannot answer them, cannot explain why the eastern expanse calls her so. She has heard many among the eldar who made passage home from the Hither Lands speak of the sea-longing that precipitated their journey—but this feels like something even stronger, a yearning for a place, yes, but something more… something that she cannot name.

Whatever it is, she surmises it must be the reason she has never felt quite at home in Valinor, even surrounded by her Noldoran kindred, the ones who had remained after the terrible kinslaying of old.

As she watches the waves pound against the sharply angled bow, wind whipping through her hair, she speaks a silent promise to the waiting horizon: I am coming.  

...

The tides of fate flow, and the sea is treacherous.

Their vessel is beset by perilous storms that rage by day and night, and no prayer to Ulmo seems capable of assuaging them. Their instruments fail, and the gale proves too powerful to hold their northward course to Lindon.

She asks how far off course the storm has flung them.  

Toward the Southlands is the answer.  

...

They make port in an abandoned Numenorean harbor that the captain calls Pelargir, and it is here that Erenyë takes her first steps into Middle Earth.

The landscape is lush and green, and different from Valinor—for it strikes her as more rugged and wild than the place from which she’d come. The climate is temperate and the air is moist, the trees here are massive, with thick trunks and sprawling branches, growing as they do only in Oromë’s woods across the sea. The forest calls to her—as all forests do—and she wanders eagerly toward the treeline, ready to lose herself in this new world.

But she is stopped by raised voices as a party of men emerges from the woods with warning. They are downtrodden, starving and traumatized, bearing the scars of war and disaster. In due course she learns that they have fled their homeland, several leagues to the east and over the mountains.

With terror-laced voices, they speak of a fire mountain, lately awakened, belching fire and cloud so high that it swallows the sunlight, rendering the land a waste, overrun by orcs. They answer to a single leader, the men tell her—a villain who calls himself Adar.

....

Adar.

It is a perplexing name for a servant of darkness, an elvish word.

She ponders the mystery late into the night, after the newly established encampment falls still. The elves had wasted no time in offering aid to the refugees, and Erenyë had done her part, though the forest still calls to her, insistent.

She considers going off alone, but the threat of orcs roaming the hills seeking captives to return to this Adar gives her pause. She knows enough of orcs to understand that the safest time to move through their lands is in daylight, and though she has never encountered one, memories of the stories that had reached her ears in Valinor, and the accounts of the Southlanders strike a deep chord of fear within her breast. She passes the night restless, yearning to roam.

At dawn, a small party of elves from the ship sets off toward the mountains, and Erenyë accompanies them eagerly, taking up a sword and dagger from one of the men who had not survived the night. The elven leader, Telemnion, tells them they must discover as much as they can about Adar and his legions so that a report can be sent north with all speed to High King Gil-glad.

They set a northeastern course that takes them up steep hills as they near the borders of the Southlands. As the day wanes, she catches the scent of smoke upon the air—ash and scorched pine, the smell of instantaneous destruction. Without warning, she doubles over, bracing herself with one hand against the nearest tree, retching.

“Are you well, Erenyë?” Telemnion hurries to her side, his eyes wide with concern.

In truth, she cannot say why the smell affects her so—she only has the keen sense of having experienced it before.

Her mind is filled with visions of ruined land—even before they emerge from the trees on a high precipice just before nightfall and see the blackened remains of the Southlands for themselves—and she knows that the visions are not simply abstractions. They feel like memories.

But it does not make sense—there had been no destruction of that kind in Valinor. Yet as they stop to rest, she cannot shake the sensation of touching ruined ground: of trailing her fingers over blackened, hollow trees, over the bleached bones of dead animals, over ash-laden earth.

As day gives way to night, she watches the skies above turn color. It is not the natural, blue-black of a peaceful night, but a wicked orange glow, cast by flames and smoke. It is yet another strangely familiar sight, and it fills her with blackest dread.

...

Several nights later, they are attacked by a band of orcs.

They are far outnumbered, and Telemnion cries out to them, telling them to run. With a pounding heart, Erenyë flies as fast as she can through the trees. When she’s confident there is enough distance between herself and the skirmish, she climbs, seeking for the safety of the upper branches of a great oak tree.

In the distance, she sees torches gleaming, and the sound of orc horns pierces the night air. She hugs the trunk of the tree, pressing her body close as though hoping it might open and absorb her into the safety of its bark as the orc army presses closer.

They are chanting something in unison—something that sounds victorious—and it is not long before they are close enough for her to understand it.

Adar… Adar… Adar…

The orcs continue their advance toward her tree. She considers climbing down and fleeing, but the chant soon falls silent, and the flickering torches stop moving.

A new voice fills the air.

