#'casting' his lamentations to the sea

[cherubfae]

Alastor's Lament || Jack Skellington!Alastor x Sally!AFAB!Reader

What if all this power as an Overlord has grown tiring for Alastor? Sure, he likes it. But can he even hope to yearn for something different? Could helping the hotel be his missing piece? Could you?

tags: gn!afab!reader, half-ragdoll!sinner!reader, Jack Skellington!Alastor, hurt/comfort, loneliness, implied abuse, blood/gore, protective!Alastor, friends to lovers

a/n: Tim Burton still has some of my favorite films and I'm also going to be working on a Victoria/Victor Al x afab!reader, so please look forward to that! ^~^ Sally's Song belongs to Disney!

From his little corner of Hell, Alastor could see the pale white moon embedded in the red sea sky from his radio tower. On a rare night where the moon could be seen so clearly, it left a deep sense of melancholy within his chest; even his dead heart ached.

All of his years as an Overlord seemed to drain him. Bartering souls had been his greatest pleasure, and sure, he was rather powerful but now that he had all this power; what was it worth to keep gaining? He was already one of the most feared. He sought out a new career path, to become Hazbin's hotelier to rehabilitate demons! It gave him a spark of interest that had been lost in him for centuries. Everything came easy to Alastor. Everything except you.

What a simply fascinating creature you were! Able to unstitch your limbs and sew them back together good as new! He considered you one of his dearest friends, a lovely thought always lingering in the back of his mind. Yet time and time again you seemed to slip away into the night before he could say anything, or even thank you for the lovely vintage wine you'd gifted him. Like a whisper in the dark, you had disappeared.

Not even Rosie had seen you. Which was growing more and more worrisome with the more the hours ticked on by. Where could you have gone? Were you alright? It was an uncommonly chilly night in Hell, thanks to an ice demon casting a spell over the lands as of recent. It was certainly no weather to be out and about in if one could help it.

The Radio Demon was aware of the unsavory living conditions you kept living with your adopted father and self-appointed 'creator' (which was wholly untrue), Dr. Twisttike, having invited you to live at the Hazbin Hotel. Even Charlie, Princess of Hell, had cordially invited you but the two were unaware of just how tightly you were bound to an over- controlling demon. One who claimed that he made you, therefore you were his.

Shaking his head, Alastor fretted over his blueprints for a new radio tower design, yet that inescapable feeling of dread continued to gnaw at his bones like a starved dog. He runs his hand over his face, down the red pinstriped suit, stopping to adjust his black buck shaped bowtie. Its glimmering red eyes blinked. This will simply not do. He needed to find you.

Hidden away, locked inside of your 'room' once more by the demon who held your chain so tightly, you weep silently to yourself. "And will he see how much he means to me?"

"Will you stop that dreadful singing?" Dr. Twisttike hissed, grasping your glowing pale blue chain and yanking you harshly. You fall to your knees, scraping your hands against the dirty concrete. Red abrasions collected on your palms, threatening to break the surface of your skin. "Your lover boy, Alastor, won't be coming for you, dear. You think you can keep up with a demon such as him? Look at yourself. You can't even keep your stitches together. Next time I make a ragdoll, I'll make one out of proper cloth and not flesh like you. All you do is cry and bleed." Clicking his tongue, he leaves you crying on the cold ground.

With your knees tucked to your chest, you sigh. That brute of a man--demon, oftentimes left you more undone than anything else did. Constantly pulling apart your stitches and not letting you put yourself back together. He almost let you catch fire a few weeks ago. Sure, none of this could kill you. But that didn't mean that it doesn't hurt when it happens.

Standing to look out your window, you hum to yourself. You could see the peak of Alastor's radio tower from here, the full moon rising behind like a great beacon. An immense sense of longing filled your body, you hoped he was looking at the same moon and feeling the same way as you. With a gasp, you slip through the partially opened gap and allow yourself to fall to the cobblestone. More abrasions and bruises from, your blood coagulating from your missing limbs.

Plucking out a needle from behind your ear, you begin to sew yourself back together, hissing softly around a particular tender area. Standing on rather wobbly feet at first until you break out into a sprint before your Overlord can know you've left. Your other arm was left behind, but you couldn't be bothered with that now. You needed to get away, heading towards the highest hill of town, near Alastor's tower.

Alastor frantically searches around town. There's still no sign of you anywhere. Dread continues to eat away at him, until he finds himself standing outside the gates of your home. The dread boils away into anger. Your sweet scent lingers in the air mixed with the scent of blood and fear. You were hurt. Bleeding. He wills himself to calm down, his claws bending through metal gates as he pushes them open with brute force.

"Ah, Alastor! Welcome, welcome, come in my dear boy!" Dr. Twisttike's serpentine tail swishes behind him, allowing the tall redhead into the cramped and dingey house.

Even for Hell's standards, the old and decrepit house was absolutely deplorable. A sulfuric musty smell hung in the air, damp with black mold and cobwebs clinging to every viable rafter.

Tension wafted through the air, Alastor's scarlet eyes turning into radio dials. In an instant, he's turned into his full demon form, mouth sewn by green stitches. A glowing green chain wraps taught around Dr. Twisttike, sending him to the ground with a harsh thud.

"Where are they?" Alastor's neck cracks at an ungodly angle, the echo of screams surrounding him. When Twisttike fails to speak, Alastor yanks the chain harshly, his heeled shoe slamming down onto the demon's claw, snapping it clean off. Black inky blood oozes from the putrid wound. "I won't ask again, good man. Where are they?"

Dr. Twisttike rasps, "Upstairs! Their bedroom! Please, stop!" Alastor snaps his fingers, the demon's limbs and extremities are bound by glowing green rope.

Alastor thunders up the spiral staircase. "My dearest! Are you here?" His eyes are frantic, wild. His ears stand alert, waiting for any sign of your lovely voice calling out to him. The only answer he receives is a perplexing silence. He rounds the corner to enter your door lies and snarls. "A cell? You keep my darling in a goddamned cell?"

Blowing the door off the hinges, Alastor surveys the small, cramped room. There's a bare bed with a single flimsy blanket and ragged old pillow. Small splatters of bloodstains stain those sheets. A tiny dresser to the right of the bed holding a single analog clock that seems to have stopped working long ago. The walls are bare of any color and character, with peeling paint and black mold scuttled around the corners of the ceiling like soot sprites. Everything he knows that you love and adore does not reflect in your room. There was no personalization, there was no you. It's uncomfortably damp. It was nothing short of a miracle that you weren't sick.

"You pitiful creature, keeping my beloved in such conditions. Why I should--," Alastor's sentence does in the back of his throat, noticing something half-hanging out the window. A dismembered arm, the thread of your stitches caught on a rusty nail. Carefully expecting it, he gently traces the stitch marks. "Hmm, it appears I have no more use for you, Dr. Twisttike."

A sickening squelch echoes throughout the house as Dr. Twisttike's body splatters all across the walls. Alastor's slithering tentacle removes itself from the corpse, shaking off the blood before retreating into his back. There isn't much left of the poor fool other than the remains of his guts and brain matter. Alastor carefully dabs his cheek free of blood, holding your severed arm close to his chest. He exits, form swallowed by darkness and shadow. Behind him, the home ignites into hellish green flames.

It did not take long for Alastor to find you. You nearly took his breath away. Your gaze is so beautiful and forlorn, sitting on a hill with the clearest view of the large full moon. The silver light casts delicate shadows against your skin as you hum a soft song to yourself. What a true, ethereal beauty you are.

"My dearest friend," rumbles Alastor, his tone a delicate purr. You stand in surprise, which quickly melts into a delicate smile. "If you don't mind, I'd like to join you by your side. Where we can gaze into the stars," Alastor gently reattached your arm, green magic carefully sewing it back on you.

"And sit together."

"Now and forever."

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

"For it as plain as anyone could see, we're simply meant to be." With a gentle embrace, Alastor presses his lips to yours, tugging you into his arms and off the chilly ground.

#hazbin hotel imagines #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin imagines #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor imagine #cherubfae 2024

[hanzajesthanza]

“what does geralt get from that friendship…”

another post examining the weight of geralt and dandelion’s friendship… because i don’t think people recognize how painful and debilitating loneliness can become.

the witcher as a deconstruction of the genre takes fantasy tropes to their most logical ends—it asks us to consider what The Lone Swordsman feels, looks into the humanity in a Cold-Blooded Killer. and it turns out he’s not cold-blooded at all.

that despite some superhuman abilities, he laments and worries and curses himself, just like any other worker of any other profession. just as the farmer is scorched by the sun, the washerwoman’s back aches, and the scholar goes half-blind studying, a witcher deals with all of the pains and annoyances and dangers of his job in a mundanely human way.

but the farmer, the washerwoman, and the scholar have something the witcher does not have—they’ll always be seen as human and part of their society. at the end of the day after enduring all of their labor, they have their wife to caress, festivities to attend, and taverns to frequent. but for a witcher? after the killing is over, what does he have? no one and nothing. not even a thank you. he is met with fear and hatred everywhere he goes, baseless bigotry and dislike.

