#threads | grant ward

[voluntadfuerte]

@mxrvelouscreations | your muse thinks mine is beautiful | accepting

Ward wasn't used to the softness of Steve's words, Steve's attitude towards him. Ward might've worked hard to prove his worth, that he wasn't Hydra. And he knew himself as better, step by step. But it was different to have Captain America being the one telling him sweet words. "Not surprising since you always come back begging from more," he said, trying to deflect Steve's compliment that felt undeserved. Even though Steve and Ward did more than just have sex in Steve's bed. It was the third time in a row that Steve asked Ward to stay the night. It was now the morning and Steve was too soft for Ward's liking.

#mxrvelouscreations #threads | grant ward

[fatedtruths]

@acourtcfmuses !! starter call !!

now. fitz HAD designed the bus and had overseen the creation and building of it once fury had signed off on it . IT HAD BEEN A COMPEITION . innocuous he had thought , to design a flying base that would be able to support personnel both in the field and away from it .

of course this was SHIELD , nothing was innocuous . he should've known that .

but now the flying base , because that was what it was , able to be refueled by air THE BUS didn't ever actually have to land if it didn't want to . . . unless the hydrologic in the cargo compartment stopped working and the landing gear refused to retract . yeah except then .

i thought you designed it. the quqestion is innocent enough but it makes him freeze where he is pouring over the hologramed blueprints , glaring into nothing for a moment before looking at AGENT WARD . " i did design it AND i made sure it was built EXACTLY right ."

all of that was completely true . . . there was just one little tiny , unimportant really, thing that he was overlooking . that fitz really couldn't remember the finer details , which would explain ward's confusion ----- because he always remembered EVERYTHING .

" i designed it -----" he reiterated again , turning back to the hologram and zooming further in , his voice dropping a little . " i jus' might've been drunk at the time ."

#i went with the monkey man. to mix it up #acourtcfmuses | grant ward #acourtcfmuses #[ FITZ — threads ]

[shefatalesarch]

THERE WAS A LOOK ON HER FEATURES as her gaze settled on ward with a quizzical look unable to help herself. “ward...” she spoke as she glanced at the clock before her gaze returned to the man and slowly narrowed her gaze. “i think it’s clean.” she pointed out because he had been cleaning that scope for at least ten minutes, surely anything in there was long gone. she knew he had a lot going on and she did not want to make light of everything he had been through to this point, they both had ... had their worlds turned upside down in different ways. powers, hydra, was a lot this team had been through. “you ... okay?” 

@voluntadfuerte  ♥ for a starter from daisy johnson for grant ward

#voluntadfuerte #voluntadfuerte: grant ward. #NOT GONNA WRITE YOU A LOVE SONG ❥ daisy johnson › threads.

[sanctuarymade]

“ trust me. i know how to make you feel good. ” - ward @ bastien   /   context matters.   /   @lovcdandlost​

it takes bastien longer than it has any right to for him to realize the two statements are meant to be connected.   ( in his defense, he’s not sure how he’s meant to even pretend to have logical thoughts while he’s here, pinned below grant, every inch of his body pulled bowstring tight with need — )  for a long moment, all he can do is stare up at him, confused, before understanding crashes over him. 

slowly, almost agonizingly, he forces himself to go still. his arched back lowers inch by inch until it lays flat against the bedspread. the wrists currently bound by ward’s own hands stop resisting. he stops twisting against ward’s hold, trying to rush things along. he’s still as achingly tense as he was a moment before, still trembling, but mostly motionless, dark eyes wide, the desperation in them softened by a vulnerability usually kept locked tight behind lock and key.

he doesn’t need to be told to trust ward. doing so has been second nature for so long, even when it was ill advised, even when he knew he shouldn’t, even when he was fully aware that ward had no interest in being trustworthy, that surrendering his precious control is as easy as it’s ever going to be for bastien. because ward is right, he knows how to play his every nerve, how to drive him to the brink of insanity, shatter him completely and piece him back together, and at the end of the day, bastien trusts him to do so. 

a hard swallow. a full body shudder. a half suppressed rock of his hips. a nod.  “ please. ”

#[ bastien theriot / * answered . ] #[ bastien theriot / * thread . ] #osha #[ or at least osha adjacent ] #lovcdandlost #lovcdandlost : grant ward.

[elspethdekarios]

Gale as an archmage

I've been thinking about this for a while. If you select Gale as an origin character in the character creator and play his intro, he introduces himself as Gale of Waterdeep™ he immediately follows with "please - no need to be intimidated."

Now I think we initially brush this statement off as Gale being full of himself, but the first time you talk to him and ask him to tell you about himself, there's an option to say something like "Come on, you must have stories from your time as archmage."

And I've always wondered - how would tav know this? Gale hasn't mentioned it. Which leads me to my research question:

Is Gale famous?

Not Elminster-famous, of course, but is he THE archmage of Waterdeep, known throughout the Realms? Is Gale of Waterdeep a legitimate title, not just one he decided to use because it sounds important?

Maybe all of this is common knowledge in DnD lore, but it's a fairly new world to me. Here's what I found about archmages:

From the Forgotten Realms fandom wiki (https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Archmage):

Archmages were among the most powerful arcane spellcasters found throughout all of Faerûn. These practitioners of the Art were experts at manipulating and altering their spells, often in strange ways. Many cities across Faerûn had a single archmage who dedicated themselves to serve that settlement and its people. Some notable cities included Lyrabar in Impiltur, and the great western metropolis of Waterdeep. The term "archmage" was often used to refer to spellcasters who took on leadership roles among similarly-inclined practitioners of The Art. In the drow city of Menzoberranzan, the head of the arcane academy known as Sorcere was granted the title, Archmage of Menzoberranzan.

So, to summarize, archmages are super powerful, big cities often have a singular, dedicated archmage, and they take on leadership roles in the city, sometimes (or at least once) being deemed THE archmage of the city.

I've already seen posts about the insane amount of power held by archmages, so I'm not really going to go into that. I'm just interested in how well-known Gale would be in the Realms. One issue I'm running into while researching is that many people seem to approach the archmage in terms of DnD stats (spell levels, player levels, etc) rather than from a storytelling perspective.

I can't find much else specifically on how widely known archmages would be. There is a list of archmages on the Forgotten Realms wiki, but Gale isn't included on it. I'm assuming maybe BG3 lore is considered an off-shoot of FR lore and therefore not necessarily canon? Let me know if I'm wrong about this.

So that leaves me with message board responses. Here are some notable ones:

An old candlekeep.com forum on the differences between the titles used by magic users. Several users seem to agree with this person.

From the same thread as above.

Interestingly, DnD beyond has archmage categorized as a monster. I'm not sure if this applies only to evil-aligned mages or not, so anyone with more familiarity, feel free to chime in. Anyway, here's what DnD beyond says:

"Archmages are powerful (and usually quite old) spellcasters dedicated to the study of the arcane arts. Benevolent ones counsel kings and queens, while evil ones rule as tyrants and pursue lichdom. Those who are neither good nor evil sequester themselves in remote towers to practice their magic without interruption. An archmage typically has one or more apprentice mages, and an archmage's abode has numerous magical wards and guardians to discourage interlopers."

Gale does mention having students/apprentices at some point (he says something about being impatient with them if I remember correctly, but I can't remember when he actually says it), and, if he's Professor Gale in the epilogue, you're told that an apprentice delivered the invite to the party.

I also find it interesting that archmages typically have wards around their home to keep out intruders, implying that they're well-known enough to have people regularly trying to break into their home?? Or at least has happened enough times to warrant protection.

I also appreciate this reddit comment on a thread asking about the rarity of archmages:

This lead me to a super interesting reddit post which I really suggest you check out if you're interested. The OP breaks down the percentages of each class and level and translates that to city populations. I'm bad at math so that may be a horrible explanation. Anyway, here's a chart that they made:

I have been trying my hardest to put the alt text on the images for accessibility but I have no idea how that would work with this chart. I did include the text at the bottom for screen readers just in case. I'm sorry!

