#YOUR HONOUR SHE WAS AN ORPHAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theladyismyshepard · 4 months

Text

Oath Breaker

Now this one is just me letting my love for the Paladin run wild and I can't get over the thought of throwing it all away for that special one that they love. Funnily enough, my first playthrough was Druid! If you reblog, tag what your first class was/will be

(How the party reacts to you, a Paladin, breaking your Oath for them)

Shadowheart –

You were born… well, you couldn’t really say where, as you hadn’t the faintest clue. You were an orphan living the life as an urchin in the Lower City streets of Baldur’s Gate, that much you were sure of. With your natural charisma and having a knack for persuasion, things could have turned out worse. That isn’t to say you aren’t a survivor, you might have called upon your sleight of hand once or twice. But there was something about you… You were an optimist. You drew people in with your personality, and before you knew it, you had your own makeshift family that you chose to be a part of.

You were always aware of the ones who were having it worse than yourself, you couldn’t help it, it was almost like a reflex. There were the inexperienced, the frailer, the innocent… Some would say you were softhearted, caring entirely too much about everyone else’s well being rather than your own, and honestly? You felt no need to deny or explain yourself. Not when your bleeding heart was content to surround itself with those needing your guidance. It was so nice to feel needed wasn’t it?

Until the joy was stripped when you found yourself losing it all, and the worst part was that you tried your hardest, gave everything you had, and it still wasn’t enough. You weren't enough. It was a day that started as any other would, though at some point you and your friends found yourselves in the sewers underneath the city. It was no grand battle, there were no honorable deeds… It was a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was a gang of rotten people that just wouldn’t accept your presence, yet refused to let you leave. One by one your comrades fell… You were the fighter, the protector here, not them… so why were you the only one left alive? It was a “lucky coincidence” that the scuffle was noisy enough to attract attention, though those were never your words.

You felt shame. The people you had come to care about, who looked up to you, had fallen at your feet and you could do nothing. You had all the courage in the world, all the compassion… One could argue that that might be the reason you lived, that maybe you were destined for something greater… You couldn’t see any reason past the survivor’s guilt. No one could convince you otherwise… at least not until the god Helm spoke directly to you one day when you were at your lowest, ready to give up your optimism

"Following the ideal of the knight in shining armour, you will act with honour and virtue to protect the weak and pursue the greater good.” You could feel the power that Helm was offering you, and it was too alluring – it was the power that you desperately needed to make a difference, to ward off the evil, to actually be able to protect.

It was an Oath that you lived by day in and day out. You grabbed outstretched hand after outstretched hand, offering your help to anyone and everyone in need, whether it be an extra blade in an unjust altercation, or a measly passing of judgment between two quarreling neighbors. What was once a reflex to help people was now an unsatiated devotion, an incessant demand. You had no purpose if there was no one to help. Your duty guided you straight to the nautiloid, and as your party grew bigger, you started to see that there might have been a reason for that. Was it to make amends for your last group of friends? Because the thought made you sick to your stomach… What if you failed just as you did last time?

You wouldn’t… As you gazed upon the crease between Shadowheart’s brow as she fretted over losing her own faith for your cause, for you, you decided that this woman right here was what you were living for. Not to protect the world from itself, not to solve every problem thrown your way, not to blindly follow an Oath, but to worship a cleric who had no one to worship herself. You would make her happy, even if that finally entailed the end of you.

She had the opportunity to have her parents back, and of course there was always a cruel catch involved. It was unfair, and while it teetered on the edge of blasphemous (you could feel it burning in your veins, Helm himself warning you off) you found yourself standing between Shadowheart and Shar’s massive form, needing to pass judgment, to intervene against this… this evil. The ultimatum of Shadowheart’s parents or the curse paining her hand was unethical, it was treacherous. It was also not your war to wage, and that was a direct message from Helm.

What could you possibly do? The only thing you’ve ever been good at was a good starting point. You lived by your Oath and you would die by it… and by betraying it all at once. You couldn’t help but to turn back and look at Shadowheart, she was all you ever had eyes for, and realization flickered across her eyes as she registered what you were trying to convey. You could see the fight building, her refusal on the tip of her tongue, but you beat her to it.

“Take me or fight me,” it was a demand met with incredulous laughter, but the fact you weren’t reduced to ashes on the spot relayed curiosity on her part, “Accept me in return for Shadowheart’s parents and the curse wounding her… I can’t accept a no,”

“How bold, paladin,” it was dripping with sarcastic disdain, “Not only will I take your Oath, but I’ll take your life and I’ll relish in the misery it brings your dear, heart… I can feel her agonizing heartbreak as we speak. This little display was delicious, and I thank you for that… If you both can satisfy me, I just might consider myself generous.”

You’re hardly aware of what comes next, not the raise of Shar’s hand, her magic visibly building, not the frantic pulling of Shadowheart’s hand on your arm, not when there was a growing emptiness swelling in your chest, threatening to bring you to your knees as you gasped on strangled breaths. Helm’s spirit of guidance left you behind to flounder in your mistake. You were no paladin of his, but you would be an Oath breaker for Shadowheart tenfold. But once was enough, and you’ll never stop paying for it.

Lae'zel –

You were born in a modest town outside of Wyrm’s Crossing and Rivingston, just far enough to prove ideal in terms of privacy without complete isolation. A town of basic essential– a town where everyone had their function. There was the blacksmith and her wife, the harvester and his family, the carpenter along with his wife and their gaggle of sons following in the trade, the medicinal/healer woman and her two children… what you lacked were soldiers

It was an easy slaughter with hardly anything to even pillage, but what the raiders lacked in treasures, they took in captives. That included you. It wasn’t long before you’ve come to decide that killing you would have been a mercy, and even more immediate was your swelling resentment and thirst for vengeance. It would be years of praying for the strength to fight this oppression before the patron god Ilmater heard your pleas, and came to you with a contract, an Oath… “You will set aside even your own purity to right wrongs and deliver justice to those who have committed the most grievous sins.”

The entire enslavement stronghold fell by your hand, and your hand alone. It was your right to pass this judgment, and it was your duty to carry out justice with no mercy for your wicked captors. And so was your entire moral code as you traveled far and wide, seeking out evil and persecution and the vengeance that draws with it, calling you here and there until the very day you found yourself infected and surrounded by a mismatched group of people that you’ve come to care for.

A particular githyanki had caught your interest early on, what with her prowess in battle, and her loyalty to her people above even her own life. It was respectable and you admired her for her strength. Both with wits and with blade. You trusted her for her word once you’ve come to see the sentiment returned. There was no one else you would trust to take to battle with over her.

But it was more than that… You’ve seen and heard how the githyanki were portrayed, by Shadowheart no less… Lae’zel’s people suffered persecution from the people of your world for their “brute hostility”... Lae’zel gets a gleam of pride in her eye anytime she hears that… and at first you wondered if it was just your Oath that drew you closer to the soldier, a need to defend, a need to lash out against any hatred sent her direction

No… that wasn’t it… Not when you stood there, mouth agape as your eyes darted back and forth from Lae’zel to Orpheus. You gulped as her hand subconsciously slid into your pocket, the jar containing the Astral Tadpole finding shelter in your palm. A sacrifice had to be made now that the Emperor was no longer on your side and you needed the powers of a Mind Flayer on your side if you even considered taking on the Netherbrain. You broke into a sweat at what this would entail.

You would give up your form for something so much greater that it couldn’t even be contained in your body. It was an almighty power that you were not meant to have, and as a Paladin, a quest for such power would break your very oath, even if your intentions were good, even if your intentions were out of spite to destroy the brain. But you knew what your intentions were and they were purely selfish: You intended to spare Lae’zel the impossible task of watching the Prince of her people give up his newfound freedom for another Hell. Not because of your oath of vengeance, but because you loved her.

“I…” This was the first time you’ve ever seen Lae’zel speechless and wide-eyed, at a complete loss. “You…”

“Mla’ghir… Liberator… That is what you shall be known to our people as… May my will be done,” Orpheus decreed, bowing to you, and from behind him you can still she Lae’zel struggling, her mouth opening and closing, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but you could’ve sworn you had seen a glossy film over her eyes that was pooling on her lower eyelids.

“You have a duty to your people, Lae’zel… just like I had a duty to anyone and everyone who crossed my path… before I met you. Now, I have my own personal oath to you, and I will do anything to-”

If it was a kiss you were seeking, you succeeded. One hand grabbed the back of your neck and the other wound around your back, pulling you in firmly against her lips. It was a bittersweet display, knowing this was the last that you were to receive. It was worth it, and you would break your oath a million times over if it meant Lae'zel could finally have the opportunity to let go of her own vengeance. Taking a step back while uncorking the bottle before you could lose your nerve, you accept the Astral Tadpolr, and miss the look of terror and worry Lae'zel had for you as she weakly reached out before thinking better of it.

Karlach –

You were born in a lonesome village nestled discreetly in the thick forests of the Wilderness. Hard to access seeing as there’s only one way in and one way out, and the entrance is hidden behind a waterfall. A true town of nature, it is literally taken over and incorporated into the wild. You grew up with the whispers of the trees and the understanding of animals. Everything had a balance, and you could tell when all was right with the world in terms of energy and flow.

Which also entailed being able to pinpoint the moment nature felt off, like there was a wound torn asunder and darkness and misery was oozing out and taking over. Being as in- tune with nature as you were, it physically pained you to feel the death of the earth around you. Living in a place so far away from the destruction of life was good for you– Until you could feel the presence of people making their exploration in a place already explored. There was hardly anything you could do to protect the sanctity of the land, not when you could physically feel the wars waging upon them, the resources that were being exploited…

Your prayers for the lands were answered one day by Mielikki, the goddess of forests and the creatures who live within, and with her she brought an Oath granting unspeakable powers that could benefit in healing, healing yourself, healing your friends, healing the world… “You fight on the side of light in the cosmic struggle against darkness to preserve the sanctity of life and the beauty of nature.”

No other words would ever ring more true to you as you live your life healing the hurt that mankind leaves behind on the land. You still hold onto hope that there are more people like you who care about the wellbeing of nature and the life within. You keep that hope alive in hopes that it would spark and set ablaze, leaving a lasting impression on people rather than nature.

You found yourself lounged comfortably along the wooden raft that you yourself had crafted. The wood was chipping and stained with a permanent moss, evidence of its wear-and-tear during its time in service. The only sounds that could be heard were the gentle lapping of the babbling river, the rustling of leaves as wildlife took its course through the surrounding wilderness, and your breathing… you didn’t even see the nautiloid coming

You didn’t even see Karlach coming. Well… that’s neither here nor there… But her fiery nature and her bright soul was breathtaking, and you found yourself in awe of the force of her very being. Her smile, her mannerisms, her passion… she burns brighter than anyone or anything you’ve ever known– and it was only a matter of time before she burnt out. It was a cruel reality that you avoided, but you knew, deep down, past your heart, but to your Oath…

Karlach’s soul was the purest you’ve felt in ages, but there was no heart that sustained that. It was an infernal engine that roared the very fires of Hell, and it was a bomb that was set to go off at any given moment. It was nature’s way, and your Oath was telling you to accept it, that all cycles come and go and that this was no different, no matter the sorrowful circumstances. But you couldn’t accept the snuffing of the brightest life that the world, Heavens, or Hells could offer, that would be the cruelest crime against humanity.

That was what you told yourself. But at the end of it all was when you lost your faith. You held not an ounce of hope in your heart in the depths of your deepest despair: watching her grunt in agony when she would usually be cheering and whooping in celebration. The very life and soul of the party– the one who, without even knowing it, had you changing your entire devotion. There was only one you intended to worship and it wasn’t Mother Earth… Her name was Karlach, and you could feel your own light fading with her own as you felt your love being plucked away. You would drain every sea, tear apart every mountain if it meant sparing her life.