I did my job. I quickly learned how. I’d ride up to village enclosures or town pickets and wait. If they spat, cursed and threw stones, I rode away. If someone came out to give me a commission, I’d carry it out.

so he faces not just loneliness, but being deliberately ostracized and cast out from society. geralt can’t even find a polite word in most settlements, much less a friend.

‘(…) Tell me, where should I go? And for what? At least here some people have gathered with whom I have something to talk about. People who don’t break off their conversations when I approach. People who, though they may not like me, say it to my face, and don’t throw stones from behind a fence. (…)’

this kind of loneliness is not a mere inconvenience. it’s completely altering to your self-perception and ability to see the positive in the world.

each day is not lived, but endured.

day in, and day out—forced to the most difficult and lowest labor in order to survive, and knowing that were you to die, no one would search for your body, few would miss you, hell, they might even spit “good riddance”.

in this situation, to find a friend, is not only friendship, but a rescue.

without dandelion, geralt may have drowned—drowned in solitude, amidst a sea of strangeness.

‘(…) And I’m alone, completely alone, endlessly alone among the strange and hostile elements. Solitude amid a sea of strangeness. Don’t you dream of that?’

No, I don’t, he thought. I have it every day.

because dandelion is not only a bright soul, characteristic rippling laughter and the strum of a lute, but someone who will intently listen to geralt, someone who mutually enjoys his company.

‘(…) you almost jumped out of your pants with joy to have a companion. Until then, you only had your horse for company.’

someone who doesn’t see him as strange and at the fringes of society at all, but as an utterly normal man.

and doesn’t impose demeaning, sappy sympathy onto him, but sobering and realistic “quit your bullshit” which ridicules the very thought that he should internalize societal hatred.

Do you know what your problem is, Geralt? You think you’re different. (…) [You don’t understand that] for people who think clear-headedly you’re the most normal man under the sun, and they all wish that everybody was so normal. What of it that you have quicker reflexes than most and vertical pupils in sunlight? That you can see in the dark like a cat? That you know a few spells? Big deal.

dandelion isn’t “willing” to accept geralt for himself—he already has accepted him. and to him, it’s no difficulty, it’s nothing worth discussing, because he sees no abnormality and no strangeness in him.

while others “prefer the company of lepers to witchers,” dandelion has already offered geralt to share his room and board. not out of sympathetic pity, not out of fetishizing curiosity. because… they’re friends.

and what else does this friendship save him from?

not only from others, but from himself.

worse than enduring others’ apathy and hatred is one’s own thoughts—the darkness and negativity which builds from witnessing and experiencing such behavior.

dandelion’s ability to counter and dispel geralt’s pessimism and self-flagellating tendencies—again, not out of pity, but out of friendship—is undeniably invaluable. someone to rescue you from your darkest thoughts, when you begin to spiral.

and in this darkness, all you can do is cry. you cry, beg for someone to help you, please—

Help! Why doesn't anyone help me? Alone, weak, helpless – I can't move, can't force a sound from my constricted throat. Why does no one come to help me? I'm terrified!

to be alone, the saga reminds us, is worse than a death sentence. to be alone is to “perish; stabbed, beaten or kicked to death, defiled, like a toy passed from hand to hand.” to be alone is to suffer, and to be with someone is to save them from that suffering.

'(…) I wouldn't like anything bad to happen to you. I like you too much, owe you too much-'

'You've said that already. What do you owe me, Yennefer?'

The sorceress turned her head away, did not say anything for a while.

'You travelled with him,' she said finally. 'Thanks to you he was not alone. You were a friend to him. You were with him.'

it is true that geralt has saved dandelion countless times, helped him, gotten him out of some scrape… but to ask what did geralt get in return? are you kidding me?

did you ever consider that it is dandelion who saved geralt?

by being with him. by being by his side. by being his friend.

indeed, dandelion has rescued geralt, countless times, from the yawning jaws of endless loneliness. he’s helped him, chased away the danger of geralt’s own rumination. and he’s gotten him out of scrapes, his own insecurities and bitter helplessness.

so what does dandelion give geralt? what does geralt get from their friendship?

an amusing question. what one gets from friendship is the friendship itself. and that is more than enough.

#the witcher books #gerlion #geralt of rivia #dandelion #jaskier #the parallels with ciri’s story makes me so emotional like… #ciri is just geralt but younger and alone. and thus she suffers so immensely #i included ciri’s nightmare because i think that’s how it feels to be alone #you just cry out ‘help! why won’t someone help me?’ and no one answers #and the funny bit is that everyone is like ‘ugh you cannot get RID of dandelion’ like #i think that’s the most comforting and relieving thing about him. he will never leave and abandon geralt. #there is nothing geralt *would* or *could* do to ever push him away #the kind of friendship where you never worry about being too ‘weird’ for them because they straight up dont care if youre weird #honestly idk how more people dont see them like this because i feel like loneliness is so pervasive right now #does everyone else just have this kind of best friend and for that reason take dandelion’s presence for granted #s: i want to be by your side #c: geralt #c: dandelion #excerpt #analysis #like. this is how it is: #the entire world: ‘you’re nothing you’re worthless and you’re inhuman’ #dandelion is NOT like ‘omgggg of course you are something 🥺🥺 pwease don’t think badly like that’ #no. he’s like ‘the hell? that’s the stupidest thing ive ever heard. why the hell are you even listening to that’ #dandelion has a kind of masculine energy that the fandom does not like lmao

[gwaedhannen]

[Excerpt from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 4th Edition; ed. Elrond Peredhel. Archive of Cîw Annúminas, inaugural collection]

“Simply reaching Menegroth was a struggle. Doriath had become a twisting nightmare of overgrowth and rot and mists, as Morgoth’s power warred with the remains of the Girdle and our old songs. Ai, our home, our haven! I know the name of every holly in Region, before the exile. We found deadfalls surrounded by dozens of animals who’d lain down beside the trees and rotted before they died. Blind moose more antler than flesh staggered towards us even after a dozen arrows. Vines covered in dripping thorns reached for our eyes. The cherry trees were overladen with fruits that smelled like gangrene. Deildhod stumbled into a nest of maddened vipers, and only escaped because their tails were all tangled together into a festering mass and could hardly move. We never saw or heard a single bird. I’m amazed we lost no one in that whole push through Region. No, I speak a lie. I know how we passed through with nothing worse than scrapes. Elrond was with us, and the ghost of Melian’s love still recognized her kin.

“Esgalduin had nearly been dammed by one of Hírilorn’s fallen boles, but the bridge still held. We crossed and reached the ruined gates, wrought twice and broken twice. Within there was only darkness to be seen; we knew not what manner of horrors Morgoth had sent to infest the city, but Ingwion was unwilling to leave them at the rear of his forces as he moved north, if it could be helped. Celeborn stood at Elrond’s right and myself at his left. Far less an honor guard than the heir of Elu Thingol and Melian Besain deserved. Yet in those dark days it was all the honor we could muster. King Dior Eluchíl had known thirty-six summers when he was unrighteously slain. Queen Elwing Nimaew thirty-five when despair took her to the sea. Lord Elrond Peredhel beheld the city of Elu for the first and only time in his twenty-ninth summer.

“Elrond stood before his inheritance and Sang. He sang a lament, for the lost endless years of joy and peace, for deep halls lit by birdsong and echoing with wisdom, for the Forsaken People who awoke the forest and earth with many voices, for the works of beauty never to be seen again on this side of the sea. He sang a promise, that the glory of Menegroth will be remembered in the songs of Middle-Earth for as long as its children endure. He sang thanks, for the protection the halls granted us until it could shelter us no more. As his song at last ceased, I thought I heard nightingales answering him.

“Stars shone on his brow, and his hair glistened as the vault of night, and the memories of our once-eternal bliss in the woods of Thingol’s realm under Elbereth’s gifts arose in my mind. Let Oropher dream of a deep hall for his own; let Celeborn reign where he will at his wife’s side! I knew in my heart, as the echo of nightingale songs faded, that there was no lord or king I would ever stand beside save Elrond Elwingion.

“The living stone in which our kingdom once thrived knew his voice, and at long last laid down its burden and passed. The darkness over Menegroth was lifted, and we went forth into its corpse, and no beast or orc could stand before us. I do not sing of what we found and left behind when we cast down the bridge and gave leave for the river to flood the caves. It is not worth remembering.”

#silmarillion #the silmarillion #tolkien #silm fic #elrond #doriath #menegroth #war of wrath #my OCs #war of wrath: sorrow beyond words #stormwritten #the Second Kinslaying occurred on this day in FA 506 #you can observe the day of remembrance by burning a Son of Feanor in effigy #in remembrance I'm writing Sindarin Elrond because I've seen too much Feanorian Elrond recently #the narrator is a former senior Marchwarden who escaped the Kinslaying and brought refugees over the mountains to Celeborn and Galadriel #she'll never forgive herself for not being at Sirion for the Third Kinslaying #she becomes one of Elrond's chief counselors and one of the heads of Rivendell's forces along with Glorfindel #she and Glorfindel were definitely at each other's throats for years until Elrond yelled at them to chill #they may have hatefucked #sorry Erestor #she either dies when Celebrían is captured #or leads the search for Celebrían and sails west with her #in either case she'll never forgive herself for failing #“Nimaew” = “white/pale bird” I think #a name given to Elwing after her leap #she doesn't know about it yet

[musicalcastingideas]

Dropout Does The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals

So my theory about overlap of Dropout and Team Starkid seems to be accurate, and people seemed to like my Dropout does Nerdy Prudes Must Die post, so I'm back for another. Same method and criteria as my previous post, you can go see that if you want to know what they are. Also, I have previously done a similar list with Internet Personalities that included a handful of Dropout people, but I'm gonna try to make this one different.