Sooooo someone in the comments asked specifically about Waterdeep and here's what someone who is good at math figured out! (They are correcting a previous comment with incorrect math, hence the first part of the comment):

Since a wizard is considered an archmage at level 18, it's safe to say that Gale would definitely be one of only a few wizards in Waterdeep with such a title. And if the above commenter's assumption about the Blackstaff being one of the only archmages in the city, Gale being of a similar level is HUGE, right? The Blackstaff is a big deal. From the Forgotten Realms wiki:

Blackstaff was the title and name given to the master of the eponymous staff and Blackstaff Tower, including Blackstaff Academy, as well as the Archmage of Waterdeep.

So if the Blackstaff is THE Archmage of Waterdeep, Gale, obviously, is not. But!!! If we can trust the math of the reddit users above, and we assume Gale was at least a level 19 wizard pre-orb/tadpole/whatever ... he would be one of two archmages in Waterdeep, second only to the Blackstaff themself.

I personally think that's enough renown to be a somewhat familiar name throughout Faerûn. So yes, Gale is a bit arrogant and, in his own words, pompous about being Gale of Waterdeep™ but perhaps it's warranted.

This has been a deep dive fueled by procrastination about writing the research papers I should actually be writing right now. Thank you for your time

#just been thinkin about this lately #gale #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #gale bg3 #bg3 lore #bg3 meta

[emmyrosee]

“But I’m cold.”

Your voice whines in a pitch that makes Kiyoomi’s brow hitch up in annoyance, arms crossed firmly over his chest as he stares at you from the end of your bed.

It’s late, he’s been staying later every time he comes over after practice, almost as if to see you off to bed. You tell him- well, beg him- to just stay and spend the night, it’s too late for him to drive and you’ll miss him.

Deep down, you know that’s the point that seems to make him want to cave the most, but the stubborn asshole hasn’t given in fully yet. He’s told you from the beginning he’s more of a ‘sleep in my own bed’ kind of guy, but it did make you feel a little insecure about why, then, he never invited you over.

Kiyoomi promised you it was just because of the early mornings, he never wanted you to feel like you had to dash out, or even wake up to see him off, but the insecurity burns all the same.

“If you’re cold, get under the sheets,” he says, as if explaining to a child. “I’ll leave my hoodie for you, if you’d like?”

You fiddle with the threads of your blanket stiffly, “I don’t… I don’t want to get under the sheets.” You sink your teeth into the fat of your lip in embarrassment, trying to ward off awkward tears that want to sting. “Because, when I do, you’re going to leave.” From your sitting position, you see him deflate slightly.

Then, he pads his way next to you. He scoots on your bed, and he wraps an arm around you, tugging you close. You burrow into his side, inhaling the warmth of his skin.

“How about I wait until you’re asleep?” He offers, voice low. He moves the hand not embracing you to gently grip your chin and angle you to look up at him, eyes soft and calm.

“You hurt my feelings when you don’t want to stay, Kiyoomi.”

The words slip out unprovoked, and as his face morphs into one of guilt, yours turns to one of embarrassment. You clear your throat and turn away from the fingers against your chin.

“Yeah,” You pant. “I… I understand that you don’t want to stay. If you don’t mind waiting until I’m asleep, that… that would mean a lot.”

He nods, mind deep in thought as he curls more around you, protectively, letting you get lost in the fabric of his sweatshirts and the bulky arms encasing you. You purr, and just like it does when you’re always with kiyoomi, your mind settles and before you can know it, you’re off into sleep.

Your dreams conjure minimal, little flickers of familiar faces in ridiculous scenarios, but you jolt awake when there’s a teeny nightmare that manages to catch you off guard, and your eyes fly open to try and stop the fear that started brewing.

Now awake, you gladly are able to take in your surrounding and shake off the fright; you’re not entirely sure how you ended up in your pajamas and under the covers, but you’re not complaining. As sunlight peers through the blinds, you stretch and try to curl in on yourself, but you’re blocked by a solid body next to you.

You yelp, slightly alarmed, but there’s a soft, smooth “shhhh,” that comes from the person beside you, and as an arm wraps around you, you burrow into his familiar scent with a happy mewl.

“Omi?” You mumble, pulling your arms close to your chest as he pulls you closer. “You stayed?”

“Shut up,” he murmurs. “You were shivering.”

The meek attempt at denying why he truly stayed makes you giggle, and you burrow against his chest in search for that addictive warmth he’d granted you through the whole night.

“Thank you,” you say, nuzzling your head under his chin. His arms are protective around you, his sleepy grunts barely audible, you’re sure you would’ve missed them if you weren’t so close, but they’re the sweetest noises you’ve ever heard, and you hate that he denied you them for so long.

“You wanna talk about your nightmare?” He says, voice drunk with sleep.

“What nightmare?”

“You were flinching a little before you woke up. Figured it scared you awake.”

You smile and plant a kiss along the muscles of the pectoral you’re nuzzled against, “it wasn’t serious. I’m more impressed you knew it had me awake.”

“Of course I knew; you only tremble like that when you’re scared.”

“You care about me or something?”

“I just happen to pay attention to you.” One onyx eye peers down at you, “because of course I care about you, dickhead.”

Fuck, you think to yourself. He’s damn good.

And he is. Kiyoomi is ridiculously good, he always has been, and while you hadn’t meant to upset him with your confession last night, there is a small sliver of you that’s grateful he listened and caved to be with you.

Even if it was a little out of his comfort zone.

“This is nice,” he mumbles into your hair, his fingertips dragging up and down the slope of your spine.

You nod and move one of your hands to the nape of his neck, carding the curly locks and relishing in the mewls he lets out, “I told you. You just don’t listen to me.”

“Because I’m not used to you being right.”

“You’re so rude,” you snort, and once again, his vocal chords vibrate against your head as he laughs. It’s quiet once again, and you’re almost ready to doze back off when on the nightstand next to the bed, his phone vibrates loudly.

“Omi-“

“No,” he grumbles. “‘S just Miya. He’s fine. We’re comfortable.”

“We are,” you giggle. “But I don’t want you to be late.”

“I’m never late for anything.” He shifts to nuzzle his head deeper into the pillow, “besides, you’re the one who convinced me to stay, why are you trying to get me to leave now?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” you assure.

“Yeah, I don’t either.”

“You have to,” you snort, your eyes watching as his Adam’s Apple bobs with each swallow and word that falls from his sleepy mouth. “Come on. Meian will be pissed, Miya will be blowing up your phone soon enough.”

“Fuck Miya,” he grumbles. “You’re trying to get me to stop snuggling and leave and you think Miya is your best argument?”

You give him some more laughter, your fingers gently running over the moles and scars that adorn his chest and side, and you smirk as the muscles quiver under your touch. Ticklish. He would be. “Oh?”

“You wanna keep that hand?” He grumbles, and if you knew him any less, you may have missed the way you could hear the smile in his voice. “I suggest you don’t get too creative there.”

“Oh, I’m getting very creative.” Before you can provoke him further, a hand grabs yours and tenderly brings it up to his lips, planting warm, soft kisses to the knuckles.

“Don’t be annoying,” he mutters, sleepily looking at you from the corner of his eyes, “just be affectionate. I got months to try and make up for.”

He looks cute, soft in the early morning haze, and you do decide You yield as you curl into the bend of his sides, letting his breathing even out before his phone starts ringing again. He’s warm, his snuggly, and he’s still the Kiyoomi only you have the privilege of seeing.

And now, you’re hoping he’s giving you the privilege to see it every morning.

