#IGNORE THE GERMAN ITS FOR PRACTICE

[lossis]

EXCUSE ME?!?!

[kenyummy]

HIGHLIGHTS OF THE NEL ꒰⚘݄꒱ BLUE LOCK

SYNOPSIS : the highlights of the NEL seem to go viral on social media, and it seems the ones surrounding you, as blue lock's dear manager, are the most popular. which are the four most popular?

notes: hey guys u should read wahhh this was very very fun to write

#4 — BONDING TIME OVER CHESS! 2.0m VIEWS

Sitting at a small table, is you and the one and only coach of the infamous German team—Noel Noa. There is a small jug of water on the table in front of you both and also a chess table.

You clutch your chin between your fingers thoughtfully, eyes narrowed and squinted down at the board. Each of you has equal pieces taken away, and he's seemed to have cornered your pieces on the table.

He's watching you with an unreadable expression—you hardly notice through your intense thinking.

A game, all about strategy—It's no surprise you and Noa were locked intensely in a game such as this. It is a game that centres around your team's core values, and there's no substitution for cold, unfiltered logic.

Your eyes light up, and you move your piece on the board. Underneath the table, you cross your fingers as he makes his next move.

It is not long at all before your smile widens and you move your pieces along—collecting his King piece and practically sparkling when you announce, "Checkmate."

He shows a semblance of emotion—shock—when his eyes widen at your moves. It's for such a split second that it was nigh impossible to catch it if you blinked—however, his expression soon reverted back to normal as soon as the reality of his loss sunk in.

"Hm." That is all he has to say. He stares down at the chess board for a few silent moments longer, then says, "I did not expect that. That was a smart move."

You aren't too prideful, but you feel like preening like a peacock at the praise. You smile, placing your linked hands on your lap and nodding, "Thank you. It only worked because I believed you would take the most logical option possible for that next move."

You gesture towards the barren pieces left around his king. If Noa were a regular person, you're sure he would've smiled.

But he is not, so he didn't. "...Good job."

You don't expect the way his large hand finds its way atop your head and how he gives you a singular head pat. You blink incredulously, with dotted eyes.

He pulls away after a moment and you cough into a closed fist. "Master... how about another game?"

He has an indifferent tone—"Sure."—But the way he looks at you fondly tells you all you need to know.

You smile—ignoring the crash and bang of the unsupervised training behind you—and keep smiling as Ness chases Raichi through the room with a kitchen knife.

COMMENTS:

— mimiziiii: THE MOST ICONIC FATHER AND DAUGHTER DUO FRRR

— noastan2234: noa is so hot I want him

— user464637: IM LITERALLY SOBBING THEY PLAY CHESS THEYRE SO CUTE SHSBHSGSHSJ      — user464637: father snd daughter are father and daughtering

#3 — BATTLE OVER THE BATHROOM! 2.6m VIEWS

Aryu and you are at a standstill. Staring at each other, you both are silent and glaring.

You move quicker than the eye can see—rushing forward and using your hand to push the taller man behind you. "Ladies first," you try to say, excusing yourself but is quickly tugged backward.

You screech, lips forming into a nasty scowl at the man tugging your lacy singlet like you're a dog, "WHAT THE HELL, JYUBEI?!"

He winces at the mention of his name, but holds his head up high and huffs, "A glam being such as I deserve to use the bathroom first."

"You and your long ass hair takes years to dry! I need it more!"

Sparkles fly around Aryu and he makes a glam pose, "I don't think so, my [name] dear. I cannot waste a moment to not deter my extreme—" He makes the mistake of letting go of you for a moment to gesture to himself, "—Glam."

His head is suddenly jerked back as you roughly tug it and hiss through your teeth, "Just be a good boy and let me use the bathroom—and I won't make your life hell during training, okay?"

He screams, eyes hardening at you, "You cretin! How dare you touch my hair?! The mop on your head doesn't need any care whatsoever!"

