#spackle writes

[rolameny]

tf1 megs is like. guy who is absolutely 100% convinced the system works and any pain it brings him is temporary until he grindset hustle cultures his way to a comfortable position. venerates megatronus because he is the stated fav prime of iacon's top dog, the guy who made the system work best for him. he feels personally betrayed when that system turns out not to work as he thought it did. he is not rewarded for his hard work and loyalty and belief, and then when he lashes out in a fit of anger he IS rewarded for it by the system set up by starscream and the high guard. so he leans hard into that so he doesn't have to think about everything else. and then that anger is what kills his bestie. so he triples down on it so he doesn't have to feel any of his other feelings. there is ideology there but it's not quite conscious yet. mostly what we see is a guy have the worst possible day of his life and react in ways just precisely wrong enough to keep the avalanche going.

most 23 years old megs of all time. my perfect little lad. i'm patting his stupid bucket head with so much love in my heart.

tf1 elita is incredibly similar to him but you don't see her ripping people in half for it. and that is because: she is not the central character of the film. and also because: her belief in the system doesn't rely on a single person. and she's had a smaller betrayal to get her used to the taste before the larger one. i'm patting her on the head too.

[ceescedasticity]

i'm so proud of this line i'm sharing it early

The Noldor in Aman developed dirigibles early-to-mid Second Age and promptly got their use restricted to unpopulated areas, among other regulations written in — if not blood — high blood pressure.

[garmgeyr]

"Now here's a strange character."

Sparkle commented, regarding the drowsy-seeming man with the sort of lackadaisical pomp you should never approach strangers with. She never cared to mess with the side characters, especially when she had a principal cast to support, but this one seemed a little special. His lazy, disheveled look made him look like an easy target—not even the Bloodhound crest on his uniform could make him look scary ( not that sparkle was usually afraid of the authorities, anyway! ) It could be fun to mess with him—and even more fun if he revealed some dark, hidden side!

Sparkle skipped over to him then, without warning, plucked the badge that sat on his vest. It ripped through the fabric slightly, but Sparkle didn't even wince.

"This—" she lifted up the insignia, her thumb brushing over the sterling silver, "can't be real, can it? Are you actually a cop or some homeless dude pretending to be one?"

The fabric ripped in the kind of way that could be felt, rather than heard - fangs concealed behind a smile. Hers, as much as his.

”Without jobs, aren’t we all homeless?” The remark came out cold, unaware of its own absurdity, as Gallagher swung his arm over the back of the bench where he’d decided to take a break. There had been eyes on him for a while, he could tell, and so this was as much laying out bait as it was his own proclivity for not doing much at all. She’d taken it, just as he’d hoped, but drowsiness belied the sharpness in his gaze, and to add on to the facade, he cracked the seal on a fresh can of soda balanced on his knee.

”If you’re gonna keep my badge, miss, you’ll have to take on my work, and I’ve got a doozy of a case on my desk right now,” he drawled. “A little brown and red fox sent an explosive to the hotel’s bellhop. The Family doesn’t condone terrorism.”

Two gulps nearly emptied the soda halfway, and melted the edges off his smile when he perched the can on his leg again.

”And I don’t condone overtime. That little fox has until this old hound finishes his drink.”

[saltiestbread]

I am driving and living in ao3 Over the garden wall rn

Check out FromAnonymousToZ Otgw fic

Like wtf how someone write like that!?!??!

[hoodieimp]

Why tf am I only able to work on WIPs when I'm supposed to be asleep (<- took their meds just a little too late this morning)

[inkskinned]

it isn't really complicated, but i still can't tell my grandma about it. my girlfriend is also my boyfriend and i'm her girlboyfriend and there are a lot of days this feels like smoothing sheets over a good mattress. it feels like getting a cup of good hot chocolate. we paint our nails lesbian flag pink, and i watch her eyelashes make shadows on her cheeks. she wants to kiss me because i am really good at baking, and i want to kiss her because when i am freaked out about how i spilled coffee, she just hands me extra napkins and helps me clean. he is so handsome i want to eat my fist. they once just winked at me and i couldn't talk for like the next fifteen minutes.

i haven't seen the L word and i was raised catholic. my earliest experiences with queer relationships were through harrowing conversations and hushed questions and blood on the ground. i didn't like boys soon enough. what, are you gay? asked to a 6th grader, almost like a demand.

when she is asleep next to me and i can feel the dreams run up and down her body, i pretend we are both somewhere in the stars. i like to picture a future full of fruit trees, and writing him poetry. sometimes she wakes up, has a whole conversation with me, goes back to sleep, and utterly forgets that we ever even spoke. she is always kind to me, even in that liminal half-there ghost. i like the croaked, raw way her voice sounds in the very-early morning, the way she always seems surprised i'm still here, and home.

on the internet, there are a lot of people who would be annoyed by both of us, and how labels must be pruned into orchids. a box has to hold and define the insides. people must be organized.

we went on a date last night, and the host said, oh, table for 2 nice ladies? neither of us are ladies, but also we are very much 2 nice ladies. i have been wearing her sweater nonstop. he has frequently been forced into wearing my taylor swift official merch quarter-zip because i was worried about him catching a chill, and you simply cannot be cool in an official taylor swift quarter-zip. do not worry: they listen to better music than i do, and their voice sounds like leaves falling.

i wear the skirts and makeup and i am better with spackle and know how to drive stick. recently someone commented on my work - you're just a man trying to reappropriate lesbian spaces. sometimes i feel like she is a clementine to me, and sometimes i feel like he is a german shepherd and sometimes i feel they are a bird. i like watching his hands over a guitar. can i write this poem, even? how can you be a lesbian if you're sometimes with a man? or you are the man?

how can i, huh. you know, our first date lasted 3 days. we'd been flirting for over a year before i finally asked her out. i'd already written her into poetry. she'd already written me into songs.

last night, in the late night, when they woke up again, confused about where they were, they said - oh, thank god. this is your arm. there's just something so precious to me about the specifics, the denotation that the arm was (thank god!) mine. i really liked that definition. i liked the obvious relief because i understand it.

i say yeah, i have a partner. i mean - oh. thank god. it's your arm.

[studiogrimm810]

Spackle

pairings/characters: (pining)dean winchester x gn!reader, sam is also there

summary: in a desperate attempt to back burner his feelings for you, dean tries to fill the void with pointless sex. and goddamn does that hurt

warnings: miscommunication and clarification, not too much, ANGSTY THO and happy ending ^.^

word count: 3,265

A/N: this is a request!!! i had a blast writing this one, love me some pining winchesters heheh. to get added to my tag list just send me an ask!! <3

(p.s. i realize this story set up isn’t exactly how it was worded in the request and i’m so sorry i’m just now noticing this T.T,, if you want a redo, pls lmk and i’ll correct my ways. okay ily)

———————

Light conversation murmurs over a steady 80s country song selected on the jukebox of this oddly cozy dive bar. Another successful hunt, with the help of your beloved Winchesters, lead the trio to celebrate amongst a round of drinks. The past few weeks, you’ve been tagging along for hunt after hunt and have really enjoyed the time with the boys. However, the closer proximity to the older brother only worsens the ache in your chest.

You watch him now as he throws back an amber shot of burning whiskey. His face hardens in a subtle growl at the sting as he slams the empty glass down. You follow his lead, letting the pungent liquid scrape down your throat and settle into your stomach, already warming with alcohol.

“Damn, they’ve got some cheap whiskey,” Dean blows out air through tight lips, cringing at the lingering singe of the alcohol. You nod, eyes scrunched in disgust.

“Whiskey is all pain, next time it’s vodka,” you declare, shaking off the burn and taking a swig of your less threatening house ale.

“Vodka is a young man’s game. Weak,” Dean mocks, taking a few fries from the communal basket in the middle.

“Are you so insecure that you have to validate your drunkenness with the more painful whiskey? Vodka drunk is where it’s at, I’m sick of pretending it’s not,” you shrug, taking a few fries as well.

Sam just chuckles at your bickering, tapping his fingers with the beat for the song. After back-to-back cases like this, you’ve noticed Sam is more inclined to let loose and relax with you and Dean.

The waitress comes back to the table and your body tenses as Dean's eyes trace her curves, landing on her face.

“Hey, sweetheart, can we get another round?” Dean holds up his empty shot glass. You force your gaze away, trying to ignore the sizzling discomfort under your skin.

There’s a few lines exchanged between the two and you have to bite your tongue to keep your emotion off your face.

Soft footsteps echo away and you look up to see Dean's eyes lingering for a beat too long. You try to ignore the ache in your chest, it’s not your place to feel so strongly for Dean. He’s not yours to call you own and you have no right to feel as blindingly jealous as you do when he throws his fucking googly eyes at a girl you couldn’t beat in a lineup.

It doesn’t stop the way the pain halts your lungs though because you’re still forced to watch the man you love ogle the most beautiful woman in the room.

“God, I could use a night to just unwind,” Dean hints into his beer, taking a sip and setting it back down with a refreshed hiss.

You don’t respond, instead taking a deep gulp of your ale, trying to drown the words so close to crawling out of your throat. Part of the burnout you’re starting to experience has fallen victim to Dean and his goddamn charm. He can’t help but flirt with anything shiny, it’s his nature, but you wished he thought you were someone worth flirting with.

And unfortunately, what you didn’t know was that it killed Dean to have you around like this. The pent up tension of having you so close makes him itch. He wants so desperately to give into the pull he feels between you two but he’s scared. Actually scared of making you uncomfortable or messing it up. So instead he deflects all of his affection he pleads to shower you with and points at whoever else is in his line of sight. It barely keeps him contained.