#leave me alone #dream man fr okay shush #also this is old so if it’s confusing don’t worry about it #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa kiyoomi fluff #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x gn!reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader fluff #sakusa kiyoomi imagine #sakusa kiyoomi haikyuu #sakusa #sakusa fluff #sakusa x reader #sakusa x gn!reader #sakusa x reader fluff #sakusa imagine #sakusa haikyuu #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu x gn!reader #haikyuu x reader fluff #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x yn #haikyuu x y/n

[aldbooks]

25. "I forget what your face looks like if I close my eyes too long. It scares me."hello. I love your writing. Could it be an Elain/Lucien with that?🥰🥰

Sorry this so long to get to! Thank you for the kind words dear 💕

prompt list

---

The sharp tug in his chest woke Lucien from a dead sleep as he was suddenly filled with a nearly overwhelming sense of panic that was not his own. For once he didn't stop to asses or consider the consequences of his actions. No, this time he acted on instinct, following that thread around his heart, smashing through the wards surrounding the River House in Velaris, straight into her room.

He was half surprised he'd been able to winnow so far. Granted he'd been staying in the Dawn Court, which was much closer than the human lands, but he'd never moved so far in one go before. He'd chalk it up to his mate instincts taking control for now and contemplate it another time.

He found Elain thrashing in her bed, her sobs and wordless pleas shattering his heart. He threw up a hasty shield around the room before going to her since the last thing he needed to deal with on top of attempting to soothe his erstwhile mate was an angry High Lord or Lady ready to reduce him to nothing for breaking into their house.

Her skin was ice cold when he touched her shoulders and he tried not to think too hard about just how much of it was currently exposed to him as her thrashing pulled the thin fabric of her nightgown tight around her body and exposed her thighs. One of her sleeves had fallen down her shoulder and was dangerously close to exposing her breasts. Luckily the lust that tried to stir in him was currently overpowered by the need to rouse her from whatever terror held her captive.

"Elain," he said firmly, giving her a slight shake. Her hands clutched at him with surprising force, sharp nails slicing through the skin of his arms but she did not otherwise seem aware of him.

He shook her once more, "Wake up!" He sent a pulse of power through her, warming her too cold skin and could feel her magic respond to him. So he did it again.

Slowly her cries quieted and her body stilled, her hands falling away from him. Carefully, he reached up with one hand and cupped the side of her face. She nuzzled briefly into his palm as her eyes fluttered open. He withdrew as soon as she saw him.

Elain blinked at him a few times before sitting up with a gasp, glancing around herself as though unsure where she was. "Wh-How-what are you doing here?"

He held back a sigh at the way she clutched the covers against her chest and pulled away from him. He was suddenly aware of his own state of undress. He normally slept without clothes but, by chance, he'd fallen asleep tonight still wearing the soft linen pants favored in Dawn, though he still wore no shirt or shoes.

He felt foolish for coming here at all, Feyre would have found and woken her eventually. Now that he'd contented himself that she was well, he'd leave her to her sister's care. He stood, flicking a hand at the door to lift the shield he'd placed around her room. "Your dream woke me," he said refraining from further explanation.

"I'll leave you now before Rhysand decides to kill me for destroying his wards."

He froze at the sound of his name though he didn't dare look back at her.

"...you've- it's been a long time since you've- been here."

It had been. He'd declined Feyre's last few invitations, using his duties in both the human lands and Spring as an excuse, though in truth, he was sure they both knew the reason for his reluctance to return here. To travel so far to see her, only for her to dismiss him with barely a look. There was only so much he could take. Even he had his pride.

He wasn't sure what she meant by bringing up his absence now when she'd never been inclined to so much as speak to him in the past. But whatever reasons he might have thought of, none would have come close to the words that tumbled from her next.

"I forget sometimes, what your face looks like, if I close my eyes too long... "

Slowly he turned to face her, his breath held. Her face was unreadable in the darkness. "Does that bother you?"

"...it scares me."

Lucien forgot to breathe for a moment. "I would've thought you'd be happy to forget me." The words were out before he could shove them down. Even in the darkness he could see her flinch. Next he knew, he was crossing the room once more to kneel before her. Wide, doe eyes followed his movement.

A twitch of his fingers brought the candles at her bedside to life, illuminating them both in a soft glow. For several seconds, neither of them said a word, simply stared at one another, Lucien's eyes drinking in the sight of her lovely face, enough to last him until he saw her again.

To his surprise, she reached out a hand to brush his cheek. His eyes slid shut at the touch, he inhaled her sweet scent but held still while she traced the planes of his face.

After a long moment that was filled with nothing but the sound of their uneven breaths, she whispered, "I don't want to forget."

#elucien #elain x lucien #elain and lucien #anon ask #ask box #writing prompt

[inksandpensblog]

I was looking for something completely different on Discord and I found this little moment I'd written out of a scene for the Rocket Killed Gold AU. I apparently wrote this on September 22, 2023; this means that it was conceived before "The Box" aired on YouTube, and has since been retconned. An early element of the AU was the idea that Mango only helps Orange rescue Chosen on the condition that Chosen remain paused the whole time. Since the AU has since been updated to better reflect the events of "The Box," much of this scene is no longer possible within the AU. But I still like the interaction here so I may as well share it.

Note: despite the name of the AU, in this excerpt I refer to Mango's child by the name Apricot. This excerpt also uses @skala's headcanon of Apricot having been adopted by Mango, after Apricot had been victimized by Dark's and Chosen's destruction whereas Mango had not; a headcanon which I may not be using in the updated AU.

--

“Oh,” the kid scowled. “That guy.”

Mango frowned. “You know of The Dark Lord but not The Chosen One?”

It wasn’t unexpected, for a stick to know of neither. Sticks who’d dwelt in the interspace, that realm of the web beyond user access, tended to be more familiar with them than any city-stick of the outernet. Mango doubted that he himself would’ve ever heard of them, if it hadn’t been for the influx of refugees. If it hadn’t been for Apricot.

But the kid wasn’t an outernet stick.

He didn’t live on the web, either, and he hadn’t been born in a game. But he lived on a computer. A computer with a user who, by all accounts, had access to such spaces, even if the user couldn’t traverse them the way a stick could. A user who, judging by the Minecraft footage and Purple’s stories, hadn’t restricted the sticks’ access to such spaces either.

One of the common threads connecting all the stories, as Mango learned what had happened to his new ward, was that The Chosen One and The Dark Lord seemed to prefer targeting sites that were frequented by users. Spaces where animations and users mingled.

No…it was simply spaces that saw a lot of user traffic; it didn’t seem to make a difference, whether animations were caught in their rampages.

Another common thread had been that they never wreaked their havoc alone. Granted, they might be separated by physical distance, but if you saw one of them then you could be certain the other was nearby.

So it was strange that the kid wouldn’t know about them, but even stranger that he’d know of only one and not the other.

. . .

He remembered his confusion, when the wanted posters had been printed.

Most civilians wouldn’t know better, but Mango had more information about The Chosen One than most civilians, and that was before he’d taken a job at a lab run by a stick who clearly hailed from beyond the IP-barrier and liaised with other alien sticks. So he’d asked why only one of the dreaded duo was wanted. Bating The Dark Lord with a captured comrade hadn’t seemed wise, but it was the only reason he could come up with.

He’d been informed that The Dark Lord was not a concern.

Which, frankly, was ridiculous, and everyone working here should know better. But his superiors had turned a deaf ear to any further inquiries on his part.

. . .

If you saw one of them, you could be certain the other was nearby.

Except…the refugees had stopped coming. Rumors had gone quiet.

And The Chosen One had been tracked down to the outernet. He’d been captured in the outernet.

They’d never visited their destruction upon the stick-cities.

. . .

“I actually saw his name, that’s the only reason I know.” The kid was speaking. “If he’s got lore or something, I’m gonna have to disappoint you. Though,” and here his tone changed to something rueful, as he lifted the hem of his shirt up. “I guess you could say I’m familiar.”

Mango stared. “How are you alive?”

The kid let his shirt fall again, adjusting his grip on the paused black stick and letting out a chuckle that sounded more like he was responding to a dialogue cue than actually finding any amusement in the recollection. “I have no idea. I know how that sounds, but I really don’t know. As far as I was aware, I…”

Something in the kid’s eyes went distant. “I thought I had died. Everyone else had already— I, I watched him— “

Mango held up a hand, uncertain what he meant to convey with the gesture, but it seemed to snap the kid out of his daze anyway.