You gasp in offended shock and lunge at him, "Oh no you didn't—"

Five minutes of tussling and petty insults later—it is abruptly stopped by the upward grab of somebody tossing the skinny, spider-limbed boy over their shoulder.

"What... the hell... are you idiots doing?" There, in all his pajamaed, loose-hair glory, is Barou Shoei, holding Aryu in a death grip and staring at you two with an aura of death. His tone is nothing short of dangerous. "You... woke up the entire stratum."

You blink, wide-eyed, while Aryu flips his hair around like a buzzing fly.

"What the hell are you all yappin' about?" Aiku walks in with pants hanging low and shamelessly shirtless—yawning and eyes half-lidded while Niko stands beside him in an oversized shirt with the print, Sleep, Anime, Game, Repeat.

Sendou is walking like a sluggish zombie with a bright pink eye mask on that says, Pretty, with him inches away from walking into a wall, if Lorenzo had not steered him away with a loud cackle.

Suddenly, you stand up and dash forward, "Well, thanks for letting me use the bathroom!" You don't waste a second in flashing Barou a pearly smile and waving as you close the bathroom door.

Behind her, Aryu lets out a loud scream of frustration and Barou snaps at him to shut the fuck up.

COMMENTS:

— barouscleaningspray: OH BAROU SHOEI THE MAN THAT YOU ARE MY MAN FOREVER AND EVER

— cutiepiecoded: AND THEN THEYRE DOING EACHOTHERS HAIR THE NEXT DAY SHSGHSHS I LOVE THEM

— user33535: ubers the only family ever

— animefan222: niko so real for that shirt

#2 — GETTING INTERRUPTED! 4.3m VIEWS

You peek your head into an—almost—empty training room, blinking curiously and surveying the inside. Your eyes light up like stars when you catch sight of something inside the room. The camera pans to show that thing happened to be Isagi Yoichi.

"That shot you made during training was so incredible," you say, taking a seat beside him. A towel is wrung around his neck and he's drinking out of a water bottle like it is the first time he has ever touched water.

Sweat drips down the side of his face—he wipes it away with a large pearly grin and tilts his head toward you, "Right? I could barely believe I did it."

"But you did!" You look to be just as excited as he is, twinkling with joy and smiling wide, "Even Mariele was impressed! You did great, Isagi! If you can replicate it during a game, it will be perfect!"

Isagi stands up suddenly—seeming to be bursting with energy and joy—he situates himself in front of you and you stare up at him, "It's perfect!"

You laugh, standing up in front of him and he places his hands on your shoulders, "It is!"

You both start giggling uncontrollably together—even from a viewing perspective, the energy in the room is unmistakable—and he stares deeply into your eyes with a soft smile.

You look up at him with a similar expression—eyes-half-lidded and squinted upwards—you start to lean in, slowly, when—

"[name]!"

You nearly fall backwards, if not for Isagi's arm wrapping snugly around your waist and tugging you forward. Your head snaps towards the source of the noise in the room—and there stands Gagamaru, with an empty, confused look in his black-hole eyes.

You step aside, away from the egoist—you don't catch the disappointed look on his face as you look towards your goalkeeper—"Sorry, Gagamaru, what did you need?"

He blinks, soullessly. "We've run out of tide pods again."

Isagi is shown rolling his eyes in the background and grabbing his towel.

COMMENTS :

— THEdiva: AHHH THEY WERE SO CLOSEEEE <3333

— cloudycloudss: isagi and [name] have so much chemistry!!! i hope they start dating :((

— soccersoccer888: i hate isagi GOD I HATE ISAGI kaiser is so much better for her i cant

— jellylover3: NOOOO GAGAMARUUUU WHYYYYYY

— isa[name]stan_2626: THE WAY HER EYES LIT UPP WHEN SHE SAW HIM. THEYRE THE REASON I BELIEVE IN LOVE.

#1 — THE FIGHT OVER THEIR MANAGER! 5.6m VIEWS

The video abruptly starts at a strange angle, where Ness has a death grip on the front of Isagi's shirt, "Shut. Up! Die, Yoichi! DIE!"

