#fantastical fripperies

[youledmehere]

THE ONES WHO LIVE EPISODE FOUR: WHAT WE

[WRITTEN BY DANAI GURIRA]

-> Vulture: After some tedious lies and deceptions, in Michonne’s words, they needed a time-out. That’s exactly what they get in one of the best stand-alone episodes in all of The Walking Dead. (…) It’s like watching a two-person play, which makes sense, as the episode’s writer, Danai Gurira (Michonne herself), is an acclaimed and Tony-nominated playwright (…..) “What We” is not a bottle episode. Multiple sets in a single location, two characters with an internal conflict, and the special-effects budget make it a “Suitcase” episode. Editors Rating: 5 stars

Bloody-Disgusting: Andrew Lincoln once again showcases a masterclass of acting as Grimes cycles through his damaged psyche, desperately trying to figure out how to connect with Michonne. Gurira matches Lincoln’s emotional performance, evoking Michonne’s desperation and anger with authenticity. Letting Gurira take over writing duties for this specific episode proved extremely beneficial given the emotional legwork the character trudges through in this particular installment. If there’s anyone who can understand Michonne the best, it’s Danai Gurira.

The Hollywood Reporter: As the writer of the episode, Gurira felt she clearly understood Michonne’s arc, but she wanted to make sure her co-star and fellow executive producer Lincoln had enough meat to sink his teeth into, as well. “You want to give an actor like him everything you can,” she says. “Andy’s such a fantastic actor who throws everything into it. I was keen to give him that workout.” Lincoln added to THR, “It was thrilling to do all of this with friends, but Danai had one heck of a role as well as showrunning the fourth episode as an added responsibility. I thought the work she did on that was an astonishing testament to her skills, especially because apparently she only needs two hours a day to sleep.”

Den of Geek: To call it a bottle episode is dismissive. Certainly, there’s one major setting, and most of the episode contains little in the way of special effects (by the standards of the average Walking Dead Televisual Universe show). However, most bottle episodes aren’t this interesting, or this gripping. “What We” feels like The Walking Dead taking a stab at doing a spinoff of the Richard Linklater Before trilogy, not wallowing in the usual zombie action or soap opera frippery. It’s almost certainly going to be polarizing, but it’s one of the most captivating, emotionally-deep episodes of television from this universe, and it’s all down to the powerhouse that is Danai Gurira.

SpoilerTV: “What We” is a captivating exploration of love’s transformative force. Rick and Michonne shed their pretenses, abandoning deceit to forge a profound reconnection. Andrew Lincoln’s performance brilliantly resurrects Rick from the abyss of a living man who is dead inside, courtesy of Danai’s masterful writing.

Bleeding Cool: But it’s Gurira pulling double duty that deserves all of the attention and tons of praise. Proving that she knows this couple and their dynamic better than anyone, Gurira presented us with what felt like a real couple going through the problems with real reactions- even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. I know that reviews can sometimes go to the extremes-positive or negative- but in the case of “What We”, we have an easy contender for one of the best single episodes of the franchises run.

#acting was amazing. writing was amazing. 10/10 #richonne #the ones who live #rick grimes #michonne #andrew lincoln #danai gurira #*

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

False Sun - a Malevolent fic

It's time for Faroe's yearly birthday hike, when she and Dis spend the night away from Carcosa to avoid the Rite.

But Faroe isn't the same this year. Horrible things happened, and she doesn't know what to do. Dis, however, might… and Faroe is willing to risk her plans getting out in order to get her trainer's help.

Part of the Surrogate series.

AO3

----------

This wouldn’t be the normal overnight trip.

Dis still didn’t know what the actual hell had happened out there. Rumors had begun to filter in, spooky ones, nonsense ones, and Faroe was overtraining with a scar on her neck, and the King was going to die in six years.

It was a lot. Dis didn’t like dealing with a lot.

Or, no, that wasn’t accurate. She didn’t like dealing with a lot when a lot of it was unknown.

She didn’t know enough to plan things out, or properly defend herself. She didn’t know why Faroe’s throat was slit, why rumors were flying that Hastur had offed one of his kids, why Ishara suddenly belonged to Carcosa, or why some kind of folk hero thing was following new-guy Parker through the lower servant halls.

What in hells was going on? Would finding out draw the attention of the Outer God? (Because she had absolutely no doubt that was real. Hastur wouldn’t have humbled himself otherwise.)

Dis was a great believer in paring things down. When life was overwhelming, it was time to rip off all the frippery and unnecessary parts until the bones came clear.

Today’s bones had a shape: a nine-year-old girl with some problems. That much, Dis decided, was not a lot. That, she’d handle—whatever shape these bones turned out to be.

#

“Carcosa’s in a good spot this year,” Dis said, adding mountain climbing gear to their bag of holding. “I finally get to teach you how to properly scale a cliff.”

“With and without gear?” Faroe was focusing on packing her own bag, and she was going light: socks, underwear, a few shirts. Some knives. That borrowed bow and quiver.

“Both. You’ve been working on hand-strength; we’ve been working on you pulling your own weight up and down. It’s time to apply it practically.” Casually, she added, “Do you want to have a little birthday celebration out there for just us warrior women?”

“No, thank you.” This wasn’t the first time Faroe had said ‘no’ to celebrating her birthday out in the woods. When she’d turned seven, she’d said in a very sedate and adult manner that she was a proper princess and didn’t need to do frivolous things like celebrate birthdays (in spite of the veritable circus her father threw every year).

Dis still asked. It felt right. Faroe’s answer, though, was not right. Faroe kept her eyes on her pack, scowling as she pressed down a pair of socks.

Well. When the kid wanted to talk, she’d talk. Dis didn’t believe forcing her would turn out well.

They took their mounts and headed off into the wilderness.

#

Carcosa really had landed in a beautiful place. The cliffs were insane, almost straight down, stunning in beauty. Lake Hali seemed to merge with some strange fresh-water sea down that cliff, though still in the mountains—a rarified dream fed with underground springs.

The air was sharp and invigorating. They rode for a few hours, Vemmaera trotting along, Nibbles absolutely silent as shadow. Dis pointed at the water. “We got a false sun tonight. Fucking fantastic.”

“A what?” said Faroe, as if coming out of a trance.

A blaze of red light sat above the water like a giant, red firebrand. It wasn’t the sun; the light didn’t spread like the sun, and the Dreamlands were fully ensconced in night. Stars spattered the sky; two full moons hid them at the other end of the horizon. The false sun burned, turning the far ocean red, coloring the sky in a semicircle of illogical brightness before night took hold again.

Dis pointed again. “Sun’s set. That is something else. They don’t happen often. It’s a Dreamer thing. I haven’t seen one in two hundred years.”

Faroe stared. Nibbles stared. “Two hundred years?” said Faroe.

“Yep,” said Dis. “I always like a false sun. They’re just neat.”

“How old are you?” said Faroe.

Nibbles snorted.

“It’s not rude,” said Faroe. “Not on my birthday hike.”

Dis laughed. “Yeah, no holds barred. Not on the birthday hike. So, yeah. I’m about three hundred and fifty-ish.”

Faroe considered this.

Dis let her. She picked a spot for camp—wide-open field, easy to see in all directions—and started preparing their sleeping area.

“You’ve had time to make mistakes,” said Faroe out of nowhere, standing to the side, uncharacteristically not helping with setup.

“Fuck yeah, I have,” said Dis without hesitation.

Faroe stared at her, wide-eyed, vulnerable. Nibbles nuzzled her, making a soft and somehow awful sound—so naked, so sad.

Dis wasn’t stupid. That wound on Faroe’s neck would never have happened if Nibbles had her way. Whatever had happened had been worse than what one of the Dark Young could handle.

Faroe sniffled once. “Like what?”

Dis threw her head back, falling onto the bedroll, arms under her head, smiling toward the darkening sky. “Fuck. So many. Uh… military. Personal. Group mistakes, should’ve-been mistakes, and the sucky sisters, know-better mistakes and didn’t-know-enough mistakes.”

“Why know-better and didn’t-know-enough mistakes?” said Faroe.

Oh, they were getting into the weeds now. “Those are unfortunately really similar because in both cases, you think you know how it’s going to work. Also, in both cases, you have a nagging feeling you’re really fucking it up.”

Faroe swallowed. “But what if you have that feeling all the time?”

“That’s a rough one.” Dis watched the stars. Constellations changed in this place; Dreamers made it so, though nobody knew exactly how. “Experience is honestly the only way I know around that one.”

Faroe twisted her hands, looking away, seeing nothing. “What if…” Nibbles nuzzled her, and she leaned in. “What if you knew better, but you made the mistakes, and everybody got hurt?”

“Then you make up for it.” Dis didn’t hesitate because she believed this with all her soul. “There’s no such thing as a mistake that you can’t work to make better.”

Faroe clearly did not believe that. She also clearly thought that keeping her face turned away from the false sun would hide her tears.

Maybe a human’s eyes would be fooled, but Dis was not human.

“But what if the mistake meant someone is dead?” Faroe whispered.

“Then you live for the living.” Dis wasn’t being harsh; she’d knew. “Someone always lives after. It’s not on the survivors to make up for the dead because you can’t. But you can live for the living.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

Nibbles made a similarly puzzled noise.

“I’ve gotten people killed,” said Dis, still watching the false sun’s light play wild with shadows on distant waves. “It’s one of the reasons I don’t like being in charge of groups, platoons, armies, whatever. I can do it. I’m actually really good at commanding; but I fucking hate getting people killed, and it’s inevitable when you’re in charge. Just the thought of it makes me feel like shit.”

“You’re not shit,” said Faroe quietly, and finally sat down.

Dis’ smile was brief. “I got people killed. Went through anger, revenge. All of that. Finally figured out there wasn’t much point. You live for the living. That makes you feel better in time.”

“You’ve really done everything, haven’t you?” said Faroe with a sweet sort of naivety as she lit their small fire.

“Not yet.” Dis grinned. “Happily, I don’t think I ever will.”

Moments passed while distant Carcosa glowed golden (normal on this night), and the sky grew blacker between stars, and the false sun sat there, stuck to the horizon as if glued.

“I got my brother killed,” said Faroe, which both confirmed and confused a lot of Dis’ guesses.

“Fuck,” said Dis. “That’s a heavy one, kiddo.”

“Yeah.” Faroe hugged her knees to her chest; she wiped her eyes.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” said Dis.

“No.”

“Then we don’t have to. You wanna know how to get past.”

“I… I need to.”

“All right. Lemme think on this a bit. Willing to answer questions?”

“Yes,” Faroe whispered, and Nibbles flopped beside her, pressing in. Faroe draped over her, arms around her neck.

“Good enough.” Dis fell silent. Some things took time to soak before they were worth anything.

#

The false sun remained. How—if it was actually on the sea, or perfectly matching the planet’s rotation, or who knew what—was unclear. It didn’t matter. It was like a lit window, a glimpse of some far-off home in the wilderness; not bright enough to interfere with the feel of these lovely evenings out, but striking, and beautiful. Whoever dreamed it must have quite the imagination.

They had eaten, climbed down the cliff, swam a little, climbed back up, sparred. They had torn down and rebuilt their fire for practice, worked on spells to hide themselves and one another, and played heartily with their beasts of burden. Nibbles’ frisbee game was on point tonight. Now, under the light of two full moons, their faces slightly warmed in color by the false sun, they lay by the fire and stared at the stars and thought their secret thoughts.

Dis felt that maybe, she was ready to peek under this bandage and see how bad the damage was. “Think you’re up for some questions, kiddo?”

Faroe didn’t answer immediately, but when she did, she sounded quietly sure. “Yes.”

“Did you mean to kill him?”

Faroe made a tiny, hurt sound. “No.”

“Okay. That’s important because it changes things. Did your dad do it?”

“Yes.” Faroe swallowed.

“Was he threatening you?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “It was my fault.”

“Okay. But I’m not talking fault. I’m talking facts.”

“Yes, he was threatening me,” whispered Faroe.

“So who survived?”

She shifted. “Me. Dad. Arthur and John. Nibbles.”

“Then living for them and for yourself is what matters.”

Faroe frowned. “For them?”

“For your people. For you. For those who survive. You can’t make anything better for the one who died—but you can make it better for everyone else while you still have them.” Fuck; that phrasing wasn’t great. Dis bit her tongue.

Fortunately, Faroe missed it. “I… might know something,” she whispered.

“Something?”

“To make things better. But I’d need help.”