Another hour or so passes and you’re drunk enough to feel the absence of pain for the man next to you. Dean is drunk enough to pretend the pretty waitress can spackle the crevasse you’ve cracked into his sternum.

As Dean bids a goodnight and charms the waitress into an early cut, you chug the rest of your ale and turn to Sam.

“Are you present enough to drive us back to the motel?” You ask, fluttering a toothpick between your fingers.

“You got it,” Sam sits up, pulling out a wad of cash and planting it on the table, taking one last swig of his water and- well, you don’t remember him ordering a water- leading you out the front door that Dean and the mystery woman disappeared through just a few minutes ago.

You toss Sam your keys, Dean having taken the Impala, and climb into your passenger seat, letting the soft hum of the radio melt your mind.

Sam helps you into the motel, you may have drunk past your feelings tonight. You claim Dean's bed as your own since he won’t be here tonight, it’s the least he owes you- soberly though, you knew that’s not true.

“You good, can I get you anything?” Sam asks, untying his shoes and loosening his flannel.

“Nah, ‘M good,” you shake your head, sitting up and taking off your uncomfortable layers. You successfully get down to your undershirt and jeans, stretching your sore muscles.

“You can always talk to me, yaknow,” Sam says passively as he digs in his duffle, pretending to look for something. He knows you, and he knows that you aren’t openly ready to ever share your deeper feelings so he tries not to make a big deal out of it but he wants to offer his support regardless.

“You’re too kind, Sam,” your breathy voice flows out as you settle in the bed. “Just a little frustrated. Don’t worry about it,” you say, settling into the cushion. Sam wants to press but leaves it be. He cares for you and he recognizes how stupid his brother is being, but unfortunately there isn’t anything else he can do other than offer his moral support.

With lack of overthinking anxieties for the bright green eyes that stain your lids, sleep takes you easy.

———

The next morning, god is kind as she doesn’t punish you with a hangover but instead a dry mouth and the need to piss like a racehorse. With such a quick dash to the bathroom, you don’t notice Dean passed out on the couch.

Handling your business, you follow up with brushing your hair, teeth, and washing your hands and face- readying yourself for the day.

You trudge to the kitchenette sink and go through two glasses of water before slowing down and turning to finally notice Dean on the couch and Sam’s absence. Your heart nearly stops at the unexpected placement of bodies in the room and lack thereof. Dean is snoring peacefully and you don’t remember hearing him stumble back in this morning.

Last night. Ugh, you don’t want to think about whatever Dean got up to last night after leaving the bar.

It’s almost 10 am at this point and if you wanna make good time, you should probably leave soon. You hope Sam will be back in time for you to say goodbye, but you need space, bad, and don’t think you can hold out much longer.

You set the glass in the sink and head over to pack up your items. The rustling wakes up Dean.

“What time is it?” He asks with a groan, rubbing his eyes. You look over your shoulder at him, his sleepy voice rubbing you like kindling, filling you up quickly with haze smoke. You shake your head, trying to exhale the heat.

“9:54am to be exact,” you clear your throat, stacking some books of yours you had shown Sam yesterday morning sometime.

“God, this couch sucks,” he complains, sitting up with a grunt. Your lips, against your will, curl in amusement at his inconvenience.

“I’m sure your hot date had a bed comfortable enough,” the words feel like poison on your tongue. Your comment is meant to be lighthearted and ‘wing-man’-y but the silence indicates that it didn’t land.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know,” he grumbles and you feel sick, thinking of how else they made it work. The Impala? A different motel? Hell, maybe the bar bathroom. Your thoughts full-circle back to the Impala and you’re bombarded with intrusive thoughts of how many men or women he’s taken in the back of his precious possession. In the same seats you’ve traveled in.

You start to miss the warm wave of alcohol in your belly. You need to be far from this man.

You don’t entertain the comment.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, looking lazily at your items as they’re shoved loosely in your duffle that’s on its last leg.

“Thinkin’ of heading west, maybe hit the strip, try and rack up some cash,” you say, trying to remain casual.

“Sammy’s got another lead,” Dean says, confused like you had forgotten about the suspicious deaths across state.

“And you two are more than capable, I believe in you,” you look over your shoulder and scrunch your nose in a joking manner. He’s not amused.

“You can’t just ditch us,” he stands, crossing his arms over his chest. That caught you off guard.

“Ditch you?” You scoff, turning to face him. “I’m not ditching you, I just have other matters to attend to,” you argue, tilting your head in anger.

“Oh what, betting your $200 and busting? We both know you suck at gambling. You’d be better off taking a handful out a damn wishing well,” he rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“Oh shut up, I’m entitled to time for myself,” you defend, attitude spitting off of you in waves.

“‘Entitled’- that’s one word I’d use,” he squints, seething in anger. You drop your jaw and spin around, slamming items into your bag with impressive speed.

The air is thick and if your own anger wasn’t buzzing so loud in your chest you’d be able to sense his regret. You zip the bag, avoiding him on your way to the bathroom to retrieve your toiletries bag.

He calls your name as you pass him but your feet don’t react like your stuttering heart does.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, annoyed with his own burst of anger.

“Whatever, Dean,” you deadpan, grabbing your smaller bag and walking around Dean again, his eyes stay on you like a sunflower in the presence of the sun.

“Just- slow down,” he practically begs, “what is up with you?” He asks, face softened and eyes warm as he tries to figure you out.

“Nothing of your concern,” you state simply, hooking the bag on your arm and slinging the other on your back. You turn to head to the door but Dean sidesteps your track and you bump into his chest. He hands land on your biceps, steadying you. His face is mere inches from yours and you can practically taste that half handful of mints Dean chowed on on his way back to the motel- whenever that was.

“Talk to me,” it’s more of a demand, but his voice is so sweet when he says it- he practically lures it out of you.

“I can’t stand it,” your voice betrays you. Fucking betrays you as it spills out your stupid little thoughts. You snap your jaw shut and turn away, trying not to let the pebbling goosebumps from his radiating heat take over your skin. As if you could even stop them if you tried.

His head tilts and his sparkling eyes search yours. They’re like green apple Jolly Ranchers. So crystal and so sweet. You’re in it now.

“Can’t stand what?” His first concern is that he’s made you uncomfortable in some way and it makes his hold on you loosen as his confidence drains in that fear. He’s tried so unbelievably hard to make sure his feelings for you weren’t overwhelmingly obvious. He had never felt for someone like he felt for you. He didn’t want to woo you and make you melt with a simple smirk- he couldn’t, as far as he could tell. Just like he couldn’t use his charm to cover his cavern of self-loathing from your view, and he couldn’t put on the façade that he would for any other interest of his. Maybe it was respect, maybe it was fear, he just hoped it wasn’t love.

“You,” the word takes an entire lungful of breath to get out, deflating you like an exhausted pufferfish, sick of pretending to be some big-bad to deter prying eyes. Especially the emerald ones that make you salivate.

Your single word hurts him. His grip on you vanished like he was stung from the touch and he took a step back. He’s wounded.

“I just need some space,” it’s still a lungful of breath but at least this puff is more efficient than the former. He’s speechless, he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to argue- he can’t. He knows the burden he is on others and for you, of all people, to outwardly admit it really puts him in his place.

Your eyes hold so much obvious raw emotion that if anyone else but Dean could see, they’d knock him upside the head for how dense and self obsessed he’s being.

His eyes hold so much pain at the unnoticed miscommunication on your end that someone should do the same to you. If you could both get your heads out your asses and just accept the heat- this spark between you- all would settle like sand in a calm lake.

Unfortunately, it’s hurricane season and you bypass him without a second glance as you get in your car and drive until your tears cloud your vision.

———

“And then they just left,” Dean sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He sat on a squeaky chair supplied in the kitchenette of the generously rated 2-star motel.

“Did they say why?” Sam asked, arms crossed but one lifted to gesture as he spoke.

“It’s my fault,” Dean can’t keep the pain at bay, not even to hold up the big-brother-that-can’t- be-stung persona. He’s too distraught over your words. Well, word.

“Why? What did you do?” Sam says, his shoulders slumping with a sigh of grievance. Almost like he had expected this to be Dean's fault.

He’s quiet, shuffling through his memories, trying to pinpoint when exactly he had hurt you in such a way to cause the outburst. Was it his own words?

“Just said they couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand me,” Dean leans back, looking up at the ceiling. Sam’s eyes squint, a thoughtful look clouding his eyes. Once he seems to piece it together, his arms fall and he rolls his eyes.

“Dean, you’re so dense,” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No need to hammer it in,” Dean shrugs with both his arms and a scoff.

“No, you-. Dean, think about it,” Sam presses, shifting on his feet. “Remember the officer you were talking up to get info for last week's case? How agitated they got? And what about last night- that waitress you took home. Dean, they care about you,” Sam lays it all out, hoping that Dean will actually take it how it's presented to him.

Dean just stared at Sam, not wanting to believe that all this time he’s been shoving down his feelings for you that have actually been mutual this whole time. That he had a chance and how he may have just ruined it.

Suddenly, he doesn’t seem to give his fear another thought. He needs to see you.

Dean doesn’t spare Sam an answer, jumping to his feet and darting out to the Impala, snatching the keys along with his jacket. He roars Baby to life and whips out his phone to check your location. Something the brothers made close friends agree to in case anything ever happened. Of course, this isn’t what was initially in mind when they implemented the rule.

Surprisingly, you’re only a 20 minute drive by now- some diner in the next town. He wasted no time.

Oh, by the way, one of the great skills in Dean Winchester's self-proclaimed ‘Ego Arsenal’? Cutting drives down by at least 20% in desperate situations, sometimes 30% if traffic is forgiving.