“But then, it was like I just…woke up,” the kid continued. “And he was gone, and everyone was somehow fine.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah. I…didn’t really think about it, at the time, I was just…so glad everyone was back. Was okay. We went home after that.”

“And where was he, during all this?”

The kid glanced at the stick in his arms.

#animator vs animation #animation vs minecraft #ava 6 #avm #avm shorts #rocket killed gold au #ava enthusiasts #I think for this AU it would make more sense for both King and Gold to have been victimized by Dark and Chosen in the past #so as much as I adore Skala's headcanon I don't think I'll be using it for this AU anymore

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (19-25 Nov 2023)

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

🥰 Old Town Road (Singles series) (Chris Molanphy) - Part of Duke University Press' series Singles, chart geek/music historian Chris Molanphy dives deep into "Old Town Road" which he describes as a 'one of one' phenomenon. To quote the book blub, which sums it up nicely: Molanphy shows how “Old Town Road” channeled decades of Americana to point the way toward our cultural future. Fairly short and incredibly readable.

🥰 Ordinary Numbers (BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria) - 44K, canon-divergent meeting for 00Q

🥰 The Ruin of Gabriel Ashleigh (Society of Gentlemen #0.5) (KJ Charles, author; , narrator) - short story, kicking off KJC's incredible romance series set in during the Regency and political unrest around the time of the Peterloo massacre

😍 [Podfic] Mr Webster's Wager (fahye, author; HowOldAreWe, narrator) - 29K, very slight canon-divergent expansion of The Ruin of Gabriel Ashleigh, expanding on Francis & Ash getting together - so well done I almost consider it a part of the series, at least for my own rereads - this is a really great podfic of it!

😍 A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (KJ Charles, author; Matthew Lloyd Davies, narrator) - exquisite Julian finds purpose and love transforming young radical Harry into a gentleman. Plus there's the Peterloo massacre and personal murder plots

😍 A Seditious Affair (Society of Gentlemen #2) (KJ Charles, author; Matthew Lloyd Davies, narrator) - Tory/Radical romance with some incredible digging in to what it means to be a man of principle ('Wednesday by Wednesday, I have loved you')

💖💖 +75K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

Art Nouveau (voluptuous_panic) - MCU: shrunkyclunks, 12K - reread, forever fave - Cap!Steve has a disastrous first date at a hipster cider bar but luckily the hot, tattooed bartender is there to distract him. Short & very, very hot.

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Hot Ones - Melissa McCarthy

Screen Rant - Siobhan Thompson Talks Dimension 20 Burrow's End & Fantasy High Junior Year

Screen Rant - Brennan Lee Mulligan Talks Dimension 20 Burrow's End & Fantasy High: Junior Year

QI - series S, ep 1

Dirty Laundry - s3, e6

D20: Burrow's End - "Five" (s20, e8)

D20: Adventuring Party - "Everything, Every Stoat, All at Once" (s15, e8)

D20: Fantasy High: Freshman Year - e1-10

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

What Next: TBD - Bedbugs Are Back, Baby!

⭐ Endless Thread - The Grand Can-Spiracy

Song Exploder - Paramore "Liar"

⭐ Hit Parade - Ride ’til I Can’t No More Edition

⭐ Hit Parade - The Bridge: Can’t Tell Me Nothin’

Shedunnit - Death at the Club

You're Dead to Me - Shakespeare

Desert Island Discs - Patrick Grant, designer and broadcaster

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - A Gaga Tour of the Town

Wiser Than Me with Julia Louis-Dreyfus - Julia Gets Wise with Carol Burnett

NPR's Book of the Day - Jamie Loftus' 'Raw Dog' investigates the social and culinary history of the hot dog

Cautionary Tales - Photographing Fairies

Wiser Than Me with Julia Louis-Dreyfus - Julia Gets Wise with Isabel Allende

What Next: TBD - Inside OpenAI's Implosion

The Allusionist - 185. Gems and Patties

Cautionary Tales - The Art Forger, the Nazi, and "The Pope"

Today, Explained - How Cassie sued Diddy

99% Invisible #561 - Long Strange Tape

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Scott Pilgrim Takes Off

One Year - 1990: Pizzastroika

Ologies with Alie Ward - Abstract Mathematology (UH, IS MATH REAL?) with Eugenia Cheng

⭐ Off Menu - Ep 215: Paul Rudd

⭐ Pop Culture Happy Hour - Rethinking Killers Of The Flower Moon

NPR's Book of the Day - In 'Blackouts,' Justin Torres shines a light on silenced LGBTQ history

What Next: TBD - Where Scams Are Born

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

Rockstar [Dolly Parton] {2023}

Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, Vols 1 & 2 [Ray Charles] {1962}

Presenting Massive Attack

Presenting Nine Inch Nails

New Blue Sun [André 3000] {2023}

#sunday reading recap #bookgeekgrrl's reading habits #bookgeekgrrl's soundtracks #fanfic ftw #society of gentlemen series #dolly parton #nine inch nails #ray charles #andré 3000 #massive attack #d20 #dimension 20 #d20: burrow's end #burrow's end #fantasy high #fantasy high: freshman year #dirty laundry #qi #hot ones #hit parade podcast #endless thread podcast #99% invisible podcast #one year podcast #song exploder #shedunnit podcast #you're dead to me podcast #desert island discs #the atlas obscura podcast #what next: tbd podcast #cautionary tales podcast

[sargauths]

Deep in the bowels of Bashmuz's room, nestled atop a mound of worthless garbage, lies a treasure of untold value. Mina and Khulan nearly died for this; several before them already had.

Yet as Bashmuz approaches the eldest of Venomhorn's brood, all he can think of is how little he wants this. How he had initially suggested the group smash whatever eggs they found in her den and spare them the pain of consciousness.

But this one had already clawed their way out of their eggshell and into the world of the living, and within this hatchling Bashmuz saw promise. Promise for them to rise greater than Venomhorn fell; promise to atone for her death by granting them life.

Right now he can only promise the hatchling a rude awakening and dinner. Bashmuz nudges at the hatchling's flank with the barest press of his fingers, rousing him with a soft rumble. "Rise, Kepeskosj. The hunt awaits us."

So-called for the noxious puffs of smog that flit out of the hatchling's mouth with every sneeze and snore, stinging his nostrils, Kepeskosj is not yet a true name. They are too young to bear one as mighty as Venomhorn's and Chuth's, but he's certain that when the time comes - when this little storm swells into a tempest mighty enough to choke hectares of land and snuff out the lives of legions of adventurers - they will shed this ill-fitting nickname for something far more worthy.

For now, they answer to it readily enough, greeting Bashmuz with a sharp nip at his fingers before scaling up the length of his forearm. Their claws dig into his shoulder to maintain their perch, but beyond a grimace and his eyes briefly squeezing shut, he weathers Kepeskosj's ascent without complaint.

The Manor is never truly still, but when the hour grows late enough for most of the Dreamers to retire for the night, the kitchens are especially ripe for the picking. Their prey hardly puts up much of a fight at all: the mightiest of the kitchen's jars succumbs to a few well-aimed strikes at its bottom with the flat of his palm, spilling out a feast of dried meats on the counter.

In the kitchen, the shine of their eyes is the only discernible light in the darkness, and the muted hiss of Draconic is interspersed with noisy chewing as Bashmuz alternates between feeding the hatchling and himself. Their conversation is largely meandering as Bashmuz tells them whatever comes to mind: frequent praise for the sharpness of Kepeskosj's teeth, the richness of ill-gotten cheese from a noble's storehouse, the paper-thinness of a thief's skin against his jaws.

Kepeskosj basks in the praise and demands more of it, showing little interest in anything else, and Bashmuz obliges with an amused snort. There is an ease in this that he has struggled to find elsewhere since Dim's passing, and he finds himself looking forward to these pointless conversations as much as Kepeskosj looks forward to sating their hunger and stretching their wings.