Dis and Nibbles shared a questioning look, then both turned to the princess. “I’m listening,” said Dis. “Not promising yet until I hear what it is.”

Faroe’s smile was new. It was knowing; it was, Dis felt with a little shiver, a shadow of the smile she might have as an adult. “My brother had spies somewhere in the palace. I don’t know if they were spells or people, but he knew things he shouldn’t have. He knew the exact layout of even my father’s war-room, including his most recent maps. And he knew things about Arthur that… just… he shouldn’t have known.”

Dis stared. “Fuck. That’s serious.”

“Very serious. But dad is… right now, he’s working so hard to prepare things for when I come of age,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt that. You know how he is when he has a plan.”

Dis snorted. “Everybody knows how he is when he has a plan.”

Nibbles snorted, too, a distinctly amused huff.

“So what I want to do for him is find and punish those spies myself,” said Faroe.

Dis whistled, low. “This is above your paygrade, kiddo. I’ve taught you to know your limits. You’ve got to know that.”

“I do,” she said slowly. “But I hate the… things they knew. Not just about my dad, and the palace, but about Arthur. I don’t like that someone we can’t see, an enemy, has that much access to my… to him. I want to make this right.” And she looked Dis right in the eye, her own blue-gray ones somehow piercing through the dancing flames. “Help me, Dis. Please help me make this right for the living.”

Nibbles bleated, then added her own pleading look, all eight billion of her eyes wide and innocent.

Holy fuck. “Hm,” said Dis. Holy fuck.

“Please,” whispered Faroe.

“I haven’t said yes or no yet,” said Dis, sitting up, fighting to keep her tone even. “This is something you want to keep from your father.”

“Yes.”

Holy motherloving fuck. “And how do you think he’s going to feel when he finds out?”

Faroe stiffened, hugging her knees more tightly. “I hope he’ll be proud of me. Maybe even grateful. Though… I know he’ll probably be upset at first.”

At first!

Here he was, going absolutely bat-shit insane to ensure she’d be safe when he fucking died at the end of six years, and now here she was, trying to make up for gods fucking around (which had nothing to do with Faroe and was not her fault) and refusing to tell him she was putting her life on the line!

Dis exhaled slowly. “LIke father, like daughter,” she murmured.

“What?” said Faroe.

“Can you give me a minute, kiddo? This is a bigger ask than you realize. I’m not saying no. I need to chew on it.”

“Okay,” said Faroe, eyes huge, and stared after her as Dis stalked to the edge of the cliff and paced.

#

She could walk. There’d been nothing in her contract with Hastur that said she wasn’t allowed to quit. Hell, he wanted her to return her money/weapons/toys, she could, with gusto.

She could just say no. Do the letter of the law, stick to training, take on no further responsibilities until this all just played itself out in tears and ashes (because it sure as fuck would not go well).

Or she could help this poor kid, like Dis herself had never been helped.

Fuck.

She wasn’t a hero. That wasn’t what she did, was in fact a path she’d chosen to fucking avoid, even knowing her heritage and what it all meant. She didn’t have to help this kid. She could walk away and survive and not help this kid.

But the thought of letting Faroe plunge into something so much bigger than she was, watching her get killed… it just…

It didn’t sit right.

Dis had seen plenty of kids hurt. She’d hurt some kids, too (fortunately rarely, and one of many reasons she would never again work as a soldier for anyone). This wasn’t her problem. A hundred years, she’d hardly remember Faroe’s name.

And of course, because her brain was her enemy, it conjured a bunch of memories.

Faroe, tiny, her yellow sparkly dress absurd, crying because she hadn’t instantly mastered the bow and arrow. Faroe, still tiny, squealing with joy as she learned to ride Vemmaera. Faroe, slightly bigger, mimicking Dis’ expressions and eye-squint when she took aim, following footsteps with an adorable determination. Faroe, proud, climbing rope and throwing knives as if she’d been born to do it all her life. Faroe, shy, smiling and offering tiny cakes she’d learned to conjure as survival rations.

Faroe, showing Dis the new songs she’d written for Arthur (and had not yet garnered courage to show him). Faroe, prattling on about how great her dad was, which was demonstrably absurd, but she was a kid, and she was well-loved, and loved well in return.

Faroe, disappearing, and leaving Dis (and everyone) feeling physically sick.

Faroe, returning, with a scar on her neck that could not heal because a god had done it, and a burden no one had asked her to carry… but one she would, regardless, even if Dis did do the shitty thing and tattled on her to her dad.

Faroe needed this. Faroe was going to do this. Whether or not Dis helped her, she’d find a way to hurl herself into the path of stampeding elephants.

And it didn’t feel… good.

Dis sighed. She’d made a reputation for being a damned good tutor, which is why Hastur hired her in the first place, but she’d always kept her heart’s distance before. Something about this kid broke through.

When had that happened? When had she gotten attached? She never got attached! Attached meant stupid!

Like here and now, considering taking on Hastur’s fucking enemies for the sake of one little girl.

“I am out of my mind,” she groaned, staring out at the sea, at the false sun that mocked her—at the impossible star, landed gently on the water, that made as much sense as Dis right now.

She thought about walking away, and knew she’d hate herself if she did. Finally, she sighed. “You were right,” she muttered at past voices she’d defied in her arrogance, and made her way back to the fire.

Faroe’s eyes were still huge. Nibbles was as still as the trees she so resembled.

“I will do it on one condition,” said Dis, and already knew she had her by the way Faroe sat up and her face lit up and her clever fingers clenched her knees. “I am in charge. No secret missions. No heading off on your own. No disobeying. If we do this, kiddo, we are entering territory more dangerous than almost any I’ve ever bothered to throw myself into. You will not fuck it up by going your own way. If we do this, you follow my lead.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” said Faroe, quickly, and even in the twilight, her eyes were shiny. “Step where you step. Speak when you speak.” Then a puff of princess came through: “I can follow orders, you know,” she said, chin raised.

Dis snorted. “I know, or we wouldn’t be talking. All right. You’re going to have to fill me in, honey. I know it’ll be hard, but you can’t just go, ‘There are bad guys,’ and expect me to find them. Who, what, when, where, why. Everything you know.”

Faroe nodded, wiping her eyes one more time. “When I went to Ishara, looking for answers, they told me to go to the Oracle,” she said, and at the name, Nibbles growled, and did not stop until the horrible recitation was through.

#malevolent au #malevolent podcast #malevolent fic #surrogate series #faroe lester

[littlemovieposters]

2022 Home Viewing #58: Girl Asleep. (dir. Rosemary Myers, 2015)

If at this late date you still have patience for quirky, highly stylized indie movies, and I’ll understand if you do not, Girl Asleep—apparently known as Fantastic Birthday in some territories—is an excellent entry into that particular sweepstakes. My tolerance for the likes of Wes Anderson and associated fripperies died a long time ago, and when this DVD arrived in my mailbox from Netflix I had no idea what it was for I had no memory of putting it in my queue seven years ago. I groaned a bit and dreaded it when I read the Netflix synopsis. (Yes, I still get physical DVDs from Netflix. Challenge me to a public debate if you think it’s stupid, and you can even let Wes Anderson film it).

I chalk the strength of this film up to the director being a woman (I am a man). And an aspect of the ending (an arguably inconsequential aspect) already has a completely different connotation in the 2020s than it did in 2015, so remember that if you watch it.

[chysgoda]

Fantastical Fripperies

Hey guys! we’re heading into cold and flu season now is the time to stock up on extras! (or if you’re like me one for the purse, one for the car, one hanging up by the keys...) 

I’ve also got casual cosplay hair clips up and will be adding some more shortly

Come check out what I’ve got in stock!

Fantastical Fripperies

#fantastical fripperies #casual cosplay #covid masks #daily wear masks

[autumnslance]

Got my Fantastical Frippery from @chysgoda! Check out her store and get a mask or hairpin with some FFXIV flair. They’re very nice.

#fantastical fripperies #final fantasy xiv #others art

[kats-alcove]

Riding the Elephant

Pairing: Toshinori x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Size kink, overstimulation

Summary: You haven't been able to forget something Toshinori mentioned on your first date. Bringing it up to him leads to one wild ride with the #1 pro-hero.

A/N: At last, the long-awaited, highly-requested sequel to Elephant in Your Room! You don't really need to read that one to understand this one, but if you are an All Might lover, I would recommend checking it out here!

Read it on AO3 here!

If the you from 5 months ago could see you now, they would think they were dreaming. You wouldn't blame them; the series of events that had led to your current situation were nothing short of fantastical. From entering a raffle to win a date with All Might, to actually winning the date that had resulted in a one night stand that had become so much more.

Now you were living with your boyfriend(!) in his surprisingly humble apartment. You had expected the #1 hero in Japan to have a lavish home, but Toshinori wasn't one for fancy frippery. Sure, the doorframes and a few pieces of furniture were larger than average, but then so was Toshinori. Whether in his skinny form or his buff form, the man took up a lot of space.

You certainly weren't complaining. Having a boyfriend that large was the equivalent of dating a friendly, mobile tree. He never got lost in a crowd and he didn't mind you clinging to him to stay grounded. Toshinori was always willing to pick you up or let you lean on him if you got tired. Cuddling had been awkward at first, what with all the extra limb length he had, but you two quickly figured it out.

And of course, the sex was amazing. Toshinori was skilled, whether with his fingers, his tongue, or his cock. He was so giving too, always making sure you got off multiple times before he did once. Of course, that was as much out of necessity as it was kindness. Along with Toshinori’s extra foot or two of height came an extra few inches down there. There really wasn't anything more you could want from your relationship.

Well, maybe there was one thing.

Every now and again, you found your mind wandering back to something Toshinori had said the first time you had slept together.

Toshinori wasted no time in shucking off the final piece of clothing keeping you apart.

“Oh.”

Heat rushed through you as you beheld Toshinori’s cock. He hadn't been exaggerating when he’d said he was large. Longer and thicker than any you’d seen, your fingers could barely touch when you wrapped a hand around it. It twitched in your grasp, pre-cum leaking from the tip. You used your thumb to spread the dot of pearly liquid across his head.

Toshinori made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a moan. “Would you believe me if I told you it’s even bigger in my other form?”

Ever since that night, those six little words had filtered back into your brain occasionally, especially when you were bored at work or home alone. What had Toshinori meant by “bigger”? Was it longer, thicker, both? You wanted to know, but at the same time you were far too nervous and a little too embarrassed to ask.

But Toshinori was nothing if not perceptive. He had noticed that something had been on your mind for a while, something you wanted to ask him. You would call out his name softly, and he would look over to find you flushed and flustered. But when he asked what was wrong, you would reply with something mundane.

So Toshinori took it upon himself to make sure you were comfortable enough to ask him whatever you were unsure about. He cleaned up the apartment, lit your favorite scented candle, and was almost finished making your favorite meal when you came home from work.

You padded into the kitchen to see your partner standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious. Slipping your arms around him, you rested your forehead between his shoulder blades.

“What’re you up to, Toshi?”

“Ah, Y/N, hello!” He turned to return your embrace. “I just thought I could cook tonight. Why don't you change into comfortable clothes; dinner’s almost done!”

Gently, he gave you a playful push out of the kitchen. You hung on long enough to press a soft kiss to his lips before allowing him to shoo you back to your shared bedroom. There, you took your time washing off the day and changing into your favorite lounge-about outfit. When you returned to the dining room, Toshinori was just placing two plates down on the table next to each other.

You cleared your throat lightly. Toshinori smiled when he saw your relaxed self and moved to pull out your chair. You sat, letting him fuss over you for a moment before he took a seat himself. It was a move so reminiscent of your first date that you couldn't help but flush as your train of thought led you back to the one thing that had been plaguing your thoughts for far too long.

“You're making that face again. What are you thinking about, darling?”

Toshi’s tone was softly inquisitive, but you couldn't help the squeak of embarrassment you made. “N-nothing!” Quickly, you took a bite of your food, hoping to stave off any further questions. “This is delicious, Toshi.”

Toshinori sighed and plucked your utensil out of your hand. “It is definitely not nothing, Y/N. You've been wanting to ask me something for weeks; is something wrong?”

“No! Nothing’s wrong,” you reassured him.

“Then what is it? I can't help you if you don't tell me.”

Your gaze dropped to the table, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s about… us, in the bedroom.”

“Ah.” Toshinori nodded, leaning back. “Is there something I need to do different, or perhaps something new you wanted to try?”