Also spoilers for potentially anything in the Hatchetfield verse

Paul: Ross Bryant

Ross is a great straight man (in the comedy sense, I don't know his sexuality) while being very funny in his own right, and I think, while Paul has a lot of his own funny moments, it's very important that his character is also the more normal guy reacting to the madness around him. Also, he would slay the Jekyll and Hyde homage that is Let it Out.

Emma : Siobhan Thompson

I think one of the essential parts of Emma's character is an underlying exhaustion with the world, and that is very Adaine Abernant and Ruby Rocks, so I think Siobhan would embody that very well.

Charlotte: Vic Michaelis

I don't think I've ever heard them do a transatlantic accent before, but I just have this gut feeling they'd be so good at it.

Ted: Ify Nwadiwe

While I do genuinely think Ify would be great in the part, if I'm being fully honest, this casting is because I (despite my better judgment) find Ted Spankoffski hot, so casting arguably the hottest man in Dropout in this part makes me seem less damaged for being attracted to the self-proclaimed sleazeball. Also him and Vic seem like they would be great playing off each other.

Bill: Brian "Murph" Murphy

He just has "refuses to drink during the apocalypse so he can be the DD" energy.

Mr Davidson: Brian David Gilbert

Since I'm splitting up all the parts, this basically turns Mr Davidson into a Princess Track where the actor just shows up, sings about desire and being choked while he jerks off, but laments how he can never achieve his dreams, and then pretty much leaves, and I don't know why, but that seems right up BDG's alley.

Melissa: Lisa Gilroy

Lisa Gilroy seems nice, but also kinda scares me, and those are the correct vibes for Melissa (#heymelissacore)

Sam: Jacob Wysoki

My only concern about this casting is that he'd go SO HARD in You Tied Up My Heart that he would keep breaking the handcuffs and/or chair, but that's fine, it would be worth it.

Nora: Katie Marovitch

The "Decaf?" parts of Cup of Roasted Coffee already sounds a bit like her TBH.

Zoey: Rehka Shankar

I feel like Zoey is such an underrated, funny side character in the show (I know she's a very small part, but like every line she has is a banger) and I feel like Rehka is a very underrated performer, so this is a good match.

Greenpeace Girl: Persephone Valentine

Making up the Save the Sea Turtles campaign is such a Sam Nightengale move, and also she would eat up Lah Dee Dah Dah Day.

Alice: Surena Marie

She's got a bit of a baby face (I thought she was like 25) and I think she would handle the change from Alice to Hivemind Alice really well.

Deb: Emily Axford

I'm definitely not just casting this because I want Emily to be my protective and caring girlfriend...

Professor Hidgens: Josh Ruben

I don't have an explanation for this one, this is vibes alone.

General MacNamara: Brennan Lee Mulligan

"Wear a Watch" and a song highlighting how the hivemind is essentially fascist and using the military to destroy any resistance to their regime is so Brennan core.

Homeless Man: Ally Beardlsey

I just feel like this is the part they'd want.

Dan Reynolds: Lou Wilson

Icons play Icons.

Donna: Aabria Iyengar

Icons play Icons

Hard Cuts:

Jacob Wysoki as Ted

Mike Trapp as Paul

Emily Axford as Emma

Jess Ross as Charlotte

Lily Du as Zoey

Grant O'Brien as Professor Hidgens

Grant O'Brien as Ted

Ally Beardlsey as Ted

#fancast #musicals #broadway #please don't hate me #team starkid #dimension 20 #brennan lee mulligan #dreamcast #drop #dropout #the #the guy who didn't like musicals #tg #tgwdlm #paul matthews #ross #ross bryant #emma perkins #siobh #siobhan thompson #vic michaelis #ify nwadiwe #jacob wy #jacob wysocki #brian #brian murphy #brian david gilbert #lisa gilroy #rehka shankar #katie marovitch

[demigoddessqueens]

knowing me, knowing you

Based off the ABBA song, and the reincarnation + soulmate trope

Summary: Headcanons on Namor facing his lover being reincarnated in many lifetimes.

You always wore a different face every time he sees you, but he knows it’s you. The eyes are the window to your soul and it’s those same eyes that he always recognizes.

- in your first lifetime, you were a defender for your people. Facing against those who wished to do you all harm and take your homes, you lament what feels to be the end as your cries carry out to the sea shores. Ancient prayers are answered as the Feathered Serpent God repels said forces and delivers your people to victory.

-in that night, you two bond and you forever remain within the crevices of Namor’s mind

- in your second lifetime, you were reborn a noble. Fair and kind to all, you never truly fit in to the high society. Still, your acts of kindness do not go unnoticed, especially when you save an innocent who survived a storm’s shipwreck. From the murky waters, Namor’s eyes and ears hear for your soothing voice as you nurse them back to health. Humming a familiar tune that you once sang to him centuries ago after a victory.

- in the third life, you belonged to no one and no people. It was a lonesome life, but you made one for yourself on the sea. A storm crashes and rages against your crew one night, casting you into the sea as you push your first mate away to safety. Plummeting into the dark waters, you fight with all your strength before surrendering to the dark. You feel something pull you close, a soft touch that gently holds you as life and air is breathed back into your lungs and soul. You find yourself reunited with your crew by morning on the shore.

- now, in the fourth lifetime, you stand proudly before him years after the shaky alliance gains ground. A Senator and ambassador for Wakanda, Namor refuses to leave your side. A new face but still the voice and eyes that he never forgot. You’re confused as to why he looks at you like that, but it’s flattering all the same. Like he treats everything you say as the most important words that hold value to him.

-“you don’t recognize me, my love?”

-“Your Highness, I don’t think I’m the one you take me for.”

-speechless, confused, worried. You don’t know what to make of all this and try to keep things professional despite the distant and morose demeanor that seems to follow Namor in the days that follow.

-that night, the dreams that have long followed you become memories. Beaches, a victory, and a gentle song fill that hole that’s plagued your very being for a long time.

- you remember

- the next day, in the early hours of the morning, you arrive first while softly humming that familiar tune. Namor turns to face you, eyes filled with an imploring reassurance as he tightly brings you close to him.

-“you remember! You’re here.” “I’m here.”

#fanfic #namor fanfiction #writeblr #namor x poc!reader #namor x y/n #namor x reader #namor x you #k’uk’ulkan #mcu #marvel imagine #namor headcanons #marvel x reader #tenoch huerta #marvel headcanons #namor the sub mariner #black panther wakanda forever spoilers #namor x wakanda!reader #writers on tumblr

[ardafanonarch]

Hello! Is there basis for Maglor wielding twin blades or is this fanon?

Maglor Dual-Wielding

There is not!

There is some justification for assuming, however, that he was an especially dextrous elf.

The published Silmarillion does not mention what instrument he played, but elsewhere* we learn that he was a harper. The Lay of Leithian Recommenced makes special note of his (and Daeron's) dexterity:

No other player has there been, no other lips of fingers seen so skilled, 'tis said in elven-lore: save Maglor, son of Fëanor, forgotten harper, singer doomed, who, young when Laurelin yet bloomed, to endless lamentation passed and in the tombless sea was cast. Canto III Continued, lines 45-52

For creators concerned with historical realism, I recommend doing some research on the practicality of dual-wielding in mass combat situations. My cursory research suggests there is a good amount of evidence from different periods and cultures of dual-wield training but not a lot for it being used in actual combat. A major issue with it is lack of adequate defense (e.g., a shield).

But, you know, if anyone could do it, why not one of the Aman-boosted Elves of the First Age?

*Besides the quoted passage, in Lay of Leithian, line 506; and Shibboleth of Fëanor, 'The names of the sons of Fëanor with the legend of the fate of Amrod'.

#maglor #warfare #lay of leithian #anon

[searchingforserendipity25]

Brainstorming on the Maglor = Lindir concept for @funwithfanon and here’s a list of different takes, in no particular order:

Lindir does not exist. It’s more of a temporary, honorary rank, a job description - anyone can be the Lindir of Rivendell if their application is accepted. Duties include diplomacy, welcoming guests, playing the harp, singing beautifully, babysitting and being able to remember all the Dúnedain’s names. The usual contract goes for fifteen summers, which is much less than the regular yéni. Whatever you do, do not ask why Lord Elrond is very particular about having an open call for minstrels going on regularly. The Lindor of the book events is just some guy who is here for the steady pay to save up for a fancy dowry to take on his Ship to Valinor. It’s not that he has a sweetheart or anything, but he fully intends to nab himself a hot, rich, and influential Calaquendi once he gets to the West, and Elrond’s court is a good place to practice. I, for one, respect Lindir’s hustle. 

