I’ve been thinking about Bobby and Shelly, trying to help Becky at the diner. It really reminded me of Bobby’s parents, when he was a kid–trying to break through to him so ineffectually. Not really knowing what to say, and feeling powerless to breach the distance. 

To me, Bobby especially feels like he’s in a similar place to his father, all those years ago. Garland’s job kept him divorced from his family–away for days at a time, on secret missions he couldn’t share. Bobby’s more literally divorced. But the effect is the same.

He’s gotten himself ensnared in this huge mystery–his father’s mystery, that’s so much bigger than one family’s troubles. But Bobby might find some personal answers, alongside the bigger ones he’s seeking. Maybe the upcoming trip into the lodges will arm him with some tools to help Becky–like his father’s dream did for him, when they sat at a booth in the RR together. Just as he’s doing with his daughter, here, now.

elvenbeard  asked:

I don't know if you've done it already, but Raspberry for the flower prompts?

Nope! Everyone ensnaring me with those cute fluffy prompts but not this one. ;0; Thanks!

raspberry :: remorse

The Grey Warden appeared in their village mid-raspberry season.

He rode into town on a horse fine and strong enough to be of any Orlesian lord’s pride, but he dismounted when he came to Elda’s door and with both feet flat on the ground was no taller than Erich when he was a gangly teenager of fifteen. For a moment, as though looking at the stranger through kaleidoscope lens, she thought it really was her brother coming home.

But he cast back the hood of his blue, shimmering cape and his hair was dark as ebony, not Erich’s carrot-red. Eyes too dark, too, and ears not long enough, everything wrong. Elda didn’t know him. Uneasily she set aside the basket filled with raspberries, wiped her juice-stained hands on her skirt, and took a few wary steps towards him. “Can I…” Anise glanced at the Grey Warden’s breastplate and her voice faltered. The last time she had seen that griffon, her brother had abandoned them for an adventurous life. “…help you?”

The stranger nodded. “Are you Erich’s family?” he asked, voice raspy and gravelly from lack of use. His eyes bore into her, though his face was tight in an almost-grimace. He didn’t want to be here.

And Elda didn’t want to answer. Very suddenly she knew exactly what he was here to say, and she didn’t want to hear it.

“What happened to him?” Her voice was shaking.

Mutely, the Warden turned and pulled an earthen urn loose from– from five or six more of the same, attached to the horse’s saddle. He held onto it for a moment as though checking to make sure it was the right one before he held it out to her.

“Erich wanted to go home,” the elf said. “That was his last wish.”

“So you brought his ashes back?” Elda said. She laughed, the only thing she could do as the beginning of panic and pain corroded her from the inside out. “So you brought his fucking ashes back to me, you fucking animal! My brother–”

Elda swung her hand at the urn, knocking it out of his hands and sent it crashing into the ground where it burst open like a chicken egg against stone. Fine gray ashes spilled out, only to immediately be snatched up by the winds and blown back to their faces.

It choked her nostrils and her mouth, and Elda spat on the ground by the Warden’s foot. “You shouldn’t’ve ever come here,” she snarled. “You shouldn’t’ve ever been here. Erich should’ve never heard your toxic, filthy lies. Go ply your fancy dreams of glory somewhere else, and I hope the flames of hell turn you into ashes like your glory’s turned my brother into. LEAVE!”

She snatched up the closest thing to her and hurled it at him. The overripe bundle of raspberries splashed open when it hit his temple, painting a nauseating reddish-orange into his dark hair. He bared his teeth at her for a split second, and in that split second gave Elda a pause out of fear, but he only looked away, inclined his head as though in a bow, then stiffly mounted his horse and was gone.

Left her alone in the yard with her brother’s ashes stolen by the winds. Erich would have turned twenty-one this year.

“Is that juice or blood?” Warden Octavia asked when Mordred returned to the woods’ tree line outside the village, drawing close enough that she could see the red on his face. She did not hurry to his side either way; knowing him, any wound there would have already closed long ago.