It is low and husky, speaking the guttural language of the enemy. She cannot understand a word, but she tips her ear toward it, for there is something, some phantom quality about it that she cannot place. The trees are close in the glen, and with great care, she makes her way from one to the next, sidling toward the voice.

The orc army comes into view, and she can see their leader standing before them. His back is toward her—she can see only his silhouette against the torchlight. He is tall and slender—strangely elven, compared to the other orcs, the majority of whom are stooped and stocky. His presence is commanding, though he does not raise his voice beyond what is required to adequately fill the clearing.

He finishes his address with what is clearly a command for the uruks to set up camp, for they break out into groups, busying themselves with assembling tents and unfurling bedrolls.

Adar, for his part, watches the flurry of activity, then retreats into the shadows of the treeline. He is outside the torchlight now, but Erenyë follows his shape in the dark as it moves deeper into the forest. Keeping a safe distance, she scrambles down from her tree, closing her hand around the dagger she carries. Her heart begins to thrum again, pounding with a mixture of intrigue and terror.

He weaves gracefully through the trees, making no sound. There is something about his bearing that seems ancient, as though he is a part of the old forest itself and she creeps closer, fearing that at any moment, he might be swallowed by the trees, absorbed into them.

Dawn is breaking when he pauses in a clearing, and she realizes that the trees around them have started to thin, their leaves charred. The scent of smoke is stronger here, and with a soundless gasp, she discovers that they have reached the line of the fire-mountain’s destruction.

He kneels down, and she is struck by how suddenly small he appears. The sight of his silhouette stirs something in her—something that originates from that same place of strange recollection.

Why, her heart cries in anguish, does he seem familiar?

Without a thought, she steps closer.

He is crouched beside a green sapling that the fire had somehow spared, fingering the delicate leaves with a reverent—almost loving—tenderness.

She takes another step, disturbing the ground in her wake. A twig snaps beneath her foot; his head whips around toward the sound, and she flies at him, unsheathing her dagger with a cry.

They collide, tussling in the ashes. Erenyë scrambles and struggles with all her might until she lands on top with a dagger to his throat, gasping to reclaim the wind that was knocked out of her in their skirmish. His face comes together in her field of view: grey, mottled skin, covered in scars, thin lips, and shockingly deep, green eyes. She loses herself in them for a moment, as she steps seemingly out of time itself, spellbound by their depths. Her heart accelerates, threatening to batter itself out of its cage within her chest. She leans closer, bearing down on the dagger that is still pressed against the flesh of his neck.

He draws in a sharp breath as the blade bites into his skin, drawing a few drops of black blood. His eyes close, and his exhale is a soft moan, she presumes of pain, but she recognizes it as excitement, somehow. Pleasure.

She squeezes own her eyes shut, striving to steady herself, for it seems as though the ground itself is now swaying beneath her. She feels it again—the familiarity, the certainty that she has heard that sound before—no, not just heard it, she has been the cause of it.

He is no longer struggling—his body is languid beneath her, boneless. She clenches her teeth, confused, weighing her next move. He is the enemy; he and his army are responsible for the fire-mountain, for the destruction of the forest, for the torment of the Southlanders. She should let the dagger finish its work—drag it across his throat, spill the rest of his black blood here upon the ashen ground.

He murmurs something, something in a language that sounds like elvish, but it is older: an archaic form—one that she has only ever seen preserved on ancient scrolls. A dream, this is a dream, he rasps over and over, in that same low, husky tone that sends a shiver rolling down her spine, but not one borne entirely of fear.

The sound of the ancient language comforts her. Inexplicably, she thinks of stars, and the sound of water falling gently over stone. 

She feels him shift and opens her eyes, preparing to defend herself. But he does not attack—instead, his hands seek for her hips, sinking softly into her flesh as he drags in another quaking breath. He wears an iron gauntlet on one hand, and it digs into her side, stopping just on the edge of pain.

Her stomach roils at the sight of this creature, this thing, this orc touching her, but her skin tingles beneath his fingers, even through her tunic.

She lets the dagger drag another quarter of an inch across his throat—she isn’t sure if she intends it to be a warning or an invitation—and he groans again. Tremors roll steadily through her body now; she feels she is dancing on the edge of a dangerous precipice, and she does not know whether to seek for safety or let herself fall into it.

He opens his mouth, and breathes a single word:

“Erenyë…”

Fear wins out—the sound of his name upon her tongue sends an earthquake through her body and she moves automatically out of shock and terror. With a strangled yell, she yanks the dagger into the air. He tries to rise, but she is too quick, slamming the butt of it against his temple—hard.

He falls back, unconscious, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stop the scream that threatens to break free.

tagging @catz4ever @toddthekiwibird @eowyn7023 HERE YA GO MY FELLOW BADDYDADDY BRIGADERS

Read part 2 | part 3

[eyesofshan-if]

going through a rewrite of the whole story at the moment... hope to polish all of this up before i get to the next update :) so it'll be quiet for a bit around here in the meantime

[prisonguards]

I Joel’d this weekend. btw.