Perhaps someday, when Netherese cities cease spilling out of Waterdeep's skies and the threads of fate stop stringing him towards the frozen wastes of Luskan, the two of them can slip out of the stinging net of the city's wards and hone their teeth and claws on live prey. It's a lovely thought, but ultimately a useless one: the trip to Luskan alone would take two tendays. He'll have to find someone else to care for them in the meantime.

His face twists as he takes the hatchling back to his room, who thankfully does not notice with how tightly they're curled up in his arms, tail draped over their snout. He deposits them gently on their favored sleeping spot and returns to his, but despite his best efforts he cannot match the stillness of the body lying next to him.

#this one kinda got away from me tbh #drabbles #loosely based on aasb prompt 23: serve

[travellingcircus]

home is whenever i’m with you

Written in response to the twitter thread here by GoldenDaffodils .

Obikin; 2.7k words; modern! abo; fluff; 

Writer’s block is the enemy, and after sitting in front of his computer for the good part of an hour, typing and re-typing a comma, Obi-Wan gives up the ghost and decides to call it a day. Besides, it’s almost lunch time, which means he has work to do—Anakin’s lunch won’t make itself, and he still has the meat to thaw.

Obi-Wan gets up from his desk, rubbing the ache from his back, the action pulling the hem of his sweater upwards. He catches his reflection, then, in the window above his writing desk and absently cups the underside of his belly, visible only when he’s naked and tilted sideways. Almost three months along, and he’s still not used to it, nor is he accustomed to needing to fill his days now that he’s on a sabbatical. There’s the book that takes precedence over everything, because when the baby comes, he’ll have no time to write. The rest of his day is occupied by the odd household chore: this morning’s dishes, or the sorting and hanging up of the laundry, scheduling Anakin’s dentist appointment, or adding baby items to his already-teeming online shopping cart. And then there is Anakin’s lunch, which he takes on with the same attentiveness and detail that he tackles anything.

Obi-Wan has bought cookbooks, a huge stack of them now lives in the kitchen cabinet along with top-of-the-line ceramic pots and pans. He has taught himself how to baste, how to julienne, how to glaze and de-glaze. He has learned how to bake bread, kneading dough by the palmfuls and getting flour everywhere, when he used to just buy bread by the loaf from the bakery down the street. They used to expire, untouched on the counter. Now he has a proper bread box and cupcake moulds. Now he knows what other purpose a rolling pin serves other than to ward off groping husbands.

This new skill is born of two things: boredom and procrastination because sometimes writing does necessitate a break, but it’s also partly due to the rapturous look on Anakin’s face each time he bites into food that Obi-Wan has made for him. He’ll eat anything Obi-Wan makes for him, granted, no matter how terrible, but it seemed disingenuous not to at least make an effort.  

So Obi-Wan cooks. He tends to the hearth and home, not because it’s what expected of him as an omega, but because of the sheer delight it brings Anakin. The meals he makes he takes to Anakin’s office where they eat lunch together and chat about their day. The recent promotion has Anakin working longer hours, too tired for anything in the evening except a brief meal, a cold shower, and easily the world’s most unsatisfying quickie, all in that order.

Lunch simmers in a pot while Obi-Wan checks the weather outside: clear skies, the sun finally out after a week of steady rain. Later, Obi-Wan takes his motorbike out of hiding from the garage and clambers on, lunch packed in an insulated bag slung across his shoulder. He rides out of the neighbourhood and into the city, over puddles that slosh across his boots and streak them with flecks of mud. The wind is cutting; traffic slows him down a bit but it does nothing to tamp the heady feeling that sits inside his chest now that he’s on the move again. He’ll miss this when he gets bigger. He already misses teaching.

It only occurs to him as he’s parking his motorbike next to Anakin’s Lexus in the company carpark, that he probably should have changed into something less shabby. As it stands, he’s wearing his favourite sweater, with the visible hole in the armpit and the colour leached out after many trips to the washer. At some point it had been a vibrant green, now god only knows what shade it actually is—some sort of cross between teal or sea-foam green. He checks his reflection in the reflective glass wall of Anakin’s office building and musses his hair where his helmet has flattened it. There are biscuit crumbs on his beard; he brushes them away with a sheepish swipe of the hand.

Well, he thinks, wryly. That’s the best he can do in this situation. He’d forgotten to change out of his flannel sweatpants and it’s rather unfortunate that he’s wearing a pair of Uggs too—not a sartorial choice, necessarily, they just happen to have enough cushioning for his swollen feet.  

Most of Anakin’s coworkers know him, and when Obi-Wan passes them by, they nod and wave at him in acknowledgement. Benefits of being married to the VP, Obi-Wan supposes, and a warm stab of pride hits him like a jolt: Anakin has worked hard to get where he is— blood, sweat, and tears, a lot of tears, really, if they’re being honest, and now they have enough money saved up that Obi-Wan can comfortably stop working for a little while and simply tend to how ever many children they decide to have, hopefully not a lot, he isn’t getting any younger. And it’s not as if Obi-Wan has plans of quitting the workforce for good: he loves teaching, and domestic life may be tolerable in short stretches but if Anakin moves them to the suburbs, there will be Words.

Obi-Wan strolls up the lifts but is pulled abruptly from his thoughts by someone calling out to him. “Excuse me! Sir! Yes, you in the sweatpants!”

Obi-Wan turns, arching an eyebrow as he pivots on his heel. “Yes?”

It’s the receptionist—only today it isn’t anyone he recognises. She seems…new. And young too, like she’s fresh from university. Obi-Wan has taught undergrads that have looked older. “I’m sorry, but the lifts are strictly for employees only. Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, chuckling, but his mirth fades when he sees that she isn’t nearly as half-amused as he is. “I don’t have an appointment but I am here to drop off lunch.”

“Door Dash?”

“No,” says Obi-Wan drily. “I’m not affiliated with them, I don’t think. I’m here for Anakin.”

“Ana—” Her eyes widen in understanding. “You mean Mr Skywalker?”

“Yes, I’m his—”

She nods and holds up a finger, cutting him off. Obi-Wan bites down on a response, years of boarding school training coming back to bite him in the arse: it’s a gesture he’s familiar with, and not because he’s an omega. He quiets down, pressing his lips into a thin line. Silent, he sighs, crosses his arms, and patiently waits for the new receptionist to finish typing into her computer.

“Sorry,” she says, making a face at him, flicking her gaze south and upward once more in obvious appraisal. “But Mr Skywalker’s in a meeting right now.”

“Is he? I could have sworn he said he’d be free after noon.”

The receptionist holds her smile—it’s brittle, and rote, the kind of smile you give when you’ve worked customer service long enough and have to deal with difficult people. Is Obi-Wan being difficult? He doesn’t want to make trouble. “Well,” he says, after a great deal of patting around his back pockets for his mobile phone which apparently he’d forgotten at home—convenient, just convenient. “I guess I’ll wait here then.”

“Sorry,” she says again. “But we have a strict policy against letting guests just loiter about! Surely, you understand.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be loitering,” Obi-Wan says. “I’d be waiting. There’s a difference.”

“I’m sorry Mister—”

“Kenobi.”

“Right, Mister Kenobi, I’m sorry but if you don’t leave right now I’m going to have to ask the guards to escort you out.”

“You must be joking,” Obi-Wan says. All right: apparently not. Her finger is already hovering over some button Obi-Wan is half certain has the power to summon security.

“Really? You want me to leave,” he says.

She nods tightly, still with that cloying smile on her face.

Obi-Wan presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, fighting off a headache. He doesn’t want to argue further, not when his body is already betraying him in so many ways: his feet have started to throb again, his bladder feels full even though he’s just popped to the loo on the way, and he’s one chin wobble away from feeling some sort of emotion.

“Right, then.” He unslings his lunch bag and sets it down on the desk. “You can hand this over to Mister Skywalker. Careful not to jostle the bag too much; there’s a thermos of soup in there. You can tell him—tell him I’ll be phoning him when I get home and that I’ll see him later.”

She nods, writing all of that down on a yellow sticky note. “Kenobi, right? And how is that spelled?”

“Exactly how it sounds, and with a K,” Obi-Wan tells her.  