The same, but the current Lindir is Maglor. This is never discussed. If you recognize him, no you don’t. He shows up for the fifteen years, and then goes away, and then comes back. It’s fine. They don’t talk about it. It’s definitely fine! The job interviews have gone from dramatic to downright farcical. Neither of them is willing to be the first one to crack. The first time, Elrond gets to ask for a portfolio and watch Maglor draw a blank on anything that isn't a lament. By the fourth time, he has a long repertoire of new works inspired by Imladris ready, all dedicated to its gracious and most generous lord. They come up with ridiculously complicated linguistic crossword games and then swap them to play over morning tea. Again, I cannot overstate how much they do not Talk About It. 

Lindir is of the Falathrim of Sirion and he will fight you if you ask whether he’s secretly Maglor Fëanorian. He will hit you with his gigantic gold-and-ivory harp and you will deserve it.

Lindir is Maglor. Ish. Maglor-ghost. Maglor's remaint. If you look at him too hard the edges of him start to blur, like an old crosshatching drawing left to blur in the sun for too long. The shadow he casts upon the wall rests over his shoulders like a cloak. He is also rather misty. Somewhere by the sea, a body has been eaten by the fish, but the fëa wandered far inland and found refuge in the valley where all those in pain are made welcome. One day Elrond woke to a faint song. He followed it through the stairs of his house until he found - the smouldering embers in Hall of Fire stirring, and a darker darkness singing. Lindir has been part of the household ever since.

Lindir is Daeron. He loves the line of Lúthien more than all things, except for the Lady Celebrían, who was the one who found him, once, by the still dark waters of the North, and brought him home to the valley where the guards sing nonsense and the air in the twilit starlight smells nothing at all and very much like Melian’s kingdom in the days before the Sun and the Moon.

Maglor did not defend himself, whenever anyone found him wandering by the sea Maglor never defended himself, with words or Song, steel or harp. Not from wolves, or orcs, brigands or avengers, from the wrathful sea or the elements. Varda's Hallowing had scorched him through, a maddening and encompassing pain, the sort of continuous justice that left very little space for anything that was not regret. He could not defend himself from it, or the absolute, star-bright knowledge that its horror and ugliness should not and could not be denied. By the time he came again among the elves, there was very little left to recognize him by. He was so plainly beyond the ability to do harm - getting him in custody was less a matter of containing him than making certain no one went and killed him. It is imprisonment, in the sense that he’s in custody. There will be no Kinslayings or executions in Imladris (Glorfindel's passionate defence of Turgon's precedent aside), and even if it were allowed - no one could put him on trial presently. Elf parole gets invented eventually, after he is in the healing halls for half an Age, and slowly readjusts to society again. Much has his countenance changed, in grief and pain, and from wounds besides; few people recognize him outright. It takes him a long, long time before he touches a harp again, and longer still before he can be certain enough of himself to sing before an audience. 

You would not have caught Maglor Fëanorian admitting he could not identify a poem’s authorial contributions, be he dead or damned or deranged. Luckily, local musical prodigy Lindir, born and bred in Imladris, does not have weird First Age perfectionist hang-ups. Elrond’s students all have a perfectly non-traumatic apprenticeship and are very well-adjusted, thank you very much.

Lindir is a nightingale Arwen accidentally turned into an elf. Listen, it's a thing, it happens with Peredhel sometimes. He’s - adjusting. Focused on playing the harp to develop finger coordination and ended up enjoying it a great deal, after the first challenging yéni (Fingers! Tiny bony bits! What a notion. Lindir misses his beak sometimes). He does still trill sometimes; his old friends answer him during their afternoon songs, it is quite a sight. Mortals are very strange and they have the bad habit of dying fairly often just when he’s started to recognize them, but he likes the way the scruffy one makes his lady smile so he does not chirp in with comments on his poetry. Not many comments, anyway. 

They take his harp away, at first. Glorfindel, who had seen him in battle, wanted anted a geas of silence. But that would be a waste, in its way. His voice is bound to the valley instead, to the protection of it, and the working of its purpose as a place of safety and succour. Eternal servitude to the line of Earendil is not, objectively, the worst punishment that could befall the last Kinslayer. If Elrond is not entirely easy with having him in Imladris, neither is he able to countenance the idea that he might go free, and unaccounted for. The might in him goes away from his mouth, and beyond his mastery. He sings, sometimes, when it is for the benefit of the valley.  That he must be of use is a just demand, and a kinder end than exile. A grace, in its way - and it is not as if he has any reason or right to have any wish in his heart that is not to serve the line of Elwing. It is not, Maglor knows well, the cruellest captivity a soul has ever suffered. He can even speak, if he wishes; and in time, among the long Ages, he does gather enough nerve to ask leave to sing in the Hall of Fire in company, on those moonless nights when he is not needed to sing enchantments of protection. A minstrel can have many duties, after all. There are many ways to serve, in small and deedless fashion, without doing any harm. Pity is not torment, for all it is difficult to withstand, and difficult the making of a gift rich enough to answer it. Well, and he is an excellent minstrel; that much he can offer still, and he does it willingly. They call him Lindir, and that is fair, as well - it is only that Lindir does not and must not and cannot sing laments.

Maglor the Kinslayer is the minstrel Lindir. Everyone knows this. It's not clear whether Lindir, who cries when the cooks behead the hen and hums to the horses and loathes the silver sound of a drawn sword, does know this. 

#maglor #lindir #elrond #funwithfanon #rivendell

[yazzydream]

List of Direct Pop Culture References in Season 1 of Jujutsu Kaisen

I kept trying to find a comprehensive list somewhere but couldn't. So, here's one for me.

Ninja Warrior and Mirko Cro Crop (Ep1)

Sasuke, or Ninja Warrior as it's known as in multiple incarnations, is a sports reality show in which competitors attempt to complete a four-stage obstacle course.

Mirko Cro Crop is the ring name of Croatian mixed martial artist and kickboxer Mirko Filipović. And yes, Sasaki-senpai does clarify that Mirko's not dead.

Jennifer Lawrence (Ep2)

This one is possibly the most infamous reference in JJK actually. Of course, Yuuji is referring to American actress, Jennifer Lawrence. Gege Akutami said in the fanbook Yuuji became her fan after seeing Silver Linings Playbook (2012).

Super Smash Bros. (Ep5)

When the second years first ask Nobara and Megumi to participate in the Kyoto School Goodwill Exchange Event, Nobara's first thought is a Smash Bros. tournament. She'll use Meteor Smash so you can't get back up. All the better if it's the Wii version.

Onita (Ep6)

When Yuuji first starts lamenting his lack of ability to use a Curse Technique, Gojo cuts in that Yuuji can use a power bomb. Because it's something Japanese wrestler Atsushi Onita (who is not a sorcerer as far as we know) can do anyway.

Shonen power techniques (Ep6 cont.)

Yuuji then proceeds to list several other abilities from other shonen series. The Spirit Gun from Yu Yu Hakusho, Bankai from Bleach, and Dodon Ray and Kamehameha from Dragon Ball.

Lord of the Rings (Ep7)

For his training on controlling Cursed Energy, Yuuji is made to watch a variety of movies. For the adaptation, the animators interpreted the cry for Sam as a scene from Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001).

Actually, in the manga, Akutami was referencing I Am Legend (2007). The movie stars Will Smith and his only companion, a dog named Sam, in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. Uh, things don't go well for the dog.

Gojo's other movies (Ch13)

Additionally, there were a few specific movies Akutami had in mind that wasn't carried over to the anime. (Though, honestly, some of these DVD covers in the anime look so familiar and detailed I suspect they are references to other movies. If anyone can identify any of them lmk!)

Anyway, here are the ones we know of in the manga!

Léon: The Professional (1994), The Descent (2005), The Host (2006), The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On (1967). And the movie that Gojo spoils about the super annoying heroine who dies spectacularly at the end is Deep Blue Sea (1999). And yes, if you squint and zoom you can see which dvd has the cover for what movie.

Oikawa Tōru (Ep9)

A blink and you'll miss it stand-in of someone that suspiciously looks like Oikawa Tōru from Haikyuu!!

Castaway (Ep11)

Yuuji makes Junpei laugh when the former unexpectedly recreates the scene from Cast Away (2000) when Tom Hanks' character loses his illusory best friend...

Neon Genesis Evangelion (Ep11, Juju Stroll)

This entire Juju Stroll is a parody of Neon Genesis Evangelion episode previews. With shots that are reminiscent of NGE and a dramatic and frantic voiceover. The standout shot to me was the one of Yaga sitting with his hands folded in front of him in classic Gendo Ikari fashion. They even had Yaga sitting over a burning camp stove just so they could get the orange glow reflecting off his glasses. Ha!

Luncheon on the Grass

The full convergence of all the characters was completed by episode 13 in the first opening. The idyllic scene is based off of Luncheon on the Grass (aka Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe) by Claude Monet. I like how Panda is in place of the dog.