“Juice,” Mordred growled. He wiped violently at it and steered past her, back towards the main road. “C'mon. We have three more t'go.”

Octavia examined the caped but still small back for a moment, working her jaw, then turned her horse to follow him. Stated the obvious, because this was the only way she knew to express concern, “Your personally delivering the ashes will make no differences to the fact that they are dead. Unnecessary all the while, as well. Grey Wardens cut their ties with the world the moment they undertake the oath–”

“I know,” Mordred said curtly. He yanked the hood back over his head and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Willed the guilt away, banished memories of a burning fortress full of screaming Grey Wardens from his mind. Best as he could.

Repeated fruitlessly, “I know.”

it sucks how much straight women don’t want to consider lesbians and bi women as fellow women. while straight girls laugh at straight men who say “no homo” and refuse to be affectionate with each other, they adopt similar attitudes; if a girl they know is discovered to be gay or bi, she often loses those opportunities to be affectionate or “one of the girls”. little things, like changing in the locker room (“we’re all girls, we’ve seen it all”) become like warzones where any accidental glance from a gay or bi girl is interpreted as a predatory advance. when gay and bi girls come out, straight women do not trust us. they assume we are just like men and will use similar tactics to try and hit on or ensnare girls in relationships. the mutual respect we once had dissolves as our every movement is scrutinized because, oh my god, what if that lesbian is actually interested in me? crushes in particular are difficult. if you don’t admit to your friend that you might be interested in her, she thinks you’ve betrayed her and secretly been objectifying her against her will. if you do admit it, you’re considered a nasty pervert who doesn’t know how to just be friends with someone. most of the time, it’s hard to decipher for oneself if there is attraction there; for a lot of gay and bi women, we realize that we are attracted to women because those feelings we had for our friends, important women in our life, etc. are actually more than friendship. now we’re demanded to parse out our attractions like its black and white: either we just want to be friends, and we can be trusted, although she may be disappointed a gay girl isn’t interested in her, or we are hopelessly in love and lust, and must be avoided. it’s not always clear cut! it’s not always possible to tell whether feelings for friends are just friendship or more, and most of us have nothing to guide us in our analysis of those feelings!

stop placing these expectations on your gay and bi friends. please, treat us like people, like your other female friends, not predators looking to exploit friendships with innocent straight girls for our gain. we need friends, just like anyone else, and it can be genuinely traumatizing dealing with straight girls who dehumanize us like this. we’re not your fucking enemies, so stop treating us like it.

Clichés, man....

So even longer story short, I, the ranger in our party, had just received vengeance after finally killing my Uncle who killed my father when I was young. And our Wizard noticed that he was weakened before we entered the room. ((I shot him with an ensnaring strike as soon as we entered)) He notices two black daggers in his hands, and all we can see is the hilt because these daggers are through his hands. The wizard goes to touch them and we all get blinded for a few seconds. I’ll continue the dialogue from here.

Ranger: What just happened?
???: I’m not sure maybe you’ll have to tell me.
Ranger: Who are you??
DM: Roll a Religion check
*rolls a 16*
DM: You know this to be Loki, the Norse god of mischief.
Loki: *laughs*
Ranger: To what, do we owe the pleasure if meeting Loki?
Loki: I’ve been watching you, not all of you, just you specifically Alarian. And I need to ask a little favor of you.
Ranger(Alarian): I’m assuming that I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, how may I be of assistance to you?
Loki: Have you ever lost your house key before? I’m assuming you did because you were kicked out of your home as well! Exiled for killing the king….. I know you were framed… And so was I! So I need help finding my key again.
Ranger: So how can I find it?
Loki: You’re looking for a man named Heimdal. You met him once before so it shouldn’t be too hard for you to accomplish.
Ranger: How do we find you once we have him?
Loki: Oh! You should be finding that out right about now!
DM: Alarian you feel a serpent crawling up your right leg and then a sharp pain as though something has bitten you.
Loki: Just think of me when you have Heimdal, and I’ll come scurrying on in to have a nice, friendly… chat, with him….
Ranger: Is there anything else we can assist you with?
Loki: No, that’s if for now buddy. See you real soon!
*Loki vanishes*
Ranger: Well lets go find Heimdal…
DM: Wait are you not gonna look at your leg?
Me(Ranger): Nah, it’s probably turned into a tattoo…

The entire cast and line-up of my rubberhose rapscallions. There are some new faces here so let me introduce you.