He exits the building, unable to tell whether he’s relieved or disappointed. Relieved because he’s at least fulfilled his marital duties and dropped off Anakin’s lunch, as promised; disappointed because the only thing he’s been looking forward to that day has been taken from him: nothing compares to the pleasure of seeing Anakin enjoy his cooking, and he’s made something new today: miso soup with tofu and seaweed. An experiment, but still something he can be proud of.

Obi-Wan makes it home in under half an hour, where he makes a beeline to the bathroom to relieve himself. He can’t pinpoint what exactly it is he’s feeling, now that he’s taken care of two of his three pressing issues. Hormones have wreaked havoc on his emotions lately, and maybe that could be it. One minute he’s watching a documentary on sea otters and the next he’s so moved by the sight of them holding hands and swimming in pairs that he has to have a good, long cry.

He shakes himself out of this strange mood, and heats some frozen pizza in the oven, eats it standing up while dancing his fingers across the steaming hot cheese. He has a nap afterwards on the sofa, while a David Attenborough documentary plays on the telly, because what else is there to do, this is his life now, though he briefly considers having a leisurely wank with his vibrator within reach and just sitting there where he’d left it this morning. Another unexpected but not entirely unwelcome side effect of the pregnancy is his increased libido.

On weekends, when they elect to sleep in, Anakin can take him upwards to five times before dinner,  and Obi-Wan will be ready each time: wet and wanting. They haven’t had sex in a few days, though, mostly because Anakin has been busy. Obi-Wan doesn’t mind entirely; he knows how these things go. For years, his academic career ate into aspects of his private life, and if it weren’t for Anakin who’d insinuated himself into his life with persistence and sheer stubbornness, they wouldn’t have been, well, married and about to have pups. Not a bad life, considering Obi-Wan had at one point resigned himself to being married to his career.

Obi-Wan falls asleep as soon as his eyes close.

And he wakes to the familiar sound of Anakin’s car nosing up the driveway.

Strange, the light in the room tells him there’s still some daylight left. Obi-Wan gets up when he hears the door rattle. Not a second later and it’s flung open, Anakin’s heavy treads thudding the floorboards of the foyer. There’s a crash, and another thud: Obi-Wan can hazard a guess that Anakin has managed yet again to tip over the coat stand.

“I’m here, dearest,” Obi-Wan says, waiting patiently until Anakin materialises. And materialise he does, touting his briefcase in one hand and looking very, very cross. His face is red and splotchy. His disheveled hair gives the impression of having been tugged at in frustration, a habit that Obi-Wan has trouble weaning him off of.

“Are you all right?” Obi-Wan asks, concerned.

“I’m gonna kill that bitch,” Anakin huffs, as he stomps over to grab Obi-Wan by the forearms. Despite the palpably murderous intent roiling off him, his touch is feather-light, careful as he rubs up and down Obi-Wan’s arms. “I got your message. You should have called me so I could have picked you up from the lobby.”

“I left my phone at home,” Obi-Wan says, stroking Anakin’s cheeks to calm him, “And besides, you seemed busy. I didn’t want to intrude. You had a meeting.”

“I never schedule meetings when I know you’ll be coming over with lunch. I make myself available. You know that.”

“True, but, do remember you’re running a company, dearest, and I don’t always expect you to accommodate me.”

Anakin makes a pained noise. “I’m gonna fire her,” he mutters.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “She was just doing her job. Don’t fire her for my sake.”

Anakin clenches his jaw, stubborn as ever. Obi-Wan presses a kiss to his lips, smiling when Anakin absolutely softens into it. “Promise me,” he says, patting him on the cheek. “You’re not going to fire her. Say it.”

Anakin’s nose twitches, and he doesn’t say it explicitly, but he nods, once: a concession.

Anakin spends the rest of his day working from his laptop in his home office, wearing his suit from the waist up and his sweatpants from the waist down. He finishes right on the dot—at six pm when Obi-Wan has a beef pot pie baking in the oven and he’s halfway through a crossword puzzle. Then he’s out his suit for good and in a ratty old university t-shirt spelling the name of his alma mater in front in bubbly font.

Anakin slides behind Obi-Wan at the counter and rests his chin on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He wraps his arms around Obi-Wan’s middle, absently stroking his growing stomach. “Cock,” Anakin says, without preamble, and Obi-Wan blinks before giving him a bemused look. “Too early for that love, at least let dinner finish cooking first.”

Anakin rolls his eyes and points to the crossword on the counter, tapping a corner of the page. “Four across. Another word for rooster that begins with a C.”

“Cock,” Obi-Wan agrees with delighted laugh.

They eat dinner; Anakin takes care of the dishes while Obi-Wan thaws in the shower. When it’s Anakin’s turn in there, Obi-Wan dries his hair on a towel and doesn’t put any clothes on. He knows what happens next: it’s one of the two things he looks forward to on any given day, because he is a man with simple needs and what he needs is, four across, another word for rooster that begins with a C.

And because it’s shaped out to be a good day, despite the whole ordeal at lunch, they have time enough to be tender.

Anakin fucks him, sweet and slow, clutching his ankles. Then, because Obi-Wan can’t get enough, he rides Anakin afterwards with the same agonising slowness with which Anakin had fucked him. He clutches the headboard for balance while Anakin presses his thumbs into his hips and mouths filthily at his nipples, sore from teeth marks and Anakin’s many attempts at drawing out milk even though it will be months yet before Obi-Wan’s body will be able to produce any. They last a whole two hours, though most of it is just spent kissing and pawing at each other. They fall asleep, nestled like spoons, and in the morning Anakin will have to leave for work early again; Obi-Wan will make him a pot of coffee, will blearily wave at him from the driveway in his tatty robe and fluffy slippers, before going inside and taking a very long nap. Afterwards, he will spend hours staring at his blinking cursor, before getting up to make Anakin lunch—a new recipe he’s picked up on the internet that doesn’t seem overly complicated.

This is life, and it must be a sign of getting older, because Obi-Wan has come to love it in spite of everything: the meals he makes for himself and Anakin, and the humdrum of his routine, the home they are trying to make for themselves and for their future children, built by love and shaped around it.

#fic #obikin #rated: mature #for: cas #ps: this whole idea was @kidhuzural's #cas is amazing

[voluntadfuerte]

@mxrvelouscreations | your muse thinks mine is beautiful | accepting

Those words rang more serious than Ward expected. Their relationship was supposed to be one of sex and sex alone. Ward took care of Bucky after sex, yes. But he didn't expect a romantic relationship out of this. Yes, they spent the night together, fell asleep together after sex, took showers together. But all of this could be excused away with sex. But those words revealed to Ward this relationship was more than he first wanted. The softness in these. And Ward found himself wanting more of this softness. He could reply in a deflecting manner. But instead chose honesty. He believed he read the room right. He passed his hand in Bucky's hair as he pressed a kiss to his lips. "Would you be willing to tell others you find me beautiful? Because I think I would about you. My beautiful boyfriend."

#threads | grant ward #mxrvelouscreations

[ask-the-crimson-king]

⏳⚫️ (more specifically the dark chambers)

( @askthecaptiangeneral )

Your choice on 30k or 40k Mun

[Time Asks]

@askthecaptiangeneral

🌑 or “dark” for one of my muse’s darker memories and/or secret memories

The depths of the Imperial archives were inaccessible to many, and with very good reason. The knowledge within was not for the common people; it could too easily be used for ill, instead of good. Then again, all knowledge could be used in such a manner.

But in this section? This one, hidden behind esoteric meaning and symbology unknown to all but a precious few? This was dangerous. Even to the most practiced mind, it could still have disastrous consequences.

And that was precisely why Magnus was here.

He had just arrived on Terra naught but a few hours ago but was immediately drawn into the Imperial archives. He was brought to it like a moth to a flame, knowing that the answers he sought were to be found here. He had to act swiftly; his Legion's future was ensnared too deep for him to untangle with the knowledge he had, and so he needed to look to one of the greatest repositories of wisdom in the entire galaxy.