And… you were letting it? You could have pushed harder for her to return to Avernus, just long enough to find a more permanent cure, or another upgrade at least… But the heartbreak on her face and the constant insistences of getting trapped and never returning were too much to press further. You would never ask her to do something she was dead set against, and you never would have asked her to give up her body and soul for the advantage over the Netherbrain by becoming a Mind Flayer. You rush forward, ignoring her initial attempts to push you away so as to not get burned, and wrap your arms around her body despite your skin burning and peeling. This was it, you could feel her trembling and you were afraid… so afraid that you crumbled and your facade broke when it really mattered. You begged her to stay, to return to Avernus because you in fact needed her alive more than you needed anything else alive on the planet.

Would one call you selfish for allowing her to lose her body and soul anyway for a less noble cause? Would they call you thoughtful for taking her interests to heart? As Karlach faded with a lovely smile reserved only for you along with a wink, you felt the oncoming tendrils of nothingness take a hold of where the light in your heart used to be. There was nothing now, no love, no guidance… What would Karlach think of you for breaking your Oath of the Ancients by losing yourself in losing her?

Astarion –

You were born to a life of nobility within Baldur’s Gate, a life that supplied little struggle, though you knew of it when you could see the hopeless flocking the streets. There are times that your guilty conscience calls you to act, to give what you could, but you also had an understanding that what was yours was yours, and it wouldn’t remain so if you gave it all away. Some might call you generous with the people.

Others might try to kill you. How appreciative. You like to think it was for the run-of-the-mill nobility ransom, maybe come to kidnap you by chance? You couldn’t understand why they were pulling their knives ou-

And then you were gasping awake, suddenly lying on the ground in a pool of blood– your blood… The servants had found your dead body, and your family could afford to stock up almost indefinitely on Scrolls of Revivify. Your brain was foggy as you struggled to comprehend the series of events that resulted in you being resurrected. It was a weird cult who had a hit out on you and you had never felt so helpless. When you had learned the news that all of your possessions had been stolen along with your life, you needed vengeance.

So you dedicated your time to following the goddess of avarice and hatred, Tiamat in hopes of gaining her favor. After a while, you thought she had no use of you, maybe undeserving of her power, but one day she finally came to you.

“Your fury is still there, but you are not so blinded… I have use for all, but to think of yourself as unworthy– well… That makes it so much sweeter. You will set aside even your own purity to right wrongs and deliver justice to those who have committed the most grievous sins.”

And deliver it you shall. You could taste the putrid burn of unserved justice. You could feel the fiery anger of revenge from the wronged as if it were your very own, and nothing was sweeter on your lips than delivering the final sentence after it itched at your skin for the longest. Overall, it was a satisfying life consisting of butting into other people’s business and having god-gifted powers to judge them for it. One could get used to it, and you did… until you were infected and scrambling just like the party you were traveling all over Faerun with.

The vampire had charisma about himself, his words dripping with honey as much as blood as you spoke to him and learned more about his backstory. The more you got to know, the more your hunger for vengeance grew into a gnawing at your gut. You would personally see to Cazador’s death as retribution but you wouldn’t dream to see it carried out by your own hand– No, for once, it felt even better to watch Astarion unleash centuries of torment and anguish. He was on his knees, and while that was usually a beautiful sight that you’ve come to… come, gravity pulled you to your own knees as you pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

“It’s okay, my love, it’s over… you are free,” You cradle his face in your hands, and you watch as he flinches before easing into your touch despite himself.

“I feel… nothing,” admitted Astarion hollowly, truthfully… You could see all the spunky attitude keeping him his charming self just gone from his body as he sagged forward. “His connection, his influence, gone… As is my way to walk freely in the sun when this is over.”

In the haste of battle, it was easier to acknowledge that Cazador’s special spawns were his energy source. He couldn’t complete the ritual, ergo, he could not absorb Astarion’s soul, leaving him nothing but a pile of ash. That also meant that Astarion himself lost the opportunity to Ascend in Cazador’s place and accept unlimited power that a lot of people dream of, yourself included. Seeing his wide range of emotion, you couldn’t help but to feel a bitter taste in your mouth. You took part in stopping his Ascension…

So you would do anything to give yourself and the man you love the chance at that power again, even if it meant turning your back on the greater good. What greater power was there than the control of the Netherbrain? As the party traveled far and wide, you had encountered several illithid tadpoles on your journey. A majority of the group did not favor the power that they had to bring, and trusted you to agree. That was why you shared the tadpoles in secret with Astarion the moment he showed interest.

The power coursing through the two of you along with the help of the Emperor… it was no challenge to overpower the brain and take control of it, granting unmeasurable powers the likes of which no one had wielded before. Even the Gods would quake in your wake… Even Tiamat herself could not harm you for taking on such power that would deem you as an Oath Breaker. You pull Astarion into a kiss, and allow every racing thought to flow outward and into your connection. You feel his sly smirk against your lips along with a gentle nick of his right fang.

“Darling, you’re so vile I could eat you right up… I adore anyone who would break an Oath for me… whether it was their own or someone else’s,”

192 notes · View notes

ageingfangirl2 · 7 months

Text

Surprise Me! Mihawk (OPLA)

y/n is a new assassin who catches the eye of Mihawk. She thinks her past is private but the warlord knows a lot about her and wants to talk. Part 2 to Fight Someone Your Own Size.

Part 1

Y/N

After your encounter with the warlord Dracule Mihawk, you decided to skip town. He had an infamous reputation and it wasn't wise to get on his radar for good or bad reasons. You had a past, a bloody past that led you to skip from town to town until you landed in the last town and actually felt safe until those stupid guys had to attack you in the alley. You were a trained killer, a fresh one at that, which is how you garnered a leave me alone kind of reputation. The reason you never settled down was the fear of being hunted down for what you did.

You were an orphan, a scrappy one at that, fast and light-fingered, which is how you gained the attention of your former master. He took you in when you were ten, housed and fed you, training you to kill those who wronged others while giving you an education you wouldn't have gotten on the streets. You owed him everything, but you couldn't give him everything he wanted.

If anyone did come looking for you those men from the alley knew your face, it was a rookie move leaving them alive, you had to go back. They wouldn't sell out Mihawk, no one would believe them but they would throw you under a cart to save their own skin.

You return to town at night, grabbing your knives and scouting each of the men's homes. It was simple after that, breaking in and killing each of them with a single sliced throat. Now you could leave town without fear of being exposed.

However, that was really short-lived as you're stopped in your tracks by a familiar voice that sent shivers down your spine, 'huh...'

You gulp and dare to look up from his bare chest to meet his piercing eyes, '...what?'

He watches you intensely, like a rabbit he had caught in a trap and wasn't sure what to do with it next, 'nothing, I just didn't know you had that in you. You also don't seem like the type to come back to the same town twice y/n.'

This makes you laugh, 'the fact you think you know anything about me at all, is genuinely hilarious.'

You go to step around him but he continues to block your path, 'your real name is y/n l/n, your parents died in a house fire when you were five but it wasn't an accident. Your father abused your mother and she snapped when he forced himself onto you so set the fire. You lived on the streets for five years before being taken in at age ten by a man calling himself David. And for the next eight years, he made you into a killer. But now he's dead and you're all alone again,' he lists off your life story blankly.

Your hand goes for a knife, 'you knew David? Are you going to kill me because I killed him?'

'You think you killed him y/n? What do you remember?' Mihawk asks, intrigued by you.

'Before you saved me in that alley I've seen your face before but I can't remember where. Do I know you?' you answer his question with your own question.

Mihawk inhales loudly, clearly annoyed that you weren't answering him, 'I like people to follow my orders. When I ask you a question you'll answer. But I'll let it slip just this once y/n, now tell me about that night.'

You click your tongue and bow your head, 'not much, it's all a bit of a blur. He tried to come onto me and I must have snapped remembering my father because next thing I know he's dead.'

You shudder, remembering vividly the night David put his hands on you and got angry when you refused. If you didn't submit to him he was going to kill you, so you had to fight back.

MIHAWK

I do the unthinkable and pull y/n into me watching the wheels turn in their head, 'we met briefly when you were eleven, I was curious what David saw in you. We then met for a second time when you were eighteen. I believe men should show honour and respect women, so when I saw him on top of you I killed him, you passed out and I left.'

y/n looks up at me, and through their emotions, I see further, I see hunger and drive, 'what happens now Mihawk?'

'You're still not ready to be out on your own so you're coming with me and I'll finish your training. You don't have any say in the matter because now you owe me your life,' I state, and y/n nods.

y/n then motions around them, 'any more loose ends to tie up?'

I shake my head, 'All taken care of, now let's go.'

I place my hand on y/n's back and guide them into the shadows. They continued to surprise me, and with my training, everyone was going to fear them.

#opla #one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece imagines #one piece live action #one piece live action imagines #anime imagines #anime fanfiction #anime blog #opla mihawk #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk x reader #one piece live action mihawk #one piece live action fanfiction #one piece mihawk #one piece dracule mihawk #opla mihawk imagines #opla mihawk fanfiction

295 notes · View notes

chrysopoeias · 2 months

Note

hi!! i see you're accepting prompts, what about more dunmeshi au? perhaps with hughes, or the homunculi?

p.s. your dunmeshi royai lives in my head rent-free... i love them so much your honour

Hughes would just be a tallman Roy meets after leaving the Hawkeye fam and becoming a soldier. So nothing exciting. I don’t have any ideas for the humonculi either...

But I do want Hayate to be an orphaned/abandoned kobold child that Riza adopts and raises. She has experience lol and roy gets blueballed and jealous

I did try and doodle the rest of the team based on arakawa’s lineup art of them (^:

#ask #draw #royai #rip for getting to these much later and them being only low quality sketches #i got a lot more busy and tired unexpectetly

104 notes · View notes

whalesforhands · 6 months

Note

now that i think about it, i don’t we’ve actually seen any mention of dyf!mc’s family. is mc’s family alive, even? is she like,, an orphan? or does she not like to talk abt them for some reason? just a thought

speaking of dyf!mc, since gojo was so casual with calling utahime abt mc being alive again, imagine with nanami, riko and haibara’s reactions were 😭

-omori anon

i’ve been waiting for this question LOL

it is because ‘digest your feelings’ is quite literally and primarily focused on your feelings about the jjk cast, haha. other family members/friends or none at all is up to your own interpretation, since they aren’t my main point :)

however if you do see ocs (eg sylrel from stt) know that they do have a significance lol

masterlist

“Are you actually real?!” She’s poking at you, squishing your face, pulling your cheeks, prodding at your ears as Kuroi joins in, her hands clasped around your fingers with happy tears in her eyes as they began their onslaught on tears onto the couch.

“I can’t believe it…!” She’s sniffling, the words barely eligible through the extremely grateful, crying tones.

You’ve been getting hounded by the two the moment they quite literally fell over themselves as they burst through the front door, shoes haphazardly thrown off and jumping you the moment you greeted them with the intent of having a lovely catch up over tea and snacks.

Riko is still in shock, hands dropping onto your shoulders, shaking you back and forth vigorously as disbelieved eyes run up and down you over and over, stopping shortly to pinch herself as her brain begins to spin.

“Riko, dear, please do not harm her—“ Kuroi is panicking, dabbing a tissue (courtesy of you) to her face as she loosely attempts to loosen her lady’s hold on you, trying to pry away her hands before any serious injury is dealt.

(She’s not very successful, considering the waterfall of tears from her face.)

“I can assure you she’s plenty real.” Suguru’s gentle voice is all you can hear when he approaches, a hand smoothing out your hair as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, tray of tea set down inconspicuously quick in order to reach you.

Riko jumps away instantaneously.

“Blegh, married people!” Riko’s immediately shrinking into herself, hands crossed over her chest as she sticks her tongue out in utter disgust. “Especially with that weird, conman smile of yours!”

“Riko… Insulting our hosts is not—“

“My, you still think that after all these years?” Suguru’s beginning to pull away from you, the smile on his face trembling to keep up its appearance, vein popping on his head as he begins to turn away, only for your hands to reach up and grab his head.