Edgar B. Cupid: The angel of love who has been around for a long time. Lately he has been starting to feel like he’s missing something but he isn’t sure what. He has been good friends with Walter the Reaper for a while now and they sometimes go out and get sandwiches and milkshakes to catch up on things.

???: No one…really knows what this is…or what it does they just…try to avoid it.

 Queenie the Beast: Still a work in progress but overall a greedy little thing and a talker to boot. She will talk circles around people before they realized they’ve been ensnared in her trap.

My Personal Top 10 Villain and Hero Prompts so far List

10) “Such faith…” the villain looked at the other in wonder, reverence, shocked awe that quite stole their breath. Such beautiful, stupid, blindness. They were the most perfect creature the villain had ever seen. “Tell me, if I asked you for your heart, would you give it to me?”
“You have it already.” As if they hadn’t just met. “Or do you mean literally?
”It was all the villain could do not to grin, wolfish. They didn’t want to scare this miracle, after all. But oh, how strangely ensnaring it was to be trusted so completely.“Come with me.” X

9) “So protective…” the villain murmured. “You were never so protective over me.”
“You never needed anyone to protect you!”
The look on the villain’s face stopped them dead. X

8)   They knew it was wrong, they knew they shouldn’t like seeing the antagonist like this. A shell of themselves, fragile, held together by stitches. But oh they were so pliant like this. So scared of doing wrong and so desperately needing reassurance.
“I forgive you.”
“It’s going to be okay.”
“You’re not a monster.”
The hero had never felt so addictively needed in their life, so redemptive, so powerful to have the villain breathless and overwhelmed with the smallest of kindnesses. They felt like god. X

7)  The villain prowled closer, gaze intent.
“Mm. The last time someone looked at me like that we didn’t get out of bed all weekend, good times.”
“Cute bravado, it won’t save you.”
“You’re blushing.” X

6) “Fix it.”
“I can’t.”
The protagonist dropped to their knees, a sick feeling curdling in the pit of their belly. “Please - see, I’m begging and everything - fix it.” They swallowed hard. “Please.” Their voice voice cracked.
“I can’t,” the antagonist said. They tugged one hand through their hair, jerked the other in a gesture for the protagonist to get up. “I’m not saying it to spite you, I literally can’t. This is beyond my power. I’m sorry.”
The protagonist stared at them in numb disbelief. X

5) “Go on,” the antagonist rasped. Their eyes were intent upon the protagonist’s, their lips startlingly red with blood. Breath panting. “Finish it.”
The protagonist’s hand wavered, head spinning, adrenaline coursing nauseously through their body. Some distance away, their allies were starting to approach. The antagonist’s expression softened. “Finish it.” They reached up a hand to steady the protagonist on their weapon. “You’ll be a hero, everyone will love you, the world will be yours for the taking. You’ve come so far and grown so much, you’ve fought so hard. You can do it. It’s alright.”
“You want to die?”
“Don’t ask me that. I’d rather it be by your hand than theirs.” X

4)  “Let me tell you something,” the antagonist said. “You want to get away with being a monster, you act like a hero.” X

3)  “Dearest. Darling. Sweetheart,” the protagonist flatly recited the list of endearments the antagonist was most likely to wield in their conversations. “You’re play acting at intimacy again. God, it must be desperately lonely being you.”
“Oh, love. I’m not the one play acting at anything – if I wanted to be intimate with you, baby, I’d bother to learn your name.” X