He sees your car on the far end of the lot. You’re rustling through the trunk and you look sporadic. Screeching tires alert you to the fresh presence of the Impala and your stomach flips.

“Dean?” You ask, straightening up from your trunk and hoping to seem calm and collected- as if you didn’t just get done crying your eyes out for a love that will never be in your hands.

“I’m an idiot,” Dean stumbles out of the barely parked car, not bothering with latching the door. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he’s breathing heavily but that doesn’t stop him from coming right up to you.

“What?” You ask, completely lost.

“The waitress- I couldn’t,” he shakes his head, breath hitting your face. Damn, he got close.

“Why would-?”

“I couldn’t- because of you,” his sentences are patchy but it almost seems like it’s because his thoughts are so disorganized and not due to the panting breaths.

You’re silenced. Is he blaming you? Is he upset with you? You did nothing- that you recall- that would’ve gotten in the way of him and her. You open your mouth to argue but he’s quick to eat your words as his lips crash into yours, holding you still with both hands on your face. His palms practically suffocate you with how much ground they cover but you couldn’t think enough to care.

He steps as close as he can, pressing his body into yours. His arms are at a more awkward angle for how he’s still holding you but he doesn’t seem to care. Almost afraid that if he lets go then you’ll melt through his abandoned hold and disappear from his life forever. He can’t risk it.

He kisses you until he’s breathless again, pulling away in time for his vision to not threaten giving out on him.

He plants his forehead against yours, breath dusting your face as he just takes in the way your skin ignites his own.

“Where the hell did that come from?” You finally ask, your legs a little weak and thanking god that he’s got a hold on you.

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” he scoffs a simple laugh with a smirk, his eyes still closed. “Just couldn’t stand it,” he teases, eyes still closed. Maybe if he doesn’t open them he won’t have to risk this being a dream.

You press your lips into his again, a sweeter kiss of adoration for his simple joke, as if you two already have your own bit.

“I’m sorry. I never even realized that-,” he sighs, finally opening his eyes and pulling away enough to fully appreciate your face. “I never realized what I felt for you was what it is.” He likes being close enough to admire the blemishes of your skin- freckles, hints of wrinkles, a scar along your temple.

“And what’s that?” You ask, face splayed with a teasing smirk but on the inside you feel like a preteen watching the bouncing bubbles that proceed a romantic text you were bold enough to send.

“Infatuation,” you’re almost convinced he invented the word on the spot with how much emotion he fit into a few syllables.

And although the look he’s dawning is pure and adorning, a neon spark behind his mossy glass shows a devious excitement. God, you’re really in it now.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest)

>>check out my other works here

>tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere

[thestuffedalligator]

I have a question about Star Wars.

The Star Wars universe has an alphabet. It looks like this.

It’s the alphabet for galactic basic, the common language of the Star Wars universe, whenever you see writing in the Star Wars universe it’s almost always this. And it’s not just our alphabet in a different writing, each of these characters has a distinct name. The equivalent of F isn’t called “F” it’s called “Forn.” The equivalent of N is called “Nern.” And so on and so on.

And this was fine, but then eventually someone asked “Hey where do droid names come from”

Because R2-D2 isn’t called “Reshtoo-Dorntoo,” he’s called “Artoo-Deetoo.” They are pronouncing letters from the Latin alphabet, which ostensibly doesn’t exist in this universe. And the question was kicked down the road a few times until finally someone at Lucasfilm went “UHHH there’s two alphabets. Yeah. There’s galactic basic and high galactic. Only used for uhhhhhhh royalty and droid names.” And then high galactic was just. The Latin alphabet.

And listen. I love this as an answer. I love that it’s a little bit of canon spackle to cover a plot hole that they easily could’ve ignored or done some hand wavy bullshit like “Oh the movies are translated to English from galactic basic so Luke would be saying ‘Dorntoo’ but we hear it as ‘Deetoo.’” I like that it’s a little bit clunky, that the wholeass Latin alphabet is a canonical part of this universe you’ve already made an alphabet for.

So I love this answer, and I don’t want to criticize it as an answer, but it raises a secondary question in my head that I’ve been wondering for a while now:

Does Luke, like. Know this is an alphabet

Luke grew up on a backwater planet, and if high galactic is only used for droid names and nobility, I think he’d assume that this is some kind of droid language where every character is a whole word, like a kanji system. I don’t think he parses that R2 means “series R, model 2,” I think he goes “Artoo yep that’s this droid’s legal government name. Boy Droid Language is such a beautiful language”

[074calicocat]

✮⋆˙ Heaven or the Living Room Couch

cw: so much fluff. Leon gets shirtless but that's literally it. mandatory warning for my shitty sense of teen boy humor

notes: i was feeling sentimental and now Leon has to get sentimental too. sometimes I like to think about a life where I have an actual husband in real life. I would like a marriage similar to this.

It's almost laughable how Leon perks up like a puppy whenever he hears the front door open in the afternoon.

Because it can only mean one thing: you're back. His precious wife has made it come from the perils of corporate America. The baseball game he was about to doze off to is even more ignored as he sits up straight, waiting to see you make your way into the living room.

"Babe? You there?" The familiar click of your heels against the floor is enough answer for him as you make your way into the living room, looking as weary as always. Jesus, Leon thinks. The companies are out for her soul. At least you look to die for in your blouse and sleek pencil skirt. Makes him remember why so many people have office job fantasies if a person can look behind how draining it was. But despite his worries, a soft sigh escapes him as you shuffle your way over to him, your hands down your shirt as you undo your bra.

"Couldn't wait five minutes?" he muses as you roll your eyes at him. You reach behind you to undo the clasp and slip the bra right out from under your shirt like a magic trick, tossing it right at his head. "Hey!" And they say love is dead. He pulls it off his head and holds it in his hand, choosing to admire the soft lace instead of retorting to you saying "pervert" under your breath.

You snicker as you drop your bag at the edge of the couch and finally plop down next to him, groaning as you lay down. It's a routine at this point for you to nuzzle into him like a cat after you get back; resting your head into his lap as you curl up. "My feet hurt," you complain. "And my boobs hurt. And I'm hungry. And my crotch itches. TMI moment, sorry."

"Yeah, I don't think TMI even exists between us. Anyways...want me to scratch you?" He gets a good laugh out of your mortified expression and even more so at your weak attempts to swat his face. But you drop the annoyed act once he sits you up in his lap, your legs straddling his waist.

"Hi, Leon," you mumble, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Your shamelessly slip under his shirt, pawing at his chest like it's going to magically make the ache in your feet go away.

"Hi, pretty girl. Watcha doing?" He lets you have your moment as you touch him, lifting his arms so you can tug his shirt off of him. And he's all coarse hair and pudge around the waist, a patchwork of scares and beauty marks spackled across his collarbone. Those cheeky hands of yours waste no time grabbing his chest, your thumb absentmindedly brushing over his nipples. "Jesus-that feels funny," he tenses up for a moment but you don't cease your groping, a sly grin on your lips. "Oh, but when I wanna touch your tits after work you get all fussy? That's not very fair-"

"Shut up and let me enjoy this."

Well damn.

"Yes, ma'am." He shuts up soon after your pointed command, letting you take the reins. But you don't try to take things farther, oh no. You just rest your head over his heart, your hands sliding to his back to hold him close.

"I can hear you," you whisper, relaxing into his skin as the thrum of blood pumping through his body seems to soothe you. "I like that. It makes me feel better after work."

it's your greatest gift to make even the smallest things seem romantic. To make Leon feel special. Loved. Your hands are curious yet gentle, your lips moving with reverence against his skin. Oh God, he loves. He loves you so much his head hurts and he could cry.

"I love you so much..." and he says, breathlessly. Almost bashfully. But he could scream your name atop every roof in the city, write in blood that he loves you. And when your eyes meet his, it's a little embarrassing to him how misty-eyed he gets.

[moth-murdock]

My heart takes up all my strength (Frank castle x pregnant!wife!reader)

My masterlist | Series masterlist

a/n: writing my first series! This is kinda scary NGL!!!

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Summary: a fight with your husband, and a surprise

Warnings: spouses arguing, canon typical swearing, reader finds out she's pregnant, fem!reader

Other tags: Bearded Frank my beloved, but he starts out with the skin fade, Max the dog!!, frank being frank, he's living as Pete rn

Word count:2.7k

To say Frank Castle was traditional was an understatement. From the very beginning, you knew. He was the kind of guy to pick you up for dates, bring you home, and even wait until he saw you walk in the door to make sure you did get home safe. He would buy you flowers. He introduced you to his rescue pitbull, Max. He took you to places you had mentioned in passing. He had asked your dad for his blessing, like you were in a movie.

The day you were married, he refused to be in the same room as you until you were both at the chapel. He rolled his eyes and laughed when he found out you had secretly been training Max to walk with Matt down the aisle, a sight that your husband will never forget or let his friend live down. He actually honest-to-god carried you over the threshold of the small house you two had bought a few weeks ago, despite how you giggled and squirmed.

The house itself was still halfway done, needing spackle and paint in a few places. It was barely furnished, mainly just the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. But since you two were on your honeymoon, it's not like you'd really need any of the other rooms anyway.

Now, as cute as that is, you're still both only human. You have your faults, and things you do that bothers the other person. The current issue is that Frank, god bless him, is horrible at updating you on time estimates for when he'll be home. You knew about his life and his past, so you had asked him to let you know when he'd be home from work tonight. He told you no later than 5. It is now 6:30. You check your phone, but there's still no update. Only the messages you've sent him.