“Do you remember our first time?”

The sudden change of topic made Toshinori blink, but he suddenly had a better idea of where this was going. “Yes. I don't think I could ever forget it.”

“And how you said that your co- that you're bigger when you’re in All Might form?”

Yep. That’s exactly what he had thought you would say. Not wanting to stop you now that you had built up your courage, Toshinori simply nodded.

“Well, I was wondering if we could try that.”

With one hand on your jaw, Toshinori brought your eyes to meet his. He could see worry swimming in them, and a little bit of nerves, but there was also hope and no small bit of arousal. He stroked your cheek with his thumb comfortingly before kissing you.

“Of course we can, darling. Although it will take a little bit of planning.”

You tilted your head curiously. “Why?”

“The amount of time I can hold All Might’s form differs depending on the activity I’m doing. For a TV interview or a walk around the park, I could hold it for hours. But for more strenuous activities, the most I can manage is 20 minutes or so.”

“Is that how you were able to hold it so long when we had our first date?”

“Yes. And I took breaks,” Now it was his turn to blush. “Whenever I went to the bathroom, or when we were in the dress shop, I deflated for a few minutes. The short rests allowed me to hold the form for longer.”

“So then what do we need to plan?”

Toshinori took a moment to think. “We’ll need a day neither of us have anything to do. I don't have anything scheduled this upcoming Saturday.”

“And I already get weekends off!” you chimed in.

“Perfect! Then all I’ll ask is that you stop by a store on your way home some time this week and pick up some extra lube.” Toshinori chuckled at your dubious look. “I would rather we have it and not need it than risk you getting hurt, darling.”

“A-all right,” you agreed. “Is there anything else I should grab?”

“I don't think so. Now, let’s finish dinner, and then we can go cuddle?”

It wasn't until later that evening, as you lay wrapped up in Toshinori’s arms, that the full weight of your dinner conversation hit you. You had finally asked him, and he had said yes. Which meant that in a few days, you were going to be having sex not with Toshinori Yagi, but with All Might.

Saturday dawned beautifully, not that either you or Toshinori were up to see it. He had insisted that the two of you sleep in, claiming that you would need all your energy for what you would be doing later that day. When you finally rose, the two of you cooked a late brunch together and ate it while watching daytime soap operas.

Despite the apparent normalcy of the morning, you could feel nerves starting to creep back in. Every other time you and Toshinori had had sex, it had been a spur of the moment thing, a natural progression of your passions. It felt weird to have planned something like this even though you understood why some forethought had been necessary.

Eventually, the two of you found yourself back in your bedroom. It was a large room with a large bed, two wardrobes, and the daybed from your old house, still piled with your plushies. Several new ones had joined the mound since you and Toshinori had first started dating, though the elephant he had bought you claimed the place of honor on your nightstand.

You sat on your side of the bed, instinctively reaching out to fidget with the stuffed toy. Your fingers trailed the seam where you had carefully sewn his torn side back together. It was such a fond memory, and such a powerful simile to the man now standing before you. Toshinori smiled down at you. He patted your head before gently plucking the elephant from you and placing him with the other stuffies.

“I don't think we want the children to bear witness, do you?” he quipped as he stretched out on his side of the bed.

You giggled at the familiar joke, falling over to snuggle against Toshinori. He wrapped his arms around you to pull you closer, until you were practically on top of him. For a moment, the two of you just lay together like that, taking comfort in each other’s presence. Then Toshinori lightly traced a hand down your spine. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly the mood of the room shifted.

Leaning down, you pressed a needy kiss to Toshinori’s lips. He was quick to reciprocate, tongue flickering across your lips in a silent question. You answered, allowing him to slide into your mouth, to claim every corner of it as his. A moan bubbled in your throat when you felt his large hands grip your ass, situating you more fully above him.

The two of you parted on a gasp, but Toshinori barely let you catch your breath before he pulled you down into another kiss. Meanwhile, his hands had moved to your hips as he guided you to grind against the growing bulge you could feel against your core. Your own arousal was growing too, and you let out a pitiful whine.

“Toshiiii… need you!”

“I know, baby,” Toshinori groaned. “But we’ve gotta get you really ready first. Here, let’s take these off, yeah?”

Toshinori helped you shimmy out of your pajama shorts, only to release a startled moan when he saw you weren't wearing any panties beneath them.

“My naughty darling,” he cooed approvingly.

You shrugged, trying for noncommittal and failing. “I figured they’d be pointless anyways.”

“Smart,” he agreed. Toshinori swiped two fingers through your sex, collecting the moisture that had gatherd to circle over your clit. “And already so aroused; you really are perfect. Now, get up here.”

He laid back flat on the bed and patted his collarbone. Unsure, you shifted up so that you were straddling his chest. With a fondly exasperated huff, Toshinori grabbed your thighs and slid you forward until your knees were tucked in his armpits. The sudden movement drew a squeak from you as you braced yourself against the headboard.

“T-toshi?” You looked down at your partner and flushed. “What’re you doing?”

His blond hair was spread out on the pillow, giving him an almost angelic appearance that was offset by the devilish smirk on his lips. “You need preparation, and I need to take it easy. So you’re going to sit on my face.”

“O-oh.” Your sex life with Toshinori was certainly not boring, but this was a first.

Hesitantly, you dropped your hips slightly until you could feel Toshinori’s breath on your cunt. He huffed out an exasperated laugh before the hands on your thighs gently yanked you down so that your full weight was on his lower face. You didn't even have time for the squeal to leave your mouth before it was turning into a moan as Toshinori’s dextrous tongue swiped through your folds. He licked a stripe from your dripping hole to circle around your clit just the way you liked it.

All your bashfulness was gone as you ground down on your partner’s tongue, using your grip on the headboard for leverage. At some point, one of your hands dropped to tangle in his soft hair. The slight tugging drew a moan from him that vibrated through your pussy and made you keen. Hearing your reaction, Toshinori moaned again, the sound morphing into a deep rumbling growl as you clenched around his tongue.

“A-ah! Toshi,” you cried. “Please, I wanna…”

“I’ve got you, love. Just relax.”

One of Toshinori’s hands swept down to play with your clit, allowing him to focus his tongue solely on your dripping hole. He licked around your cunt before burying it deep in your dripping hole and growling again. That, combined with his nimble fingers on your clit, had you coming undone in an instant. You moaned your pleasure while Toshinori worked you through the orgasm. He stopped before the point of overstimulation, not wanting to wear you out before getting to the main event.

Once you came down from your high, Toshinori helped you slide back down the bed to sit on his lap. You could feel the hardness of his erection poking your ass. Shimmying down his legs, you caught the elastic of his boxers and drew them off, freeing his cock. Toshinori helped you discard the fabric before pulling you back up and kissing you deeply.

“Are you gonna transform now?” you asked, peppering his jaw with kisses.

Toshinori shook his head. “Not yet. I want to stretch you out a bit more.”

Hands encircled your waist, and then you were being lifted to hover over the leaking tip of Toshinori’s cock. You felt the head brush through your folds as he rather awkwardly tried to lower you on it. Taking pity on your partner, you reached a hand down and guided the head to your entrance. It slid in easily and both of you moaned at the sensation; satisfying fullness for you, intoxicating heat for Toshinori. You rolled your hips, encouraging him to go faster. Toshinori took the hint and lowered you until you were fully seated on his cock.

The two of you took a moment to adjust and to enjoy the simple pleasure of being connected like this. Then Toshinori was pulling out of you just a little bit. He thrust up into you a few more times in gentle rhythm until you were loose and wet around him and breathy moans escaped your lips. When he felt you were ready, Toshinori lifted you fully off his cock and placed you on his waist instead. You whimpered at the loss of the feeling of fullness.

Toshinori chuckled at your pout. “Don't worry, love. You’ll be stuffed fuller than you can handle in a moment.”

That was when you felt the man beneath you begin to change. His torso inflated with muscles, hands growing bigger and spanning your waist. Toshinori’s face lost its sunken appearance, and before you knew it you were looking down at All Might. Leaning forward, you placed a hand on his cheek and smiled. No matter whether he was in this form or his natural one, his kind blue eyes never changed.

All Might returned your smile with a softer version of his signature grin. He took the opportunity of your closeness to press a kiss to your lips, making you sigh. It was just as all-encompassing and overwhelming as that first kiss had been, but a million times better because now you knew the man behind the muscles.

“Are you ready, love?” All Might’s voice rumbled through his chest.

You nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Very well then.” All Might lifted you once more. “Try to stay relaxed, Y/N. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Don't worry, you wo-oh!”

You were cut off, shocked into silence as you finally saw All Might’s cock standing proudly at attention. Your eyes were glued to where All Might was stroking himself in a lubed-up fist. Suddenly, you understood why Toshinori wanted to go through so much planning and preparation. All Might wasn't longer than Toshinori. In fact, he almost looked a little shorter. But his girth… You weren't sure you would have been able to wrap your hand around it. There was only one thought in your mind as you beheld it:

“I want that inside me.”

You didn't realize you had spoken aloud until you heard All might chuckle. “And you shall have me, love. Take a deep breath.”

You inhaled deeply, only for all the air to be forced out of your lungs when All Might’s cockhead slipped past your entrance. There was a bit of a sting, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming feeling of fullness . And this was just the tip!

All Might lowered you another inch, biting back a groan of his own at the feeling of your tight walls practically beckoning him in. The primal part of his brain wanted to rush, to sheath himself inside you and fuck your brains out. But neither of you would be able to handle that today. So instead he focused on your face, searching it for any hints of pain or distress, any sign you wanted to stop.

You absolutely did not want him to stop. You were in ecstasy as All Might stretched you out inch by inch. With how tight you were around him, you could feel every ridge and vein of his cock twitching and pulsing inside of you. Rolling your hips down, you took another inch on your own.

“ God ,” All Might moaned. “You’re doing so good, love. Halfway there.”

Your eyes widened. This was only halfway?! You felt stuffed to the brim already, but you were determined to take all of him. Rolling your hips again, you gave All Might your best pleading pout.

“Please, Tosh- All Might. I’m not fragile; you don't have to go so slow.”

All Might blinked, a strange look crossing his face “You want my cock that bad? All right then.”

Saying so, he reclined on the bed and released your hips. You slid another half-inch or so down his cock before you caught yourself, hands splayed on his abs. All Might folded his hands behind his head and smirked playfully up at you.

“You can have it, if you can take it.”

You blinked. “Wait, you want me to…”

“Ride me, Y/N,” All Might said. “Show me you can handle a pro hero’s cock.”

It was a challenge; maybe the sexiest challenge you’d ever been issued. You bit your lip, taking a moment to gather your scattered thoughts and form a plan. First, you had to get your legs back under you with a bit of not-too-dignified shuffling. Once you were kneeling with All Might between your thighs, you used the leverage offered by his deliciously muscled abdomen to raise yourself off him just a tiny bit. The space gave you a chance to breathe, to take a deep breath before you lowered yourself the rest of the way down his cock. Being filled so suddenly had your toes curling and your eyes rolling back in your head. Judging from the groan All Might let out, your actions affected him just as much.

You gave yourself the space of three deep breaths to adjust. Then you were bouncing on his cock; small bounces at first, then larger ones as you got used to the feeling of him filling you over and over. Occasionally, you tossed in a hip roll or a grind, moans spilling from your lips like a waterfall. Beneath you, All Might was trying to remain composed, but the clamp of your hot cunt around his massive cock was too good to resist. His moans joined yours in a lewd symphony that filled the bedroom.

Despite trying to pace yourself, you could feel your legs start to cramp. You weren't sure how long you would be able to keep this up. Luckily, All Might noticed how your thrusts weakened and your arms started to shake. Sitting up, he caught your waist, taking over your motions and supplementing them with little snaps of his hips. You leaned forward to press a grateful kiss to his collarbone.

Now that you didn't have to focus on riding All Might, you were able to lose yourself in the pleasure he was giving you. All Might filled you with every stroke, stimulating nerve endings you didn't even know you had. It was too much; you could feel an orgasm charging towards you at top speed.

“Ah, Ah, All Might!” you gasped. “I’m close!”

All Might could feel you tightening around him, and internally he was glad you were about to hit your peak, because he could feel his limit approaching too. So he shifted his grip, one arm coming to wrap around your ass while the other snuck between your bodies to toy with your clit. You yelped, still sensitive from when he ate you out earlier. That sensitivity meant that it wasn't long before you toppled into another orgasm, cunt fluttering and clenching around All Might’s cock.