2) “Beautiful girl in need of saving, you’re predictable,” said the villain. She circled the hotel room, removing the silken scarf from around her neck and letting it drop.
The heroine set her weapon slowly down on the bed beside them. “Compulsive need to play act a girl in need of saving,” she returned. “You’re transparent.” A smile flickered across the villain’s lips. “I like pretending to be you. It’s intimate.”“You think I need saving?”
“Of course,” the villain purred. “I know who you’re up against.” X

1)  “Shh, it’s alright,” the villain said. “You’re doing beautifully and I’m so proud of you. But that’s enough now. It was cruel of them to make you fight me - you could never have won. It’s not your fault.” X

+ 1; AKA the first heroes and villains prompt I wrote, of the classic style you might know me for (I wrote villainous prompts before this one, but they wouldn’t be what you guys call my villain and hero prompts in the same way)

“What happened to you?” He strained against the cuff, face twisted up and flushed. “You’re not like this - this isn’t you.”

“And how would you know what I’m like?” he drew the knife, caressed it along Marco’s cheek. “You left. And now you want to leave again…but the boss won’t be so happy about that, old friend.”


Lyanna Mormont & Feminism

I just have one tiny thing to say about Lyanna Mormont’s speech. I’ve seen quite a few people go after her for this particular line: 

“I don’t plan on knitting by the fire while men fight for me.”

A lot of people have said it was very anti-feminist and an insult to women, which I understand where they’re coming from, but Lyanna wasn’t mocking those women. She was mocking the rigid gender norms placed upon girls and women in her society. It was decrying the social construct that dictates women cannot fight their own battles and are only good for what society deems ‘feminine pursuits’. Lyanna’s speech was deconstructing what it meant to be female at that time and declaring that women do not need men to fight their battles for them; that they are perfectly capable of fighting their own battles. We, as modern day women, cannot define her speech by our understanding of feminism today. Feminist discourse would have been largely unheard of in that period of time. What women of that day value most is incomparable to what we as modern viewers value now. For such a toxic patriarchal society, giving women autonomy over their own futures, and thusly their own battles, was a far more needed pursuit. The comment about knitting by the fire was not to say those who do knit and enjoy it are weaker and thus unworthy of being a woman, but rather it was to decry these archaic gender roles placed upon them. Women are capable of far more than society has given them the chance to display. 

It’s completely unfair to view Lyanna’s speech through our twenty-first-century lenses because the circumstances are different. It’s the same argument we use when we apply feminist theory to literature. Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, if read through modern day goggles, would not be considered as groundbreaking a novel as it was at the time of its publication in 1847, but it very much was. 

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

“Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, to absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer.“

To us, these quotes would not be that powerful. As beautiful as the language is, the concept that women feel just as men feel is not revolutionary for us. But at the time, Bronte’s Jane Eyre was certainly revolutionary in its attempt to dismantle this cultural imposition on women over their need to be the passive and submissive “Angel in the House” (a concept of the penultimate feminine ideal described by Coventry Patmore in his poem published in 1854).

Imposing twenty-first-century notions of feminism on a culture that has yet to actually experience any wave or trickle of feminism is unfair. Contextually, Lyanna’s speech was for its time revolutionary and so was Jon’s decision to have both men and women fight. Even Sansa, who is not a fighter, acknowledges this by her smirk during the speech. It is not a slight towards those who are more domestic, but a slight towards culturally imposed notions of what it means to be feminine by men who see women’s worth as only mothers, caretakers and nurturers, without acknowledging them as a whole human that is far more complex than these strict roles allow them.

And for each woman, the question of femininity is always going to be different. For Lyanna, her fight has always been against those who underestimate her right to lead and the power she commands, and that is what she specifically addresses. There’s a famous conversation by lecturer and professor of literature and gender studies Ann Snitow in her 1989 essay ‘A Gender Diary’.