“I think it’s a pretty smile…!” You hope he doesn’t see the sweat that was beginning to form… Your eyes jumping from his enamored gaze stuck on you to an even more disgusted Riko.

(Doesn’t she know this is her chance to run?!)

“Ahhh, Suguru…! I forgot I already ate all the snacks you bought from Osaka!” Satoru is back from scouring through the cabinets, unable to find the treats as a pout is on his face, his hands settling on your shoulders from behind, his body leaned down and cuddling his cheek onto the top of your head.

“Don’t be mad at me? Pleaseeeeee?”

(Holding you like this to him and making puppy dog eyes is bound to make Suguru less angry.)

“This glutton…” Suguru is trying to hold it together as Riko starts arguing with a guiltless Satoru, teary-eyed Kuroi and yourself trying your best to defuse the situation.

(“How did you even finish so much?!”

“My husband just has the best taste in food!”

“You greedy, oddly skinny, treat-stealing—!”

“Riko—“ A sniffle as she politely blows her nose. “I can’t say that I disagree but—“

“My wife!” He looks down at you with hidden playfulness and cute mischief in his grin. “Defend my honour from the invading troops!”

“Don’t try to make up for his mistake—!”)

The doorbell rings. A few polite knocks to the door ensue before a figure bursts in, trailed by another behind.

“Yahoo! We bought cake!”

——

“How many fingers am I holding up?!” Haibara’s face is tense, concentrated into one of extreme focus and constipated anticipation, lips bitten in anxiety induced stress as he stares deeply into your gaze.

“Uhm… 3?”

“She’s real—!” He’s cut off by the sudden smack to the back of his head, a gargled choke coming out before he falls to the floor in mock defeat. “That does not prove anything.”

The heavy drawl of Nanami’s voice sounds out as goggled eyes stare at you, before they’re abruptly pulled off to take in the way your face is turning blank, yet still withholding that innocent smile.

“I still can’t believe it.”

“Ahaha… I get that quite a lot.” You’re scratching your cheek as you really let that feeling sink in, taking a breath in, shimmering eyes opening fully to truly convince yourself.

“But I have to say…” Your eyes take in the older forms of the people around you. “You’ve all grown so beautifully… Care to catch me up to speed about your lives?” The smile on your face is playful and happy, relaxed and at ease.

You’re home.

Notes:

Shortly after Gojo had sent your selfie to Utahime via text message, there was an absolute barrage of calls that Satoru had shrugged off and said the following;

“Nahhhh, let’s just let her come see you in person!” As he completely ignored his phone, throwing the vibrating device behind him as he kisses your hair, and pressing sloppy pecks to your cheeks as you squealed and tried to pull away.

Utahime showed up at the door shortly after Nanami and Haibara, her clothes in absolute disarray and looking as if she had just gone through hell, before she spots you, shoulders suddenly relaxing and practically tackling you into a hug, weeping and crying.

“It’s you! It’s really you!” The cryptic text messages Shoko had sent about being happy, the sudden selfies Satoru had sent… Good god, she had hoped for the worst.

But this outcome… Where she’s crying into your arms and being happy… All whilst muttering about strangling the white haired menace alongside wringing his husband.

She likes it.

(She still boarded the earliest train possible and had barely packed anything in her rush to see you.)

#dyf au #nvytalks #omori anon

82 notes · View notes

sunlightandsuffering · 26 days

Text

POSTING JEDI AU BC I WANT IT TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY BC I LOVE IT AND IT'S SO CUTE !!!

Jedi AU

Mikasa comes to Eren at sixteen, prim and shy, but ever eager to please. Eren is twenty-one, and he is not at all impressed with the assignment.

Everyone else heralds it as an honour, what a big achievement to have your own padawan learner when he’s barely an adult himself.

Eren on the other hand sees the ‘honour’ for what it really is: babysitting. And not just for him, but for Mikasa as well.

Because his own master had been drawn away on other assignments, missions that Eren couldn’t go on. And the Jedi Order couldn’t have their most rebellious young master running around the galaxy unsupervised. So, they’d given him Mikasa and said here, teach her. They’d successfully saddled him with more responsibility than he’d ever wanted and effectively knee-capped him from doing anything too crazy… Not that the things he did were ever really that crazy, they just weren’t so perfectly in line with the Jedi Order’s world philosophy. She’d stepped off the ship in a blaze of barely contained excitement, he could tell, even as quiet as she was that she was practically bursting with energy, but she’d been raised by the order, so what could he really expect? Orphaned at a young age and found miraculously on the burning remains of her planet, Mikasa had been taken in by a wandering Jedi and raised at the temple.

For all intents and purposes, she was the perfect specimen, everything a Jedi should be and so not who Eren had wanted to teach.

She’d looked up at him dutifully, waiting to be spoken to, eager to receive orders and Eren knew immediately she was going to be a problem. They were so diametrically opposed it was laughable, and he thinks the Order probably is laughing at him, payback for causing them so much trouble over the years. Eren sighs, reaching his hand out for a shake, “I’m Eren Yeager, I’ll be your new Master.” “I’m Mikasa,” she tells him sweetly, finally letting a small smile overtake her lips, “I look forward to working with you.” Oh, this was going to be a struggle of epic proportions, he can already tell.

The longer Eren spends with Mikasa, the more sure he is that the Jedi Temple moulded her to be everything he isn’t, to be his worst nightmare personified.

Because that’s exactly what she is.

“Well, Master I think we should follow Jedi protocol, and it says to call –” “Mikasa,” He tells her warningly, and she shuts up, her mouth pursing shut, she’s used to it at this point.

This is how 90 percent of their discussions go these days. “The other masters will be mad,” she sing songs as Eren drags a droid away from the wreckage of the ship he’s trying to access.

Eren sends her an unimpressed glare over his shoulder, grunting as he hefts the droid out of the way, “Yeah, well the Jedi Order can stuff it, there’s a lot of things they get mad at me about.” “Why do you insist on doing everything incorrectly? Maybe if you did things the right way like I tell you to, then you wouldn’t get in so much trouble.” “Who’s the Master here, Mikasa?” She shuts up again, huffing in irritation and Eren has to remind himself it’s him, he’s literally the master here, their very small age gap and her immense knowledge of Jedi principles blurs the line sometimes. He’s only five years older, sometimes it’s a little hard to boss her around so much, especially when to top it all off she’s almost as good of a fighter as him. He curses away to himself as he steps into the abandoned ship, because of course, he had to be paired with the most gifted Jedi of the new generation, topping even him in her midiclorian count and with the uncanny natural ability to simply kick ass. Her fighting skills are amazing, almost on par with his own, her only fatal flaw is perhaps that she’s such a rule follower. It blinds her in other aspects, makes her too trusting, too sweet.

Something that could one day get her killed. Eren looks back sharply at the thought, his pain-in-the-ass little padawan nowhere to be found, standing guard until she’s given another order, proving his point. Eren sighs, “Mikasa, get over here brat.” He hears her make a little noise of affront at being called a brat, she gets all cute when she’s huffy, like an angry kitten, and then there are footsteps as she enters the ship. She’s hurrying so fast she runs right into him and Eren grunts as her little body collides with his at full speed, but he’s quick to steady her, firmly grasping her shoulders.

“Mika,” he chides softly, “Be careful okay, and remember to follow me okay, what if there were still enemies out there, what if something happened to you?” There’s a pretty blush staining her cheeks, but still, she protests, “I can take care of myself!” Eren quirks an eyebrow up at her, his hands rubbing softly up and down her biceps, “And what did I say about that?” Her cheeks puff up as she repeats his words back to him, “I can’t say that until I can beat you in a spar three times in a row.” “And have you?” He questions, because yeah, sometimes being her Master is a little bit fun. “No,” she grumbles out in irritation and he smirks, giving her a playful love tap to her cheek before letting her go, and she gasps in response, “Eren!”

“Master,” he corrects easily, already slipping further into the ship to investigate, and now he’s really pissed her off, her usually sweet, quiet presence raging behind him. She’s stomping around the ship, showcasing her rage at being spoken down to, and Eren can’t help his smile as he inspects the engine controls, trying to grasp what exactly went wrong here. He hears something fall but doesn’t look back, engrossed in attempting to revive part of the ship, maybe he can find an old flight path if he gets it going.

His fingers fiddle with buttons and wires, all the while Mikasa seems to be making a lot of noise behind him, a lot more noise than he thinks he’s ever heard her make before. Mikasa really is the perfect padawan, or well she probably would be for any other Jedi – intelligent, kind, brilliant fighting skills, quick on her feet – all qualities necessary in a great Jedi.

Eren would have preferred someone more flawed, an orphan with maybe a bit more emotional damage he could counsel, someone more similar to him. Not quite such a rule follower, someone he could really bond with, who might look up to him.

Mikasa isn’t any of those things. Except for right now, it seems as Eren turns around finally after something else goes crashing to the ground. His padawan is glaring at him from where she’d very obviously knocked something over, sweet, docile Mikasa who never allows her emotions to get the better of her is evidently, very displeased with him.

And most interestingly, demanding his attention, even more as she stares him down, those quicksilver eyes raging, purposefully knocking something else right off the shelf next to her. She’s exactly like a cat, a displeased little creature that gets what it wants. Eren can barely repress his smile, maybe there’s still hope for him yet, some fire in those pretty silver eyes of hers.

He’s almost giddy at the thought because maybe she’s not a completely lost cause, maybe he can still corrupt her just a little, mould her into being a truly great Jedi instead of a standard foot soldier, someone who thinks for themselves, assesses the situation and decides the next course of action instead of consulting the damn Jedi temple on everything. “Miki,” Eren hums, and she perks right up at the name, it’s one she favours and something he doesn’t call her often, reserves it for special circumstances. “Are you mad at me?” “What gave you that idea?” “Miki,” he chides, beckoning her forwards, and she stomps towards him angrily.

She stops just before him, glaring up at his tall frame, evergreen locked with silver and Eren smiles, full and genuine at the cute little expression of rage on her face, eyebrows knitted together in irritation. “Tell me what’s wrong?” “Master, you always dismiss me! And you rarely let me fight, even though I can. At the temple I was the best, I beat all the other kids, and I- I was so excited when I found out I’d be training under you, but you never let me show off, never let me fight.” She deflates towards the end of her monologue and Eren hums in acknowledgement, “It’s not because I don’t trust you Mikasa, I’d just rather watch you fight in more controlled environments first. It’s only been a few months, I don’t want to throw you head first into battle.” “But-” He tuts her, his hand slipping up into the tangles of her hair, pushing her bangs back behind her ears, he’s always had a fascination with that sleek pretty black hair of hers, how soft it is, how it feels under his fingertips, “Don’t worry I’m going to let you fight Mikasa, but once you can beat me three times in a row, which I know you will do.” He gives a soft little yank at one of the dark strands of her hair, “You’re a great fighter Mikasa, brilliant, especially with your lightsaber, but you fight predictably. Just like the Order teaches, the same spar you’ve done a hundred times. That’s not how real enemies fight, that’s not how I fight.” Eren smirks, his hand combing out her hair now, something Mikasa leans into, has always enjoyed the rare time he shows her affection.

“I fight dirty, and I always win. There’s a reason I’m so revered at the temple, that my missions are always successes, albeit with perhaps more damage than I’d usually like. It’s because my methods differ from the Jedi temple, and I think that’s something you need.”

“Oh,” she murmurs softly, eyes now shut, like a cat, as he continues to finger his hands through her hair, his other one slipping up to join in the soft thick strands. She makes a little noise of contentment as he gathers the thick dark mop of her hair in his hands, leaning in as he styles it into a makeshift bun, using his own hair elastic to fasten it at the base of her head. He presses a soft kiss to her temple as he finishes, affection she’s never had, that Eren can’t help but give, something the Jedi Order frowns upon but Mikasa needs more than anything, such a touch-starved child.