He managed to hold out for a few more thrusts, long enough for him to bury himself fully inside you. Then All Might was cumming too, thick, hot seed painting your insides white. Your eyes widened as you felt him release, felt how much he released. It went on for several seconds, pumping into you until you could feel it start to seep out around All Might's cock. He groaned in satisfaction, slumping down to wrap his arms around you.

And suddenly, the cock inside you shrunk slightly as your partner deflated with a sigh. You could feel his cum and yours seeping out of you even with him still inside you; that’s how stretched you were. But Toshinori didn't seem to care. He just tipped backwards, pulling you down to lay on his chest.

“So, how was it? Are you hurt anywhere?”

You shook your head, smiling. “Not hurt. I’ll probably be sore as hell tomorrow, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Toshinori said bashfully. “He was… I was too rough with you.”

“No you weren't!” Pushing yourself up on shaky arms, you looked your partner in the eye. “I loved every bit of that, Toshi. You were very sweet and sexy as hell to boot.”

“Careful, love. Or you’ll wake the beast again.”

You grinned. “Who said I don't want that?”

Teasingly, you ground down on Toshinori’s stirring cock, only to squeal in surprise when it thickened inside you. You glanced down and back at Toshinori, who was still in his smaller form and smirking like the devil.

“Did I ever mention I can isolate One for All into certain body parts?”

“No, you hav-” you gasped when he snapped his hips up. “Ah!”

“How about it, love?” Toshinori’s voice was teasing.

“You up for another ride?”

#all might x reader #toshinori yagi x reader #kats writing #Smut #fluff #size kink #All Might #toshinori yagi

[commander-diomika]

[Image ID: Screenshot of a tumblr reply from user @weareallfromearth ​​ saying “Holy shit I would V much like to know what you’d do with ZolfWilde.” End ID]

This was in response to me tag rambling that if Alex “I don’t Actually Have That Much Experience in Courtship” Newall and Ben “I just Realised I’m Too Straight For This” Meredith don’t know what to do with Zolf/Wilde, they should hand the ship over to me. 

*rubs my gay little hands together.*

I initially characterized them offhandedly as Enemies-to-Lovers but that’s not quite it, is it? On reflection I would say it’s more of an Opposites Attract situation.

Oscar Wilde, as re-imagined in the RQG universe, is a homme fatale; a dangerous, attractive man, skilled in encouraging people to underestimate him, wearing different masks, never quite being able to trust or be trusted by anyone.

There is NO personal/professional line for Wilde. He lives his work, and his work is subterfuge and interpersonal manipulation. (whether or not he started this way in his field as a journalist, or was forced to become this way by the changes in his world, is another post.) He is a person who either cares very deeply what people think of him, or is has decided that manipulating what people think of him is the way to get what he wants, and from the outside it makes no difference.

Zolf Smith does not care what people think of him. He isn’t even skilled at being kind and empathetic to people he cares about; he has no time for emotional manipulation or genuine charm. He doesn’t even have a fantastic grasp on his OWN feelings, let alone other people’s. He’s grounded, disinterested in frippery or appearances. Which is why Zolf and Wilde started out so deeply at odds with one another.

Despite the differences in the interpersonal approaches, they have plenty of common ground.

They are both deeply dedicated to a cause. They care about their work to the exclusion of all else. They are both pragmatists who have their own internal moral code, and are willing to bend or break other people’s rules in order to get the job done. They are fundamentally good people. Despite their rocky beginnings, they can respect each other because of these things.

And they might have maintained their mutually disdainful, begrudgingly respectful working relationship and that could have been the sum total... Except then the world fell apart. The Meritocratic organisation was initially compromised, then disintegrated. The blue vein plague isolated everyone and made it even harder to trust supposed allies. The Cult of Hades was on everyone’s ass making their life difficult, the other PCs disappeared off the face of the planet. Zolf and Wilde ended up in a situation where they had no one else they could trust.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but maybe if the contempt is already there, it builds Something Else. Wilde was stripped of his magic in a way that made it much harder for him to keep people at a distance and (pardon the pun) project the illusion of the debonair playboy. Zolf would have had the chance to see through Wilde’s masks, and get a better understanding of what parts of Wilde were a calculated tactic, and what was his genuine self.

Whatever betrayal transpired that gave Wilde his scar and hardened him, Zolf was privy to. He was either there and saw it happen, or he was close enough in the aftermath to see Wilde properly vulnerable for the first time in their friendship. Hell, maybe Zolf was the one who rescued him and patched him up. That was a chance for Zolf to realise that this insufferable man is a friend who he cares about deeply. At this point, he’s cared for awhile, but has been too wrapped up with his own spiritual difficulties to have space to admit that to himself.

And Wilde, oh Wilde, he’s desperate to be seen and known and loved, but he’s never allowed himself. He’s never felt SAFE to. He doesn’t let people get close, treats every conversation as a battle to be won. His safety and his power lies in being admired, but never loved. So even as trust and fondness for Zolf blossoms within him, he won’t for a second allow himself to hope that the fondness is reciprocated

With all that out of the way, this is my version of events.  

Wilde is a slut (affectionate), and Zolf is gray-ace, so if there’s any bridging of that gap in terms of physical intimacy, it has to be from Zolf’s side. Giving canon a tender massage into place, that first instance of Zolf grabbing Wilde by the collar changes. (This happens on the Vengeance after Zolf has taught Wilde to steer the ship). Zolf drags Wilde down to say “I’m glad to see you perked up.” That moment now involves a whiskery kiss on Wilde’s cheek, and the man would be absolutely FLOORED by it.

I’m talking slow-mo glittering lights as Zolf stomps off blushing, unsure what just came over him; Wilde touches his cheek in bewilderment for a stretched moment before realising he’s completely agog, and he let go of the wheel for a dangerous length of time. Every interaction, every moment they’ve spent together over the last two years is flashing before Wilde’s eyes and a new context is being applied rapid fire. I’m talking the italacised oh kind of moment.

(on top of Zolf being witness to The Betrayal, throw some other moments of almost-intimacy into said flashbacks. I’m talking late nights, Zolf doing his gruff-yet-kind caretaker thing, cooking for Wilde, maybe sharing quiet and rare downtime with Zolf reading a Campbell novel on a couch in Wilde’s office)

Wilde is realising, “Oh this is allowed, oh this is reciprocated, this is possible.”

And of course they don’t talk about it, because what’s a slowburn if they immediately go and TALK about their feelings? No, the kiss goes completely unremarked upon, and Wilde continues to needle and tease and get under Zolf’s skin, except now with an added warmth in his eyes because he finally gets it. He finally understands that Zolf cares, that Zolf loves him, he’s just not the kind of dwarf that knows how to express it.

And Zolf, frustrated by feelings he can’t express but is beginning to understand, can hear the undertone of “haha, you looooove me,” shining through Wilde’s deliberate antagonism. They continue their time on the Vengeance just a little easier and closer to one another.

And we continue on to the death/resurrection arc, and Wilde’s spirit pushes for Zolf to open up about his feelings, because if not when he’s literally past death’s door, then when? When Zolf finally manages his “I need you,” it’s like a dam has broken for both of them. The second collar-grab and “We’ll go on a holiday or somethin’,” is now followed by a full kiss on the lips, not particularly erotic but passionate, (it’s the epitome of kissing someone to shut them up) and Wilde makes a surprised and delighted squeak that he would be glad he can’t quite remember when he returns to land of the living.

Once returned, Wilde might not remember everything that his spirit said or did, but he remembers the kiss. The comfort and ease that the two of them share in 179 (Eat Drink and Be Merry) is there, only instead of the two characters still being in a place of questioning their feelings for one another, it’s been answered.

Whether or not this relationship is sexual in nature is kind of up to you and what kind of fan works you like to read/write. I think there are wonderful scenes to be written an explored in many directions.

Wilde allowing himself to enjoy sex for intimacy and closeness instead of using it as a tool/ Zolf not being one for sex but Wilde’s never slept more soundly than when he’s being held in Zolf’s arms/ Zolf realising that the unfamiliar feeling he’s been struggling to express is the desire to rail Wilde til he cries/ Wilde realising that if his partner doesn’t want it from him, he’s actually quite content without sex/ The two of them being mean, antagonistic bastards to each other while fucking but Make It Kink (of the trusting and RACK kind). There really isn’t a single bad interpretation.  

So really, I’m not doing anything different with them other than reading between the lines, giving canon a little nudge, and sticking the landing. This isn’t to disparage the concept of queer platonic partners. (I’ve got one!) or to talk shit about Ben or Alex (I DO respect their craft).

It’s just to say I find these two characters , and everything they’ve been through, PAINFULLY romantic, tropey, and delightful. I’m looking forward both to how Ben and Alex play the QPP, the fanworks I’m gonna read and hopefully write, and the inevitable tragedy that you KNOW Alex is gearing up for.

#zoscar #zolfwilde #RQG #rusty quill gaming #zolf smith #RQG Oscar Wilde #hank talks #rqg podcast #rqg meta #feel free to reblog #and to talk to me about it

[valley-of-renfri]

“If I can be so bold as to ask,” the bard begins, as if he hasn’t been bold beyond tolerance every time he opens his mouth, “where might you be traveling from here?”

It does occur to Geralt to lie. It also occurs to him that, even if he were to say he’s portaling into a nest of harpies beyond the Blue Mountains, his de facto companion would just light up like a campfire and nip at his heels to accompany him rather than turning tail and darting back to Posada. The bard, Geralt has noticed, seems unfamiliar with the concept of self-preservation.

“I go where the monsters are,” he says instead.

“Oh, good,” the bard says breathlessly, as if Geralt’s just offered him the open coffers of all Redania. “That’s the beginning line of a ballad in and of itself.” His fingers twitch along the ribs of his lute. “You know, most troubadours do no fieldwork. You were quite right, if people want to hear songs of myth and legend, those are as plentiful as stars in the sky and twice as fantastical. But you...gods, we could make history rather than invent it. I meant what I offered earlier, I could ease the way for you, stamp out the stain of the Butcher from your name entirely. Remake your image in the minds of the masses until it's as it should have been all along.”

“Witchers do not have publicists.”

“Precisely!” the bard chirps, pointing a finger in the air. “And no common bard has ever sought to become one. Although admittedly, my interest in being common is not high. Is, in fact, rather negligible. And while I’m not as accustomed to life on the road as a wandering warrior such as yourself, I daresay I’m a very fast learner.”

Geralt grunts. He’ll be a way station to this frippery-bedecked imbecile at most, and then he’ll realize the rough life of a Witcher is a far cry from the stuff of songs and leave Geralt to continue complacently on his way, alone, as he’s accustomed to doing.

The bard looks at him, “If you’ll allow me,” he says, waiting, for the first time seeing a little uncertain of himself. But even now there is no waft of fear, only sweat and spice, the lingering tease of yarrow and mint, the warm waft of linseed oil from his lute. “Tell me no and I’ll leave you be right this moment, I swear it. But I think you’ll find I’m not just talking out my arse.”

Marilka flashes through his memory. I have to be more. I could learn, if you’d let me. The same baldfaced assertion underpins the bard’s voice too.

And Geralt, for reasons that skim just outside his comprehension, does not tell him no.

#idk idk #geraskier #sometimes i write

[muffinlance]

I've been reading through most of your fics for awhile now and only just realized they all had the same author. All of them are fantastic. But I must say: Kindling AU hurts my heart and better have a happy ending or I shall be Very Cross. But what is even more upsetting is that I have been misreading your name as MuffinLace for about a week now.

You were drawn in by my frilly frippery, only to realize it was Always A Lie.

To be fair, the experience would have been much the same even if you'd read my name correctly.

#welcome to the Hotel MuffinLa(n)ce #check out any time you like

[mollymauk-teafleak]

whose brow is laid in thorn (chapter six)

Seems I can’t write a penultimate chapter in any widomauk fic were Caleb doesn’t end the chapter passed out

Huge thanks to my wonderful beta readers @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian!

I got out to bed to go post this guys, please reblog and leave a comment on Ao3

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

Mollymauk realises he might get the love of his life back and lose him in the same day

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

There had never been much of the king in the crown prince.

The two of them could not have appeared more different, in the obvious places like race and age, personality and attitude, the decisions they made and the way they talked, moved and dressed. And then there were the myriad subtle differences that only someone with a close vantage point would see, the way their minds worked behind their eyes, the things that drove them, what they wanted and what they were willing to do to get it. The two men could not have been more different.