Her friend says in regards to the feminist movement: 

“Now I can be a woman; it’s no longer so humiliating. I can stop fantasizing that secretly I am a man, as I used to, before I had children. Now I can value what was once my shame.”

In contrast, Snitow said:

“Now I don’t have to be a woman anymore. I need never become a mother. Being a woman has always been humiliating, but I used to assume there was no exit. Now the very idea of ‘woman’ is up for grabs. ‘Woman’ is my slave name; feminism will give me freedom to seek some other identity altogether.”

It’s always been these contradicting ideologies that simultaneously fuels feminism as a movement and hinders it. Feminists for decades have struggled to reconcile both ways of thinking, but personally, I believe neither is wrong. For me, feminism is the freedom to believe in either. 

This is why I don’t see Lyanna’s speech as being particularly anti-feminist. Saying so is too black and white of a statement, which has never been something you can attribute to feminism. The movement itself is too nuanced, as are most movements.   

The legend of Cahir the carpet slayer

Backstory: Our party had been tasked with entering an enchanted forest in order to save two children from a hag. When we got to her house and when I [Cahir] realized she was the hag I Sparta kicked her inside her house and rushed in with a sword.

DM: Alright Cahir, as you enter the hag’s hut you feel the rug beneath you shudder and suddenly leap out at you. Make an athletics check.

*I roll and pass*

Me: I’m going to ignore the carpet and stomp over to the hag and strike her with my longsword and then thrust it into her chest.

DM: Alright, as you turn your attention once again to the hag the rug sees an opportunity to seize you again, make another athletics check.

Me: Pffft I can make this. *I get a 9 with modifiers.*

DM: The moment your back is turned you feel something fuzzy wrap around and you are so fixed on the hag that you don’t realize that the rug has already ensnared you in its grasp. You are now blind and rolling around on the floor.

*I am unable to escape for most of the fight but I am finally freed by the barbarian and warlock just as I am about to suffocate.*

.DM: Alright Cahir, you are now free from the rug’s grasp, what will you do?

Me: I’m going to grapple it and use my shortsword to shank it prison style.

DM: Alright roll. 

*Nat 20 on the grapple and I succeed on the attack roll and manage to kill it.*

DM: Alright Filobern (Bard) it is your turn, you hear screams of anger and the sound of fabric ripping from inside the hag’s hut, what do you do?

Filobern: I’m going to run in and say: Don’t worry Cahir I’m coming to rescue y- OH MY GOD CAHIR WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THAT RUG!?


After we were done we went to the nearest tavern to get a cold drink where Filobern (despite my protests) sung the ballad of Cahir the carpet slayer.

anonymous asked:

i know you're probably getting a lot of requests, but do you think you would be able to write about the weirdest greek myth ever, the birth of the Minotaur?

There are times when Hermes’s role as the messenger god weighs on him. Declaration of war have left his lips, the words he’s carried have ended whole countries and damned villages to a slow painful death. The secrets he carries tears at him, the horrors he’s had to face only so he could later tell of them, the warnings he repeats that are ignored and all he’s witnessed is for nothing, since it happens all over again in front of him.

There are times the news he brings that tears at him, eats at his soul like necrosis – the death of Kore, Poseidon destroying another seaside village, every whisper of Pandora, informing Ares of yet another war.

This –

– isn’t one of those times.


Aphrodite’s lovely face is slack with surprise. At her side Hephaestus rubs his chin and says, “That seems physically improbable.”

“How did she manage to not die?” Aphrodite demands, then says, “Wait, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

Hermes grins, and doesn’t bother to hide the complete delight he’s taking in this, “But my lady,  it is my sacred duty to tell you these things. When Queen Pasiphae ensnared Daedalus’s help to be mounted by the bull–”

She gives him a cross look and is gone in a powerful gust of wind, and he has to grab onto the volcano wall to keep from falling over.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Hephaestus says, off hand. It’s clear he’s still thinking of the mechanics of a human-bull hybrid.