His hands skim down now, settling over her shoulders, “Do you understand now? It’s not because I don’t trust you, it’s because we’re already training Mikasa, and if I have my way you’ll be the best Jedi the order has ever seen.” “Even better than you?” She breathes curiously, her eyes soft and warm now, pliant, heather grey. He chuckles, “Of course, you’re my padawan after all, you’ll have to be better than me.” Mikasa smiles, such a full and beautiful smile, so bright he almost has to look away, “I have to train all those bad Jedi habits out of you though, I think they sent me the worst recruit they could find.” At this, she smacks him and Eren cackles, pinching her side.

“At least I know how to cook.” Eren guffaws, “Barely!” “I’m better than you!” “Not by much.”

Sometimes, Mikasa wonders how Eren ever thought she wouldn’t fall in love with him.

Force, how the Jedi Order had thought she wouldn’t fall in love with him? It’s like they were hoping for it. Even when she was younger, she could remember hearing about the trouble-making padawan that no matter how he went against the Jedi temple rules, never had an unsuccessful mission. She had been enamoured, who was this boy, this legend in the making? And then as she’d gotten older, moved up the ranks herself, set to become a padawan, she’d seen him in action and she’d been star-struck. Only once in battle before she’d been ushered away to safety, only a glimpse, but the way his hair had stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat, blood spattering his tunic, forearms pulled taut as he held his light-saber. He’d looked like a vengeful God, and for reasons unknown to her, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head ever since. He’d appear in her dreams, always standing over her, shirtless, saving her life, the lines of his back cut like there should be wings there.

She’d seen him only once more before she’d become his padawan, and it had only elevated him further in her mind, up high on that pedestal she could never reach, never even hope to touch. He’d been in the middle of the council, and she’d been sneakily walking by, only to hear the voices of the council. And Mikasa, ever the dutiful student, hadn’t been able to help her curiosity. What she saw had been the dressing down of a lifetime, as Eren stood in the middle of the council, being utterly ripped apart for his most recent mission. She’d been nodding her head along, agreeing, until Eren had finally defended himself, speaking of all the lives he’d saved.

That had shut them up rather promptly, and Eren had been smirking when she’d finally disappeared down the hall, her heart beating with far more than just the adrenaline of listening in on a top-secret meeting.

Because Eren had looked particularly handsome that day, his hair windswept against his cheeks, the long cloak the Jedi typically wore conspicuously absent to display lean muscle instead.

And now, at sixteen, the peak age for puberty, when hormones are running high, especially in battle, the Jedi Order had thought it was a great idea to pair her off with a handsome rebellious twenty-one-year-old? It was cruel, to be honest. Everyone else she knew had older men with beards for masters, shrivelled up and half dead. And here she was with probably the best-looking boy she’d ever seen in her life, and he was around her all the time. Mikasa knew she would be a good Jedi, it was what she was born and raised for after all, she’d spent countless hours sparring, mastering her use of the force, everything to be the best she could possibly be. But lately, she finds what is thwarting her the most is the whole ‘no attachment’ part of being a Jedi.

Because it’s becoming really hard for her not to get attached.

Eren steps out of the bathroom, clad in only a towel, his other hand occupied in drying his long hair, water dripping down the divots of his abs. Her mouth suddenly feels very dry, and he sends her a wink as she eats her soup. Yeah, it’s becoming really, really hard for her not to get attached. He disappears down the hall to his quarters, and Mikasa spends ten minutes fanning herself, chanting the Jedi Code over and over again.

No attachment, absolutely none, not allowed!

But really in hindsight how did they expect her not to fall in love?

Eren is passionate, almost to a fault, and since she’s joined him on his missions as his padawan she’s realized that he’s particularly passionate about her safety.

In a way, it’s kind of flattering, and in other ways, it makes her heart almost beat out of her chest.

He’s always saving her, even when she doesn’t need saving, he’s always there. And afterwards, he’s scolding her for ever being in danger in the first place, as if it isn’t part of both of their jobs.

But it’s afterwards, that’s the part she adores the most, after the lecture and the yelling when he’s tucking her into his chest and whispering into her hair how much she scared him, that she shouldn’t go out and be so reckless. To which she always replies cheekily, “Isn’t that what you trained me to do?” He always pinches her side for that particular comment, but it never gets old, being wrapped in the warmth and safety of his arms, it feels like coming home, like safety in a way the Jedi temple never has.

“Mikasa,” Eren chastises her from the head of the ship where he’s piloting them off towards some faraway planet for their next mission, ready to shoot them into hyperdrive, “What are you doing?” He can tell she’s up to no good just by the sound of her footsteps, how she tries to soften them just slightly, her breathing clipped as she tries not to let him hear her. He spins in his chair to find her slipping out of his room, and he quirks an eyebrow curiously, repeating his question, “What are you doing?” She winces as she’s found out, slumping in place. She’s cute, adorably messy all dolled up in her pyjamas, hair tucked up behind her in a messy bun that he aches to pull into a proper one. Always her damn hair.

“I had a nightmare,” she murmurs, “I was gonna go sleep in your bed.” “C’mere,” he beckons her, his hands just itching to properly tie up that silky hair of hers and almost as soon as she’s within reach he’s dragging her to his lap, turning her around. She shuts her eyes blissfully as she leans back into him, her head tilted against his shoulder as he massages her scalp, gathering the sleek strands into a soft bun at the base of her skull, one that won’t come out so easily like hers did. “What was the nightmare about?” He murmurs as he ties it up with her pretty red ribbon. “Losing my parents.” She doesn’t miss a beat, and Eren sighs as he turns her in his lap, her hair now secured properly. “Are you scared?” She shakes her head, grey eyes tearing up, “I just miss them.” And before she can stop herself, the tears are rushing down her cheeks in hot streaks, more than Eren is equipped to deal with. He sighs, rough hands coming up to wipe at her tears tenderly, “I’m not going to bed anytime soon I have to pilot us to the next planet, but why don’t you sit with me? You can keep me company.” “Okay,” she murmurs through her tears and Eren settles her in the chair next to him, piling her up high with a soft fuzzy blanket as he tucks her into the large swivel chair. “Better?” He asks, and she nods, wiping the rest of her tears into the blanket and Eren smiles, his hand finding her knee to lovingly stroke, “You’ve got me now, I’m here, and I’ll never leave you.” “What about,” she sniffles slightly, “What about when I become a master in my own right?” Eren chuckles, “We’ve got a few more years but even then I think I’ll keep you around Miki, you’re not so bad.” She smiles through her tears, resting her head on her knees as she looks at him, “Would you have stayed with your master if you could?”

Eren shrugs, his hand still resting on her knee comfortingly, and Mikasa shivers as he strokes over sensitive skin not covered by her blanket, his hands so big and warm.

“Probably if I could have, but you know the council wanted me doing my own thing, cause less chaos that way, you know how it is.” It’s quiet for a moment and Eren smiles at her softly, squeezing her knee, “But I’m happy how things turned out, I got you instead and that’s not bad at all.” Her breath hitches and she feels like she can’t breathe, her eyes drawn towards his lips and the chiselled cut of his jaw, so brutally beautiful, the harsh angles of his face contrasted with the soft length of his eyelashes, those brilliant green eyes. He’s stunning, and she just wants to lean across the controls and kiss him, has to grip the arms of her chair just to stop herself.

That night she falls asleep encased in his arms, even better than his bed, warm and protected. She’s only mildly upset the next morning when she wakes up in her own bed, devoid of her master, no evidence it had ever happened at all. Except when she glimpses her reflection in her bedroom mirror and where she expects to find bedhead sticking up at all angles, she finds only perfectly smooth plaits, meticulously woven and expertly banded together.

Mikasa is not oblivious to the fact that Eren has needs, more carnal needs, it’s something she’d discovered a few months into her apprenticeship. She’d seen a pretty girl leaving his rooms as she reported, bright and early, ready to start the day. Eren hadn’t exactly been thrilled to see her, looking a little worse for wear. He’d grumpily told her to come back in an hour.

She’d left wondering what this awful feeling in her gut was, this painful sorrow she didn’t understand.

The feeling had only grown with every subsequent girl she saw him with, how he’d pick them up in different worlds between missions, shooing her off to her quarters and telling her not to knock on his door that night. The deep selfish part of her always wondered what he’d do if she did knock, if she claimed to have a nightmare, would he drop everything for her, push the girl out the door to tuck her into his arms instead? The only thing stopping her from testing the theory was her Jedi training, and her strict promise to herself not to get attached.

She’s not attached already, she’s absolutely not! Well… maybe she is, just a little bit.

And as she teeters on the edge of seventeen, a few months until her eighteenth birthday, her attachment becomes more and more apparent. She’s been with Eren for almost two years now, watching him, learning from him. She’s intimately familiar with him, his every quirk, every preference, how he likes his breakfast, how to beat him in a spar.

It’s becoming dangerous, just how well she knows him, because she’s starting to notice things… things she has no business noticing.

Like his obsession with her hair, how he can never seem to pass up the opportunity to touch the long sleek strands, or how he fusses when she leaves it loose sometimes. He always claims it’s unacceptable for battle, too much of a liability, but Mikasa thinks he just likes to touch it, and she won’t complain. She’s grown to love it, the feeling of his hands in her hair, battle-calloused hands working at her scalp so gently, plaiting her hair with expert precision.

Mikasa absolutely refuses to admit that she ruffles her bedhead up a little more than she should, that she enjoys how he fusses over her in the morning when it’s particularly wild. Mikasa has noticed this obsession with her hair also seems to extend to his overnight guest preferences. At first, it had pained her to see all these beautiful women slip from Eren’s quarters, long sleek dark hair, always a shade of dark brown or raven as her own, and always long and silky. Temptresses, Mikasa thought of them, beautiful women with perfect bodies, and long flowing hair, styled in a way Eren would never allow her to even think of. To leave her hair loose was to be killed in battle, and it was something her master adamantly refused, always pulled the pretty dark strands taut against the back of her head in some sort of twist.

She tugs on her long strands self-consciously as she sips her morning tea, awaiting the exit of Eren’s visitor from last night. She’s thought about cutting the strands short, but she thinks Master would have even more of a conniption about that, and if nothing else she loves how he touches her, can’t help but finger the strands, comb his hands through the silky locks.

Mikasa prides herself on how perfectly taken care of it is, always smelling of lavender and sage, preening when Eren notices the scent. There is the click of a door and Mikasa’s head snaps up, torn from her daydreams and she spots her, a blonde today, the golden colour more bronze, so dark it almost borders on brunette. And as they lock eyes, Mikasa’s mouth twists up in disgust, because she’s discovered another preference of her master’s, one she hadn’t been sure of, but today confirms it.

He prefers Jedi women, to anyone else.

She’s not sure when he picked up this proclivity, probably only in the last few months, but recently it feels like every girl she sees exiting his room she’s also seen around Jedi headquarters.

It’s awkward, but at least they don’t linger.

Because Jedi don’t form attachments… Thus, Mikasa cannot be forming an attachment. And there is, therefore, zero reason for her to be excited about the prospect of Eren preferring Jedi women, hopeful even. Why should she be excited about that? Why would she? She’s not attached, not at all.

She’s also not jealous of the pretty blonde Jedi she’s seen around Jedi headquarters, that she’s seen Eren talk to more than she’d like. Mikasa does not fume silently as she watches the woman slip out of Eren’s bedroom, Jedi robes askew and with a slightly guilty look on her face. “Mikasa,” She whispers, shocked as she stands in the main lobby, a stand-off as she notices Mikasa seated at the ship’s helm, glaring miserably at Eren’s door. “Misha,” Mikasa responds coldly.

Internally, she chastises herself, the ever-present voice of the order in her ear, urging her to call this woman ‘master’, to give her the respect she is owed. Mikasa takes a cue from Eren for once and continues to simply glare at the woman instead, the petty part of her refusing to even stand to greet her. “What are you doing up dear? I umm I hope we didn’t wake you –” “You didn’t,” Mikasa retorts, cutting her off, “But you should head out, Master and I have to leave soon.”