I wonder if Todo being half naked here is further reference to the more scandalous, The Luncheon on the Grass, by Édouard Manet which is what Monet's own painting is a direct take on. (That painting depicts a nude woman sitting with two fully dressed gentlemen.) ...Or it could just be Todo being Todo.

Ichiro?! (Ep15)

Utahime, incensed, tells Gojo to respect his senpai! I'm a bit hesitant about this one, but it may be a reference to Ichiro Suzuki jokingly complaining about not being respected as a senpai during the 2009 World Baseball Classic celebration. Baseball is HUGE in Japan, and the celebration looks wild. It may be iconic enough that it can be casually mentioned and most Japanese would know what Yuuji was talking about. Also, considering the Jujutsu Koshien episode about to come up, it may've been foreshadowing. (Found here)

Sebastian Stan (Ep15, Juju Stroll)

Another famous American celebrity! When asked about her type in episode 15's Juju Stroll, Momo was drooling over a picture of Sebastian Stan. Stan is most well known for playing the Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes in the MCU. I wonder why her answer didn't pass muster with Todo. Maybe she hadn't had the chance?

Pepper (Ep16)

Nobara, smack-talking to Momo, says the Kyoto school have their own "Pepper-kun" that she should turn into scrap. Mechamaru immediately knew she was referring to himself. 😆 Pepper is the semi-humanoid robot that SoftBank introduced at a conference in 2014.

Great Teacher Gojo (Ep18)

Great Teacher Onizuka, aka GTO, is a classic series about a former biker gang member becoming the best teacher to a class of problem children.

Boogie Woogie

Boogie-woogie is a genre of music, but Todo's Cursed Technique, "Boogie Woogie" is specifically a reference to boxer, Muhammad Ali, who was recorded playing boogie-woogie on camera. (Which ties into an even more extensive reference regarding his mentor. But I won't spoil it here for anime-onlys.) I dare say, Todo's attitude may be a bit Ali inspired too. Haha

Ma-kun of Tohoku (Ep21)

When up to bat during Jujutsu Koshien, Nobara says people call her "the Ma-kun of Tohoku" which... doesn't make sense, since Masahiro Tanaka (affectionately called "Ma-kun" by fans) is already a baseball player for the Tohoku Rakuten Golden Eagles. 😂

Additional trivia: JJK did a collab with the Rakuten Eagles in September of 2022.

Game of Life (Ep24)

And finally, we end the season with some of our villains playing The Game of Life board game. That spinner, colors, and design are pretty unmistakable. Something extra I spotted is that Choso already managed to get married!

*Edit: Had to include this link to officially licensed JJK Game of Life.

Aaand that's everything, I think. But let me know if I missed anything!

*Edit 7/23:

Gojo Satoru's Go Go Gojo! (Ep6)

The Juju Stroll at the end of episode 6 references the Igo/Go game series Hikaru no Go. At the end of Hikaru no Go episodes were post-episode segments called "Umezawa Yukari's Go Go Igo!"

Props to r/sofastsomaybe for pointing this out, because like a fool, I dismissed the Go reference as a coincidence.

Anne Sullivan, Helen Keller, and Inoki (Ep15)

During Todo's nichijo fantasy of himself and Yuuji, Todo quotes, "What fool thinks of defeat before even trying?" Incorrectly attributing the quote to something teacher Anne Sullivan said to disability activist, Helen Keller. Todo is actually paraphrasing pro-wrestler, mixed martial artist, Antonio Inoki. Who said, "What kind of idiot thinks about losing before [the match]?" during a pre-match interview.

Seishun Amigo (Ep15)

At the end of that same daydream, with tears and snot streaming down his face, Todo says, "'In our hometown we were invincible,' huh." (地元じゃ負けしらず) Which are a part of lyrics from the popular song, "Seishun Amigo" (青春アミーゴ) by Shūji to Akira. "Seishun" means "youth" and "amigo" of course being the Spanish word for "friend."

Amusingly, I found this JJK fan cover video of the song. Lyrics translation included.

The two references above were found thanks to Aki Tanaka.

Continued in this reblog chain.

#jujutsu kaisen #hyeahjujutsu #references #pop culture references #jjk meta #meta #呪術廻戦 #long post

[thelordofgifs]

On Maglor’s Fate

(and why it’s a good thing)

I’ve seen several excellent posts by people far more knowledgeable about HoME than I pointing out that Maglor’s fate in the published silm – wandering the shores in eternal lament – was in fact taken by Christopher Tolkien from a single draft of the legendarium, and that JRRT’s later conception of Maglor’s fate was that he died by suicide at the same time as Maedhros, casting himself into the sea along with his Silmaril. This is a very good point, but despite the fandom’s general lack of adherence to published silm canon (see the prevalence of crispy Amrod truthers, or the lack of consensus on Gil-galad’s parentage) most people seem to have cleaved rather strongly to the idea of Maglor’s survival. Why?

Well, I would like to argue, because it’s SO much more interesting.

Of course, your headcanons are valid! If you prefer thinking that Maglor died at the end of the First Age, go for it; most of the texts support you! But for all the Maglor girlies (gender-neutral) out there, here’s a non-exhaustive list of reasons why Maglor’s survival is better, more satisfying storytelling, and you should continue to cling to this one outdated draft of the silm.

It fits Maglor’s arc better. For such a popular character, I always find it interesting that Maglor is only really developed in the final chapter of the silm – but what we do get in that final chapter is so fascinating. He takes pity on Elrond and Elros, he speaks against stealing the Silmarils, and, most pertinently to my point here, he effectively relinquishes his claim to Eärendil’s Silmaril. The straight line from "its glory is seen now by many, and is yet secure from all evil", to wanting to surrender to Eönwë, to actually throwing a Silmaril into the sea is SO delicious. A lot of that character growth is wiped out if Maglor instead casts both himself and the Silmaril into the sea.

It better sets up Maglor as a foil to Maedhros. I will never shut up about how Maglor's last debate with Maedhros is the best and most heartbreaking dialogue in the book. Its construction is exquisite, and one of the things I love about it the most is the way they mirror each other's words, becoming, in a way, reflections of each other. ("Who shall release us?"—"If none can release us...") All of Maglor's actions in the final chapter are in direct contrast to Maedhros': compare the fostering of Elrond and Elros with Maedhros' failure to save Eluréd and Elurín, and then consider why it is that Maglor still seems to have some hope that things will all work out (which is why he wants to surrender) while Maedhros despairs completely. That contrast makes it important to me that Maglor reacts in a different, more optimistic manner than Maedhros to the Silmarils burning them. ("More optimistic" by the bleak bleak standards of the end of the silm, at least.) I also really like the kidnap fam parallels of Elros and Maedhros both choosing death in very different ways, whereas Elrond and Maglor both choose life - E&E almost repeating M&M's decisions in a healthier and more wholesome manner.

It better preserves Maedhros' arc. Leading on from the last point, but, I think, separate. Maedhros' suicide, in addition to being just ridiculously tragic, is fascinating. The despair, the profundity of the realisation that it was all for nothing, the idea that Maedhros, who spent decades as a captive of Morgoth, is the one person knows exactly what being burned by the Silmarils means - aahh it's so good I can't dissect it all here. But do also consider Maedhros begging Fingon to kill him, and how he finally got his wish, centuries later! That terrible fall from grace is Maedhros' story. I think having Maglor also die by suicide actually diminishes Maedhros' tragedy, with the rather perverse outcome that two deaths end up being less sad than one.

Unresolved endings are good. This is a rather more personal one, tbh - but I love those last messy loose ends, and Maglor's survival is a quintessential one. Don't the great tales never end? There is, of course, so much excellent fanfic potential in Maglor still wandering Middle-Earth into the Second and Third Ages. Here's a legend from the Elder Days, and you can have him stroll into Rivendell if you want! So much more satisfying than neatly wrapping the story up and tying a bow on top.

As far as I can tell, Tolkien's own reasons for having Maglor die instead were that he wanted Galadriel to be the last surviving leader of the rebellion of the Noldor; I've also seen it argued that Maglor needs to die so that Celebrimbor can be the last surviving Fëanorian. To be honest, I don't think Maglor's survival does much damage to either of these arcs. He's effectively a non-entity after the First Age; the text specifies that he "came never back among the people of the Elves". So you can definitely prefer a version of canon where Maglor lives without losing all those Very Important Feelings about Celebrimbor!

There are, of course, myriad self-indulgent reasons why you might also prefer to think Maglor doesn't die. Maybe you just like him and it would be too sad if he dies; maybe you ship him very specifically with someone born in the Second Age; maybe you just want Elrond to have one thing left after everyone he's lost. I didn't include these in the above list because that was attempting to focus more on literary reasons why Maglor's survival makes for a better story, but they are all so valid and I agree with all of them! But hopefully Points 1-4 can be emphatically whipped out the next time someone implies that the fandom is clinging to Maglor's survival for solely sentimental reasons. There are good, solid grounds for wanting Maglor to live, we promise! It actually improves the story!

you're just jealous our blorbo survives and yours doesn't—

#silmarillion #meta #my meta #maglor #maedhros #the line of miriel #chris actually got some things right guys #this is one of them #cw suicide

[tosomeonessomeone]

Echoes of you.

words・ 1.1K/pairings・ Felix x reader / genres・ overwhelmingly sad/ warnings・ just sadness. Based in Eloise song Drunk on a flight.