“I’ve been accused of being many things,” Hermes says cheerfully, “nice is not among them.”


Artemis lounges in her tent with one of her huntress’s face between her thighs, inexperienced but eager, and she so does love taking on new women.

“Sister!” Apollo shouts, appearing at her side and glaring down at her. “Have you lost your mind?”

Her huntress startles and freezes, unsure whether to leave or continue. Artemis rolls her hips up, and the girl ignores the appearance of the sun god and continues with her task.

“Not that I know of,” she says, tilting her head up so she can look at her brother without altering her position, “Why do you ask?”

“Poseidon cursed a mortal queen to fall in love with a bull, and she gave birth to a bull headed monster today,” he crosses his arms and glares.

She swallows the laugh that bubbles up, but she must not be entirely successful because he starts tapping his foot. “Well, isn’t that interesting. I’m not sure what it has to do with me.”

“Sister dear, Artemis, patron goddess of childbirth,” he says with syrup thick sweetness, “why on earth did you bless that child? There’s no way it could have been born without your help. It had to have been you.”

Her huntress pauses again, and Artemis will answer her questions later. She squeezes her thighs about her ears, and the girl resumes. “Oh come on, don’t give me that look. This is hysterical. People are going to be talking about this for years.”

He considers this for a long moment, then uncrosses his arms, “Okay, you have a point.”

“I know. Now if you don’t mind, I’m a little busy,” she gestures to the huntress between her legs.

Apollo snorts, “Get a few more girls in here, and maybe I’ll consider that busy.”

He slips away, but Artemis’s eyes narrow. That sounds like a challenge.

The girl replaces her mouth with a hand and asks, “Should I gather the other huntresses, lady goddess?”

“I like you,” Artemis says, and the girl laughs, cheeks flushed and lips shiny.


Hermes appears in the middle of the garden of Hades’s palace, and blinks twice.

The queen of the underworld is half naked and on top of Amphitrite, and several things fall in place at once. “Is this why you don’t get upset with Hades for his affair with Hecate?”

“There is no affair with Hecate, you’re just an indiscriminate gossip,” Persephone retorts. “And if they were having an affair, I wouldn’t have a problem with it, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with Amphitrite.”

“Oh,” he says. He feels rather derailed from his original point. “I came here to–”

“If this is about the minotaur, we already heard about it,” she says, “You can go now.”

They’ve already heard about it! “From who?!” This is the best news in centuries, and this person is ruining it.

“Aphrodite,” Amphitrite says, “She’s cross with you.”

Oh, this is war.


Ares feels a shiver go down his spine, and looks across the battle field. People are dying around him, but people are always dying around him. He doesn’t see anything particularly horrendous, so he doesn’t know who could have invoked him so powerfully that he felt it.

A young woman who had shared the last piece of sweet bread with him last night gets a spear shoved straight through her chest, and Ares decides he has more important things to worry about.


Athena is halfway through a tapestry that is to hang in Hestia’s rooms when Aphrodite appears next to her and says cheerfully, “Guess what Poseidon did?”

Normally Athena would fling anyone who dare to disturb her to the depths of Tartarus, but she’s always willing to talk of Poseidon’s misdeeds. “I’m listening.”

Hermes appears on her other side, glaring. “You trollop.”

“He made a queen fall in love with a bull, and she just had the kid. It’s got a bull head.” Her sister’s smile is positively vicious.

“I’ll make you suffer,” Hermes hisses, and slips away. Aphrodite follows, the sounds of her laughter echoing in the room.

Athena blinks, looking back to her loom, but is unable to concentrate.

Even she hadn’t seen that one coming.


Hera doesn’t get involved, she does not have opinions, as a rule if it doesn’t concern her then it doesn’t concern her.

She waits for her husband to leave, and tries not to worry about his mutterings about bulls, the queen-mother Europa, and how Pasiphae had the right idea of it. She steps into the throne room, and the fire burns cheerful and bright in the center of it.