“Oh,” Misha mumbles, looking slightly put out, “Well could you pass along a message for me?” No, no she will not, but Misha doesn’t have to know that. “Tell him I’m around here a lot if he ever wants to…” Misha trails off and Mikasa wants to growl at her, how inappropriate the request is. The Jedi Order trained part of her kicking and screaming in her head about propriety and attachments and the fact that this is her fucking superior, asking her to proposition her own master on her behalf. But instead of saying anything, Mikasa forces a smile, just the smallest twitch of her lips, snuggling further back into her chair, “I’ll be sure to relay the message.” Misha smiles, “Thanks Mikasa, you’re a promising padawan I know you’ll do great things.” Yes, yes she will, but she doesn’t need this woman to tell her that. “Goodbye Misha,” Is Mikasa’s only response, a dismissal, and she can’t resist the cruel smile of triumph at how Misha deflates. The woman linger for another moment, glances back towards Eren’s door one more time as she leaves, looking slightly put out by the entire interaction.

It is a small consolation to Mikasa, especially when Eren asks about her a few hours later, looking glum. “Did you see Misha when she left this morning?”

“No,” Mikasa tells him primly, “But when we were fuelling up I saw her laughing with Master Reiner, they seem quite close.”

“Oh,” Eren replies, looking slightly put out, “I umm didn’t realize they knew each other so well.”

“Neither did I,” Mikasa comments casually, beginning to steer the ship out of the port, a responsibility Eren has finally allowed her again after the meteor incident.

“But they must be quite close,” She continues nonchalantly, “She was touching his arm, they seemed so comfortable together.”

Eren says nothing and Mikasa presses her lips together to repress her pleased smile as Eren drops down into the seat next to her, a hand slipping up to affectionately tug at her bangs, “Don’t crash the ship again please.”

She beams at him, “I’m only as good as my teacher, Master.”

“That’s it, give me the wheel, brat.”

Life is good.

#jedi em au #jedi au eremika #jedi eremika #lys's drabbles

32 notes · View notes

trans-cuchulainn · 3 months

Note

tell me about him.

the story i remember: an orphan boy is raised to be very good at sports. he accidentally kills the local king’s favorite dog, and takes the dogs place as a guard??

not an orphan! he has many dads. really a disproportionate number of dads. and also a mum. she's called dechtire or dechtine and doesn't come up very often, but she's the sister of conchobar, king of the ulaid, so cú chulainn is the king's nephew

he gets his name by killing (deliberately) the watch dog of a man named culann, bc he was late to a feast and the dog had already been let out to guard the place so it tried to kill him but he got there first. culann wasn't thrilled about this, so young sétanta (or sédana but it's sétanta in all the versions of the boyhood deeds that i know) is like "i will get you another dog and in the meantime i will guard your land for you" and everyone is like, cool, that seems a reasonable thing for a six year old to say, let's give him a new name while we're about it

anyway then he grows up to do a shitton of murder, most notably in táin bó cúailnge, which is the story of one 17-year-old boy (cú chulainn) versus the armies of ireland, and he's winning. also he kills his best friend/foster brother in a deeply homoerotic duel, as ya do.

bunch more murders, bunch more adventures, then eventually it catches up with him ~16 years later and the kids of loads of people he killed are like "hey so fuck that guy in particular, right?" and team up to murder him bc truly he was great at making enemies. bye bye cú chulainn. he dead.

cú chulainn's best friend, best weapon, and probably the sole reason he didn't die at 15 instead of 33 is his charioteer láeg mac riangabra. láeg my best beloved. bit of a weirdo, bit obscure, no one's totally sure where he comes from and also he is entirely down to do murder for cú chulainn when necessary. probably a similar age to cú chulainn which frankly explains a lot. they play fidchell together which is a strategy board game a bit like chess so basically they are the chess club nerds who will beat YOU up

i love them, your honour

#answered #anonymous #cu chulainn #ulster cycle #the quickest introduction ever lol

48 notes · View notes

saintsenara · 9 months

Text

a very happy birthday to everyone's best girl, harry james potter.

in honour of the birthday event that @thethreebroomsticksficfest are doing for you, have a little microfic...

Traditions

He’d been at the Burrow for her birthday before, of course.

But perhaps he’d been too preoccupied in previous years, with the War and all that shit, to notice the rituals which surrounded it - the special song and the cake and ice-cream and the specific order of the day - until this one, when Ginny turned seventeen in a world grieving and rejoicing all at once.

He squeezed her hand as she blew out the candles, a little gesture of support before he slipped unobtrusively into the house. They would understand. They knew that he was still a stranger to the easy intimacy of family life.

They were too polite to ask, but Molly’s pinched lips whenever the Dursleys were mentioned told him as clearly as if she had shouted it that she knew there had been no cake and ice-cream waiting for him on his birthday. He was grateful, in a way, that nobody had ever forced him to confess it out loud: ‘well, I don’t have any birthday traditions because I’m an orphan and I was raised by people who detested me simply for existing.’

He was grateful, in a way, that nobody could entirely understand - and, therefore, that they were too nervous about upsetting him to say anything - that being an orphan is like being a palimpsest. That your life is a constant search for something - a flicker of ink beneath the layers, a single blood-cell in the bone-marrow, a ripped stitch still clinging to a hem - that ties you to your family. He wondered if his dad had liked treacle tart, or if his mum had such a distinctive facial expression that she could be recognised through Polyjuice, or if either of them talked with their hands. He wished he’d asked Sirius. He wished he had time to.

He wished he’d remembered more things about Lupin, so that when Teddy asked him the same - ‘did he talk like me, or walk like me, or think like me’ - he could say something, something authoritative, and mean it.

He wished he’d known more orphans.

Other than the obvious one.

‘What if we’d sat down and said, “hey, having no parents is a fucking trip”? What would have happened then?’ he said aloud, lying on his back on Ginny’s rumpled sheets.

The real answer, of course, was that he’d have been murdered. But, in his fantasy world, they might have compared the faded manuscripts of their ancestry and Harry might have learned of a kindred spirit, engaged in a desperate quest to share something other than a face and a name with a father, or a strange language with a mother. A quest to know if the magpieishness or the love of monologuing ran in the blood. A quest to, quite literally, solve riddles.

There can be even fewer birthday traditions in orphanages than in the Dursleys’ square little house.

Perhaps orphans sit on narrow windowsills and watch the fireworks on New Year’s Eve, and imagine they are for them.

Harry rose and looked out from the window, across the burnished fields of high-summer barley, and tried to imagine that the molten patchwork of the landscape was gleaming just for him; that the world had decked herself in the strawberry ice-cream streak of the evening sky and the golden-snitch glitter of the countryside in order to celebrate him.

The air smelled of honeysuckle and peace.

He took a deep breath.

#asenora fics #birthday fic #harry potter #is this tomarry if you squint?

85 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 8 days

Text

Liz Truss is the most disastrous and unpopular leader in modern British history. Mortgage holders and small businesses still loathe her for sending interest rates through the roof. Her short, catastrophic premiership is routinely compared unfavourably to the shelf life of a lettuce. (A comparison first made by the bright leader writers at the Economist to give credit where it is due.)

When Labour wins the next election, its triumph will be in part the result of the public’s reaction against her vast and dogmatic economic folly.

If you were Liz Truss, you might retire from public life. At the very least you would apologize and hang your head in shame.

If readers expect contrition, however, they have yet to learn that being on the radical right means never having to say you are sorry.

Truss’s demotion from national leader to national joke has not embarrassed her in the slightest but pushed deep into paranoid conspiracism.

Her autobiography, bizarrely titled Ten Years to Save the West, as if the fate of liberal democracy depended on the advice of an epic failure, shows that, despite all she did to this country, her eyes still shine with a bright, self-righteous fanaticism, as if the sockets are backlit by an idiot’s lantern,

Chutzpah used to be defined as murdering both your parents and asking the court for clemency because you are an orphan. In Truss’s case it is using the power of the prime minister to crash the economy and then claiming she was a powerless victim of the liberal elite.

Her writing is as lacking in self-awareness as it is powered by self-righteousness.

At one point she says in all innocence that, when Boris Johnson resigned in the summer of 2022, her agent encouraged her to join the race to be prime minister, as the campaign might be good for her profile.

But she reports that he then wisely added “it would be for the best if I came second”.

Later she informs us that during the leadership campaign she “frankly lost trust in many of my erstwhile ministerial colleagues who were supporting my opponent [Rishi Sunak].

“They had spent the last six weeks not just attacking me but seeking to undermine my plans, saying my agenda was unworkable."

Truss never stops to think that the few people who will finish this book will believe that her agent was right, and it would clearly have been for the best if she had never been prime minister.

Nor does she contemplate the possibility that her agenda was indeed “unworkable”, and was proved to be unworkable when her unfunded tax cuts and fuel subsidies sent the price of gilts shooting up, the value of the pound crashing down, and caused a crisis in the pension industry for good measure.

And yet, and yet…Mock her as much as you like. Please don’t hold back on my account. But you cannot dismiss her.

There are two reasons why Truss is still dangerous. The first lies in the strength of the right-wing clique that brought her to power.

It is true that Liz Truss did not become prime minister by winning over Conservative MPs. As with Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership of the Labour party, Truss’s career illustrates the danger of expecting leaders who do not have the support of a plurality of their colleagues to function in a Parliamentary democracy.

But she still beat Rishi Sunak with the votes of 57 percent of Tory members.

And with the honourable exception of the Times, the Tory press was all for her. “In Liz We Trust”, said the Express “Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Woman”, cried the Mail. “Liz Puts Her Foot on the Gas”, cheered the Sun.

Kwasi Kwarteng set off a market panic as he put Truss’s ideas into practice in the mini budget of September 2022. The reaction of right-wing papers was not one of alarm, however, but of adoration.

“At last”, gushed the Daily Mail, “a True Tory Budget”. A Daily Telegraph commentator said it was “the best Budget I have ever heard a British Chancellor deliver”.

Meanwhile the Truss premiership allowed the voodoo economics of the US-influenced (and in all probability US-financed) think tanks to finally impose itself on this luckless country. The Centre for Policy Studies welcomed the mini-budget saying it was “exactly what we would have hoped for”. The Taxpayers’ Alliance called it “the most taxpayer-friendly budget in recent memory”.

Robert Saunders of Queen Mary University made the unarguable point that Truss was not an aberration or some alien figure that had appeared from nowhere to take over the Conservative party.

Follow the money that cascaded in from party donors, he said, and “the Truss premiership begins to look less like the personal failure of a flawed individual, and more like a systemic disaster for which the party bears collective responsibility”.

Those forces will dominate the Conservative party after its defeat and drive it to the radical right. Indeed, in opposition the members, the think tanks, the press and the ideologue donors will become more important, for they will be all the party has.

In a sign of things to come, Truss is already allying with Nigel Farage, and even Rishi Sunak says he will not ban Farage from joining Conservative party.

Despite her failure, Truss remains a potent figure on the radical right because of her championing of revanchism, which is now its dominant emotion.

This isn't a book. It’s a 300-page wail of resentment at a world that will not do as it is told.

I have no problem with conservatives complaining about woke policies taking over institutions. Only a fool or liar maintains that progressive biases among supposedly impartial organisations are an invention of the right,

But the woke conspiracy Truss invokes is of a wholly different order. It is utterly fantastical.

To recap, Truss's unfunded subsidies and tax cuts panicked the bond markets. They would not lend to a country whose leaders lacked plausible means of meeting its debts. Or if they did lend they would demand an additional yield on government bonds, which became known in plain-speaking financial markets as the “moron premium”: the extra cost that comes with lending to a nation run by idiots.

In her apologia Truss, who still poses as a Thatcherite, no longer sees markets as an expression of the wisdom of crowds, but as a conspiracy to do her down.