But right now, facing his anger, Caleb could see Babenon Dosal behind his friend’s red eyes. He saw a king.

He wasn’t surprised Mollymauk had chosen anger, it was the easier emotion to grapple with after reading the letter and realising what Caleb had done. When he’d commanded their friends to leave, his voice quiet and clipped and full of rage about to slip it’s leash, Caleb had been impassive, accepting, simply giving their dismayed, stunned glances a gentle nod of acknowledgement. He simply folded his hands behind his back and faced the fury of a man who had been brought up being told he was the rightful ruler of everything he could see past the horizon.

The letter from Lorenzo was crushed in his grip as he growled, “How dare you. How fucking dare you, Caleb. Are you aware of what you’ve just done?”

“Forging the prince’s signature on the letter I wrote to Lorenzo proposing single combat,” Caleb intoned, expressionlessly, listing his crimes like they were a shopping list he was being sent to market with, “Deliberately circumventing the prince’s wishes. Negotiating with a hostile party without the crown’s leave. Risking everything, our land and our people. High treason, all in all. Execution would be the penalty in any court.”

“And for what?” Molly spat, shaking, his tear streaked cheeks dark purple with anger, “What, Caleb?”

“To keep you safe,” emotion slipped into Caleb’s voice, as much as he tried to keep it at bay, “To save your life.”

He watched Molly choke on that, the letter slipping through his grasp as it slackened. Caleb made a mental note with the part of his brain not consumed by grief to pick it up later. It was all they had of Lorenzo’s oath not to take the city if Caleb should fail.

“I couldn’t watch you die, Mollymauk,” he continued, swallowing hard, “I couldn’t. It wasn’t fair of you to ask that of me. Go with me or go after me but gods, please don’t make me live in a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

“So now I have to watch you die instead?” his voice broke on that word, as if his throat couldn’t bear to say it and smashed it to splintered pieces.

“Well,” Caleb gave a bleak, brittle smile, “You won’t be far behind me if I do.”

“Fuck you,” Molly spat but it was more of a sob now, “Fuck you, Caleb Widogast.”

“He spoke to me,” Caleb sighed, knowing it would be best to get this out of the way too, “He...he entered my mind and spoke to me. Ikithon.” The urge to call him master was easy to shake off when he had his heart aching towards Molly.

“What?” Molly looked up from where he’d gripped his hair in anguish, face slack in horror, “Gods, that's the worst kind of banned magic. He could be executed for using that.”

“I don’t think he plans on being beholden to your father’s judgement for much longer,” Caleb shrugged, “He told me to defect. To betray you and go over to Lorenzo. I don’t know if he actually thought it would work, Lorenzo would have just run me through as soon as he saw me or hanged me for a traitor. Ikithon likely wouldn’t have cared either way.”

“He…” Molly stared at Caleb, “He gave you a direct order. He broke into your mind and told you to do this thing and you just...didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t. I did the exact opposite actually.” Again, a bleak, crooked smile, he couldn’t help it.

Pride edged into Molly’s expression for a moment before anguish flooded his expression again, “But this is just it, isn’t it? Don’t you see, Caleb, this is why I wanted to do this, this is why I’m so fucking mad at you. That vile creature has already hurt you so much, he’s already tortured you and took everything from you and all because of me! I just wanted one godsdamned time where I could help you instead of cause you more hurt, where I could actually save you like I’ve wanted to since I first met you. But every time, every fucking time, I just make it worse and I cause you more pain. How can I ask you to love me after all of this, after he hurt you for doing exactly that, after he took it away from you.”

“No. He didn’t,” Caleb whispered, “He didn’t take that away from me. I thought he had but...no.”

Molly froze and the whole world seemed to hold its breath, this awful, terrible night finally stopped and allowed them a moment.  

“Caleb…” Molly breathed, his anger gone, his face soft and hopeful and so, so scared.

“So ask me again,” tears were thick in his throat but he got the words out clear and true, “Please, Mollymauk. Ask me one more time.”

He didn’t hesitate, “Love me? Love me the way I love you?”

“Yes,” Caleb didn’t lower his voice, he didn’t pull back from it, he didn’t care who heard, “I love you, Mollymauk. Whether we die tomorrow or we live for another hundred years, I will love you for every single second we have.”

He waited. A heartbeat passed. Two. Three.

And his mind stayed silent, clear and completely his own.

They surged together, meeting in the middle, the years and the distance shrinking down to nothing between them as their bodies collided and moulded to each other the way they always had done. Caleb had grown taller, so much so that Molly had to tilt his head up to kiss him, his jaw was rough with stubble that hadn’t been there before, his prince’s hands were rough and calloused when they wound around his shoulders. They were not the teenagers they had been, loving recklessly and wildly, fates throwing them together and saying here, here is the person you were meant for.

They were not the same. Now they were older, they’d both suffered and struggled and been broken many times. Instead they were choosing to love each other, in defiance of everything that said they couldn’t, accepting it along with all of its risks and all of the pain it would cause them.

And it was just as sweet.

Each man meant to pull away at some point but somehow, they kept finding themselves pulled under, a world where their lips weren’t pressed together just seeming completely unacceptable. And when Caleb’s felt Molly’s split tongue stroke against his own, he shivered and leaned into that as well, pressing on deeper and deeper until they both realised in the same moment that soon, there wouldn’t be any turning back.

“Do you…” Molly drew back first, panting raggedly and having to make a few attempts at actually speaking, “Do you want to? I mean...I’d be perfectly content with this, this is bliss but…”

“I want to,” Caleb said firmly, sure of the words as he said them though never doubting that Molly would let him pull back from that ledge if he chose to, “I can’t think of a better way to spend the last night I might have on this plane.”

“Don’t,” Molly breathed, leaning in until their lips were almost touching again, “None of that. This night is everything. And I’m not letting anyone take it away from us this time.”

Finding that more than agreeable, Caleb sank willingly into kissing Mollymauk, though this time there was more purpose to it, it felt like climbing towards some end, swimming towards some shore. After a while, he felt his dear prince’s hands slip from where they held the back of his head, moving to push Caleb’s heavy black overcoat off his shoulders. In between kisses, he let himself be undressed, the uniform of those people he’d never wanted to be and hadn’t ever been able to truly claim him, pulled away by his lover’s hands until he stood there as nothing but himself.

When he stood bare before him, every inch of his scarred body open to the cold night and Mollymauk’s gaze, a mean, cold part of Caleb looked for disappointment in his expression. Of course there was none, just the face a man might wear when he saw home at the end of a long, bitter journey. The cruel teeth of the whip, the scars on his arms where the crystals had been embedded, the pale white bands around his arms where manacles had chafed him, Molly saw every inch of it and did not pity him or look away in shame. He understood him.

Caleb was granted the same privilege to Mollymauk, pulling away his dust stained tunic and leggings, hard worn from the road and so different from what he would choose to wear. What was underneath was less surprising, he’d seen more of Molly’s skin than Molly ever had of his, but knowing it was his to kiss and touch and love made all the difference. He was scarred too, the thin, feathery nicks from his swords and the neat, surgical scars on his chest where his body had been brought in line with his heart. And all of the ink too, in it’s startling colour, the fantastical forests that carpeted one arm, the serpent that wound around the other, the eyes and the glorious peacock that sheltered his heart the way Molly’s own brightness and frippery had kept him safe.

It was familiar but no less beautiful for that.

Caleb could have gazed at him until the sun came up, never laid a finger on his skin and been content, but they didn’t have long.

Molly drew him over to the camp bed he’d been tossing and turning on since they started out, letting Caleb press him back against it with more kisses, ones that spread across his chest and neck and jawline, falling faster and more hurried like rain moving from drizzle to showers. Molly made the sweetest noises, chest rising and falling more rapidly under his lips, prompting him to suck some marks into his soft purple skin. He gave very little thought to his own body, lost on the midst of it all, until Molly’s hand reached down between his legs and brushed his growing erection lightly, making him jump like he’d been given an electric shock.

“Sorry,” Molly giggled breathlessly, grinning like the man he was rather than the prince he’d been playing, “Um...I want you in me.”

“Yes?” Caleb murmured, coming close again. He crouched over Molly, knees bracketing his hips, hands bracing himself against the edge of the cot, quickly getting drunk on the tousled view it gave him of his lover.

Mollymauk nodded, hand still down between Caleb’s thighs, stroking lightly, “It’s what I want. Please.”

“I am ever yours to command,” Caleb grinned crookedly, making sure Molly was laughing when he moved to kiss him again and parted his legs with his own.

Their last time had been fumbling, uncertain, hurried. The two of them had both had a flagon of wine between them and felt invincible, Molly’s birthday party coming to them muffled through the floor beneath them, the strings singing like the desire in their blood.

It wasn’t too different this time, they were still uncertain and groping at each other, Caleb dropping the vial of oil Molly handed him from his pack, Molly jerking so hard when Caleb thumbed his sweet spot that he accidentally kicked him in the stomach, letting need drive their bodies. It was strange how feeling young and invincible invoked the exact same feelings as knowing you had so little time left.

Moving into Mollymauk knocked the breath from Caleb, he had to take a moment and rest his forehead on his lover’s and inhale deeply, steadying and centring before he could move on. But Molly’s hands were on his shoulders, his groans and soft cries filled the space between them, his legs locked around his hips as they rocked in time with the creaking of the bed beneath them. All of it was an anchor, a map, showing him where to go, certainty finally when he’d been lost for so long.

Caleb couldn’t last long, not with ten years of waiting and wanting, he tried to stammer it out to Mollymauk who only reached up and cupped his face with a gentle hand, nodding softly. There wasn’t a wrong way to do this. When he came, it was a white hot flash behind his eyes, every muscle tight and tense and shaking. He heard his name fall from Molly’s lips as he followed close behind, his nails digging into his shoulder.

Afterwards it was the same delicate, tenuous silence that came after a deep sigh, one that seemed to ring out longer than it should. Neither of them wanted to move away, like the perfect moment of happiness they’d found would tear off into nothing if they looked at it too closely. It was impossible to not think of this point the first time they’d made love, here where everything had fallen apart, when they’d believed in what they felt for each other and had been proven so bitterly wrong. When the door had thrown open and the real world had come pouring in.

Eventually, it was Caleb who had the bravery to speak first, surprising even himself.

“I won’t lose, Molly,” he murmured, voice ragged around the edges, “I won’t. Not for you.”

He nodded, tears sparking in the corners of his eyes, “Of course. I know you won’t, Caleb.”

He could see it in his prince’s eyes, he was thinking of the moment when Lorenzo’s arm had slipped that extra inch, the one he hadn’t wanted to allow him. He was thinking of the power that had sizzled off that grey skin, ready to rage up and match his own. But he said nothing and Caleb loved him for that. That and many reasons.

But that would come in the morning.  Here and now, Caleb was happy for the first time in so long and he was going to enjoy every single moment.

Mollymauk was loath to let Caleb sleep but the reality of what was going to happen in the morning was a bitter taste in his mouth growing by the minute. He couldn’t let him face that battlefield without a wink of sleep, no matter how much Caleb had insisted in the past that Volstruker didn’t need it.

But his love wasn’t Volstruker any more. And so Molly would let him sleep a few hours, however much it ached.

He lay there in the quiet, the forest sounds muffled through the canvas of the tent, ignoring the rustling of the leaves and far off calls of the birds so Caleb’s heartbeat under his ear would be the only sound in the world. Strong and sure and constant, like it would go on and on forever. As vital and necessary as the motion of the tides or the thrum of magic through the threads of the universe.

If he thought of it like that, it was easier to believe that today would not be the last day it beat.

Mollymauk found the fear for himself evaporated entirely, what burned in the back of his mind and brought tears to his eyes so easily was only the thought of losing Caleb, the minutes and hours he might have to spend on this planet without him. From this side of the glass, he did hate himself a little for putting Caleb in this position, for doing the same to his friends, for being so quick to sacrifice himself, however right it had seemed at the time.

Pain and fear for your own self was nothing compared to the idea of losing someone you loved.

And he did love Caleb. And Caleb loved him. They’d said it so many times during the night, like they were trying to make up for a decade of separation, trying to fill the holes left by so many times they’d wanted to say it but couldn’t. And each time, it grew no less sweet to hear those words, to love and be loved by the man he’d wanted his whole life.