It was here that, after countless hours of searching and learning, he finally felt ready. He warded his mind as best he could, formed a ritual circle around where his body would be left, and he set free his soul into the deepest depths of the Great Ocean.

Familiar currents kept him aloft and acted as his compass as he flew. Threads wove about him like a spider's web. He chased visions of his Legion's degeneration, phantasms of what could and could not be, diving ever deeper. All along the way, lurking predators tailed him, but he ignored them. Time was of the essence.

One slim thread was leading him farther and farther within. It felt as though he was swimming down into the greatest abyss of the deepest ocean, where no light would ever be seen or felt again. Lurking creatures oggled at the newcomer, some chittering and cackling too close for comfort. Magnus ignored them. All that mattered was the thread -- one vision of a brilliant future where he stood with his Sons triumphant. He just needed to go a little deeper-

You're out of your depth, aren't you?

The voice echoed all around him, stopping him short. Magnus reached out all of his senses; those creatures in the dark had all gone. There was only one suffocating presence that felt as though it was all around him. Eyes began to blink at him in the inky abyss, colors shimmering off of mismatched feathers and scales.

+What are you?+ he asked.

The means of your salvation. More accurately, the salvation of your Sons.

+What do you know of them?+

That you love them so dearly. That they are doomed to die as terrible, twisted amalgams, unless you decide to intervene, here and now. Its voice was sickening. It sounded both genuine and mocking. Its tones were familiar yet foreign.

+You can help me attain the means to saving them?+

I can. And I am the only one who will grant you such knowledge, Magnus the Red.

Something about this felt wrong. This was an ancient and dangerous thing, he knew. But... he had tread so many paths of fate, even before he dove so deep... the only means of saving them could only be found within the deepest depths of both the future and history. Every time he tried to untangle a knot before, it felt as though nine came to replace it. He had already labored for many long nights ever since he had met his Legion in the flesh and saw the pain they were going through.

But this thing. This thing, this predator of the depths, it could be leading him astray. Even as his thoughts turned to such a conclusion, a wide, sharp-toothed smile appeared before him.

Do you have any other choice?

That gave him pause. Did he? Would there be anything else out here? Would there be anything else in the depths? Or would he dive too deeply and lose his way back to the Materium as he knew it?

+You can save them?+

For a price, Magnus. But something tells me you will pay any price to save them from their fates.

As it spoke, visions of Astartes in agonizing spasms filled the shimmering void around them. Flesh bulged and stretched, new limbs grew and multiplied, screams and begging cries filled the air. They called out for help, for mercy, anything to make it stop. Those who were not presently affected were filled with guilt and shame as they would not prevent what was seemingly inevitable.

Magnus felt it all. He felt their pain, their sorrow, their horror, their despair, their grief. He began to find himself overwhelmed by it all, tears spilling from eyes both incorporeal and not.

+Enough!+ Magnus cried. +Name your price. I will grant it to you. Just help me save them. They do not deserve their suffering.+

Cruel, terrifying laughter began to echo from all around him.

---

Some time later, he was back within his body.

His limbs were weak and weary, and he found himself weeping from only one eye. Where his other had been was now nothing but smoothed over flesh.

This new visage of his would be the one history would remember forevermore. And it would be the one constant Magnus would never change about himself.

He knew he was not alone in the room. Someone was addressing him, but he could hardly register who it was at first. After some refocusing, he saw it was a Custodian. One of his father's personal guardians.

Blearily, he wiped at his eye. It seemed he might've been summoned.

Best not to let evidence of what had happened show too brightly.

None could know of what really happened. All he knew was that the fate of his Legion had been secured.

#not some of my best writing #i'll probs revisit something like this later but for now it works #magnus the red #warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k #long post

[honourablejester]

Homebrew Godly Magic Items

Instead of items for my homebrew deities, I thought I’d do some magic items put out into the world by existing D&D deities. So, one from the gnome pantheon, because I really enjoy the gnome pantheon, just in general, and one from Leira, Goddess of Illusion, because her, Savras and Selûne are probably my favourites of the Faerunian pantheon.

MEDDLER’S COIN

Wonderous Item, Rare (requires attunement by a creature of non-evil alignment)

Once upon a time, the gnome deity Nebelun the Meddler, by reasons and means of her own, came into possession of a minor dragon’s hoard. Baffled as to what to do with this pile of coins, she decided to approach two other members of her pantheon, Gaerdal Ironhand and Baravar Cloakshadow, and ask them what benefits they believed should be conferred upon them. Gaerdal argued for defence, a ward or shield that would protect. Baravar suggested luck, a charm that would aid the best outcome. Nebelun, enjoying both suggestions, decided on both, and abruptly tossed the hoard into the air, crying out for her compatriots to bless the coins as they fell. Startled, both Gaerdal and Baravar threw out their blessings, transforming the coins as they rained back to earth. Rather than transforming half the hoard each, their blessings merged and granted part of both to every coin. Nebelun, delighted by this tiny element of chaos, thanked them effusively, and left to scatter her new hoard across the world, to where it would do the most good, or perhaps cause the most chaos. Or, perhaps, to wherever she absent-mindedly dropped one in passing.

A Meddler’s Coin has two sides, one marked with a hand, the other with a hooded cloak. While attuned to the coin, once per day, you can use an action to flip the coin (roll a d2) and gain a benefit depending on which side it lands on:

Ward. If the coin lands on the iron hand (even), you gain a +3 bonus to your AC for 1 hour.

Charm. If the coin lands on the cloak shadow (odd), you gain advantage on all saving throws for 1 hour.

TALISMAN OF THE MISTSHADOW

Wonderous Item, Legendary (requires attunement)

There exist spells and magic in this world to defend thoughts and guard the mind. For Leira, however, the Mistshadow, the Goddess of Illusion, such magics often seem rather … unsubtle. A glaring absence of readable thought is as much a signal of something potentially hidden as an open admission of guilt. How are lies to be believed from someone so suspicious? Thus, for her most favoured liars, it is said that she has created a talisman, or perhaps talismans, to better aid in their deceptions.

A Talisman of the Mistshadow can take many forms, almost all innocuous. Perhaps a slip of paper or cloth bearing an illusory symbol. Perhaps a silver thread woven into a garment. Perhaps a ‘leaf’ caught in the hair. Once attuned to a talisman, you gain the following benefits:

You are automatically aware of any effect that would sense your emotions or read your thoughts.

You can lie in your thoughts as well as with your words: any effect used to sense your emotions or read your thoughts will hear and sense only what you wish them to hear and sense.

If you are subjected to the Zone of Truth spell, regardless of the results of your Charisma saving throw, the caster of the spell will believe you have failed the save.

The resonance of truth is blurred for you: creatures with the ability to automatically detect lies, such as certain celestials, can only detect them from you if they succeed on a passive Wisdom (Insight) or Intelligence (Investigation) check against your passive Charisma (Deception).

#d&d #homebrew #magic items #deities #gnome deities #faerun deities

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

So this prompt list really stuck with me, and I decided to pull some ficlets from it to get back in the swing of things.

I have 8 randomly selected pairings of character and numbered prompt, thanks to the help of a friend blind choosing for me 😂

I'll be yeeting these into the void as I finish each one and then I'll make a master list afterwards. They will be tagged with [#prompt run] in the meantime. These are unedited and unbeta'd - we die like men I guess lol

By interacting with this content you acknowledge that you are 18+. Minors DNI.

Aizawa Shouta - #4 “I swear i’ll do things differently this next time.” - angst - approx 1k.

You knew his injuries were more severe than he would let on, simply from the way that he held himself during your shared patrol debrief. What should have been a quiet night had turned into a dangerous take down of one of the low-life criminals who’d been skulking too close to UA’s outermost border. He looked just a little too rigid, speaking only when prompted by the Commision rep who sat at the head of the hastily arranged ‘conference’ table which now took up the back half of the teacher’s lounge. Any other onlooker would think nothing of the large hand spread carefully over his ribcage, or the way that he hovered behind the chair instead of taking a seat. But you knew better.