“I came to realise there is no such thing as ‘the market’ in this sense. Rather, there are groups of influential individuals in the financial establishment, all of whom know and speak to one another in a closed feedback loop. The Treasury, the Bank of England, and the OBR are deeply embedded in these social networks and share the same beliefs in the established economic orthodoxy."

The markets were at fault for not seeing her financial genius. Financial traders were the world’s unlikeliest lefties. Even though she and Kwarteng fired the permanent secretary at the Treasury and cut out the Bank of England and Office for Budget Responsibility from policy making, they were still, somehow, responsible for Tory failure.

“The powerful vested interests there pushed back, made my life very difficult and ultimately got me fired,” Truss concludes.

Older readers may remember a time when Conservatives insisted on personal responsibility. You were not allowed to blame crime on poverty or your failings on a bad childhood. You were accountable.

But the case of Liz Truss proves that these morality tales were only ever for the poor. In her mind, the economy collapsed not because of decisions she made but because of “a sustained whispering campaign by the economic establishment, encouraged and fueled by my political opponents in the Conservative Party who refused to accept my mandate to lead”.

Trumpism is the end point of such conspiracism and revanchism, and Truss goes all the way down the line to the terminus.

She mutters about the “deep state” a Trumpian phrase she uses without irony or self-knowledge.

And even though her support for Ukraine was her redeeming feature during her time as foreign secretary and prime minister, she is now supporting the pro-Putin Trump and his allies in Congress who are denying aid to Kyiv.

Truss is finished. But the resentment born of failure and the fury at modernity ensures Trump is still very much with us.

If he delights Putin and wins in November, the UK and Europe will learn the hard way that the real threat to Western civilisation comes from Liz Truss and her friends.

17 notes · View notes

dr-scribbler · 2 months

Text

Avalathu Kalvan (VanMozhi one shot)

Vaanathi, the princess of Kodumbalur, sat by her palace window in Thanjai, the capital of the Chola Kingdom. She gazed out, lost in thought, remembering her teenage years when she faced relentless bullying.

Her vision transformed into the memory of her first time in Pazhaiyarai.

She was a young girl sitting on the riverbed, tears streaming down her face. Her parents had passed away, leaving her orphaned. The other children taunted her, calling her an "unlucky princess" and shunning her from their games and conversations. The loneliness and despair weighed heavily on her young heart, and she often found solace in the quiet company of the river.

As Vaanathi recalled those painful memories, she felt a deep sadness wash over her. Despite her royal status, she had known great sorrow and hardship. But she also remembered the inner strength that had carried her through those dark times, which had helped her endure and persevere.

As she sat by the Ponni River in Pazhayarai, the gentle water flow calmed her nerves, and Vaanathi felt a familiar anxiety creeping in. She had barely arrived and already met the kind Chola princess Kundhavai, who had welcomed her warmly. But amidst the new surroundings and the friendly faces, Vaanathi couldn't shake off the fear of the unknown.

She was anxious about meeting Arunmozhi Varman, the youngest royal of the Chola Kingdom, who was adored by all. She had heard so much about him, his kindness, and his charisma. She couldn't help but secretly admire him from afar, though she had never seen him.

"What if he doesn't like me?" she thought, her heart skipping at the mere idea of meeting him. She knew she had to make a good impression, but her nerves got the best of her as she sat by the river, lost in her thoughts.

As the evening sky started to darken and the birds began to bid goodbye, Vaanathi's heart thumped with the possibility of doing something wrong.

As she was lost in her thoughts, Vaanathi suddenly heard the sound of hooves approaching. She turned to see a teenage boy riding his horse towards her with admiring eyes. Startled by the sudden interruption to her solitude, Vaanathi quickly stood up. She felt disappointed that her peaceful moment by the river had been disrupted abruptly. The boy looked at her with a warm smile, his eyes reflecting the fading light of the day. He dismounted from his horse and approached her, his gaze never leaving her face.

"You looked like a beautiful nymph, lost in the beauty of the evening sky," he said softly, his voice hinting at admiration.

Vaanathi felt her cheeks flush at the compliment. She had never been compared to a nymph before and wasn't sure how to respond. She looked down, feeling suddenly shy under his gaze.

Vaanathi quickly let go of her shyness and stood straight, reminding herself of her status as a princess. Despite her initial shyness, she tried to sound harsh when she asked the boy who he was. However, her innocent voice came out more like a kitten meowing.

The boy, amused, laughed but quickly composed himself. "I am a stable boy working in the palace," he replied.

As Vaanathi heard the boy's explanation, her eyes narrowed. For a stable boy, he looked remarkably polished and well-kept. She couldn't help but admire how he cared for himself, even in his role.

"I see," Vaanathi said, trying to maintain her composure. "As a stable boy, you seem to take great pride in your appearance."

The boy smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Appearances can be deceiving; sometimes, things are not as they seem."

Curious, the boy asked, "And who might you be?"

Vaanathi hesitated momentarily before replying, "I am Vaanathi, Princess of Kodumbalur."

"Princess," the boy repeated with a hint of surprise. "It's an honour to meet you, Princess Vaanathi."

Vaanathi slightly let go of her fake seriousness and smiled as she relaxed at the boy's gaze before her. She sat down and looked at the space beside her, indicating that he would sit beside her.

The boy understood the silent invitation and sat beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them. They sat silently momentarily, watching the river flow gently past them.

"It's peaceful here," the boy said, breaking the silence. "I often come here to escape the hustle and bustle of the palace."

Vaanathi nodded, enjoying the tranquillity of the moment. She opened up to this stranger despite knowing very little about him.

"I come here to find solace," she admitted softly. "Being a princess can be lonely at times."

The boy looked at her with understanding in his eyes. "I understand. Even though I'm just a stable boy, I often feel the weight of expectations on my shoulders."

They sat in companionable silence, each lost in their thoughts. Despite their different backgrounds, Vaanathi felt a connection with the boy beside her, which went beyond their titles and positions.

"But what's troubling you, princess, if you don't mind me asking?" he said, looking at her face admiringly, taking in her eyes, lips, nose, and everything about her.

Vaanathi exhaled slowly, relieved to confide in someone. She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath before speaking.

"From the time of my birth, I have always believed that I bring bad luck to the people I love," she admitted her voice barely above a whisper. "My parents passed away when I was young, and I have always felt responsible for their deaths. I fear anyone close to me will suffer the same fate."

The boy listened intently, his gaze soft and understanding. He reached out and gently took her hand in his, offering her comfort and reassurance.

"It's not your fault, princess," he said softly. "Bad things happen to everyone, but that doesn't mean you're cursed. Sometimes, we have to believe that things will get better."

Vaanathi felt a warmth spread through her at his words. For the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, her luck was about to change.

"So, as a Kodumbalur princess, what brought you to Pazhayarai?" he asked, his curiosity evident.

Vaanathi raised an eyebrow at his question. For a stable boy, he sure did talk a lot. She decided to indulge him with an answer.

"Well, I am here to meet the royals, and I've already met the princess," she replied. "But I am nervous for tomorrow, as I will meet the two Princes of Chola Desam."

The boy nodded, understanding her apprehension. "Meeting royalty can be intimidating, but I'm sure you'll do just fine."

Vaanathi smiled gratefully at his words. Despite his humble station, the boy's words were comforting, and she felt a sense of calm wash over her.

"Thank you," she said softly.

The boy smiled back, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, I am just a stable boy, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here."

Vaanathi hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "I am nervous because this is the first time I will meet Arunmozhi Varman, whom I am meant to marry."

The boy's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly recovered and smiled at her. "Why nervous if you are going to marry him?" he asked.

Vaanathi sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "What if he doesn't like me? I am not the strongest nor the most beautiful. I am just an orphan princess with nothing else to offer."

The boy gently took her hand, offering her comfort. "You are more than your titles, Princess Vaanathi. You have a kind heart and a gentle spirit. Prince Arunmozhi will see that and cherish you for who you are."

Vaanathi smiled, touched by his words. Despite being just a stable boy, he had a way of making her feel valued and understood.

The stable boy reached into his bag, which he always carried, and pulled out something that caught Vaanathi's curiosity. She watched closely as he turned around, asking her to open her palm and close her eyes. She did so hesitantly, feeling something round and cold placed in her hand.

"Open your eyes," he said gently.

Vaanathi opened her eyes to find a beautiful golden ball in her palm. She gasped, her eyes widening in surprise. This looked expensive.

The boy smiled at her reaction. "I crafted this from bits of gold I collected since childhood," he explained. "I always carried it with me. It brings me calm and serves as a lucky charm."

"You should keep it for tomorrow, for good luck," he suggested, noticing Vaanathi's apprehension about the upcoming meeting with the Chola princes.

Vaanathi shook her head, hesitant to accept such a precious gift from a stranger. But the boy persisted, his eyes filled with sincerity.

"I insist," he said softly. "It's just a small token of my appreciation for your kindness and for sharing your story with me."

Vaanathi looked at the golden ball in her hand, feeling touched by the boy's gesture. Despite his humble status, he was willing to give her something precious. She closed her fingers around the golden ball, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort wash over her.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice filled with gratitude.

The stable boy smiled at her and slowly bid her goodbye. As he turned to leave, Vaanathi couldn't help but ask, "How can I meet you again to return this golden ball to you?"

The boy turned back, his smile warm and reassuring. "I will come before you when I want it back," he said cryptically.

With that, he left, disappearing into the fading light of the day. Vaanathi watched him go, her heart filled with hope and happiness. She knew their paths would cross again, and she looked forward to the day when she could return the golden ball to him.

As the next morning dawned, Vaanathi got ready for the day ahead. She dressed in her finest attire, the golden ball safely tucked away in a pocket close to her heart. Just as she was about to leave her chambers, Princess Kundhavai entered, her face beaming excitedly.

"Good morning, Vaanathi!" Kundhavai exclaimed. "Are you ready for the meeting with the princes?"

Vaanathi nodded, returning Kundhavai's smile. Together, they made their way to the royal court, where the meeting would occur. Vaanathi's heart fluttered with nervous anticipation, but she felt a sense of calm knowing that she carried the golden ball with her, a reminder of the kind and hopeful encounter she had with the stable boy by the river.

As they entered the royal court, Vaanathi held the golden ball tightly, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. She thought of the stable boy and his kind smile, finding comfort in the memory. Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

Startled, Vaanathi looked up to see a tall boy a few years older than her looking down at her with a smirk. "Please don't be Arunmozhi, please don't be Arunmozhi," Vaanathi prayed silently, but the boy seemed to hear her and chuckled. Kundhavai, who was beside her, laughed as well.

"Don't worry, this is not Arunmozhi," Kundhavai reassured her. "This is Aditha Karikalan, my and Arunmozhi's elder brother."

"Sorry to disappoint you, my dear princess," Aditha joked, extending a hand to welcome her. Vaanathi smiled sheepishly, relieved that it wasn't Arunmozhi.

Kundhavai then asked about their brother, and all heads turned to the footsteps behind them. Vaanathi's eyes met with familiar ones, the eyes that made her feel calm and safe, the face that made her blush. Standing before her was the stable boy. Before Vaanathi could speak to him, Kundhavai looped her arm through his and brought him closer.

"Vaanathi, meet my little brother, Arunmozhi," Kundhavai introduced.

Vaanathi's heart raced. How could the stable boy be a prince? Her anxiety soared, and her vision started to blur. Before she could collapse, Arunmozhi caught her, his smile warm as he gently caressed her hair.

Flashback Ends

The now slightly older Vaanathi chuckled at her memory as she rolled the golden ball between her palms. "What made my queen so happy?" a voice called out. She looked up to see her husband, the great King Arunmozhi Varman, standing tall and strong with a face filled with love.

"I was thinking about a stable boy who captured my heart," Vaanathi replied, smiling at him.

"A stable boy?" Arunmozhi feigned hurt. "Where is this stable boy? I will have his head!" he joked, and they both laughed as they cuddled each other.