Molly turned and pressed a soft kiss to his lover’s skin, just over his heartbeat, gentle enough that it wouldn’t wake him. All the years he’d feigned confidence, now he actually felt it in all it’s iron hard certainty as he told any gods that might be listening you will not take him from me. Not now.

It was rather kingly of him, actually, to think he could command the gods.

But it gave Molly what he needed to rise from their little bed and face the greying light in the tent, the dawn approaching faster than he wanted it to. He moved around in the milky darkness, fumbling without any servant or attendant to guide him, opening chests and pulling out clothes, rescuing his boots from a far corner of the tent. Molly knew he had to dress while he still had the strength, not knowing what the fear and grief would do moment to moment.

He chose no chainmail, no padded gambeson. He wouldn’t need to armour himself today and he had no desire to play any role. He would face this day as himself, dressed in simple leggings and a purple surcoat he favoured, rich with embroidery.

“Would you like me to sneak out now? Or are we going to face the smug grins of our friends?”

Molly jumped just as he was doing the last button, turning and seeing Caleb stretched out contentedly under the thin blanket they’d pulled over themselves when they’d both been too exhausted to continue. He was smiling, resting up on one elbow, looking so wonderfully tousled and ruffled, hair in disarray and mouth shaped bruises blooming on his shoulders, that Molly would have given anything for just another half hour alone with him.

“You’re going nowhere,” he whispered back, closing the distance between them and going to his knees so he could kiss those lips and feel all the nicks and swells in them from everything they’d done together.

“How long do we have?” Caleb eventually murmured, when they paused for air.

“An hour, I’d say,” Molly sighed and suddenly, saying it out loud and realising what a small amount of time that was, such a cruel and meagre slice to be given, his throat closed up and tears flooded his eyes.

Caleb groaned softly and kissed his forehead, bringing one hand to stroke back his purple curls and wind through the hairs at the nape of his neck, fixing in them and saying firmly, “It will be alright, Mollymauk. I promise.”

“That’s not something you can promise,” he gasped, breath coming in a shudder, wanting to be brave for him, wanting to believe for him, but unable.

“No,” Caleb admitted, his other hand moving to gently wipe away the tears that had spilled down Molly’s cheek, “But I have been trained for this. And for the first time, I actually believe in my own strength.”

“Yes?” Molly whispered, wanting to cling to every scrap of hope, not caring how much it hurt.

“Yes,” Caleb smiled crookedly and, for as much as he hated the gathering light, Mollymauk was glad he could see it, “Because this time I have something to fight for.”

No one had called for any trumpet blast or signal to raise the camp but he found most of the company were already up and moving, apparently having as much appetite for sleep as Molly had. Fires were going, heating up rations no one felt like eating and the usual coarse conversation of soldiers on campaign, the teasing and calling out to each other across the tents, had found no purchase that morning. Even though they weren’t facing battle today, even with just two lives hanging in the balance, everyone seemed to be grieving already.

Until Molly and Caleb spilled out of the command tent, hand in hand, an unmistakable rumpled quality to Caleb’s uniform and the obvious bruises from fingers and teeth peering out from under shirt cuffs and collars, blundering right into the circle of their friends around the cookfire.

There was a moment of silence as four sets of eyes regarded them without much surprise.

“Well,” Beau shrugged, “Better late that fucking never, I guess.”

And with that the lot of them were laughing helplessly, the wild, reckless laughter of teenagers with a slightly manic edge to it, drawing confused and alarmed eyes from all around the camp. It made little sense but Molly did feel like he could breathe a little easier once it had passed.

He pressed food on Caleb who tried to refuse it but quickly realised his lover wasn’t going to be put off and gave in. Molly watched him closely, sitting on the ground right beside him and never letting their fingers untangle, but there was no fear or worry in his face. He seemed to be his usual self, almost the Caleb he remembered from his childhood and teenage years, dryly funny and contentedly quiet.

Mollymauk couldn’t tell if it was just Caleb was that confident or he was enjoying himself while he could.

The moment couldn’t be put off forever. Again, Molly had to appear strong and sure, for his friends and for his soldiers, swinging up confidently onto his horse to lead them back to yesterday’s clearing as if nothing was wrong. It felt less like lying, as he saw the younger ones in the company visibly relax after he joked with them and chatted amicably with them, making his usual rides up and down the column until they arrived. It felt more like just being a leader.

Like protecting the people who looked to him for guidance and would call him king.

It wasn’t a long ride and they heard the commotion before they got there, the sound of raised voices and clamour of the enormous Jagenoth army, already there and raising enough of a racket to make the ground shake under the hooves of Molly’s horse as he rode back to the head of the column, just in time to see them unfurl out over the rise of the hill. Just like yesterday, they boiled down below them like a mass of black insects, the sharp teeth of their weapons edged in fire as the sun broke the horizon just to the side of them and flooded the bowl of the valley with gold.

The lone figure standing ahead of them, the hulking mass armoured all in black iron but for the horns that thrust up from it’s brow, a glaive taller than Mollymauk plunged into the ground beside him, must have looked up at just the right moment. It raised a fist high as if in salute and, behind it, the soldiers fell silent in a moment and snapped to attention with a reverberating clash of metal.

Molly’s fingers grew tight around his reins but, beside him, Caleb simply smiled.

“Real strength doesn’t need to announce itself,” he intoned, clearly quoting something before chucking, “A lot of what they taught me at the academy was bullshit but that certainly rings true at least. He couldn’t look more like he’s trying to compensate for something. Rather funny, actually.”

“If you say so,” Molly muttered, unable to take his eyes from the blade.

He saw very little to find amusing.

“Good morning,” Lorenzo hailed them cheerily, his voice deeper and rougher in his true form and through the enormous helm obscuring his face.

Molly gave him no reply but a cold, hard stare, walking his entire troupe up this time, this would require as many witnesses as possible to ensure Lorenzo kept faith and, more than that, he wanted Caleb to see just how many people were behind him.

Already a ground had been cleared for combat, ringed in stones by some of the Jagenoths. Clearly wanting to be prepared, a headsman’s block had also been erected on their side of the ground, freshly cut from some felled tree, green wood ready to drink Molly’s life blood in front of his own people. Beau spat on it as they reared up, her eyes glaring acid across the field at Lorenzo.

“Dressed to die,” Lorenzo said, satisfied, obsidian eyes glinting out at Molly from within his helm, “Mighty considerate of you, boy.”

“I could say the same of you,” Molly answered, dropping any hint of courtly manners, “I can see the joint gaps in that armour from here.”

“Don’t matter when you’ve got a reach like this,” he snarled, gripping the handle of his enormous blade and yanking it from the earth, leaving a deep gash in the ground, “Shall we begin? It’s a long road back to Shady Creek Run and your pretty head won’t keep forever. Let me put this mouthy little pup down and do what I came here to do.”

Caleb simply nodded, moving his coat to the side to draw his blade. The same nicked, worn blade he’d been fighting with all his life. That, his magic and the poniards in his boots against all of the strength and brutality on display before them.

Perhaps irritated by Caleb’s refusal to rise to his taunts, Lorenzo continued hollering across the circle, “I was expecting you last night, pup, by what your master told me. I was looking forward to snicking the smile off your face when you slunk up looking for a place in my army. Just that, mind. The rest of you I’d leave to your black booted brothers and sisters.”

Caleb didn’t so much as glance at him, accepting his fingerless leather gloves from Beau and calmly slipping them on as if he had all the time in the world. Molly remembered the day Caleb had finally admitted at fifteen years old that Beau was right and wearing them did make his grip better. He even took the time to clasp his friend’s shoulder and smile reassuringly, then moving to give Fjord the same then Caduceus then Yasha, every one of them embracing him tightly.

“Clearly you were otherwise occupied!” Lorenzo called, though the anger was bubbling more clearly under his voice now, his composure slipping, “I’d heard you were acting the whore for the boy prince over there. I knew they trained you well at the Soltryce but not in those particular arts. Ever dutiful when commanded, eh?”

Molly was a muscle jump in Caleb’s jaw at that but he smoothed it out within a second. Now they were nose to nose and everything fell away that wasn’t Caleb’s face, his steady hands, his gentle, comforting smile. He had the privilege of tying back his rust red hair in a leather band, making sure every strand was clear of his face.

Once it was done, Caleb turned and sank down on one knee, holding his blade up. Trapped by convention and appearances, Molly was left to press a kiss to the cold metal rather than his lover’s lips, trying to say everything he felt with his eyes.

“Please come back to me,” he whispered when their faces were at their closest, “Or wait for me at hell’s gate.”

Caleb smiled up at him, eyes like still pools, “As you command.”

Seeing the two of them at opposite ends of the killing field, it was like a bad joke. Lorenzo, in his full, unrestrained oni form, wrapped in thick iron and the barbed chains of his profession as torturer and slaver, hulking so large the shadow he cast stretched off him like a giant beast, climbing up the hills around them to impossible heights. And Caleb, wearing no armour but the leather bands on his arms, thin sword in his hand, face perfectly still. Half Lorenzo’s height, a quarter of his weight, a bare fraction of his reach, dwarfed by his strength. It was like watching a child face down a dragon in some fairytale.

And Molly had learned long ago that life was no storybook. If it was, Caleb would never have been taken from him, they would have lived happily ever after. And he wouldn’t be about to watch him die.

It was his task to begin the fight, they were waiting for his command. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, the urge to desperately beg for Caleb to come back, to stop all of this, to take it all back, was overwhelming but he managed to rasp out the right words instead, the words that would end his lover’s life.

“At arms...and begin.”

Lorenzo lurched forward with a roar, all the momentum of a charging bull barrelling towards Caleb and hefting the glaive forward.

And Caleb did not move.

Everything seemed to slow, seconds dripped by like a dying rainstorm, the scream to move, bloody move caught in Molly’s throat as the blade completed its easy, unstoppable arc through the air…

And whistled through nothing.

Lorenzo had to stagger to stop himself, overtopping with the speed he’d built up and falling to one knee. Caleb, the real Caleb, not the shadow of himself he’d left standing in his enemy’s path, lanced a quick but deep cut along the back of Lorenzo’s neck, through the joint where his helmet met the shoulder plates. It might have been enough, it should have been enough, but some dark magic reared up from the armour itself, some misshapen haze in the air that lashed out at Caleb and forced him to dance back so it only just caught him lightly across the chest and left a burn mark on the front of his coat. The smell of singed leather and shield spells filled the dawn air.

“You think you’re the only one with magic, pup?” Lorenzo snarled, furious, “Try this then.”

An ozone smell popped and crackled and where Lorenzo had stood one instant, the next was nothing but thin air. Molly moaned softly in despair as he saw Caleb’s brow crease in a frown. With a flick of his wrist, the blade of the sword he carried alighted with dark flame and he held it out warily, staying on the balls of his feet as he waited for a strike he couldn’t see coming.

There were a few agonising moments of silence, tension building like a budding blister, until it was finally broken when a guttural laugh echoed out from nowhere and everywhere all at once and some force knocked Caleb backwards, sweeping his feet out from under him. Mercifully he managed to keep hold of his blade and had something to throw up to meet the invisible thing that clashed against his sword. Almost immediately, Caleb was sweating, trembling with the effort of keeping back what could only be the wicked edge of the glaive, now slightly, eerily, visible as fire leapt from the sword to flicker across it. How his thin arms were matching Lorezo’s whole weight, Molly couldn’t say, until he saw the veins on Caleb’s only just visible wrist and neck turning black with magic.

Volstrucker magic.

A fresh fear bit into Molly’s already battered chest. How much of his old training could Caleb rely on without slipping back into the darkness that had claimed so much of his mind?

The tension snapped when Caleb’s flame finally edged down the handle of the invisible glaive enough to highlight the shape of the fingers that held it. Even lobstered gauntlets would greedily drink the heat of any fire and after a few seconds of contact, Lorenzo wrenched away with a roar of pain and anger, the invisibility spell flickering out. Caleb didn’t waste a second of his freedom, leaping to his feet and driving a hard flurry of attacks at any fissure in the armour, the ones he’d been carefully mapping out and memorising since he laid eyes on Lorenzo.

But he could only attack as long as the glaive was down, once it was wrenched back up, it’s reach and thickness covered Lorenzo too well. Then all Caleb could do was put as much distance between him and his opponent as possible, his speed the only weapon he had that could possibly contest Lorenzo’s. He led him in a chase around the ring, dodging his swings and ducking the clumsy grabs he made, clearly hoping to see him tire.