You almost home? 5:12

Is everything okay? 5:37

I'm getting worried, honey 5:55

Hello?? 6:07

Are you even alive???? 6:26

Dead silence from him. You knew he would often get too focused on his work and forget to check his phone, but he promised he would more often. So, you did the one thing you knew would get through to him. You got petty. Rather than wait up for him, you ate your dinner, leaving his plate uncovered on the table to get cold. You put up the leftovers, take a hot shower, not caring if there would be enough hot water left for him.

After your shower, you put on a proper set of pajamas rather than sleeping in just a bra and underwear the way you know Frank loves it. You crawl into bed, your back towards Frank's spot. You check your phone one last time, seeing that your husband, your fucking husband, has left you on read. On. Fucking. Read. Not even a simple apology, not even an 'im alive', nothing.

Oh, you were fucking fuming. You grabbed his bare essentials that he'll need for the night, dumped them on the couch, and called Max in to sleep in his place. You crawl right back into bed, silencing your phone and shutting your eyes.

Frank gets home, knowing he fucked up. It was barely 8pm and you were already in bed, a single plate left on the table, Max nowhere to be found, and his stuff dumped on the couch. Fuck. He went to the guest bathroom, taking a lukewarm shower. Fuck. You two hadn't fought a lot, much less fights that were this big, so he knew that when you didn't even care to leave him some hot water, he was in the doghouse.

And he knew why, too. He had promised to tell you when he'd be home, and you made him pinky swear to give you an update if that changed. And he didn't. So he had two options now. Either he apologized to you and admitted he messed up, or he could wait to see if you would forgive him anyway.

You are now on day 12 of being angry with Frank, because you'll be damned before you let this one slide. You've let him sleep in bed again, but you make it clear that any affection is off the table until further notice. It kills the both of you to not be able to wrap your arms around eachother, feeling an uncomfortable amount of space every night. You wake up as you have for the past 12 days, cold and disappointed.

You get out of bed to brush your teeth, hearing Frank's buzzsaw snoring cease about halfway through. Eye contact is avoided as you leave the bathroom, grabbing a change of clothes out of your dresser. Today, you thought, you were going to push it to the limit. The thing you knew would finally break him.

"Sweetheart, can we-" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Good morning to you too, Pete."

Oh. Now that got to him. He shuts up immediately, and with how fast he disappears into the bathroom, you wonder if you took it too far.

As per usual, you two hardly speak throughout the rest of the day. Frank grabs his lunch, which you have started to pack for him again, not saying goodbye before leaving for work. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

You're on edge all day at work. You snap at your coworkers, you drop stuff, you make mistakes with simple math. It's just out of the ordinary for you. What makes it worse is when you get a text from Frank about halfway through the day

Need to talk at home tonight.

Shit. God damn it. Of course he send a text so fucking unreadable in tone.

Okay you reply, putting your phone back into your bag. It feels like a live bomb, so it's a good way to make sure you aren't checking it while working.

You go through the motions of the rest of your work day, though you can feel the anxiety and nervousness boiling inside you like a soup that was left on the stove too long. It makes you feel nauseous, and you don't even touch your own lunch that day.

When you get home, you see that Frank has sent a single message.

5:30

Okay. That's fine, right? He's just telling you what time he'll be home, right? Maybe you read it in the wrong tone. What if he's super pissed? What if he hates you? What if he regrets marrying you? What if-

You are pulled out of your thoughts when a cold, wet nose presses against your leg. Max.

"Hi, baby..." You coo, petting him and watching the big dumb pittie smile spread across his face.

"You wanna go potty?" You ask absentmindedly as you reach for his leash and harness that hang by the door.

By the time you get back from your potty trip with Max, it's already 5. Only half an hour left. You take Max's harness off, making a mental note to give him a bath at some point within the week. Not knowing what to do with your time, you settle on putting the dishes from yesterday away. By the time you're done, it's 5:15. Fuck. Nothing to do but wait.

After the most tense fifteen minutes of your life, The front door opens almost silently. You might not have noticed it if Max hadn't barked and if you weren't actively watching the door from the table. Frank enters silently, petting the dog for a second before hanging up his jacket and turning to you. His gaze is heavy and intense, but you hold it. You are going to show him how much this affects you.

"So, you actually followed through this time." You speak pointedly

"For Crissake-" he huffs, running a hand through his hair

"No, Frank. Don't even fucking start with that. Do you know what that was like? For three fucking hours I got complete silence from you! You never do that! And then you don't even have the decency to reply? You left me on read, Frank! I didn't even know if you were fucking alive! You could have been bleeding out on the sidewalk, and I'd have had no idea!"

"Why would I be bleedin' out?"

"Because I know you, Frank! I know you walk into fights with minimal protection, and I've stitched up enough bullet holes and slashes and I've put your goddamn bones back into place, and- and-" you start to trail off, tears welling in your eyes because of how angry you are.

Frank goes soft for a moment, thinking you're crying because you're worried.

"No! Don't fucking do that! I'm just pissed off at you!" You clarify as you wipe your tears.

"You can't expect me to update you every second of the day, doll." He says in a neutral tone, putting a hand on his hip and the other dragging down his face

"Not every second, smartass. You know that all I ask is what time you'll be home. I don't give a shit about any reasons or other factors. Just tell me when you'll be home. I'd go fucking pick you up if you needed me to. But you and I both know very well why I worry. So don't act like the goddamn victim here."

Frank stays still for a second, processing that you're upset because you wanted to know that he was okay. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, which are chapped since you haven't been reminding him to put chapstick on.

You watch in silence as Frank makes his way over to you, his steps so quiet and yet so heavy all the same. You hiccup in a breath and wipe your tears again, opening your mouth to add another point. Before you can say anything, he had his arms around you and his face in the crook of your neck.

"M'sorry."

It's barely audible, and it doesn't even technically qualify as a word, but it speaks volumes. You want to make him say specifically what he's sorry for, but you also don't want to push it after 12 whole days of fighting.

"It's okay..." Your sniffled response is instinctual. that's just what you're supposed to say when someone apologizes.

"No, it's not." He doubles down

"I shoulda told you I was gonna be late. And m'sorry it took me this goddamn long to figure out why."

Wow. From anyone else, this would be the bare minimum. But coming from Frank? This was a big step.

"I just... I know what you've been through... And... I know who you've pissed off before... So I just wanna know when you'll be home, if at all. I feel like that's not too much to ask, right?" You sigh

"Never, doll. I shoulda been keepin' you updated from the start. That's my bad." He speaks softly, pulling back to cup your cheek gently.

You bring you own hand over his, pressing his hand further into your cheek as you press a soft kiss to the calloused skin of his palm. It's gotten worse since you haven't been reminding him to moisturize.

You two stand there for a moment, just holding eachother in your dining room. Then Frank presses the softest of kisses to your lips.

"M'sorry." He repeats as he rests his forehead against yours, your lips mere millimeters apart

"It's okay." You whisper back

"It's not."

"I forgive you anyway." You murmur before initiating another kiss, only breaking it to pinch his side

"- as long as you don't do that shit again."

Frank winces and lets out a gruff laugh, but he nods. He leans down to kiss you again, his hands trailing down to your waist. He paused for a moment, but when you gave him the go-ahead, he proceeded to spend the rest of the night making it up to you.

Frank made a promise to himself that night, that he'd never let a fight last that long again. Sometimes, he really didn't understand what he was apologizing for, but you would explain it and accept the apology anyway. Neither of you wanted to do that again.

(Three years later)

At your request (and because you hid the electric shaver), he had grown out his hair and beard. You absolutely loved it. When the two of you would watch a movie, he'd lay his head in your lap and you'd massage his scalp until he was sawing logs along with Max. His beard would tickle you when he'd press kisses to your neck, and when he'd bury his face between your thighs. His hair would also come in handy there, giving you something to tug and use for leverage as you ground your hips into his face. When you would tug it a certain way, he'd groan right into your sex, and it would rumble from his chest all the way to your core.

All was well in your guys' little world, living as Pete Castiglione and his wife. You had gotten Frank to adjust to a more domestic life, and he was more than happy to come home to a loving wife, man's best friend, and a home cooked meal almost every night (because some days you really do just need to order some takeout). Your guys' relationship was thriving, both in public and in the bedroom. He just had a way of making you a stupid mess that you couldn't get enough of.

If you asked Frank what his favorite part about you was, he'd say your smile. It was his home screen, his lock screen, the picture in the rearview mirror of his truck, everything. But inside the bedroom? It was the feeling of you wrapped around him, nothing in the way. Before you were married, he would always wear a condom just in case. But on your wedding night? He nearly came just from finally feeling you without the damn latex.

He loved to fill you up. He loved the way you'd beg for it, the way you shivered when he did, hell, he's even filled you up just to eat it right back out of you until you were crying. You were on birth control anyway, so there wasn't a risk. Right?

You notice it when you wake up one morning to the familiar notification on your phone.

A new cycle begins today!

You roll your eyes at the cheery message from your period tracker, making your way to the bathroom. But it's not there. Your app is never wrong, it adapts based on your past logged periods and adjusts accordingly. It's always right. But your period isn't here.

You decide not to panic, because for all you know, maybe it'll hit later today? Surely, that'll be the case. So you wait. But it didn't come that day. Or the next, or the day after that. On the fourth day, you're really starting to panic. You're officially late. And not the kind that can be excused by blaming traffic.

You don't tell Frank right away, not wanting to sound a false alarm. That night, you're sitting on the bathroom floor with a timer on your phone and a sleeping husband and dog in the living room. To say you were nervous was the understatement of the century. You weren't scared about being pregnant (yet), you were more nervous about Frank. You knew about Maria, Lisa, and Junior. You knew that was something he hadn't truly healed from yet.