As the first light of dawn peeked over the horizon, casting a golden hue across the cityscape, Felix stood on the deserted street, his heart heavy with the weight of impending goodbye. The echoes of the song reverberated in his mind, each verse a painful reminder of the inevitable end.

"We broke up when we woke up," he whispered to himself, the words hanging in the crisp morning air like a solemn vow. It had to end, you both knew, the jagged edges of your fractured love too sharp to mend.

Felix traced the familiar contours of the sidewalk, each step a silent farewell to the memories you had woven together. The ache in his chest was palpable, a raw wound exposed to the harsh light of day.

"We couldn't speak from the pain," he admitted, the admission heavy on his tongue. Words had failed you, swallowed by the vast expanse of unspoken truths and unshed tears. And so, you stood on the precipice of goodbye, your hearts heavy with the weight of whati could have been.

With a heavy sigh, Felix hailed a taxi, the screech of tires against pavement a discordant symphony to your fractured love. He climbed into the backseat, the weight of his decision settling like a shroud around his shoulders.

"We had to jump on a plane and pretend," he mused, the bitter taste of regret lingering on his lips. The distance between you stretched further with each passing mile, the chasm widening with every beat of his broken heart.

As the taxi pulled away, Felix watched the city fade into the distance, a blur of lights and memories swallowed by the vastness of the horizon. And in that moment, amidst the chaos of goodbye, he found solace in the quiet promise of a new beginning, a faint glimmer of hope on the horizon of his fractured heart.

On the plane, Felix found himself drowning in the numbing embrace of alcohol, the bitter taste of whiskey a poor substitute for the warmth of your touch. As the liquor flowed, the boundary between reality and oblivion blurred, each sip a desperate attempt to erase the ache in his heart.

"Well, I got so drunk on that flight," he admitted to himself, the confession a whispered lament to the empty seat beside him. The cabin was cloaked in darkness, the soft hum of the engines a haunting melody to his shattered dreams.

The passage of time became irrelevant as Felix lost himself in the haze of intoxication, the boundaries between day and night merging into an indistinguishable blur. Yet, even in the midst of his inebriation, he couldn't escape the echoes of your absence, your ghost haunting every corner of his mind.

"But I didn't want to," he confessed, the words heavy with regret. Without you, he felt incomplete, a shadow of the man he once was. You had been his anchor, his guiding light in the darkness, and now, adrift in a sea of uncertainty, he struggled to find his way back to shore.

"I'm not me without you," he murmured, the truth ringing hollow in the emptiness of the cabin. In your absence, he was a mere echo of himself, a fractured reflection of the love you once shared.

And since you split the sheets, Felix found himself searching for you in the faces of strangers, a desperate longing etched into the lines of his weary soul. In every person he met, he sought traces of your laughter, your warmth, your essence intertwined with his own.

"In every man person I meet, I look for you," he confessed, the admission of a silent prayer to the empty skies above. For in the depths of his heart, he knew that you were irreplaceable, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness.

And so, as the plane journeyed on into the night, Felix found himself adrift in a sea of memories and regrets, haunted by the ghost of a love now lost, yet forever etched into the fabric of his being.

In the quiet solitude of the cabin, Felix's thoughts drifted back to moments of tenderness and strife, each memory a bittersweet testament to the complexity of your love.

"You used to stroke my cheek when I spoke French to you," he reminisced, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Your shared language had been a bridge between worlds, a secret code that bound you together in intimacy.

But amidst the whispers of endearments, there lingered moments of discord, fragments of a past marred by misunderstandings and unspoken grievances.

"Then you'd pick a fight," he confessed, the memory of a sharp pang in his chest. Your love had been a battleground, marked by passionate clashes and tender reconciliations, each argument a testament to the depth of your connection.

"And what it meant to you," he whispered, the words heavy with regret. In the heat of the moment, you had both said things you couldn't take back, wounds that cut deeper than you dared to admit.

"We used to fight for the sport," Felix acknowledged, the admission tinged with resignation. Your conflicts had become a twisted dance, a cycle of push and pull, love and resentment intertwined like thorns in a rose garden.

"And then when we'd get bored, we'd just make up again," he confessed, the confession a whispered admission to the empty air. Your reconciliations had been fueled by a desperate longing for closeness, a fleeting respite from the storm brewing beneath the surface.

"With a hint of resentment," he added, the words hanging between you like a heavy shroud. Beneath the facade of forgiveness, lingered echoes of past hurts, wounds that refused to heal, scars etched into the fabric of your shared history.

As the plane journeyed on into the night, Felix found himself adrift in a sea of memories, navigating the turbulent waters of your love with a heavy heart. For in the quiet depths of his soul, he knew that your story was far from over, a symphony of love and loss, hope and regret, echoing into eternity.

Since you parted ways, Felix found himself adrift in a sea of faces, each stranger a potential reminder of the love he had lost. The lyrics of the song echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain that followed him wherever he went.

"And since we split the sheets," he acknowledged, the words heavy with longing and regret. In every person he encountered, he searched for traces of you—the curve of your smile, the sparkle in your eyes—a futile quest to fill the void you had left behind.

"I look for you," he confessed, the admission a whispered prayer to the empty spaces between them. You had been his compass, his guiding star in a world fraught with uncertainty, and now, adrift in the vast expanse of loneliness, he struggled to find his way home.

The memory a bitter reminder of the depths of his despair. In the haze of alcohol, he had sought solace from the pain, a fleeting escape from the relentless ache in his heart.

"But I didn't want to," he confessed, the truth a bitter pill to swallow. Without you, he was adrift, a ship lost at sea, tossed by the merciless currents of longing and regret.

"I'm not me without you," he whispered, the words a solemn vow to the empty air. In your absence, he was a shadow of his former self, a mere echo of the man he once was.

And so, as the days turned into nights, and the seasons shifted like sands beneath his feet, Felix continued his search—a solitary figure lost in the labyrinth of his own heart, yearning for a love that had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

#felix #lee felix #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #skz felix #skz lee felix #skz x reader #angst #smau #stray kids #skz #felix angst #felix x y/n #lee felix x y/n #skz imagines #skz x y/n #kpop smau #skz angst #Spotify

[lullaebies]

red leaves (1k words, jaehaegon au, no warnings)

summary: jaehaera watches her daughters play in the godswood, and laments over concerns of a lack of son. aegon iii is quick to dispell them.

notes: based on a requested prompt i misread. will do the actual prompt later on, but for now, bringing forth this piece. context - req also asked for alicent being alive and jaehaera and aegon iii's children to be playing in the godswood <3

Jaehaera sits the godwood’s stone bench, watching. 

All three of her daughters are playing with the fallen red leaves of the weirdwood. Her eldest, Rhaella, shows her twin sisters how the red leaves crumple, and showers the girls with the red specks remaining of it. Rhaenyra and Helaena are ever excited, despite the broken off pieces catching in their hair.

Her grandmother would chastise her for letting her girls gather twigs and dirt on their hair and dresses later, but Jaehaera can’t bring herself to tell them to stop. Such peaceful pastimes can be so fleeting. Red, swivelling leaves in the air can become the red trickles of blood in moments few.

Jaehaera chases that thought away. This is why all of court calls me morbid. Her fingers fidget with her dress. Grand is the Queen’s wardrobe and material luxuries, but there is no sum in the world that could buy her peace at this state. Grandmother had known royal concerns, and advised her on as much, but while Queen Alicent had three sons ignored, Jaehaera had not even one.

The pit in her stomach grows larger each day. Her daughters are the very world, but after all the realm had been through in wars’ past, would they ever be considered enough?

“Papa!” The rustle of leaves and exclamations of girls mark the arrival of another figure. 

Aegon takes long steps into the godswood. His tall frame cannot be ignored, for he keeps himself as poised as one may assume his mouth remains lined. Still, he bends for his daughters, lowering himself to his knees and twisting his lips into an upturn as he greets them. 

The twins run to him first, clinging with giggles. He brushes a hand through their hair, taking out some of the leaf crumples that decorated their hair. “Have my daughters spent a day rolling in the woods, or just decided nature is to be worn?” Aegon asks them softly. Both twins point to Rhaella.

“Big sister put it on me!” They say in nearby eerie unison. Jaehaera can’t recall if she and Jaehaerys ever had such synchronized speech. She breathes in some, keeping away tears from welling. Thinking of Jaehaerys hurts more, with her own twins coming about the age of his passing. 

“Is that so?” Aegon asks Rhaella. Their eldest licks her lips before nodding slowly. She’s been put on the spot, but she tries to maintain dignity. Aegon hums at her, opening his arms when the twins leave their grip on him. Rhaella runs forward to him for an embrace. The ten-year-old calms easily as he does, and Aegon pats her head. “Do continue, but keep it at leaves, yes? The maids would struggle to brush any dirt out.”