But Lorenzo only seemed to grow more furious. He lunged with more anger, he pelted Caleb with taunts and curses when he couldn’t reach him with his blade, foam began to build in the slats of his helm. He began using spells, forcing Caleb to counter with magic of his own, summoning beams of light to cut through spheres of darkness that shrouded him, blasting fire from his palms to meet a cone of icy blizzard that lanced at him.

There was a terrifying moment when the pungent lavender smell of a sleep spell wrapped around Caleb and his eyelids began to droop, costing him the speed he relied on, bringing him to his knees and finally holding him in one place. Lorenzo rushed to press the advantage, swinging his blade with sickening abandon. It was only at the very last moment that Caleb managed to throw off the compulsion, eyes snapping wide and a powerful burst of fire throwing Lorenzo off of him, sending him flying back a good few feet.

A cheer of relief went up from Molly’s troupe, one he tried to echo but all he could see was the blood washing down Caleb’s arm from his shoulder where the edge of the blade had managed to make a savage cut and leave it hanging limp, the stark blackness of his veins against his chalky skin, the way his chest was heaving and the edges of his hair were smoking softly.

“His spells,” he moaned faintly, stomach churning, “If he can’t use his arms, he can’t summon his spells.”

Beside him, Yasha put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. Molly knew it was half to comfort him and half to hold him back.

Now that both men had drawn blood, the battle turned savage, both actively trying to take the life of the other. Cuts came harder and heavier, the magic burned with a ferocity that scorched the faces of those around the outside. Time seemed to lose all meaning, marked only by the wounds both fighters gained in quicker and quicker succession. Every time Caleb was struck, Molly felt it ache on his own flesh.

By the time the sun had reached a fair height in the sky, blood was oozing steadily from every gap Lorenzo had in his armour. The vast plates of his chest rose and fell with more force and his rough breathing could be heard echoing inside the helm. He was finally beginning to tire.

But it came far too late for Caleb. He was wounded in far more places, gashes on his arms, bruises covering his skin from where he’d been thrown or charged, the entire bottom half of his coat burned away in one of his own fire spells, frost burns on one side of his face. And his arm, that very first cut, hanging limp and useless, not enough energy in it to even rise. Even as he stood there, he visibly swayed, his eyes dulled with pain.

Lorenzo gave a deep, satisfied laugh, “You look ready to end this, my boy. Learned a harsh lesson, eh, about how well a wretch like you can stand against someone like me.”

Caleb growled something indistinct, something that came out as a choking rasp and came up with a spatter of blood from his mouth. He grit his teeth, sword still crackling with fire in his hand and struck out at Lorenzo with what had to be the last of his strength. Without so much as breaking a sweat, the enormous oni reached out and simply caught the wizard’s hand, holding it in a grip like iron and wrenching him up off the ground by it.

Caleb cried out in pain and Molly screamed but it only made Lorenzo’s grin wider. Moving as easily as if he were swatting a fly, he seized Caleb’s waist in his other gigantic hand and pulled. The snap of Caleb’s arm breaking echoed through the valley.

Cackling as if it was the funniest thing he’d seen in some time, Lorenzo simply let him drop to the ground, bloodied and beaten and now with two useless arms, one sliced and one broken. He lay limply in the dirt, chest barely moving, blood and tears and soil streaked on his face.

“A pretty trick, that,” Lorenzo was now admiring the flaming sword with vague amusement, “Might have turned the tide, if you had any clue how to use it.”

He broke the blade over one ironclad knee with ease, letting the two pieces gutter out before dropping them to the grass beside their equally burned out owner.

“No!” Molly was still screaming, now he’d started and shattered his composure he couldn’t stop, writhing in Yasha’s grip as he fought to reach Caleb, “No, no, please don’t!”

Lorenzo spared him a smug, satisfied grin, “Oh your turn will come, boy. But don’t think you’ll die easy as your little pup did.”

On the glass by his feet, Caleb struggled to rise. His eyes looked out at Molly through his matted hair, come loose from the tie he’d so carefully and lovingly put there for him. His lips were moving but it was impossible to tell what he was saying.

“You can have me, you can have anything, just please, please don’t hurt him!” Molly sobbed wildly.

“Ah now,” Lorenzo tilted his head in mockingly gentle admonishment, “That wasn’t our deal, was it, boy? Old Lorenzo’s good as his words these days. But don’t worry now, I’ll make sure you get a real good view…”

He reached down and plucked Caleb up by the scruff of his coat, dangling him there like a helpless kitten before setting him down on his knees, facing Mollymauk. In the other hand, the glaive swung up to press it’s cruel point to Caleb’s back, ready to be driven forwards, knowing exactly where to place it so when he pushed, it would pierce right through his heart.

“Oh I’ve been waiting for this,” he crooned, flexing the muscles of his arm ready to put all of his weight behind it.

“Caleb!” Molly screamed, tears burning his eyes and making the battlefield swim before him.

“All that training,” Lorenzo laughed, “All that magic and you still couldn’t best me, Volstruker!”

Molly’s eyes burned but he still caught it. The brief movement, the flexing of an arm that was cut, yes, but not as badly as Caleb had pretended. He saw it slip down, turned away from Lorenzo so he would be none the wiser, moving quick and clean with precise motions to take the dagger out of his boot.

Molly looked into Caleb’s eyes and saw them clear and bright.

Lorenzo’s surprise was so complete that the glaive’s blade turned easily, Caleb needed only to bat it to the side. With all of the strength left in his body, he sprang and neatly drove the dagger’s point right through the eye slot of the slaver’s helm. Eye, blood and brain parted almost politely for it.

There was a beat of silence as the Jagenoth’s about to erupt in cheers, as Molly’s forces gripped by horror tried to understand what they’d just seen. As Lorenzo himself stood frozen in shock at his own death until his body’s knees folded in on themselves and he slumped, lifeless, with a rather anticlimactic thud.

And in the middle of it all, as blood ran down his wrist, Caleb grinned.

“I am not Volstruker.”

Everything was swimming and the ground wouldn’t stay still underneath him. Something was roaring around him though perhaps it was the wind.

Every other part of his mind blurred and smudged, Caleb stared at the sky and distractedly calculated how long a person could survive losing blood at the rate it was pulsing out of his shoulder, taking into account the weakness from magical usage, the adrenaline, his height and weight, adding it all up with a blissful kind of detachment and realising the price was growing too high to pay.

I did it, he thought, without really understanding who or what he was talking about, he’s safe.

Knowing that, letting go right now wouldn’t be so bad.

The world suddenly found one direction to go in and it was downwards, his knees buckling and eyes rolling back in his head, darkness swallowing him whole.

Though Caleb could have sworn, before he ceased to think anything at all, that at the very last moment, someone caught him.

#widomauk #critical role #mollymauk tealeaf #trans mollymauk #caleb widogast #smut #tw violence #tw death #please reblog and comment!

[cirrusband70]

25 Hottest Free Minimalist WordPress Themes 2021 - Colorlib

Especially if the theme doesn't give you simple-to-use responsive and mobile design options. You need a web site that looks dashing and is straightforward-to-use. The coolest a part of the StartUp theme is that you can rearrange issues to look exactly the way you need them to by using widgets and the WordPress Customizer. StartUp by Organic Themes, a fantastic WordPress enterprise theme, can enable you create a website easily. Get started with StartUp as we speak. Get began with Hestia Pro right now. Get began with Authority Pro at this time. Get started with Bento right this moment. Get started with Pro right this moment. Get started with Extra immediately. Nulled Theme Breakthrough Pro is made by StudioPress so you can rest straightforward realizing you’ll get great customer support and lots of updates. Authority Pro by StudioPress is probably the greatest premium WordPress themes on the market, particularly if you’re attempting to land extra clients. It's possible you'll recognize StudioPress because the creator of the widely-used Genesis framework, so you already know all their themes are stable. Do you might have any questions about free WooCommerce WordPress themes or how to decide on one? Before approving a theme, WordPress builders ensure that the themes within the theme library could be utilized by a newbie as part of their testing process. Data has been created with the help of GSA Content Generator DEMO. An online shop is included with the FunnyGames theme, so you may rapidly start selling your games or merchandise online. The Fashionista theme, from yours truly (aThemes,) is a responsive, fashionable and clear WordPress theme for posting your content without ever having to worry about the location malfunctioning or your content getting covered up by all the bells and whistles. A sequence of colourful content material sections keep things organized and minimal frippery implies that content material stands out. It supports visual content material, including videos and audio, out of the field. The theme is out of the field geared up with a Hotel Booking Lite plugin - a device for enabling online reservations on WordPress websites. It’s extremely flexible and customizable, so you may quickly construct a site for your individual business or develop custom sites for shoppers. It’s known as Cornerstone, and it permits you to simply make your own theme or change your favourite theme to fit your mission. Whether that you must develop webpage, write a weblog, make a shopping webpage, create a social media platform or convert psd (photoshop document) to WordPress with the most effective in class PSD to WordPress services, which ensures clean and easy processes. Some highlighted options of WordPress are consumer pleasant, responsive, multilingual help, cross browser impartial, easy to make use of, and so forth. It has an array of options like featured content material or product slider, testimonial carousel, social media hyperlinks, contact kind, and superior animations. WordPress is thought of to be the perfect system to publish and publish any written content quite quickly from any computer linked to the world vast internet. Though not technically in the footer (the widespread web design heuristic), developer Jack Harris shares in part of Case Neistat’s fame by creating an association between the Youtuber and himself. It is a trendy, clear and inventive net design that may make it easier to do your thing and realize your ideas as swiftly as potential. With Pro, you may construct your individual fully custom design with distinctive content blocks and header or footer layouts. It comes with a custom header to add an image slider or a background picture. It has a intelligent ‘above-the-fold’ slider that shows your best and newest works. Get started with Breakthrough Pro immediately. Each of their demos is a complete pre-made website that you could launch in a few clicks and get started instantly. It has a slick materials design and web page builder compatibility to set up any web site in a couple of clicks. This article has been created by GSA Content Generator DEMO. If you should utilize these set of recordsdata and customized code as nicely something and the derivative work additionally remains free to make use of then how good will it be? Be at liberty to generate your individual submission kind to obtain tales from the frontend. You may at all times begin what you are promoting with a free theme but that will have limited customizations. You may have the desired eCommerce site using all the features of WooCommerce to the fullest. And it’s an incredible theme to have for freelancers, entrepreneurs, or a creative agency to exhibit your creative facet, your portfolio, and your services. It’s consideration to typography, and visually putting homepage makes it a stable pick for inventive types. That’s as a result of it’s designed to help you construct belief with visitors by showing off and focusing on your experience. This theme is one of the professionally designed webpage template that can enable you create a wonderful kindergarten webpage immediately. Select the one which will match with what you are promoting.

#theme #plugin #wordpress

[widethewaters]

Stars Above

A new explicit Harry Potter fic in the Fantastic Beasts and Where to Fondle Them series on AO3.

The centaur stared. “What sorcery is THIS contraption?...”

Luna smiled, having achieved the desired effect.  “It’s called a brassiere, or a bra.” She settled her shoulders back, happy to give him a proper eye full.  “Thoughts?”

“This… this is wickedness itself.  You’d adorn the perfect with little threadbare fripperies of spider-silk and rainbows?  It’s perverse. It’s the most lascivious thing I’ve ever seen. You little … wanton… salacious… obscene… indece-”

“Yes, hmm.  You do have a very impressive vocabulary,” she said, finding it in her to smirk and toss her hair.

“Leave. It. On.” He whispered throatily in her ear.

#luna lovegood #forbidden forest #Ronan #Ronan the Centaur #luna x ronan #luna x magical creatures #centaur #centaur sex #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #centaur x human #harry potter smut

[supertodd5000]

Mono? Stereo? Both?

Admit it. You’re flummoxed, fried out and forlorn. And it’s not because your baby left you. No, it’s because you woke up one day and realized you’re a record collector. With a serious problem. And not just the physical kind. It’s true that record collectors suffer from a host of very real problems – lack of social graces from dealing with heavy-handed and judgmental record clerks, bad breath from breathing in mold spores wafting up from water damaged records, plumbers butt, and a scoliosis-like malady called “crate-diggers hump” (not as sexy as it sounds) acquired from years of slouching, sagging and stooping over anything and anyone just to fat-finger a copy of that one record that makes your heart flutter, your spleen ache and your bowels tremble.