She sits beside it, and no sooner has she done so than Hestia appears at her side. “You’ve heard then?”

“Hermes told me,” she rubs at her temples.

“Aphrodite got to me first,” Hestia says, and the goddess of the hearth seems entirely too cheerful, “I can say, of all the misdeeds Poseidon has wrought, this one is certainly … unique.”

She slumps and buries her face in her hands, “This whole family is mad, and we’re doomed to only become worse.”

Hestia laughs and puts an arm around her shoulder, “Come now, I think Hades is quite reasonable.”

Hera shifts enough only so that she can glare, “Hades chose to rule the dead and married Kore. He’s the maddest of us all.”

Hestia can’t refute that, so she starts finger combing Hera’s long, curly hair. Hera slumps back into her hands, and Hestia’s smile is soft as they sit there in silence, the only noise that of the crackling fire.


When Hephaestus returns to the volcano, it’s to his wife sitting in his throne with her arms crossed. “What did you do?” she asks.

“I just gave him a little suggestion, is all,” he says, and scoops Aphrodite into his arms so that he may reclaim his throne. She snuggles into his side, and if she’s trying to convince him that she’s mad at him, she’s doing a terrible job of it. “Daedalus has always been a very devout follower; he deserves a few good ideas.”

“He’s had enough ideas,” she says, because without his help the queen wouldn’t have found a way to consummate her love of the bull, “I don’t think he needs anymore.”

“Maybe,” Hephaestus murmurs, dragging his nose up her temple, “but imagine this – a labyrinth, bigger than any other, than this whole volcano.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Aphrodite says, and then proves to be distracting enough that Hephaestus puts his ideas aside.

At least for a little while.

gods and monsters series, part xii

read more from the gods and monsters series here

Amren is Manon

Okay, so I just finished reading both series and I was already speculating what Amren was when I read that SJM had told one of her readers already and they had freaked out. This means that we must already know what sort of creature Amren is without needing much more explanation. I also read that SJM confirmed that ACOTAR and TOG are in the same megaverse, so their separate dimensions can hypothetically be reached through, say, a wyrdgate. 

Therefore, after careful deliberation and mulling over each character, all still fresh in my mind I have come to the conclusion that the best bet for what Amren’s true form is…. Manon.

Keep in mind, this would be Manon thousands of years after the war with Erawan in which she fell through a wyrdgate into the ACOTAR world as the cauldron was creating it. She was then trapped there and ensnared into a Fae body and went berserk, doing enough wrong to get her sent to The Prison. When she escaped, she knew that by now, Dorian and all her friends were probably long dead but never lost hope of returning to her realm. 

There are a couple different points to back up my theory: 

1. The blood drinking (emphasized by her particular love for goat blood which is what she and the Thirteen hunted and ate while in the Ferian Gap) 

2. Her disinterest in other people, especially advances from men as (hopefully) she is still harboring her love for Dorian perhaps and not wanting to bother with the fae of this realm when her heart belongs in another dimension 

3. She can read the Book of Breathings, written in a long forgotten language that everyone had forgotten. However, perhaps with everything in the war, Manon learned to read Wyrdmarks, as it was necessary for winning, and never quite forgot how to decipher it. Though after thousands of years she needed to brush up a bit before being able to read and translate the book. Or it could just be the dialect of Erilea that she has forgotten over the millenniums and must now remember how she had talked, and how she had read, feeling more and more sorry for Elide as she struggled to remember the way words were spelled and how the letters looked because she hadn’t realized how difficult it was to not be able to read.

4. Her automatic softness towards Feyre after she opened up about what happened with her family and what Tamlin had done to her, reminding Amren of a girl, thousands of years ago in another dimension who had also been abused and treated wrongly. So she gave Feyre the amulet to help her without even knowing her more than twenty-four hours. She just couldn’t help herself, there was so much Elide in that thin, Tamlin-wrecked girl that arrived at the House of Wind.