What if he freaks out? What if he doesn't want it? What if he leaves you? What would you do? How would you pay the bills on your own? What if-

Your thoughts are interrupted by the timer on your phone going off. You quickly shut it up, lest it wake your sleeping husband. you're silent for a moment, glad to hear that he's still snoring like a chainsaw. Your hands are shaky as you reach for the small plastic device on the sink, and you almost don't want to see the results. You take a deep breath for your nerves before flipping it over. Two pink lines.

Oh boy.

Chapter two: No one knows (I wish she could)

[gamemakerm]

In honor of Mermay and the current trend of Animal/Therian HRT going around (inspired by @ayviedoesthings's Dragon HRT series, @welldrawnfish's Fish HRT, @kaylasartwork's Bat HRT, @nyxisart's Puppy HRT, @deadeyedfae's Human HRT, etc etc etc, love all your work), I wanted to share the short story I wrote last year about medically turning yourself into a mermaid. This got published in WriteHive's Reclaiming Joy anthology, and we're now just outside of the six-month publishing exclusivity, so I can make it publicly available.

This was really raw to write for me, and there are trigger warnings for transphobia(/whatever the equivalent would be for mermaids?), implications of violence and hate crimes. However all the stories in the anthology were ultimately about perseverance, courage and love. I hope you enjoy, and if you want to get this and eleven other uplifting stories I can't recommend the anthology enough (though this is the only one relevant to the tags as far as I know). And if you really, really like it, you can buy me a kofi!

Scales

When the scales began to break through skin, they said you were becoming a monster. Blue and green, seafoam to pearl. You weren’t certain at what point you started to believe them.

You began to wrap yourself in tighter layers, a futile effort not to draw attention to the rough patches. Elbows, knees, along your arms, mottled with foundation and concealer caked on like spackle. Toner to offset the iridescent shine so that a passing glance wouldn’t be drawn to it. Constant checks and double checks, bathroom visits far beyond the routine. 

Your careful camouflage is usually enough to deflect scrutiny, but occasionally a stranger catches on. Nobody has said anything to you yet, but you have noticed more glances on the train. The old woman’s frown of disapproval. The young man with something to prove to you, himself, the world. His jaw tightens as he calculates his ability to start something. You tuck your chin and pretend to be busy with your phone. In the dark screen you can see the skin flaking on your cheeks. The beginnings of another patch betray you.

As you touch up in the bathroom mirror you tell yourself you wanted this, that you were prepared for the hardships. 

You walk to the public library after your shift ends. You walk most places these days, telling yourself it’s a last hurrah. The fact is you sold your car to make a dent in the cost. You’ll sell everything eventually. You’re going to have to. 

The forums have a list of books everyone checks out when they choose this path. There aren’t many and most are fantasy. There’s a running joke: if anyone mentions Hans Christen Anderson, run. You spot The Little Mermaid on a small display. You don’t run. You check out your books. The librarian gives a knowing nod, but doesn’t remark. You silently thank her for the discretion.

You take a long shower, makeup swirling down the drain. You can’t help but scratch at the itching patches on your thighs, peeling skin tearing away for new growth. Shampoo and blood circle under your feet. Your fingernails are sharper than they were this morning. You exfoliate, letting the city, public transit, the glances of strangers be cleansed. Your reflection in the mirror, a colorful smattering of new scales dusting your cheeks, is tear-streaked, ethereal. Beautiful.

You knock the concealer into the trash bin.

Your mother left a voicemail. She avoids the elephant seal in the room, talking about her gardening, your cousin’s new baby. She lingers for a moment, then: You’re being selfish. She burns brightly as a beratement begins, emboldened. But without someone to riff with she loses her steam, trails off and repeats it. You’re being shellfish. She can’t help it; she laughs despite herself. There’s a minute where she doesn’t speak, but you can tell she’s waiting for the sob in the back of her throat to settle. She promises she’ll come to your party and the voicemail ends.

You still haven’t heard from your father. You don’t expect you will. You’ve made peace with that.

You do your weekly injection on the alternating leg, needle piercing deep in a gap between scales. The plunger delivers 200mg of concentrated hope directly into your bloodstream, salt water in salt water. You put a hello kitty bandaid over it and wait for the feeling of ice in your veins to settle, the tension to go out of your muscles. It doesn’t.

You pass an enraged man on the street, spit flying, a home-made sandwich board making his message clear: The Siren Is The Devil’s Agent. The back offers an equally cogent argument: Go Back To Atlantis, Fish Freaks. You would if you could, you think dryly. He notices you and seethes, but the current of the crowd carries you away before he can curse you out.

You drag your potted plants down to the front stoop and post a craigslist ad: free to a good home. They’re gone within the hour. You allow yourself the rare indulgence of posting a selfie, eyes closed, serene, to the reddit: Learning to love my scales <3! It’s still difficult to type on your phone with the new claws. The upvotes start to come in; everyone loves a guppie.

You catch up on the shows you haven’t gotten to yet. Where there was once only the metaphorical List, there is now an actual list. Despite your best efforts it’s becoming increasingly clear you’re not going to finish all of them. You knock a few off, restructure it based on length. It still looks too long.

You have dreams about choking on toxic waste, getting minced by a boat propeller. You keep a running count of the number of times you’ve dreamt of getting your head stuck in a six-pack of soda rings. You’re up to four. 

Every few days you do laps in the local pool. You’re getting faster, but you feel exposed. There are whispers around the locker room. 

Your cat knows something is happening, but doesn’t understand what that means for her. You hold her whenever and for as long as she’ll allow, give her as many pets and treats as she wants. Despite clearing out your apartment you’ve spoiled her. She licks the scales on your cheek as you cry over her. This seems to inspire something in her; she demands her tuna crunchies. Dutifully you give her the tuna crunchies. She can have as many tuna crunchies as she wants.

You doomscroll your twitter feed, making sure this isn’t the day you lose access to your meds because of some white man in a suit. A sister is assaulted by a violent extremist with a sense of humor: he shot her with a harpoon gun. Her crowdfunding campaign starts on the maidens reddit and goes viral.

You triple check to make sure your friend is still willing to take your cat when you go. They promise to spoil her and tell her stories of you every day. You continue to cry over it. They invite you out for sushi to talk about it, then backtrack to ask if that’s a microaggression. You go to sushi. You’re thankful for the distraction.

By the time your legs are more scale than skin and your fingers begin to develop webbing you’ve given up on pretense. The looks are now constant, but you get reflective sunglasses and a new patch for your jacket: Don’t like it? Drown, with a scaled hand reaching out of water and flipping the bird. You put the energy out into the world, and the world doesn’t fuck with you.

Children love you. Their parents do not. 

On the train a young girl quietly asks if she can feel your scales. You allow her to touch her little fingers to the aquamarine pattern running up your arm, giving her your most reassuring (but still fanged) smile. She’s fearless, enamored, reverent. Her mother pulls her daughter away and hastily apologizes for her, not looking you in the eye. But you know that girl believes in magic now.

A group of white supremacists go out on a boat loaded with assault rifles for “no reason” and get lost at sea. This is somehow your fault.

The day your fins begin to push their way out from your arms, your boss calls you into his office. You both know he can’t fire you in this and seven other states, but you both also know you won’t be staying much longer. He’s done his best to make you aware you’re making his life more difficult. You put in your two weeks before he can flounder for another excuse. He moors you with paperwork for the rest of the afternoon.

Someone leaves a rotting fish in your pool locker. You don’t go back, and you don’t file a report. You tell yourself the chlorine was bad for the gills freshly forming under your ribs anyway.

Your friends take you out clubbing. You lose yourself under the waves of music, submerged under strobe lights and the salty sweat of dancing bodies. You whisper sweet nothings into a stranger’s ear, entrancing her as you move against each other. You can see iridescence shining around her eyes, shimmering glitter and an emerging pattern beneath makeup. You brush a thumb against her cheek and she melts into your touch. You don’t get her name. You don’t need to; you’re both not long for this world. You catch up with your friends smoking outside, your lips still tingling with vermouth.

Weeks pass. Work ends. Your apartment is down to furniture and cat supplies. You take longer showers. News stories continue to come out, the machine churns and roils: monsters walking among humans, the mark of the beast, sacrificing daughters to the ocean. 

You make sure your meds are reupped for the final stretch.

When your legs start to merge you know you don’t have much time left. You donate the last boxes of your clothes. Your friends get first dibs on furniture before it’s put on the street. They bring drinks and sit on your floor, an impromptu celebration and wake. They ask all the usual questions: what are you going to do for food? Shelter? What if you get hurt, or attacked by a shark? Do they have waterproof laptops yet? Will they ever see you again? What if it isn’t right for you? Can you ever come back?

You don’t know how to answer most of those questions. The group stays with you through the night. At 4AM you put on The Little Mermaid and the group drunkenly sings along. Everyone knows the words. It’s juvenile and you can hear the maidens on the reddit rolling their eyes and tutting about misrepresentation, but you know everyone in your position does it. You try not to cry, but the waterworks start and don’t stop.

At daybreak you put your cat into her harness and everyone piles into a friend’s van. It’s not far to the beach, but they take the long way around. One final tour of the land. Your cat sits on your lap and stares out the windows as you pass old haunts, your grocery store, your gym, your high school. You realize you still have library books to return and almost get them to turn around, but someone promises to go back for them afterwards.

There’s an isolated area on the beach where a canopy and tables are set up; banners, food, friends. It’s a regular going away party, as if you’re going on a short trip abroad. You suppose you are, in a way. Someone rented a wheelchair with fat tires to help you get down to the beach.

When your mother arrives she pulls her shirt off to show her custom-made clam bra. Her eyes are already red and puffy, but she’s doing her best to be energetic and upbeat. She holds you for a long time and says she’s happy for you, that you’re beautiful, that you’re so much stronger than she ever was, and then she puts on a brave face to help everyone get served at the buffet. Your cat chases small crabs across the beach around you, and you sit in the sand. The party goes strong.