No, your current dilemma is a horse of a different color. Which version of your favorite records sound best? The mono or stereo copy? Which one should you buy? Should you buy both? Neither? Your mind is melting. 

These days there’s something akin to “Mono Mania” going on in the world of record collecting. To many of us it’s quite welcome. Especially if we’re one of the poor bastards not old enough to have purchased The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society in mono when it came out and we don’t have enough cold, hard cash to buy a minty fresh original flip-back gatefold copy for $425. To us, a sealed mono reissue is just what the doctor ordered.

To others, this mono vs. stereo issue is as baffling as watching your grandmother cut chewing gum out of her dog’s hair. What’s with all these monophonic reissues? To a cynic it seems like it’s the well-orchestrated and profitable reissue of every single recording ever made in a unique mono mix. You’ve seen them poking out of record bins everywhere. They’re typically pressed on 180g vinyl, tucked gently into nice inner sleeves hidden within tip-on covers and created lovingly and painstakingly (note: these are words that usually mean “expensive”) using “the original mono mixes.” But are they better? Sometimes. Sometimes not. Sometimes they’re just different.

This next bit of quasi-intellectual, ponderous gibberish is purely subjective. More so than everything up to this point in this pointless essay. Back in the mid-1960s there were primarily three reasons for buying a mono recording when a stereo recording was also available: you had a hi-fi system with only one speaker (more common that you think), you were deaf in one ear like Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys (look it up) or you were a cheapskate (mono records cost about $1 less per album). Sometimes you were all three. Sad.

Why jump back to the mid-60s? Because that’s a period of time when record buyers had a real choice to make. In most cases you could amble into any record store in the world and buy a great sounding, thick pressing of your favorite record in mono or stereo. Sometimes fake stereo. More on that later. Before the mid-60s, stereo records were a bit of a crap-shoot if you were into rock, blues or jazz. They might sound goofy. With instruments and vocals haphazardly panned left or right. It took a while for engineers to figure out how to make the most of stereo, and at the same time artists were figuring out how they wanted their music to sound.

Classical music is a bit of an exception to this. Conventional wisdom is that stereo recordings of classical music tend to sound better earlier on. And as far as jazz goes, producers and engineers like Rudy Van Gelder, Orrin Keepnews, Creed Taylor and Teo Macero were also a bit of an exception. They got into stereo early on and figured out how to make stereo sound cool with very few microphones. You can read on and on about this (and should) from many sources that are far more expert on this topic than your lazy, stoop-shouldered author. 

Speaking of jazz, the jazzbos tend believe that mono is best no matter what. Original 1950s and early 60s pressings of anything on Blue Note, Prestige, Riverside, Impulse and Columbia are more valuable. And it’s true that these mono records often do sound best. To my ears they can sound louder, with clearer sounding instrumentation and, in the very best cases, the sound can seem to pounce out of the speakers. But how much better are they? I used to avoid stereo pressings of jazz records from the mid-60s and earlier. I was under the impression they were “fake stereo” created in dimly lit back rooms in order to jump on the stereo bandwagon. Some are. Some aren’t.

Let’s push on.

Stereo vs. mono. Which is best? It depends on the recording, the vinyl pressing and your personal taste. Sure, there are albums that everyone says are amazing in mono – the pre-1967 records by The Beatles, The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, The Pretty Things, etc. The list goes on and on. But there are recordings that sound more eventful and interesting in stereo (Interstellar Overdrive by Pink Floyd comes to mind). Rock records released between 1967 and 1970 tend to be the ones that are far more subjective. And you’ll find plenty of beard-scratching know-it-alls with strident opinions who’ll tell you what to think. Some of these guys are right. But many of them also live in their divorced mom’s basement and only emerge from their listening lair to attend a record fair or to run out to buy mom a carton of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. Occasionally, they come upstairs to rub their mother’s bunions. 

People tend to crave the mono releases in part because they’re so rare. I know I’ve got my faves. I prefer the mono pressing of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles because (to me) it sounds more like a rock band and less like studio frippery. But the songs themselves are not that different. It’s not like hearing the record in mono for the first time could convince you that the stereo record you’ve been listening to your whole life sounds like a Jim Nabors Christmas album. Sometimes the performances are different or mixed peculiarly (the mono mixes of Don’t Pass Me By and Helter Skelter from the Beatles White Album come to mind).

For the purposes of this stupefyingly silly essay, I went back and did some side-by-side listening tests to confirm all my preconceived notions of what I like and don’t like in some hallmark recordings yanked from the overloaded racks in my fantastically disorganized music room. Stereo vs. mono. Which is it?

  The Who Sell Out (US mono reissue vs. Japanese stereo reissue):

From memory I thought I preferred the stereo pressing of this. Armenia City In The Sky is a fave of mine and I thought stereo was the only way to hear this tune. Wrong. Not by a crazy wide margin in my case but wrong still. The mono pressing sounded heavier and punchier yet still retained the fun frippery of the studio trickery baked into the tapes on this record. Mono wins. 

The Beatles “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” (Japanese stereo reissue vs. UK mono reissue):

I already tipped my hand on this one. As a kid I only heard the stereo copy. Loved it. No issues whatsoever. But, ever since hearing the mono copy of this record in college (several semesters ago) I became a monomaniac. Fact is, this might be the very first record where I became convinced of the majesty of mono. Mono wins.  

The Jimi Hendrix Experience “Are You Experienced” (Reissues of US stereo, US mono and British mono pressings):

Ok, read anything about this record and the experts will tell you the British mono pressing is the only one worthy of a spin on your turntable. I don’t own an original mono pressing. Who’s got that kind of dough or good fortune? I DO own a mono British reissue. A US mono reissue. A few stereo copies including a stereo reissue (the double LP Hendrix Family version) I used for this test for a couple reasons (it’s readily available at record stores and my copy was also readily available). To my ears the stereo copy is the clearest, coolest sounding and has effective panning and the sort of soundstage tomfoolery that makes stereo fun. To me it’s the best-est. Stereo wins.

Bob Dylan “Bringing It All Back Home” (US stereo original vs. US mono original):

Here’s another one that the professional listeners with hyper-tuned ears say should ONLY be heard in mono. I remembered liking the mono best years ago. Then I listened today. I compared a mono original to a stereo original. The mono copy was snagged by me only a couple years ago. It had been (mis)priced by someone at a national used bookstore chain. The price was too good to turn down and the record is so clean I sold my mono reissue. The stereo copy I got from my wife’s uncle who owned about 300 records. 290 of those were Irish music except for a few Greenwich Village favorites like Dylan, Baez, Seeger et.al. Despite being a well-loved copy with plenty of tiny hairline scratches and marks, I prefer the stereo copy. To my ears it’s the opposite of what I said about The Who Sell Out. In this case, I thought the stereo had more punch. Stereo wins.

Horace Silver “Blowin’ The Blues Away” (US mono original vs. US stereo reissue):

Ok, one of these is a pricey collectible and the other isn’t. Bet you can guess which is which. I fully expected the expensive mono original pressing to blow away the 70s “black b” pressing. And it is better. Louder. Hotter sounding instruments. In some cases Blue Mitchell’s trumpet is positively piercing. Right up into the red in the mix (God bless Rudy Van Gelder). Same way with Junior Cook’s sax. But, the stereo reissue from the 70s is not bad at all. Nice and punchy. It’s a real stereo recording too. Nothing fake about it. Rudy Van Gelder recorded this session in stereo and mono in 1959 and he’s one of the few cats who knew what he was doing in the late 50s. Make no mistake, the mono is better. But if I found these two records cozied up together in a bin at my local record shop and the mono OG was $150 and the stereo reissue was $10 I’d buy the stereo copy in a heartbeat and spend the rest of the money on elocution lessons so I could sound smarter. Mono wins.

Note: I’ve found that most of these “black b” Blue Notes sound pretty good. I also love corduroy and canned beer so take that with a grain of salt.

Bottom line? It turns out the ears are the best test. Do YOU like how the record sounds? That’s what matters most. I prefer some mono records and some stereo pressings. I’ve even dabbled in fake stereo from time to time. I happen to love some records that have been “electronically re-recorded to simulate stereo.” After all, in many ways, life is a simulation. I can’t say I love tons of fake stereo records but I do love a few. In fact there are a few country music titles that fall into this sadly maligned category that I hold dear to my heart.

Here’s the insidious thing. Record collectors often have mono and stereo copies of their favorites. Sometimes the really sick bastards have multiple copies of pressings from all over the world. These people should be celebrated or pilloried. I’m not sure which. Perhaps a little bit of both?

Records. In the end I feel like we’re living and breathing in the promises and perils of records at the same time. Plumbing the depths of the dollar bin and scaling the heights of a pricey wall of record store collectibles. Sometimes on one dirty, dimly lit Saturday afternoon. And I loathe hyperbole. Sort of. 

Mono. Stereo. Both. Indeed.

#vinyl #records #mono #stereo #beatles #thewho #jimihendrix #bobdylan #horacesilver #bluenote #bluenoterecords #deepgroove #rudyvangelder #orrinkeepnews #teomacero #impulserecords #parlophone #trackrecords #emirecords #polydor #columbiarecords #recordstores

[chysgoda]

alright product listings for daily wear masks have been reorganized for clarity! And now we have a new product! Standing lace hair clips based on one of the Fending head pieces from FFXIV!  Go check out my shop!

Fantastical Fripperies

#fantastical fripperies #ffxiv #cosplay accessories #hair clips #masks #daily wear masks

[ladyramora]

Do you suppose amnesia!Zenos would eventually wish to accompany WoL on their dangerous missions to keep them safe such that he takes up.... a healer role?!?!

“You do not like it.” Zenos says flatly.

You flush, gulping, and very much gaping at the malms of bare skin on display, and blurt out squeakily, “It’s not that! It’s just… Why did you choose this one?”

Zenos frowns, crossing his arms and drawing your eyes to the firm muscles flexing in his chest and biceps. “I was informed that this was the latest in fashion for healers.”

You try very hard not to ogle. Really, you do, but Zenos was wearing the taffeta equipment, of all things to settle on. The male top stretched snug to bursting across his broad shoulders. Roegadyn in size, no doubt.

On his lower half, however…

You feel your cheeks heat in a blush. “Why are you wearing those bottoms?”

Zenos sighs. “The vendor was out of stock in the men’s in my size. I thought it important to match, so I purchased the female version instead.”

Gods, did his legs look good filling out those tights that molded to him like a second skin. Not to mention the straps crisscrossing and clinging to his hips. The straps of the panties - Zenos was wearing panties! - because you honestly have to call them what they are. The taffeta skirt flaring around his narrow hips does naught to hide the fact that Zenos was very male and wearing a set that was intended for females, extra large Roegadyn dame or no.

It was… lewd.

“It does not suit me?” Zenos asks - and oh no, there was disappointment in that tone and a hint of pouting to his lower lip.

You turn to Haurchefant, mouthing, “Help me.”

Haurchefant perks up, grinning wide as he straightened from his lazy lean balanced on his polearm. “It is truly fantastic frippery, Master Zenos! You look very fetching indeed!”

Zenos brightens, and does a little twist of the waist as he smiles, “You think so?” Gods and Goddesses, his shoulder to waist ratio was ridiculous. 

You could facepalm. Of course Haurchefant would encourage all manner of lewd dress, panties or no. Especially panties, you think, eyeing Haurchefant’s fitted subligar.

Honestly, you were going dungeon diving, not dressing up for some makeshift version of your own personal Pillowhouse. 

You sigh. “You look… good. Both of you,” You add, glancing at Haurchefant, who positively preens. “We should go before we burn all our daylight.” 

#ladyramora writes #amnesia zenos #haurchefant #ambiguos wol #/shamelessly mentally dresses zenos in all of ram's slutty healer outfits #you're welcome #fashion has no gender #and zenos cares nothing for gender roles #amnesiac zenos #amnesia zenos and haurchefant #Zenos is the healer we need #huge and buff and he could break anything threatening you over his knee

[violettesiren]

Your soul is a sealed garden and there go

With masque and bergamasque fair companies

Playing on lutes and dancing and as though

Sad under their fantastic fripperies.

Though they in minor keys go carolling

Of love the conqueror and of live boon

They seem to doubt the happiness they sing

And the song melts into the light of the moon,

The sad light of the moon so lovely fair

That all the birds dream in the leafy shade

And the slim fountains sob into the air

Among the marble statues in the glade.

Clair de Lune by Paul Verlaine (Translated by Arthur Symons)

#paul verlaine