5. The fae body she is trapped in is the exact opposite from Manon’s, “several inches shorter than me [Feyre], her chin-length black hair glossy and straight, her skin tan and smooth and her face - pretty, bordering on plain - was bored’. This is in direct contrast to Manon, who has long, white hair, and a pale complexion, also quoted by Dorian that ‘he’d never seen anyone so beautiful’. Not to mention the eyes, Amren’s silver eyes battling with Manon’s deep gold. Whatever spell trapped her in that body, made her the opposite of what she once was, forcing her to hate this cage not only for the Fae exterior but the lie is portrayed over her once revered beauty. 

6. She joins a court that can fly so that she might once again feel the wind in her hair after so many years under a mountain in the dark. Also reminding her of her Thirteen, cleaved apart before darkness could claim them and away from her Abraxos who is left without a rider for the remainder of his life. But if I go too much into this one I’m gonna cry.

7. The jewelry ties into it somehow, probably. I’m thinking that she went through the wyrdgate using either The Amulet of Orynth or the Eye of Elena and it somehow got lost in transit. She had idly mentioned she was looking for a rare piece of jewelry once to Dorian and he has been buying the rarest pieces he can find for her ever since, knowing it is to somehow help her return. 

I’m not 100% sure where the powers came from, perhaps simply appearing in this realm or coming with the body, maybe gifted to her from Dorian, or honed from millennia in The Prison. Or any other twist SJM wants to play. 

TL/DR Amren is Manon trapped in another dimension, in another body, apart from everyone she loves and has been trying to get back to for the past five thousand years + 

Alternate Descendants

Can you imagine what the Descendants would be like if it was retold as a Dystopian Young Adult series? It’s already halfway there honestly. I mean you have one half of the society labeled as the “heroes” who are living a life of luxury and splendor in Auradon while the other half of the society have kids carrying out their parents’ sentences on a floating dumpster island with no chance of ever escaping. And the origins of the kids would probably be a lot different because I mean do you really expect us to believe that ALL of the villains just merrily had families and settled down? Naw, the villainous teens of the Isle of the Lost would definitely have more tragic backstories. 

Part 1

Harry Hook: He was a Lost Boy in the beginning, had been since he was a wee lad whom Peter Pan spirited away from the hills of Glasglow. Life was a never ending adventure in Neverland. Acts of bravado intermingled with childish glee and innocence, he was invincible surrounded by his band of brothers led by their daring leader. Until the day, Peter led them into battle with the pirates. Until the day little boys were made to fight against grown bloodthirsty men and were swiftly cut down with little effort. He remembers  lying there watching Peter Pan fly farther away as he bled out on the filthy deck of Captain Hook’s ship. With the taste of the sea and blood lingering in his mouth, he closes his eyes and prepares to die. Until Captain Hooks spies him in the shadows and for the first time in history, decides to spare a Lost Boy.  From then on he is no longer a Lost Boy with no name, he is now Harry Hook the adopted son of Captain Hook. This boy is as dramatic and showy as his father but with the grace and agility of Peter. He is a swirling cyclone ready to wreak havoc on those who forget the weak. 

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I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death. Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to not pay attention. Mr. Potter. Our new celebrity. Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood? You don’t know? Well, let’s try again. Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?…And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?…Pity. Clearly, fame isn’t everything, is it, Mr. Potter?

A Good Fuck - Yuta (M)

A/N: I did not proof this, but I will another day!
Sorry to Lucas and Doyoung in advance.
- Admin Finn


Originally posted by royalyeol

not a relevant gif, but he hot & biceps
Word Count: 2,098

Doyoung sifted through drawers of the kitchen, cleaning supplies spread across the granite counters.
Amusement struck you as Doyoung ran a hand through his lavender tresses, sighing to himself in frustration.

“You’re a couple months late,” you jeered from the entrance, removing your sandals, “Spring cleaning is supposed to happen during spring.”

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