The tides come up until your fin is tickled by the seafoam. Everyone knows that means it’s time to go. You pass your cat off to her new owner and she gives you a last headbutt. She seems to understand. You kiss your mother’s cheek one last time and she clings to you. The group raises their drinks as you paddle out, disappearing beneath the waves. You give them the money shot and leap out of the water on your way out of the sound, and you can hear cheering from the shoreline. You hope someone got a video for the maidens.

You keep the city in sight for a while, but the currents lead you further into open waters. There are boaters out on the water who wave to you. You wave back and keep swimming up the coast. 

At dusk you rise to the surface and watch the setting sun turn the horizon from blue to pink to purple and orange. There’s nothing for leagues around. As the sun sinks below the waves and the skies darken you sing your first real siren’s song. Shaky and imperfect, it soon resounds over the ocean breeze. You leave everything behind in it. There are no words, only feeling and sound. It’s a lament, an invocation, a dirge. It is many things, but it isn’t an apology. You have nothing to apologize for.

In the seas beyond a chorus joins in with a language you never learned but understand, integrating your song into theirs. You swim to join them.

[ceescedasticity]

a road not taken

So, when I was originally thinking about elves, once, Nimloth was not in line to be an orc. Nimloth would have answered the Call and been reembodied by now. The roles of "Doriath native duped by Saruman" and "particularly hostile to Reckless" would have been filled by Nimloth's mother. (Actually she would have been a lot more actively hostile, where Leafblight kept her head down.) There is of course no canon information about Nimloth's mother; I named her Maidhwen, Sallow as an orc.

In this alternate timeline where Nimloth answered the Call rather than look for her sons, Eluréd and Elurín probably died from exposure or wild animals or one of the innumerable other hazards. They would also answer the Call, and be given the Choice, and choose elf, and be reembodied by this time, too. Or if they came up with the swan thing without prompting, Radagast was able to tell them both their parents were waiting for them in Aman, and they sailed in the middle of the Third Age.

I made Nimloth an orc because it justified Eluréd and Elurín being around to be 1/8 maia and add necessary ooomph in the Warden fight.

Before I came up with this, I had a much weirder idea for adding ooomph in the Warden fight.

I'm pretty sure I posted this fragment before, but I don't want to dig up the link so here it is again:

The thing about being guardians of the South and the East is that there is a lot of South, and a lot of East, and then you get into the Southeast, and — it's just a lot. Lord Oromë gave them splendid horses, but they aren't Nahar, and being embodied would slow them down a lot anyway.

The distance works both ways, at least: In the far Southeast and much of the South, most Men who nominally worshipped Melkor might as well be worshipping something entirely imaginary. If an emissary from Melkor or Sauron came and demanded troops or tribute, the priests would be the first to scornfully declare it a fraud. Sauron could win them over with force, fear, or flattery, but there is no preexisting foundation for him to start with. It's not good, but it isn't really doing any harm, either.

And many of them aren't worshipping Melkor — they're worshipping Eru, or the natural world, or some rogue Maiar who are going to be in a lot of trouble if Eönwë or Sauron catches up with them, or "god-kings" who are in truth entirely mortal, or a Lord who might be Melkor or Eru, it's honestly not clear.

It's not perfect. Sometimes the powerful are cruel to the weak. Sometimes they attack and kill each other for no good reason. Sometimes they enslave each other. Sometimes they come up with terrible ideas and declare them divine truth. But all those lands and peoples are already free, they just need to be protected from Sauron's interference.

…And, it turns out, protected from little leftover pockets of Melkor's power that evidently didn't get cleaned up properly after one of the first two wars, which they have no weapons against. So that's a problem.

But the real trouble spots are: the regions in the north-East which Sauron maintains as his safe haven, and a broad swathe connecting them to Mordor; a certain radius around Mordor; and a radius around those damn Númenórean colonies, where people are afraid and looking for a way to fight and Sauron's been the only one offering. Alatar and Pallando have had some success winning people free — the liberti — but it's a struggle.

And now with his evil rings, Sauron can get a lot closer to being in multiple places at once.

"You know if we'd gotten here a few hundred years earlier we could have gotten the Noldor to make magic rings we could hand out to people," Alatar grumbles.

It is the year 2281 of the Second Age. They're in Turrim Magorum, one of the guarded refuges of the liberti orientalium, standing like a fence between Sauron's influence and the free Men of more distant regions. (Alatar has been politely pretending not to notice that the Men treat them less like guides and guardians and more like… well. Gods. They had Sauron as god-king for close to two-score generations, and Melkor's shadow heavy on them before that. It's easier in the South.)

"No we couldn't," Pallando replies. "He brought knowledge to the table."

"Well, we could've gotten them to make us something." Alatar frowns out the West-facing window. "We could've asked the Noldor in Eldamar to make us some stuff before we left, for that matter."

"Would that have been allowed?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to think we could have argued that the people need tools to protect themselves from Shadow." Alatar sighs. "I wish we could have brought some elves, for that matter."

"There are elves in the East."

"You know what I mean."

"Avari are better than nothing, though. We even get the occasional pereldarin family. That's been helpful."

Alatar was possibly somewhat biased against Avari because they had hurt Lord Oromë's feelings, but Pallando had a point. "But it's not enough. We don't have Treelight- or Valar-strengthened elves, we don't have Noldorin toys, we don't have… whatever it is they did with the Men of Númenor. The only thing we have that might even slightly give Sauron pause is ourselves, and I'm not sure about that!"

"Maybe we could breed some really big hounds," Pallando said. "—Sorry, too soon?"

Then his expression changed.

"What?" Alatar asked.

"Nothing, just a — terrible idea."

"Come on, tell me."

"Just — did he end up more scared of dogs after that, or of Lúthien the half-Maia?"

Alatar thinks about this. "You're right, that's a terrible idea."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not what we're meant to be doing here. Deeply immoral." (Was it, though, if everyone understood the idea and agreed to it? No, stop.) "Deeply."

"Yes."

"We probably shouldn't discuss it again."

Alatar gets back to his home base in the South a month later and finds that in his absence, some of his people were brought in sorely hurt by Morgul-blades, and none could help them, and they faded away and were lost.

Perhaps… perhaps he should consult some of the wise and mighty of the free and contested South, kings and queens and sages. Pose some hypothetical questions, about possible unintended consequences. Get their take on the morality of it all. Perhaps he should meditate on the shape given him to wear and consider its capabilities.

Just… in case.

[end fragment]

So yeah the idea was that Alatar and Pallando have been having a slow but steady stream of half-maia half-human children (called fils or filia necessitatum, collectively filii necessitatum) for like four thousand years. (Sometimes people say fils/filia magi/magorum, children of the wizard(s), but the official term is child of necessity.) The wizards are pretty damn sure the Valar would not approve, but since they're half-human they'll just get the Gift of Men and leave the world and the Valar never have to know, right? Námo will probably notice but he won't bring it up if no one else does.

For the most part it goes as intended. There are people in the East and South with the ability to deal with Morgul blades, random Shadow puddles, etc. Most filii necessitatum don't have children, but it's all right if they do, the uncanniness dilutes faster without elf bloodlines added in.

I didn't ever decide on details of the filii (or, uh, grand-filii) necessitatum who would be involved. Possibilities included:

Standard fils/filia necessitatum or two assigned to the task by the Blue Wizards because this is Very Important Work.

Over all this time, it's probably inevitable that at least one of these kids (or their kids) would marry an elf and their kids would not all choose human. Now we've got another part-maia peredhil bloodline who have to find their place somehow.

Or, personal stake: There are lots of orcs in the East and South. Plenty of opportunity for a not-currently-heavily-Shadowed goblin and an adventurous (half-)human to meet and get to know each other. Any children would again be part-maia peredhil.

I still think it's a really interesting idea! But going the orc Nimloth/swan-twins route instead cut down on original characters and eliminated a serious worldbuilding twist that I think would need more than an interlude to do justice.

[operative079]

DISCLAIMER: All are personal opinions and may be inaccuracies. I was re-watching the MW3 reboot campaign play-through today and was bugged to no end. So I'm ranting. THIS IS NOT TO SHIT ON ANYONE THAT LIKES THE NEW MAKAROV. I’m a Vladimir Makarov IP apologist in any universe. It’s all on the screenwriters.

SPOILER WARNING

MAKAROV’S CHARACTER & REBOOT MW3

The campaign was confirmed to be originally a MW2 DLC, and it feels like it… It’s like they have a checklist of events: bombing the airport, 141 capture Makarov, Soap’s death… and they’re just putting these events in random durations with repetitive playthroughs in between the events. Shoved together and spackled with fanservice and gut-punches with no emotional scaffolding. It’s pacing by brute force. Ticked the tragedy box, tossed the explosion, and went next.

The Two Makarovs

MAKAROV IN THE OLD TRILOGY (Mainly on MW2&3; 2009-2011)

OG Makarov was so impressionable and well-perceived that it partly contributed to the lack of screen them he had. Every time he appears, he succeeds. He rarely appears but appears when you’re distracted in attempts to stop his aftermath, and terminates the player instead. That’s what makes him terrifying; he seemed unstoppable until his demise. It’s intentionality that was put into designing each mission, and his speech that enforced charm in his character. His conviction ticks out atrocities like mere chores.

When he monologues, “All it takes is the will of a single man,” at the beginning of MW3(2011), we believe it.