"Careful, my King," Vaanathi teased. "I am currently pregnant with his baby."

Arunmozhi gasped jokingly. "What?!"

Vaanathi Nodded as she laughed at her husband, to which ArunMozhi wiggled his eyebrows.

'What?' Vaanathi questioned. ‘Well, I am waiting for the princess to return the golden ball. She borrowed it from the stable boy," he said, and Vaanathi shook her head, stating, "The princess has now become queen, so her rules, as she has already given heart." She whispered as she closed their distance, and their lips met.

She knew they were destined to be together no matter where their journey started, ruling their kingdom with love and compassion.

Ohh! I am in love with the above AI art; it just gives me a peek at the romance that post-marriage VanMozhi would have had.

@whippersnappersbookworm @harinishivaa @thelekhikawrites @willkatfanfromasia @yehshuhua @arachneofthoughts @vibishalakshman @nspwriteups @thirst4light @hollogramhallucination @celestesinsight @curiousgalacticsoul @themorguepoet @tranquilsightseer @nature-writes29

21 notes · View notes

totallysora · 2 months

Text

Newsies (1992)

Ok so these are some things from 92sies! Icl I never actually had time to rewatch it so this is all from memory 😔 There is deffo more and at some point I will actually rewatch it and add to it, but this is all I have for now!

Crutchy is a cutie

Oscar mocking blink

For a group of kids who can’t actually sing they actually sound rlly good when they’re singning together 😭

Crutchy being stressed out at the start of carrying the banner

CRUTCHY OK I LOVED HIM SM 😕 Him messing with the newspapers 😭

“Nobody told the horse >:(” - Racetrack Higgins 1899

SANTA FE 🥰 For someone who clearly can’t sing HE DIDNT ACTUALLY DO A BAD JOB OK 😭

SPOT 🥰🥰

“Never fear Brooklyn’s here” - Spot Conlon 1899

Race and the others all asking synder to donate 😭 AND HIM ACTUALLY DOING IT 💀

Kloppmann 😻 Him protecting Jack 😭 they totally butchered his roll in the bway show but honestly I see why lmao

MEDDAAA‼️ SHE’S SO PRETTY 😕

Icl I don’t hate high times hard times I thought it was kinda fun

Everyone holding spot back ☹️ honestly I would’ve just let him beat his ass

THE FACT THAT SPOT ACTUALLY HAD SCREEN TIME 😻

Ok I could say this about both the bway show and the movie but in king of new york the fact that they’re all asking for rlly simple things 😕

SARAH JACOBS 🥰 SHE WAS SO PRETTY

THE FACT THAT SHE BASICALLY BEAT THE MORRIS’ ASS

Also Denton!! Don’t get me wrong I absolutely adore Katherine but I kinda like denton tbh

THE CHOREOGRAPHY WASNT EVEN THAT BAD ICL

“Go back to Brooklyn 😡” - A random newsies 1899 (to spot at the end lmao)

LES MF JACOBS ☹️ HE WAS SUCH A CUTIE 😭 (and he actually did look 7 so 💀)

The delanceys were just,,,ridiculous 😭

Jack and David r somehow still gay in the movie like what 😭

SPRACE 🥰 THEY ACTUALLY INTERACT IN THE MOVIE 😻

THE WAY SPOT NODS AT RACE DURING KING OF NEW YORK WHEN HE SAYS “AINT I PRETTY”

Do you think they know how much people ship them 😭❓

Ok but spot’s eyes were actually so pretty??

“I say, that what you say, it what I say” - Spot Conlon 1899

“On the grounds of Brooklyn your honour” - Spot Conlon 1899

Can you tell I love spot

Mush bullying Jack at the start 😭

PATRICKS MOTHER 😻‼️ HER VOICE IS JUST SO UGH I LOVE IT

Crutchys laugh

“Extra extra Joe, read all about it” - Jack Kelly 1899

“Headlines don’t sell papes, newsies sell papes” - David Jacobs 1899

This wasn’t in the movie but blood drips heavily on newsies square is iconic

Ok this also wasn’t in the movie but the bloopers of crutchy mentioning the delanceys when they’re first introduced r so funny 💀

The fact Morris calls Weisel ‘uncle weas’ 😭 (I THINK DON’T QUOTE ME ON THIS 😔)

Jack on a horse,,,that’s it 😭 IT WAS SO SILLY LMAO

The whole cowboy thing with Jack is also a lil silly

Ok but Jack scabbing in this was like,,sm better done?? Don’t get me wrong I love the whole sellout thing in newsies live but cmon

Also the fact that JACK ACTUALLY GOES TO THE REFUGE ‼️‼️

The whole spinning on the lights/fans thing in King of new york (AND HOW THEY DID IT IN UKSIES 🥰)

The way Race says “It takes and orphan with a studdah”

THE WORLD WILL KNOW‼️‼️

Once again this is from memory of watching it at Christmas so sorry if some of this is wrong 😭 If I think of anything else I’ll add it! (Also this was requested by @artemis-lynn [praying this actually tags u 🙏] sorry it took so long!)

25 notes · View notes

curiousb · 3 months

Text

The Bingley Family Album: Volume XIII

It's time for a birthday!

Mum Isabella takes charge.

Little Emma definitely takes after her mum in looks - and OTH - but has a rather more studious nature.

~ Aries 9 / 5 / 6 / 5 / 8

~ Bookworm / Perfectionist

~ OTH: Cuisine

There's no time to waste on building those toddler skills...

...especially as Isabella is delighted to discover that she's expecting again!

Grandpa Charles is on bedtime-story duty - but actually, he loves it.

Jane is starting to think of Isabella as the daughter she never had. While, after losing her mum at such a young age, and failing to build a relationship with her step-mother Mary, Isabella is enjoying having a motherly figure in her life at last.

With a growing toddler, and a new baby on the way, Samuel needs to get some more Simoleans rolling in.

Now that Bingley's Supermarket is gaining some popularity, dad Charles joins him at the shop, to help out.

Being Friendly and outgoing, he proves to be a natural - of course - at salesmanship.

Guess what Samuel's topic of conversation is again today...or maybe there's just a special offer on crab sticks this week?

They're doing a roaring trade today!

Thanks, dad!

They arrive home just in time to find that Isabella has gone into labour, in the bathroom of course.

You could pay a bit more attention, Samuel, to the proceedings in hand, rather than your own reflection!

It's another daughter! She is named Georgia, in honour of her maternal grandfather, and has her dad's blonde hair, with her mum's rich brown eyes.

But then the unthinkable happens, and with no warning, Isabella leaves her two young daughters motherless, just as she was herself, all those years ago.

I'm definitely sensing Grim's disapproval here, of my inability to keep my Sims alive.

Samuel is devastated by the loss of his wife, just as their life together was beginning!

Not even the fact that his two children need their father is enough to give him the will to live... (It was utter chaos in the household at this point, and he had keeled over before I had the chance to notice how low his Motives were!)

...and he leaves his orphaned daughters to be raised by their grandparents.

#sims 2 #gameplay #merybury #charles bingley #jane bennet #samuel bingley #isabella knightley #emma bingley #georgia bingley #mary bennet #bingley family

20 notes · View notes

beesbeesdragons · 9 months

Text

I-

oh. theres a certain pain in the idea of, like. amestris, if it got into a bad enough war, would definitely introduce conscription. so like. au where the Ishvalan civil war escalates into what is essentially a world war. Amestris is totally cut off from supplies and trade. its a war fought on all sides except the east. and they're running out of troops.

Consider an amestris that sticks to it's principles of being very traditional, where women are barred from joining the military. It is here that we are introduced to our two protagonists. one Riza Hawkeye and Roy Mustang.

It is 1902. one year ago, the death of an Ishvalan child trigger riots that evolved into what was first a civil war, but quickly turned into a world war; the non-aggression pact with drachma was broken when an amestrian soldier was found with a bullet in his head, right outside the Briggs fortress. Aerugo was found out to be sending supplies to Ishval. Creta bombed a small village in the west, killing nearly a hundred civilians.

they're running out of soldiers. Conscription is introduced. All physically abled men aged 16-45 are eligible. Roy, as a 17 year old, is eligible. So he's drafted. and Berthold Hawkeye, who hates the military, finds the conscription notice in the mail. In a fury, he banishes Roy from his house, ending his apprenticeship early, and stealing away Riza's only friend. Roy, who hadn't even known; the letter had been in a bundle from the post office, set on the kitchen counter for Riza to look through after lunch.

And so Roy returns to his home, with Chris and the girls. but he sends letters to Riza. and when he begins training? he keeps up the correspondonce.

It is in 1905 when he has enough leave time to visit, and it is shortly after that Berthold Hawkeye passes, from a sickness that had passed through the area.

Riza Hawkeye, newly orphaned and with no one, finds herself having a tumultuous affair with her father's former apprentice, and the two wed before Roy's leave is over.

Once Roy is called back to fight, Riza flees that tiny town, heading to Central to have the smallest modicum of support from Chris. and she gets it. she starts working at a small shop near to the apartment that Chris had helped her buy, and she's happy.

Until it arrives.

a fairly innocuous telegram. standard, by all accounts. but she's a soldier's wife. she's a working woman. and her husband...he's MIA, presumably a prisoner of war. And Riza knows, she knows how prisoners of war are treated. So she makes a decision.

she returns to the town she vowed to never return to, returns to that god forsaken house. and she digs. she digs, and she finds it. a letter, unsent by her mother, addressed to her estranged grandfather, whom riza had never met, let alone sent a letter to. but she does.

Dear General Grumman, she writes.

My name is Riza Hawkeye, and you are my grandfather. Two weeks ago, I received word that my husband, one Major Roy Mustang, State Alchemist, has gone missing. It is my understanding that he is under your command.

I know this is an unconventional way of doing so, but I beg of you. Please, find my husband. Please, return him to me. Do so and I will owe you my life, for that is what he means to me.

Sincerely, Riza Hawkeye-Mustang

All she can do after it is written is wait.

and wait she does. she waits for two years, until she receives a telegram from her grandfather.

We found him. He's coming home.

Riza and Roy reunite in a busy train station, seeing each other for the first time in three years. Roy, who had suffered as a prisoner of war, has had an honourable discharge after losing sight in one of his eyes. Riza, who had been mourning her husband for the past two years, had kept her job, had built herself a life. and they both get to live it now.

#fullmetal alchemist #fmab #fanfic #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #royai #royai fanfiction

48 notes · View notes

dariamalek · 2 years

Text

Mahsa Amini: How A 43 Year Long Battle Has Finally Made It Into The Light

I am done with being silent.

I am done with tolerating the silence of others.

My name is Daria Malek, and I am an Iranian-Canadian writer who’s art was silenced due to the control of the Iranian regime. Ironically, The Green Ney was a story of how women were silenced during the Iranian revolution, especially their art.

Yesterday, on Saturday October 1st, over fifty thousand people had closed off Yonge Street, the longest street in the world, protesting for Mahsa Amini, and the other 83 people murdered for speaking up for their human rights.

I am so privileged to live in a country where I, not only as a woman, but also a visibly minority, have protection beyond my rights. And as I watch my fellow Iranians in their homeland fight for theirs, it makes me wonder what am I do to with this privilege? What am I to do with the freedom of speech that I have?

I was silenced by the Iranian regime, but that is no longer.

Four years ago, I began writing a novel called The Green Ney, the story of an infertile American journalist in a dying marriage, who travels to Iran in January 1979 and gets stuck in the middle of the bloodshed of the Iranian Revolution with a lonely, mute orphan to care for.

Through her journey, she met multiple women who symbolized each right that was stripped from them during the revolution. Each of these 12 women were women that I had met on my trip to Iran in 2016, spanning over the three cities that I have visited. These are real women. These are real people.

This was my time to speak for these women who were silenced in their own dirt but, I had to face a dilemma: if I were to publish this novel, I would be banned from going back home to my country, and even put my family, including my grandparents, in harms way.