[compacflt]

well… That’s all she wrote, folks.

i won’t be deleting this blog or anything—still have a few things to post down the line (updated playlist, political masterpoast, sending out final print versions, etc.). But i think, after nearly 400,000 words all told, my time of content production for this fandom has come to an end.

this week, in addition to finishing all the writing for my top gun AU, i also received a research grant for my senior thesis and found out where in the world i will be studying abroad next semester. This seems like the perfect time for me to shift gears.

I’m signing off on my version of ice & mav and it was my privilege to see them off to happiness :)

Writing for this fandom has been such an incredibly gratifying experience & I will cherish the year-odd I spent with these characters for the rest of my life. And to everyone who interacted with me in any way—read my writing, commented, helped me out with research, kudos’d, sent in an ask or a DM, et cetera—i hope you know how much it has meant to me & how much it always will. i love you, i love you, i love you. And i wish the best of luck to you all in the future ❤️ and thank you again for everything.

[offkilterkeys]

Guys guess which Homestuck characters I like to write dialogue for. No for real guess.

[theinfinitedivides]

today on Heeramandi: why is Mallikajaan so hot, why is Rehana(?) so hot, why are Bibbojaan and Lajjo so hot, why the f*ck is Waheeda so terrifying, and why is Tajdar both cute and dumb af in regards to his personal safety

[ceruleansol]

So I’m workin on a lil (Vash x reader) somethin….

Nsfw to come once I finish and make this a whole other post

—

The routine noises are comforting. It starts the same every evening from where you sit resting against the armrest of the couch, reading the book he bought for you that month. Over the course of your five-year-long relationship, you learned the various ways Vash expresses and needs to receive love.

One of the ways he gives love is by gift giving, in which he studies you in detail and makes sure he enables every one of your passions. Every month he either buys you a book based on your preferences or picked out by himself for you to try. If he sees a pretty rock on the ground or has time to stop by the local crystal shop, he brings you crystals to add to your ever-growing collection. By the time you've added another passion or hobby to your repertoire, he's already created another mental list of ideas of what to gift you.

The set of different sketching pencils will arrive in the mail next week—with the specifications that it is a gift, so the price isn't showing.

What is more notable, however, is his need for quality time and physical touch. He will insist it's for you. He is hellbent on serving you and making sure you're comfortable, secure, and protected. It is innate and in his nature. Many a late and stressful night for the both of you has he chosen, unprompted and without complaint, to do the cooking or the cleaning or the laundry. But he'll also ask in that soft and sweet voice if you want to join him. He needs to take care of you and have you with him, but you know the real reason.

The noises continue in the bathroom down the hall that stretches straight ahead of you, the light bleeding sideways out of the cracked door. And it's by such repetitive routine that each tell paints a clear picture in your mind of him methodically undoing his prosthetic and placing it onto the countertop, a relieved breath following suit before he begins to tug his shirt over his head.

The door then opens like it does every evening where he steps out with only his pants remaining. It is this sight of him in particular that especially warms your heart and increases your fondness for your lover. No one else gets to see him in such a vulnerable state. Only you get to hold the weight of his trust and witness him and all his scars.

His eyes soften when he sees you with the book and he smiles. "Hey," he says as soft as his gaze and raises a hand to get your attention, though he's never lost it. "Wanna shower with me?"

He's met with only a growing smile on you at the familiar question, and so he pushes himself past the doorframe.

You watch him in adoration of his lean stature, the marred skin across his chest that reaches his back, the angle of his shoulders, and the gentle yet playful manner in which he steps toward you.

When he stops, his shins are against the couch between your legs, and he grins down at you. He nudges your leg with his to coax you out of the stupor he's surely noticed you in.

Blinking back into reality, you're met with the realization of how your head reaches the height of his abdomen when you sit down like this.

You know it well, just as well as he knows you; Vash gives what he needs to receive, and you intend to make sure he always gets as much as he gives.

[marshmallowgoop]

Happy Shinichi Day! In a few timezones still.

While I don't have anything new and complete for the occasion, I have been working on this Jimjam AMV and thought I'd share a WIP! (Even if it isn't exactly the happiest edit for the birthday boy...)

Song is the nicopop. poolside Remix of "Messed Up" by Lizzy Land, which you can listen to here!

[the-kipsabian]

[c4tto626]

i've been scanning old death records here at work and there is something haunting about holding the 1954 death record of a 20 year old soldier who died in 1944, just a few days before christmas, and whose fate was unknown for a whole decade

[prismatica-the-strange]

Jared Harris as Signore Urbani in The Devil's Violinist (2013) Dir. Bernard Rose for @daincrediblegg