my lord!!

*gotham spoilers*

Friendly reminder that Edward Nygma cared about and supported Oswald Cobblepot more than anyone, only ever wanted what was best for him, and was even willing to risk his life for him when it came down to it.

His plotting against him was not because he has no compassion, and it was not because he was just manipulating Oswald for power; it was because he had finally found someone who he could trust and confide in– he had finally found a friend– and then he had to find out through someone else that his closest (and only) friend had killed someone who made him genuinely happy for selfish reasons, and was lying to his face about it.

They are both at fault for how things played out, and they are both guilty of hurting each other.

So, yes, you can continue to say that Oswald deserves better and that Ed’s a snake, but please don’t forget that these two mean more to each other than anyone else, and, for two evil, psychotic villains, this is a necessary journey they must take to realize how deep their bond really is, and, when they eventually find their way back to each other, their relationship will only be stronger because of this all.


How does one survive a Ghortharius Snaggle Beast? One Word: Banjo

had to finish this early because I’m going to a cousin’s wedding out-of-state and didn’t want to worry about getting this done in time

its been so long since I drew Dom’s gloves on her (mostly cause I got used to the PJs and ugly sweaters), so hopefully I remember them more often

Done in 2 hours with Ink/Color Pencil

For about five seconds I considered doing something like “Help Pop get all her fics on A03 to 100 kudos” because being your own biggest fan includes doing over-the-top shit like that for yourself.

Then I actually went back to look at some of the older things I’ve posted up.

New something: “Help Pop erase a few of her older fics out of existence”.


Lord of the Rings: No Shield For My Soul

Two snippets, separated in time by several years. First is the Fuck Your Narrative part, and second is Why No This Isn’t Morgyn Being Cranky and Political, Why Do You Ask?

Boromir is uncertain if it is a good thing the arrows he had taken left him able to walk - to run, as he is prodded to do by the orcs - even as the wounds pain him and leave him feverish. He might have been left behind if he had been unable to be made to move at speed, but too, he might have been killed for the trouble. Even the fever and the pain are better than being dead.

When they stop for a rest, he leans against a rock, trying not to pant with the pain in his left shoulder. His arm tingles as if he had slept on it, where it doesn’t thrum with agony, and when he tries to close his hand into a fist, he cannot squeeze his fingers very tightly. If he lives through this, it will be a long road to being able to bear the weight of his shield again, if ever he can.

An orc dumps a body next to him, and Boromir grimaces when he recognizes Kíli under the grime of battle and a hard run. Or being carried, as the dwarf seems to be unconscious entirely. Knocked on the head to give the orcs a chance even to capture him, as the arrow wounds had allowed them to capture Boromir.

That, and a need to keep the orcs distracted, to allow Frodo a chance to escape, for the others to see him to Mordor and the destruction of the Ring. Boromir knows it is better that he is here, for all that he can feel the tug to the east, as the Ring travels ever further away. He had failed Frodo once. He will not do so again.

Boromir pauses as he hears a voice rise in indignation outside the window, one that overlooks the garden where Arwen often prefers to gather her ladies. Listening to the tirade about how a decent woman would have married the father of her child by now that sounds almost as if it comes directly out of one of his aunt’s books.

The lady doesn’t even have the chance to finish before newly familiar laughter rises, Alagosiell’s amusement bright and clear. As if the woman is telling the most marvelous joke.

“As if a woman must need a man to have more to do than help to create the child!” Her words sting, and Boromir frowns a moment, stepping closer to the window. “Do not mistake my affection, for the Steward is a dear friend, but I would not be so cruel as to take him from his duty simply because he is father to my heir. Nor would he be so foolish as to demand that I forsake my people and my throne because I carry a child of his seeding. It is so for any woman who has position and power, and finds a father in a man from beyond the borders of our lands, where a man’s responsibilities are not tied to the land he is born upon.”

“But then who rules, if your men uproot themselves so readily and do not have care for their home?”

“Gaearon Rhûnen has a queen.” Boromir recognizes the voice of Éowyn, and smiles a moment at the joy in her voice. His brother has married well, even beyond that the two are so visibly in love when he sees them together. “Her princes are all of them women. What need have any of them for a man?”

“Oh, we do need them, but not to rule over us. A man of the Mallenrim raises horses and builds roads and fights to defend our borders. They have their share in the house, too, in teaching the children and seeing to the upkeep of their home. It is duty enough to keep them busy. What need have we to lay a greater burden upon their shoulders?”

“And what do they think of being so diminished?” The first woman again, indignant and shrill.

Boromir grins at her question, wondering if Medlin is close enough to the garden to hear this, or if Alagosiell will share it with him later.

“You can ask my youngest brother, who is to be ambassador to Gondor in his own right when he is of age. Or perhaps my father, who had the order of the battle at the Black Gate. To Sinia, who walks straight and proud into the courts of foreign princes to tell them they have gravely mistaken the mercy of his Queen for weakness.”

There is steel in Alagosiell’s voice now, bright and cutting.

“Your men may feel diminished by such a thing because they are accustomed to having all the power of the world in their hands, but do not mistake the customs of your lands for the natural order of the world.”

Notes: Alagosiell is ultimately of mixed heritage, Numenorian and the people living along the eastern coast of Middle Earth when Palancirion and her ships came sailing around that far. With the assumption that neither of those peoples were white as a whole. (Maybe some were, because I am not letting go of Sean Bean as Boromir, and Boromir is of Numenorian descent, but not the same lines as would have gone on the long sailing trip that Alagosiell’s mother’s line did.)

Because fuck the idea that all the important and good people in Middle Earth have to be white, ‘cause no. Nope nope nope. I have been plotting to have the Mallenrim not be white for a long time, if not explicitly all not white from the beginning. This is going to mean some further revision of a story already posted, but fuck it, I’ve done it once, I’ll do it again.

Alagosiell’s youngest brother is Medlin, and he is still not quite done puberty at the time of the battle before the Black Gate, and has yet to come of age, so gets supervision. Alagosiell, in particular, because she is on her Seeking - a ritual usually of upper-class women that involves drug-induced visions directed toward ideal person to be the father of at least one child. In her case, ideally a husband, but it wouldn’t be the first time the Queen and King are siblings instead of spouses.