This was three years ago. Enough is enough. It is time to speak up.

Mahsa Amini was 22 years old when she was detained by “morality police” in Iran for not wearing her headscarf on her head correctly. Not because she had killed someone, assaulted someone, or stolen something from someone but, because she had not covered her hair to the standard of the “morality police.” How ironic that they are called “morality police” when they have no problem murdering a child because they are so weak to be worried about the hair of a women turning men on. Where are your morals?

Why are you painting our men to be so weak? So weak, that the wrists and ankles of a woman may awaken their uncontrollable sexual urges?

Our men are better than this. Our women are more respectable than this.

The greatest part of watching these protests was seeing the men and women come together in unison to fight for the women of Iran together.

For Mahsa Amini, you will always be remembered as an awakening for the people and a motion for change. We will honour your name and what you did to change the world.

Shervin Hajipour, your angelic voice and talent will be forever in our ears, singing for what you believe in, in hopes that people will listen and feel your pain and we did.

Hadis Najafi, your courage will never be forgotten. To be so brave, beyond your years, only for them to strip you of the rest of your life. But, I hope you know that they may have taken your life but they could never take away the strength and bravery that you possessed. When I watch the video of your blonde hair going up in a ponytail, ready to fight for the land you walk on, it gives me chills - an inspiration to truly step up.

For all the other people who were protesting or injured and murdered for speaking up: you make me proud to call myself an Iranian. We as people have a history of being headstrong and courageous. We must protect our beautiful culture, our art, our poetry, our food, our dance and everything that makes us Iranian, from the Islamic regime. They stole it from us once and it is our duty to take it back.

What started off as a feministic fight, turned into a humanitarian revolution.

If you have any Iranian friends, please reach out to them. Ask them how they are doing. Give them a hug and stand by them. They’re worried about their families back home; they can’t talk to them or hold them. Give back the support that we gave the rest of the world when they needed us.

And please, help us be the voice of the people who don’t have one.

#iranian revolution #iran #iranian protests #canadian writer #essayist #mahsa amini

373 notes · View notes

iobsessoverfictionalmen · 5 months

Text

Midnight Roses (3)

This fic contains canon-typical violence and behaviours, manipulation, mentions of death, murder, orphans, pain, blood, blood drinking, torture, memory manipulation, prison, and criminals.

Italian Translations:

amore mio - my love

Anche tu mi sei mancato - I missed you too.

Chapter 3

Once the Cullens and Bella had left the throne room, escorted by a very displeased Jane, Alec and Sulpicia, Caius and Athenadora swept from the throne room in step with each other. Aro took one look around the room, sighed, shook his head and then he too left.

Marcus was clearly at the end of his patience and so, using his grip on your hand, he lifted you over the arm of his throne that was in between the both of you in one fluid movement and onto his lap.

“I missed you, amore mio,” he purred into your ear.

You snuggled into your mate’s embrace “Anche tu mi sei mancato” You replied in a soft tone.

“Did the Romanians give you any trouble?” He rumbled.

You peered up at him, “If they didn’t give me any trouble, they wouldn’t be the Romanians that we knew.”

Marcus let out a dissatisfied growl at the fact that the Romanians’ stubbornness had kept the two of you apart for longer than necessary. He rose from his throne and instead of letting out a yelp at the sudden movement like you had earlier in your relationship, you wove your arms around his shoulders and rested your head against his broad chest.

It didn’t take the two of you long to reach your shared quarters and Marcus placed you carefully on the bed and took off your shoes before laying down himself. You immediately curled into his embrace and he cupped the back of your neck to keep you in place.

Without any prompting, you answered his unasked question, “I think Bella has been provided a biased view of our history.”

Marcus’ hand dropped and he massaged your shoulder gently, “You aim to correct this.” He stated.

“You can’t make a decision if half the information is missing.” You yawned as the battles, travels and meeting in the throne room caught up to you.

“You can,” Marcus disagreed. “But it won’t be a well-reasoned one.”

You yawned again.

“Rest my beloved. You are home.”

The next morning you woke up still cocooned in Marcus’ embrace.

After reluctantly extracting yourself from your mate’s presence hours later, you found Bella standing in the portrait corridor. She was facing away from you and staring at the numerous paintings that adorned the walls.

“Art has a way of making the darkest parts of our history glow with a secretive light.”

Bella spun around to face you, “Edward said that I shouldn’t be alone with you.”

“There’s that phrase again: Edward said.” The last two words were oozing with venom as you gazed at the teen.

You felt a rush of air and then Rosalie appeared at your side. “There. Now you’re not alone with her. Problem solved.”

Bella shook her head with a faint sneer and turned to face the paintings again. Rosalie glared at her before switching her gaze to the paintings.

“Did Great King Marcus paint these?” She asked in awe.

Some of your anger vanished at her amazement, “My mate has a passion for art, especially painting.”

Rosalie’s gaze moved to the next painting on the wall, “Why did he paint a portrait of so many immortal children?”

You saw Bella’s head turn slightly in your direction, “It was his way of remembering the children when they were innocent and mortal.”

Still facing away from you, Bella spoke. “What are immortal children and why did Marcus feel the need to honour them?”

“Immortal children are children who were transformed into vampires. Like all other vampires, they are frozen in time but there is one crucial differences. Immortal children cannot develop mentally. Children can be infuriatingly stubborn, especially toddlers which was what the majority of the immortal children were. You cannot reason with a toddler when they are in the middle of a tantrum. Now, imagine that that toddler had vampiric abilities as well. Every thought, every impulse would become an action.”

“Why were they turned to begin with?”

“Their creators wanted to preserve them in time due to factors such as war, famine, disease, poverty. The list is endless. Part of the problem with immortal children was that their sire would become obsessed with their existence. That extended to other vampires as well. To know them was to love them.”

“The portrait of the immortal children I understand but why is there a portrait of the Romanians and Strigoi on the wall?” Rosalie questioned.

“To ensure that we never forget how damaging and unexpected alliances can be.”

“Who are the Strigoi?”

You frowned at Bella’s back, “What has Edward taught you about this world?”

Bella chose not to answer so Rosalie did, “Very little. It appears that Edward,” she sniffed disdainfully and a memory flashed in front of your eyes of Hera doing the exact same thing, “taught her only what he thought she needed to know when he thought she needed to know it.”

“He told me all about the Volturi!” Bella shot back.

“Did he really?” Rosalie argued, “Or did he only tell you about the most important vampires in the Volturi coven? I know my brother much better than you do.”

“There were three main types of vampires in the world.” You spoke over the two of them, hoping that your words would prevent the brewing argument and they did. “The Empousai who were the servants of Hecate and some believe inspired the legend of the vampires to begin with, the Strigoi who were the deadliest and most feared of all vampires and the vampires you know today are the only ones who survived.” You explained.

“The Cold Ones.”

You inclined your head, “That is one of the names for them. Years ago, when the Romanian coven ruled the vampiric world, they joined forces with the Strigoi and for a time, they were the deadliest combination of vampires. However this alliance had an unintended side effect. Due to their power and their egos, the Romanians became reckless and arrogant.” Bella pivoted and gazed directly at you, completely enthralled in your recount of the past.

“They began to hunt in the day and draw attention and so, as the legends of the Romanians grew, the power of the Strigoi faded because the Strigoi depended on their reputations and the humans fear of them to survive. At this time, the Volturi were growing stronger. They decimated the Romanian coven and destroyed the Strigoi. When the Romanian coven fell, leaving only two members alive, the Volturi became the rulers of the vampiric world.”

“The last time that Edward, Alice, and I were here, Caius said that the Volturi don’t give second chances. If that’s true, why did he, Aro and Marcus let the Romanians live?”

“Because they weren’t living Bella. The Romanians were forced to spend the rest of their immortal existence in their castle with only the memories of their glory and power to keep them company knowing that the power they once enjoyed was now lost to them.”

“You used the past tense when talking about the Romanians just then” Bella observed shrewdly, “Did the Romanians have something to do with the fact that you returned to Volterra after Alabaster?”

“They did.” You admitted with a small grin at Bella’s perceptiveness. “We received a report that the Romanians were marshalling their remaining strength for an attack on Volterra.” You omitted the fact that the report had come from Alabaster after he had a dream about the chaos that would ensue if the Romanians were successful with their plan.

“Aro dispatched Alabaster and I that same day to deal with the Romanians.”

“What were they planning to do?”

“They were planning to revive an army of Strigoi and challenge the Volturi for the crown. Because they would have been the ones to raise the Strigoi, the Strigoi would have been completely loyal to them unlike the Strigoi that the Romanians allied themselves with in the past.”

“You and Alabaster obliterated the Romanian coven, didn’t you?” Rosalie inquired.

“By the time we arrived, some of the Strigoi were raising their hands out of the dirt outside the Romanian castle. When the Romanians were destroyed, the spell reviving the Strigoi was broken and the Strigoi lost their tether to this world. They were sucked back into the earth and imprisoned there as their consciousness faded and they crumbled into dust.”

As soon as you finished speaking, you realised that you might have been a bit too matter of fact in your explanation because Bella was now gazing at you with a look of disgust on her face.

“I almost believed that you and the Volturi were different but what you just said proved that Edward was right. The Volturi are monsters. I don’t know how I thought they could be anything more especially after Heidi led that tour group into the throne room to their deaths.”

Rosalie stepped forward angrily, “You are a guest in Volterra, Bella. Act like it.”

“Don’t you think that it would draw too much attention if several official tour groups were to go missing while they were in Volterra, Bella?” You demanded at the same time. “The Volturi would be breaking their only law to feed and while the Volturi have been called many things that are historically true, only the ignorant call them hypocrites.”

“You’re a liar! You’re exactly like them!”

“Did you know that Volterra and her neighbouring regions have the lowest rate of crime in all of Italy?” You asked conversationally. You knew that the vampires in the castle and Alabaster would be able to hear what was going on but you also knew that they had enough faith in you to diffuse the situation. That being said, you were certain that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you when you saw two blonds and one brunet zip past the three of you.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Bella cried.

“Those ‘tour groups’ are dangerous criminals. Heidi, Jane, and Alec visit the prisons, find the most dangerous criminals, and take them out for a day tour. The heads of the prisons are all vampires and they are loyal to the Volturi. The criminals are dressed in expensive clothes, taken for a luxurious tour of Volterra before they are ushered into the castle.”

“No.” Bella refused, “We saw children.”

“Alec and Jane escort the children into a side room and Alec uses his gift to keep them calm and dull their senses. The children are not blamed for their parents or caregivers actions. After the Volturi have fed, we have some vampires who use their gifts so that the children forget what they’ve seen, heard, smelled, or felt and Jane finds the children new homes after extensively researching prospective parents.”

Bella’s expression cleared and she looked thoughtful, “But what if someone was wrongfully incarcerated? Is there a chance that they would they end up in the group?”

Now it was your turn to shake your head, “That’s why we have vampires running the prisons. They examine the evidence and if someone is truly innocent of the crime that they’ve been convicted of the evidence that demonstrates their innocence is presented to the courts and the innocent is freed. And yes, as a precaution, a vampire will examine their mind to ensure that there is no chance of the innocent being aware of the hidden supernatural world.”

Bella’s stomach grumbled and a rosy tint appeared on her cheeks. With a quiet, embarrassed goodbye, she walked out of the corridor leaving you alone with Rosalie.

“You handled that much better than I would have.” The blonde remarked.

“After a lifetime of people making assumptions about you, you learn how to react to it.” You replied, “What were you doing before you came to the corridor?”

“Watching my mate spar with Felix. It wasn’t an uneven fight; Emmett was holding his own against Felix.” Rosalie answered proudly.

“Felix would enjoy the challenge of fighting someone who matched his strength.” You hummed.

#my writing #my fics #midnight roses #twilight x percy jackson #marcus volturi x reader #marcus volturi #female reader #bella swan #rosalie hale #felix volturi #emmett cullen #edward cullen

22 notes · View notes