Rhaella nods against his chest gladly. “Okay, papa.”

Aegon gives her a peck on the head, and lifts himself from the grass. Only then his eyes fall on her. When their gazes lock, it often feels as if they are lone in the world, sharing knowledge only they are aware of. Knowledge both of them would rather cast to the sea and the fire, but one that brings them together in kinship. “Keep on playing, then. I will sit here watching with your mother.”

The girls run back to the heart tree, and he comes by her side, and she stands to greet him, if only for courtesy’s sake. Aegon has never required of her much formalities, but the servants running about would gossip until the next moon turn if she isn’t to appear proper. They’ll call her smile mousy either way, but it is genuine, at the very least.

Aegon takes her palm in his. “Your hand is cold,” he says, his own warm ones kind on her skin. “You must ask the maids for gloves at times.”

“When I can have your Grace’s hand? I shouldn’t like to settle for less,” she answers. It comes out half-hearted, but it is not for lack of sincerity, only a product of a foul mood. At twenty and six she should mind her feelings better, and she attempts. “Sit by me.”

Aegon does, thumb still pressing against her thin knuckles. Helaena and Rhaenyra toss leaves at their older sister, running about as they giggle. “Our daughters are quite joyous today.”

Why are you not? That is what her husband is asking, in truth. He’s so very gentle with his words, if only because he knows how painful can some be. Jaehaera squeezes his hand. Why is she a shivering leaf in this warm wind? Her concerns never let up, despite the times being so sunny.

Aegon is not unlike her, in that sense. But he had braved it better. 

“Yes,” she answers softly, and lowers her voice. “But should they have a brother, such days would be forever assured.”

Aegon rubs circles on the back of her palm. Perhaps her anxiety trickles to where it is unneeded; Viserys and Aegon love each other dearly, to the point Viserys’s eldest son is named her husband’s name. But the court has preferences, and Viserys’s family is beautiful for all to see. She knows not what the future holds, but her grandmother’s sad mumbles often seep into her soul. 

“These are our days, in this castle of red brick,” Aegon answers then, voice serious. “And our daughters will live better lives than our mothers have. Should a brother come in their midst, or not.”

Jaehaera lays her head on his shoulder, sighing softly. “The realm wouldn’t like a sonless Queen.”

“The realm likes and cares for nobody,” he answers. “I am content with my wife and daughters.”

Jaehaera lifts her head to kiss her husband’s cheek. If nowhere else, she feels safe here, between her dear ones. “Another daughter then, that’s what you want?” she asks with a small grin.

“We will see to it. No matter what sex, all will be well.” 

He says as much with a fuller grin, gloating at his wordplay. Jaehaera shakes her head, feeling the smile on her face spread. She looks at her daughters. 

“Girls,” she calls them all, all their daughters having their hands full with leaves they picked up. “I think your father would like to join you.”

“Huh?”

Rhaella, Rhaenyra and Helaena rush forward with a handful of leaves to toss at their father. Aegon doesn’t let her get away alone, and their family whole is decorated with specks of red leaves, the rustling wind triumphed by laughter. 

#aegon iii x jaehaera #jaehaera x aegon iii #jaehaegon #aegon iii targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #hotd #hotd fic #house of the dragon #hotd imagine #my fanfics #my fics #they are my little depressed emo kids getting better #now good night friends

[cassianus]

Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, Our Savior.

Give me, Your servant, remorse and an enlightened heart, so that with an illuminated heart, sweet tears might come forth from a pure prayer, so that it would not require many of my tears for You to wipe out the account of my sins, and that on account of a short lamentation you would quench the fire set ablaze in me.

Because if, O Master, You permit me to weep here, then perhaps You will release me from the unquenchable fire.

I realize, O long-suffering and lover-of-mankind Lord, that each day and hour I greatly frustrate and anger You.

However Your long-suffering will do away with my enmity and rancor.

O Lord, Who loves good and Who is a God of mercy and benevolence, save me from the horrible polluted foe, who hourly binds and flogs my soul with wicked and polluted thoughts.

Unspeakable is Your strength, O Christ, because it rebuked the waves on the sea.

Let it rebuke him.

Let it render him impotent, and cast him far from Your servant.

Each day he redoubles his schemes against me and he moves quickly to take hold of my wretched mind and to pull me far from You and Your holy commandments.

O Master, O most compassionate Lord, hasten to send Your power and chase away from me, Your useless servant, this powerful serpent along with all his crafty and wicked thoughts, that I might, with integrity, praise You with your eternal Father and Your all-holy and good and life-bestowing Spirit, now and forever, and unto the ages of ages.

Amen. ​❦

St. Ephraim the Syrian

[rocksanddeadflowers]

Doorkeay in your au doorkeay in your au doorkeay

The doorkeay <3 !!!

Gerry is a witch, and a fisherman. See, lots of place have societal norms of seeing magic users as unsettling and taboo, and occasionally towns make it illegal. So while witchcraft comes rather natural to him, and he still secretly does it for work (people still run to magic for aid plenty, even people who swear against it you know) he needs a more... 'respectable' job. One he enjoys/is good at. Wouldn't you know it he lives on the seaside and his father is also a fisherman! Boom! Problem solved! (He really does enjoy his work, even if it's strenuous and dangerous. It's just nice being out at sea any chance he gets.)

One time a storm caught him off guard, and he was knocked overboard. He woke up soaked to the bone on the deck of his porch, boat back in it's port. Writes it off, figures out he's already developing phenomena (it's fine he has the perfect spells to clear that up within a week or two) and focuses on taking time off to recover.

Wouldn't you know it, the next morning all the fish he caught and thought he lost appeared on his deck. Very weird.

The culprit? Ah, turns out to be a giant merfolk. Great to know those exist! Big friendly sharp (like, physically sharp) fellow.

So yeah Gerry is in his pajamas and has sick brain fog, turns around and sees giant mer-Micheal staring at him from the sea (concerningly close to his house) with absolutely glee. Scares the shit out of Gerry, but after trial and error communication, he figures Micheal is friendly.

Michael can't communicate verbally (well, he can in a merfolk sorta fish echo thing, but humans can't understand it nor can it be heard on land anyway) but he does have fairly human hands and an decent auditory understanding of what Gerry says. So over the course of Gerry's two week sick leave he teaches Micheal and himself sign language to better communicate, all the while slowly remembering through dreams and flashes that Micheal was the one to save him from drowning and take him home!

They become close friends pretty quick, Micheal checking in almost daily to see his human friend and give weird little gifts that Gerry cherishes dearly, and keeping up to date with the sign language lessons.

When Gerry is well enough to go fishing again, Micheal nervously stays close. It's a bit concerning, in a way, to have a great creature of the deep nearly surfacing next to your tiny fishing boat constantly. But in a way, it's not much scarier than the whales he's seen, and he trusts Michael now.

At some point, Gerry would actually jump into the water with Micheal, who is insanely shocked Gerry would willingly get in the water with him. Gerry definitely also puts his hands on Micheal's face and it's just very sweet and fluffy.

Also way down the road, I like to picture the whole main cast of the AU (dragon riders, including Jon, and doorkeay) all going to a little fair or something, a celebration at a local town. So everyone can dress up pretty and dance and have fun, but also specifically so Gerry can dig around his old spellbooks for something insanely hard to do.

Micheal loves his home at sea, but he still occasionally laments the idea of exploring the land, especially now that he's befriended Gerry. So obviously the solution is to find a spell that can temporarily shift Micheal into a human form. After loads of hardwork he actually manages to do it too! They all get to go to the dances together and Micheal gets to run around experiencing all the human stuff.

#the magnus archives #tma #doorkeay #fantasy au #them <3 #i care them lots <3

[innocentlymacabre]

The cavern boasted an impressive selection of species, sure to rattle the first-time patron. It was like those forced diversity university pamphlets, only the diversity in this case was actually real.

“HA! I told you they would leave. Next round’s on you,” Axle boasted.

“How in the name of fuck did you know that?” Lott lamented, waving to the bartender for two more whiskeys.

“Well, while you’ve got that lovely little Tracker lounge of yours, I stay loyal to this bar. Any time I’m in the human realm, I drink here. And I’ve been spending a lot of time here lately. Morgan and Morrigan – that’s who those two were –”

“Yes, of course I know that. Only two necromancers this side of the Atlantic worth a damn.”

“Right well, Morrigan happened to have ghosted that werewolf. Twice.”

Lott sucked his teeth in. “Twice?”

“Twice.”

“Fool me once?”

“Yeah, well, a werewolf can still rip you to shreds with ease, full moon or not.”

“Good point. You know who’s probably too stubborn to be ripped to shreds?”

“Lay it on me. What did Jayce do now?”

“Oh, he’s got this insane idea.”

Lott raised his paw to the table to show Axle the wound.

“Long story short, I got this wound from a dream and we’ve tracked the dream down to The Crescent of Fools and Forgotten Time.”

“Why not just name it Foreshadowing McDeath at that point?”

“I shit you not, I thought that exact thing. Anyway, Jayce has got it in his head – and unfortunately mine too – that we’re going to go to the Crescent and find out what’s what.”