Shouta always shrugged off the healing heroes and EMTs unless he had no other choice. If he could walk away from the scene, he did. Even when–much like today–he should have allowed someone to at least check him over. You had seen his right side had taken a few too many direct hits during the battle. A risk that he ~~and you begrudgingly~~ accepted, since his quirk required a direct line of sight.

The last three years as his patrol partner gave you more insight into the man than most other people had been granted, more even than you bargained for to begin with. His silence spoke loudly, but by the end of the first year, the language of his body was even louder. Whole patrols often passed without a word spoken between you, and it felt natural.

From the very beginning, moving with and around one another in a way that allowed your quirks to work together effectively, happened without so much as a forethought. Being with him was easy. And recently, your thoughts about the ease of being near him were beginning to bleed into other parts of your imagination.

You had to get away, while you still had a little of your resolve left to spare.

But those feelings had been easy enough to bury, until now.

You couldn’t afford to get caught up emotionally with a partner. Especially not with Aizawa, and especially not now, with the League of Villains sniffing around at his first-year students. Since the battle at Camino, he’d been getting progressively more reckless, and you didn’t like it.

You knew where he'd be, and you found him just as you knew you would. Rounding the corner into the large locker rooms, you caught a glimpse the black and purple blooms decorating his ribs just as his shirt fell into place over the expanse of his back.

"So are you just determined to make a martyr of yourself before the end of the year, or are you going to let someone look at those clearly broken ribs?"

The way he went rigid made clear the fact that you'd managed to startle him, yet another thing that grated at your patience. If he hadn't heard you approach in the quiet school, how could he possibly ward off a villain in the field while in this state?

How could he possibly keep himself safe if he kept going like this?

"I'm fine." His words came back sharper than he usually spoke. Threatening to cut the fine threads of his tolerance that remained in place.

"You're not fine, Shouta. I mean fuck, with the way those bruises look, you could be on the cusp of an internal bleed! Why won't you just let them heal you?"

"Because that will take me out of the patrol rotation, and we can't afford to not have my quirk available during an attack on the grounds."

"What we can't afford, is for you to be killed!" You practically scoff in your frustration, trying to keep the angry tears from escaping. "If you won't let me have your back out there instead of running off headfirst at every one of these low-life thugs that skulk around in the woods, then I can't–"

He spun on you as quickly as his injuries allowed. Dark eyes glazed over with something even darker, a scowl more menacing than anything he'd turned in your direction before. Your hero name sounded wrong, foreign In the way he nearly barked it out to cut you off. "Can't what? Can't trust me?"

He pressed closer, his nose nearly bumping yours as his steely resolve met your angry tears head on. "You know that nothing and no one will keep me from trying to protect my students."

"That's not what I'm asking from you, Eraser. I care about those kids just as much as you do, and you know it. Your hurt, and you're angry, and you're not fucking listening to me!"

He softened suddenly then, as if he finally realized the way he'd been crowding you so aggressively. He shifted back slightly, granting the both of you a moment to breathe. Then..."I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–" he rushed, reaching out to you.

"I just can't let myself do this." You choked the words out, your resolve buckling under the weight of the hand that came to rest on your shoulder, sliding down to catch your wrist when you finally turned away. "I'm sorry, Shouta, I can't. I, I'm putting in for a transfer."

"What? No, I'm sorry– you know I wouldn't hurt you." he said matter-of-fact, gently squeezing the hand that remained firmly in his grasp. "If I don't know what you mean, we can't get past this."

"I can't do my job if I'm constantly distracted by you. Worried about whether or not you're safe."

"Please, just hold on a second and let's figure this out. I can't afford to lose you, you're the best partner I've ever had. Just tell me what's going on, and I swear I'll do things differently next time."

You met his eyes again and found them no longer angry, but still intense. Relentless.

Finally pulling your arm away from his grasp, you began to step away "No, I can't. It's too dangerous."

Those hero's eyes that saw everything, and usually understood even more than that, looked helpless.

Like he was already lost.

Like he was almost afraid to ask.

But he asked anyway.

"I'm too dangerous?"

"No. Not you, Eraser." With that you turned away fully and took one step, and then another away from him.

"What then?"

You stopped then, and hesitated. You knew that if you turned around, you wouldn't have the strength to leave him alone. So when you finally answered him, you didn't look back.

"Falling in love with you."

You left him standing there, shocked, alone, and unable to tell if the echo of your words came from the concrete surrounding him, or simply within his own mind.

#prompt run #claire writes #bnha #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #the exhausted loml

[autumnslance]

Prompt #13: Confluence

“...A conjunction has begun to form; an intertwining of your time and mine…”

Venat had no time to identify the trio before stunning the charging creation. She turned to ensure everyone was all right as the shark lay insensate.

She immediately recognized Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus of course; even before they had deservedly earned their lofty positions, the young men had been friends of her dear successor to the Seat of Azem.

It was the third member of the party that gave her pause.

She knew the sudden presence she had felt a few days ago was this aether-thin girl. Venat could not see souls like the two men before her, but she knew aether, and this young woman’s, while oddly diluted, burned like a flame, and had a brilliance Venat had only ever seen once before.

And inscribed throughout her aetheric makeup was one of Venat’s own warding spells, put there by Venat’s own hand, and in such a way that the stranger’s own energy fed it, so that even if Venat herself should perish, the protection she had granted would endure.

Sometimes she could honestly be rather clever. Yet she also knew she had never met this odd being before now. Intriguing.

“I say...have you perchance come from the future?”

—

The portal in Propylaion was small, both physically and aetherically. There was no way a person could get through that gate—none save the future Warrior of Light.

Not that Venat had to; after all, if the stories the girl had told were true, Venat would see the events across time play out for herself.

She whispered a stabilizing spell upon the portal. She couldn’t be sure the other side would remain intact, but there was a chance. Her young friend had no reason to return, and the journey seemed quite difficult, given the millennia involved.

Sentiment, she thought. These few days together had been unique, indelibly etched into her memory.

As well they should be. She would have to remember the details for a very long time.

— 

Time and again, that familiar aether flared up from the Lifestream. Time and again Hydaelyn called, but none of the heroes matched the woman met in Elpis. Yet they all instinctively traveled, and fought, and sought ways to protect their star. Many of them succeeded, for a time. Many of them fell.

The worst was when they fell by Ascian hands. Her former friends reviled Her now. She did not blame them, but nor could She allow them to undo Her work lest they doom the world, and so She struggled to thwart them, often failing. She weakened as more of Zodiark rejoined.

Eventually a story heard long ago came true, and called again from the aetherial shores was that brilliant aether.

This time, the person wearing it was familiar, though she did not recognize Hydaelyn. Not yet.

“What a tiny spark you are,” Hydaelyn whispered; She knew the potential in this frail young mortal, knew some of the trials she would face. The sorrows that would temper her.

Would it be enough?

Hydaelyn aided when She could. Midgardsormr tested the would-be hero, as they had once agreed. But mostly, it was the girl’s own efforts, in pursuit of her goals, in safeguarding what she loved, that changed her as more of those long-ago tales occurred.

The Unsundered fell, and Hydaelyn wept for Her erstwhile brothers.

Then She gathered Her carefully preserved strength to once again speak to Her champion.

The rivers of time converged as fire fell from the sky again.

And finally the Warrior of Light stood before the Mothercrystal alongside her comrades.

For centuries, Hydaelyn had drawn the threads together, weaving fates and circumstances. She had given Her children every advantage, every contingency that She could imagine, expended every one of Her considerable limits, until naught was left.

Was it enough?

“We will find our way, Venat.”

The little spark had become the brilliant flame She had met in Elpis so long ago. Now Her friend looked Hydaelyn in the eye, and smiled in recognition.

All roads had led to this. Hydaelyn—Venat—sighed out. Her part was ended; the flow of time was theirs now, and they were worthy of it.

#FFXIVWrite2022 #Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Endwalker #6.0 Spoilers #Hydaelyn #Venat #Warrior of Light #this one's being rough so Yeet #I have more notes and scenes and things maybe to go back to later