OG Makarov was terrifying because he didn’t just kill—you never saw it until the world burned. He didn’t monologue to flex. He meant every word. When he narrates, it wasn’t bravado. It was proven truth by that point. The restraint in his appearance made him feel larger than life. We felt his presence in the absence of his body.

MW 2 & 3 was a psychological cat and mouse chase, not just a military one, where we’re always a few steps behind Vladimir Makarov—you weren't facing Makarov head-on; you were trailing behind him, constantly cleaning up the blood while he was already onto the next thing, honing the mysteriousness of his whereabouts and making us wary of what worse he’s capable of.

In the old Modern Warfare franchise, Makarov appeared for a total of approximately 23 minutes across the trilogy.

Suppose his scarce appearance is a double-edged sword, as you can argue the writing lacks character depth; we knew very little about Makarov’s childhood and other backgrounds until he started his military career.

However, you never had to understand him emotionally to be captivated. He wasn’t sympathetic—he was conviction made flesh. The kind of man who “kills” Yuri without blinking because “loyalty” means nothing without absolute submission and stands firmly with his cause (at least in presentation, that he didn’t act remorseful. However you can argue that he didn’t want to kill Yuri and want fate to decide his death by letting him bleed instead.). That cold clarity was his depth. The way his philosophy eclipses sentiment. He believed in the chaos he sowed. Not for attention, not for ego, but because it was necessary in his eyes.

MAKAROV IN MW3 (2023)

I low-key enjoy how Activision approached the reboot version of Makarov. His obsession with time and emphasis on following strict planning is a new take. Even though the OG and reboot share the same IP, they’re two different characters. I don’t mind Makarov killing his subordinate (Ivan) to prove a point and assert dominance by acts of bombing (to be fair, if we’re generalising both OG and Reboot’s actions can overlap to certain degrees).

Reboot Makarov wasn’t bad—it’s that he was built on gold and then left on a scaffolding. You see the core of something magnetic in him: the obsession with time, the ritualistic nature of his act, the crispness of his tone. That’s potent stuff (And thanks to Julian Kostov’s lovely acting). The writers had something. They just didn’t follow through.

They gave him the camera, but not the weight. It’s like watching a blade being waved around without ever drawing blood that means something. I defend his ruthlessness because he’s a terrorist leader, not a misunderstood poet. He should be brutal. That’s what makes his philosophy so chilling. But there’s a difference between writing a cold-blooded tactician and just using him as a dramatic prop.

Like—imagine taking a man obsessed with timing, and then throwing him into a campaign that has no rhythm. It’s ironic in the worst way.

Depth doesn’t mean redemption. It means rationale. Conviction. Internal logic.

In the MW3 reboot, Vladimir Makarov appeared for 23 to 26 minutes, which is nearly half an hour in a campaign lasting between three and a half hours.

More screen time DEMANDS depth; the longer the exposure, the easier it is to spot flaws. This is where details compensate for the presentation. You can’t spotlight a character and not build the scaffolding underneath. When you take a previously mythic figure like Makarov and put him under the lens of modern characterisation—where audiences expect layers, contractions, psychology—you have to compensate for the loss of mystiques with intentional intricacy.

But instead of nuance, we got… vague charisma and half-baked menace. They wanted us to swoon and fear him, but didn’t give us reasons to do either.

CHARISMA VS. CHARM

Charisma: something raw, innate, gravitational. OG Makarov had it in spades.

Charm: an outward performance, a weaponised allure. Reboot Makarov leans more into this—he’s more emotive, and he smiles slightly. But charm needs context to matter. Without a strong spine of motive and clever writing to reinforce it, it becomes style over substance.

The OG and Reboot encapsulate both to some degree, but it’s clear how Activision wanted to write the Reboot Makarov as this charming, dangerous warlord; they gave him more screen time, but I feel like we’ve barely seen his potential before the MW3 reboot campaign.

Collaterally, Soap’s death felt empty. It's the ultimate indictment of their pacing. If one of the core emotional pillars of Task Force 141 falls and barely lands, something’s broken. It didn’t hit because the stakes weren’t earned, and Makarov wasn’t set up as the monster behind the curtain—he was just another player on the board.

[maebelmelee]

Clover

summary • GN Reader and Arthur Morgan have an established, long-term relationship. They have a pet Cocker Spaniel who stays with them over the years.

CW • declining health in pet

author's note • I'm going through a lot of stuff right now regarding one of my pets so I made this out of my current struggles. I find sanctuary in writing characters and scenes in which I'm going through myself. pls pls be kind to yourself and don't read this if you're lighthearted to these kinds of subjects.

Clover under the cut.

You and Arthur never sought out any type of domesticity— y'all knew what y'all where. Outlaws, bandits, partners in crime. So when a dainty, minute, slobbery, and loving Cocker Spaniel puppy came strolling into y'all's lives, it was surprising to Arthur that you took them in with open arms.

The puppy that you then named Clover, as they were a sign of good luck, became a facet in you and Arthur's lives— almost as if the small puppy was a surrogate child.

Clover was a bundle of soft, floppy-eared charm with big, soulful eyes and a silky coat that often waves slightly around the ears and legs. Even brute, stoic Arthur enjoyed taking the dog in his lap after a hard day of work as a way to relax. You'd often hear him coo to the pup as they sit at the camp fire; "Good girl".

Years go by and Clover stays loyal to you and Arthur, even after the demise of the VDL gang. Once the turmoil dies down, you and Arthur find a home outside of Valentine to put y'all's roots down.

Arthur runs a small farm, much like John, while you make the home alongside taking care of Clover, y'all's baby.

But with the years passing by, Clover gets older. Their once golden face is now spackled with gray whiskers, much like Arthur. While Clover used to play, chase, and, hunt for what seems like hours on end, they now spend even more time in front of the fireplace, on the porch near the swing, or in Arthur's lap to receive the same praises she has for all those years— "Gettin' old there, girl." becomes a new one.

Clover then stops all together. All she does is sleep next to that fireplace. Arthur often has to help her into bed when she once used to spring so effortlessly onto the bed and cuddled up between you and Arthur.

It becomes clear that Clover's days are coming to an end after several years with her.

One evening, it becomes too much to ignore.

The porch is quiet that evening, the way it gets when the world knows something is ending. You sit in your usual spot, rocking slowly, your hand resting on the soft, thinning coat of the little cocker spaniel curled beside your feet. She barely moved all day, not even for the sound of her bowl or the clatter of boots. Her breathing is shallow, each rise of her ribs like a sigh.

Arthur’s leaning against the porch post, coffee cooling in his hand, eyes set somewhere out in the field—but you know he’s been watching you both. He shifts, then speaks low, almost like he’s afraid to break something fragile.

“She ain’t eatin’ again.”

You nod without looking at him, your fingers tracing the line of her ear the way you’ve done for years. “She didn’t even lift her head when I called her this morning.”

Arthur walks over and crouches beside her, letting his hand settle gently on her back. “I seen her try to stand earlier. Legs just gave out under her. She laid there a long time. Didn’t whimper. Didn’t fight. Just… looked at me like she was waitin’.”

You feel the ache bloom deep in your chest, the kind that words can’t soothe. “She’s been with us since them damned days. Slept at the foot of our bed every damn night.”

“She’s a good girl,” he says, voice thick. “Best there is. But she’s hurtin’, sweetheart. I don’t think she’s got much left in her.”

You finally look at him. His eyes are red at the edges, and he’s trying hard not to show it. You ask the question even though the answer is already sitting in both your hearts. “You think it’s time?”

Arthur looks down at her, then back at you. “I think maybe it’s kinder if we let her go. Let her leave this world with us beside her. Not scared. Not in pain.”

The tears come easy now, and you lean down to press your cheek against her soft side. She smells like the sun and the grass and the years you’ve shared. “I don’t want her to be alone.”

“She won’t be,” he promises, reaching for your hand. “Not for a second. And if you want… I’ll do it myself. I’ll make sure it’s quick. Gentle.”

You squeeze his hand and nod, throat tight. “We’ll do it together. We owe her that.”

Arthur’s jaw works as he holds back whatever he’s feeling. “We’ll give her one more good night. Let her sleep in our bed. I’ll cook her bacon first thing. Let her feel the grass under her paws one last time.”

You nod, tears falling freely now. “She deserves that.”

Clover stirs slightly, pressing her nose weakly into your palm as if she knows. You curl your body around her, Arthur wrapping his arms around the both of you, and the three of you sit there as the sun dips low behind the trees—together, in the quiet, holding on a little longer.

[nevernotapocalypse]

Cookies Can't Heal, not naturally at least

they’re dough and icing, not living cells. So, when they crumble/crack slightly they need outside help.

This has no merit/backing whatsoever, I'm just crazy for these funky-ass deserts with even funkier lore. (Now with even more of such funky lore)

okay so, cookies don't technically have living cells. That's why they’re baked and not born, which could lead to not having the “biology” to naturally heal wounds. we can excuse tiny cuts with leftover magic within the dough. which leads to another tangent about older cookies not being able to self-heal at all. Thats another a post for another day tho..

let's say that a cookie cut open their hand while cooking. they got three options, “air drying”, icing, or healing magic.

"Air Drying" - This method is used for a variety of injuries, from small cuts to larger wounds. It’s basically letting a (safe) mold build up in the wound to solidify into harder stuff. Generally, this is where scarring comes from. This method is dangerous since bad molds can develop instead.

yes, this does mean that scarring for cookies can be a variety of colors

Icing: it's a more widespread use than magic since it's a lot more accessible, but it's basically a resin variety of icing that mixes in dyes or additives to match the cookie dough. It's basically spackle but for cookies. Some cookies mix in the crumbs from the wound into the spackle icing. Theres a multitude of reasons for this: personal, cultural, each cookie has a reason.