“God damn.”

“Yeah.”

“When do you leave?”

“Day after. Jayce said he’s got to visit an old friend or something. I don’t know. He said it’s better if he goes alone.”

“Concerning.”

“I suppose.”

A small moment of silence lapsed between the two of them, as they sipped their drinks and turn their attention to the bar around them. A group seemingly made of exclusively people with some pointy feature crowded around the dart board, vampires, gnomes, elves, and more drunkenly slurring out bets. A moleman entered from the dark of the outside and slipped a pair of sunglasses on, muttering something about modern electricity being a curse. The characteristic twinkling lights of fairies floated around, greens and reds and pinks blinking around the room. They were just faint enough that it would have been easy to convince someone drunk enough that they were just seeing things.

“There used to be a beehive just outside my window,” Axle said, breaking the brief silence.

“Hmm?”

“When I was a child. Outside my window there used to be a cluster of beehives. Bees twinkle just like fairies in the Dreaming. I used to fall asleep to their soothing glow.”

“What happened?”

“Hmm?”

“Why “used to”?”

“Oh. We moved. We moved houses. I sometimes dream I’ll buy that place again, sometime in the future. Little holiday home. Or someplace I go when I want to feel the warmth of home around me. I’d like to show it to Trance one day.”

“Can they even enter the Dreaming?”

“Not sure. We haven’t tried that yet. But I don’t see why not.”

“Hey,” Lott said, raising his glass. “To beehives.”

Axle clinked his and smiled. “To beehives.”

“Want to get out of here? I hear we’ve got a wonderful moon tonight.”

“You asking me out on a midnight flight, Morton?”

“You going to say yes, Carter?”

Axle looked at Lott in the eyes and gave him a lopsided smile. He shrunk down until he was small enough to zip through the busy bar and shot outside. Lott laughed and followed him out, clumsily wading through the sea of drunken patrons.

“Lead the way, good sir.”

Lott and Axle took off. Their wings spun around one another, their bodies intertwined in the air, and their conjoined form cast a shadow on the town below against the magnificent light of the moon.

↝✧↝

I'd started taking my writing a bit too seriously and somewhere along the way I forgot that art is fundamentally meant to be fun. So I decided to do something dumb. I took two characters from two different projects - both dragons, by the way - gave them a pre-existing relationship, and chucked them into a bar. It's unedited, it's stupid, and nothing said here has any sort of impact or acts as any sort of indictor for the canon of either story, but it was fun. So I wanted to share this with you.

ko-fi 💜 • newsletter ☕ • instagram • masterlist

#i love that this is technically fanfiction of my own work lmao #in case it wasn't clear Lott and Axle have midair gay sex at the end #writeblr #fiction #dragons #dragoncore #fantasy #fantasy world #high fantasy #fanfiction #speculative fiction #SFF #queer SFF #gay #wtwcommunity #writeblrcafe #tw alcohol #ntcmp

[whyiseverynametakenpls]

Envy

---------------------------------------------------

Genre : Angst

Tw : Jealousy and implied suicide

Pairing : none

Characters : Lee Gilyoung, Kim Dokja, Shin Yoosung

Story : when will it be my turn?

In a world where power in combat was revered above all else, Lee Gilyoung found himself ensnared, not only with his own flaws and inadequacies, but also by the shadow of jealousy cast upon him by Shin Yoosung.

Shin Yoosung was everything Lee Gilyoung wanted to be--gifted, talented, and effortlessly skilled in everything. While Shin Yoosung's every more was met with praise and adoration, Lee Gilyoung's effort seemed small, feeble and insignificant in comparison to hers.

Amidst the sea of envy, there was one beacon of light--Kim Dokja. Kim Dokja was more than just a friend. He was Lee Gilyoung's pillar of support, his guiding light in times of darkness. Though not blood related, Kim Dokja had been there for Lee Gilyoung since the beginning, a steady presence in his life.

Yet even in the warmth of Kim Dokja's companionship, Lee Gilyoung couldn't shake the feeling of being overshadowed. He watched with a heavy heart as everyone showered Shin Yoosung with praise and affection, him seemingly invisible in their eyes. Despite having known Kim Dokja longer, Lee Gilyoung couldn't shake the feeling that Shin Yoosung held a special place in Kim Dokja's heart, a place he could never hope to occupy.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Lee Gilyoung's envy festered like a wound that refused to heal. He watched with a mixture of longing and bitterness as Kim Dokja continued to dote on Shin Yoosung, their bond a painful reminder of his own flaws.

Lee Gilyoung grappled with his feelings, torn between his envy and admiration towards Shin Yoosung and longing for Kim Dokja's approval. Why did Shin Yoosung seem to effortlessly earn Kim Dokja's affection while he struggled in vain to win his approval?

As time passed, the weight of Lee Gilyoung's envy grew heavier, pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He watched as Shin Yoosung continued to excel, his own achievements fading into insignificance.

And then, one fateful day, Lee Gilyoung's heart could bear it no longer. Alone in the silence of his room, he wept silent tears of despair, the envy crushing him beneath it's relentless grip.

In that moment, Lee Gilyoung made a decision, a decision born not out of malice, but out of a desperate desire to escape the suffocating grip of envy. And so, with trembling hands and a heavy heart, he retreated further into the shadows, leaving behind the world that has only ever served to remind him of his own failure.

As the echoes of his footsteps faded into darkness, Lee Gilyoung vanished without a trace, a forgotten soul lost to the relentless match of time, a tragic casualty of the insidious grip of envy.

In the end, all that remained was the haunting silence of a life unlived, the bitter echoes of a heart consumed by envy, and the whispered lament of a soul lost to the shadows, leaving Kim Dokja behind, forever wondering what could have been.

---------------------------------------------------

<- MASTERLIST

-> uhm if you've read this before in dc no you haven't ☹️☹️

-> Lee Gilyoung needs more attention 🔥🔥🔥

#orv #omniscient reader's viewpoint #lee gilyoung #lgy #gilyoung #sadge #aur #angst #jealousy #shin yoosung #sys #yoosung #kim dokja #kdj #dokja #orv angst #omniscient reader's viewpoint angst #orv fanfic #fanfics #shin yoosung x lee gilyoung platonic #shin yoosung x lee gilyoung #platonic but sadge

[searchingforserendipity25]

something something maglor and maedhros being burned by the silmarils as equivalent to the divine judgement they might have faced in valinor (but with zero of the amelioration surrender might bring).

something something maedhros' torment under varda's hallowing being too much like morgoth's torture. being under the punishing power of one valar is not so different, in the end; the despair is very alike, and all the more final.

maglor lingering on and on in a state of celestial horror: closing his eyes and seeing the great expanses of the starkindler's dominion, darkness and numberless lights, and the burning fire of the heavenly bodies turned against him in loathing and revulsion.

on him is a sentient judgement that does not wane. older than the world, the oldest justice beyond the circles of the world. starlight burns him at night worse than the scorching sun at midday; and nothing can ever heal the wounds of the silmaril.

he clings to the laments and the regret, and repeats the same songs, with the same exact words, lest the terror of the hallowing on unworthy flesh and unworthy spirit claim him entirely.

he clings to the story of his life, which is the cause for his pain, and the only thing that keeps him from being swallowed entirely but the great expanses of the heavens, the tremendous heights that pried open his mind and revealed the filth of his self without ornamentation or ambiguity, and do not relent. truth, absolute and immense and foul - and in the end, the despair is very bad.

the eldar are not made for absolute truth. the eldar are made to sing, and wander, and -- not this.

maglor sings, and wanders as he sings. he loses words. names, verses, speech, the thing for which the elegy is sung, until only the voice remains, very like the sea. not all the solemn and linear and familiar songs of the eldar can stand forever as a shield between the hugeness of the starlit skies, and neither the sea nor the heavens care about his regret.

he does regret. he must. all that is left of his own history, in the great vastness of nebulas and suns that lingers always beneath his lids. his hands hurt constantly, and the flesh beneath his skin breaks and steams sometimes as if it were old wood with hidden embers. the bones themselves blackened, warming him always with a fever like the moment of epiphany at the end of a long fast.

if only he had not yielded to maedhros' will! but then, that is only another illusion so swiftly burned away as a veil of mist in the morrow at the touch of the silmaril. the jewels would never be given to those who had slain the blood of the kindred, were they the best behaved and most patient of penitents.

no unholy creature would be suffered to touch any hallowed thing, in valinor. even the valar were not so cruel. maglor yielded, and yielded, and yielded; he can only regret it, and never enough, though all the unbearable loveliness of the midnight sky be set to consume him with righteous wrath.

he does not return among elvenkind. maedhros is dead, and carcaroth is dead, and morgoth is cast out. there is not much left in arda that shares great kinship with the thing he is; and that, he knows - for the stars are keen and absolute teachers, judges with no pity - is a righteous and holy thing.

#maglor #maedhros #varda #the silm #have been beset by maglor brainrot (more than usual) but am too tired to make a decent post (life is indeed cruel) #but the cosmological horror of the burning by the silmarils is so so interesting