A rare use for spackle icing is for the use of cosmetics or extreme modifications. Cookies will intentionally crumble a part of the visible dough to spackle in colored icing. Sort of like Kintsugi, repairing something broken with filling. Like the technique, many cookies choose to add in more metallic colors for a better look. This makes me think this is/was a trend for cookies with a more noble background.

Healing Magic: Pretty self-explanatory, magic that heals the dough. I could probably make some complex reason for how it works but I'm too lazy (and dumb) to make that post.

---

Theres a lot I want to write about the below topic, but I'll leave this smidge here and see if anyone's interested.

Dough magic: it's what keeps them alive, it is what determines their lifespan, magic use, and overall “health”. I'll make a separate post on my thoughts on what exactly "Dough Magic" is. Probably should think of a better name, but DM should suffice.

[ohsunnyboy]

against everything | shen quanrui ˚₊‧⁺˖

you know nothing about shen quanrui, duke of the north. all you do know is that you're getting married and you're winning this sword fight.

TAGS: royalty!au, cold duke!ricky, gn!reader, rivals/enemies/strangers to lovers, arranged marriage, sparring!!, a little mean!ricky for the sake of the au, gets angsty in the end v sorry haha

A/N: this has been in the drafts since debut lmao it's v long but enjoy!!! as always, purely self indulgent ! (pls imagine historical manhwa level visuals iykyk)

WORDS: ~1900

Could there be a worse fate than this? Marrying Shen Quanrui, elusive Duke of the North and Lord of Yuehua.

You knew that marriage was coming. Being the youngest in the family and the rest of your brothers off to the capital to play bachelors and sisters bartered off for titles. One by one, marriage invites piled up over your desk until it finally came time for you to write your own.

Yet still, you have yet to meet him.

What you do know of the duke, is that he exists and is not mere fragment of your imagination — according to your mother.  It’s his estate you’re getting married at, but he hasn’t shown his face once in your week here. Not a letter, a word, anything! Anything would be better than this silence that plagues the grounds.

You pull your coat tighter around you as the northern chill slides under your bones. You want to begin to rethink all your feeble decisions right then and there. Or rather, the lack of your decisions that's brought you here. Wandering the Shen gardens like a ghost with an intent to haunt someone you’ve never even met.

Though, it seems like a calling of fate when you turn to an open yard.

Here, the snow clears away to worn cobble leading to a snow spackled dirt and a sparring platform. Swords line the training ground and gleam in the moonlight as you make your way towards them. Clearly standard issue and worn beyond ware, but swords, nonetheless. You can’t help but feel a little giddy, no one should be about at midnight like this, and no one should be out looking for the training grounds either. You clamber up the stairs to the wooden stage. Each board creaks lightly under your feet, almost like the decks of the galleys you used to run about on. From above, it’s easy to become entranced watching the snow spiral down as it settles.

You really could stand in marvel all night, but a figure watches you from where you came from. A bolt of fear strikes through you, dark eyes watching you freeze. Is it fate? Another ghost that haunts this place?

"Who are you?" the boy ask – or rather, demands.

You almost blink twice to make sure you aren’t dreaming. His hair is the palest of whites, rivalling the light of the moon and the falling snow itself. You’d stay in your stupor for longer, but he stares with a hard set in his eye that you know only means trouble.

"Oughtn’t you introduce yourself before you ask?" you snap.

“I asked first.”

“And it’s rude to ask and not offer your own name first.”

Your reply only ticks him off further it seems as he reaches for one of the sabres on the rack. "Then we fight for it,” mystery man says simply.

"Now? anyone could see us plain as day if they look out the windows! are you insane!" You can hardly believe it when he kicks another sabre across the stage to your feet. "What if the duke sees us?" you hiss, but it only makes him smirk further.

"Then let him," he counters with a flourish of his blade. "Or are you scared, peasant?"

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you swipe it from the floor with indignation. Honestly, he’s nothing impressive. What’s a pretty face when he’s built like a sheaf of paper? Your brothers are easily bulkier and taller compared to him, and you've swept the floor with them before. With him? it’s a matter of deck scrubbing him into the snow.

The sabre fits into your palm with a comforting weight. It's a far throw from duelling on ships and jagged seas but it's the song of duelling that sounds like home.

"Done playing with it? Or do you need a sword lesson instead?" and oh, that smirk is infuriating. "First to yield divests their name and title – should they even own one," he drawls.

All you can do is nod and settle into stance. Low and wide for balance, steady as an anchor in tide – all the more important with the ice. He mirrors with his own, a little taller, a little more forward, and with a whole lot more ego than what he should have.

A moment, slow and quiet, is spent staring down the edge of your swords. His steps, closer and closer, the howl of the air—

Then, he lunges.

When you meet, it’s mean, forceful and utterly demanding. Though, would you expect anything less of him?

It’s a game of darting and pushing. In and out of each other’s reach by just a breath. When you circle each other, his eyes follow you everywhere. It’s a gaze that would crumble you if you weren’t running on sheer adrenaline right now. You could count the sweat on his brow each time he tries to brute force his sabre down on you, but you parry just as strong. 

Every strike you sweep, you channel all the pent-up nerves behind them. A week of restlessness, of anger all coming down an a willing, taunting target.

The next sweep that he dives for cuts from his left to right, instead of parrying, you decide to lunge again. You go low, essentially diving under his blade and entirely into his space. You seize your chance, blood rushing in your head and mouth twisted in a horribly cocky grin and shove him to the floor. When he lands with a thud, lips parted in surprise, you waste no time in pinning him down, forearm barred across his chest and sword staked into the wood next to his neck.

"Do you yield?" Your breath ghosts across his face, twining with his own in this cold air.

The moon illuminates his sweat like shattered stars across his skin, pale as the snow and flawless as the sky. You want to sneer it into his skin: his gorgeous devastation. Perfection and arrogance wrapped into one.

"Out with it,” you glower over the pound of your heart and the silence between you two.

He must see something because you have no idea what’s got him smiling like that.

"Shen." What? " Warden of the North and Duke of Yuehua." A thousand thoughts, and a million more revelations. No way, this isn't possible. "Shen Quanrui, though, I thought you would have known already – with your attitude and all."

You feel the heat of the situation pour into you like the sun projecting a thousand-fold upon yourself. You scramble back, desperate for some decency because you've effectively just sat on the duke, warden of the north, and, least importantly of all, your soon-to-be husband. Quanrui rises as you fall backwards into the snow, the sword clattering next to you as he reverses the position.

“My lord,” you’re babbling now. The grin on his face is sly and all too prideful but it brings an angry red to your face that would have your brothers rolling in laughter. “I…I had no idea.”

And Quanrui huffs a small laugh at you beneath him, scrambling for words. “You have made that quite clear, darling.” His silhouette eclipses the moon, and you swear the glint in his eyes twinkle along with the stars above.

“Darling?”

“Do you not like it, darling?” Quanrui says it like trying a new wine on his tongue. He tries to roll it, like one of those sopranos at the opera, all natural and beholding. Is it stupid to be so entranced in someone? You know nothing about him – no one does. But can you say that when he’s staring at you like this? Calling you darling like this? Holding you like this?

So blind to it all, isn’t he?

“No, not at all.” You shake your head getting yourself out of your stupor, trying to put your words together. “It’s just… you have not come to see me once in my week here. Why do you only turn up now, not even on purpose, when we’re to be wed by the end of the fortnight?” It comes out in a stream, past freezing lips and over piles of abandoned reasoning. “Is this the cruelty they speak of? Your empty coldness then a taunting heat? What then after this, my lord. Will you leave me to the cold another week, to haunt your palace like a fool? What then—”

An arresting hand presses over your mouth, stopping your stream of consciousness. Devastation paints Quanrui’s face when you blink past your anger. Long gone is his smirk, and all the stars in his eyes. It’s pinched with guilt.

“I never meant for it. Never – I never meant for cruelty. I’d thought you would want space, time to adjust and settle in by yourself! I thought—”

“You thought! But you never wrote, you never knew in the first place, my lord,” you sneer. “You never had a right to assume, when all you know are damned titled deeds and how many men my father will send for your blasted armies. Do you even know I’m from the eastern coasts? That I’d never even seen snow until I stepped foot into your land. And you think I wanted space!?”

“Enough.” He sits back on his heels, head facing to the falling sky; illuminated like a god ascended. What a waste of a pretty face when Quanrui looks down at you, eyes bared to confess. “I had no right. You are true, everything is true.  I do not know you, but I will learn you,” he promises. “I won’t leave you to bear this cold alone. Leaving you to face against everything yourself was my first mistake and I will make it my last.”  

You almost laugh, nigh incredulous at his claims. “Bold words, my lord. Are you rehearsing your vows as we speak in this moment?” Your temper ebbs and flows, this is cruel, you want to say, but you bite your tongue before he remembers that abandoned sword next to you.

“Nothing about this—“ Quanrui gestures to both your states “—is rehearsed, I swear.” The honesty is etched into his being. “You fought me – the real me. And beat me well at it too.”

Finally, you do laugh. “That I did! Doesn’t that make you even more unworthy of me?” It’s posed like a barb, but you say it with a grin. If he can fight for his honour, there’s a chance at the truth.

Infuriating as ever, his smirk is back in full force. “I don’t know. How about we settle the score properly?” Maybe you’ll come to love it – just one day. One day you’ll see past the snow and ice, remembering tumbling waves and open sun, to love a marriage wrought with him.

“Alright then.”

The night is long in the north, impossibly so. But time will come, and the day will thaw the love that was buried all along.

i ran away with this defo, but i'm glad i’m done :) thanks so much for reading!! Please leave a reblog and a like if you enjoyed ⭒ masterlist