Kurona and Hiori both leap over to try and pry the screeching boy off of Isagi with panicked expressions. Yukimiya, Gagamaru, Raichi and Kaiser all sit in the back without seeming worried whatsoever.

"Get off me—!!" Isagi pushes the magician away with a snarl, eyes narrowing into a hard glare and face contorting uncomfortably. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"How dare you say that to Kaiser?!" Ness regains his composure with a huff and glare, cheeks puffing out like a small child, "Don't you get it?! If Kaiser wants your manager, she's not yours anymore, she's his! This is his team, not yours, idiot Yoichi!"

A stark silence fills the room and everyone's eyes turn to Ness. He either doesn't notice or doesn't care—because his boiling hot glare directed towards Isagi does not falter for a moment.

"Well, that's incredibly presumptious of you to say." Yukimiya steps forward and pushes his glasses furthur up his nose bridge. "You talk about her as if she is nothing more than a exclusivity, no?"

Kaiser grins, pearly teeth peeking out from behind his slim lips, "Oh? Are you Blue Lockers getting all possessive over your little manager, now? Cute."

"Stay away from her," Gagamaru looms over the German with big wide eyes. "She's ours."

"No way!" Ness snarls, forcibly moving the big man away from Kaiser. "Stop talking to Kaiser like this! He's better than you all! You're just stupid stepping stones for—"

Kurona bares his teeth and frowns deeply, "Miss Manager likes us better, anyways. Anyways."

Kaiser squints his eyes and smiles at the shark-boy, head tilted to the side and smile dangerously charming, "Oh? And who said that?"

"Me, obviously." Isagi looks completely and utterly unaffected by Kaiser's words and stands up in front of him without hesitation. He stares, deeply, into his eyes. "You think, that in any world, she'd choose you, over me?"

His eyes rest and he looks strangely calm, "You're a fucking clown, Kaiser."

"Yoichi..." His voice is strained and hard—brows furrow downwards and he does not get a chance to say anything else when Ness pushes him back and gets all up in Isagi's face instead.

"Die, Yoichi! Die, you idiot!"

"Hey now, maybe we shouldn't..." Hiori raises his hand and begins to try and walk closer to the two—when he is swiftly cut off by Raichi yelling something to start a fight—and a fight he earns.

A catfight hidden by the circle of players ensues in the middle of the cafeteria—just as three figures pass by the open doorway.

You peek inside for a moment���then look right back at the people beside you. "Is everything alright in there?"

"If we walk quickly, we will not be able to see them." An ominous reply, from Noa, and that is all the soccer star says before grabbing you by the hand and tugging you along—forever lost and confused about what was going on in the cafeteria that day.

COMMENTS:

— bereal_hoe: HOW DOES SHE DEAL WITH THOSE GUYS I WOULD ACC KMS

— cherrypiepiepie: THE CUTIESSSSS OF THE WORLDDD THEY LOVE HER SM ITS SO ADORABLEEEE

— nonchalantdreadhead34: i cant kaiser is such a DICK

© KENYUMMY 2024

[msriri030]

Saving by a Hare:

Mobster! König x Doctor! Reader

tag: Stranger to lover, afab! female but trying most to gn idk

You walked back to your small clinic after making a house call to an elderly couple. The streets were serene, wrapped in a pristine blanket of fresh winter snow. A soft breeze carried the faint scent of pine and cinnamon from a nearby café, blending with the crisp chill of the air. Yet, your mind was miles away.

The couple’s gratitude lingered in your thoughts, their warm smiles and kind words a gentle reminder of why you had chosen this path. In a world where you often faced indifference—or worse, outright hostility—moments like those made it all feel worth it. Despite the challenges, there was purpose in what you did, and that was enough to keep you going.

As you walked, Your thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a small cat, sleek and gray, slipping out from the shadows of an alleyway. It meows softly before weaving between your legs, its tail flicking playfully. You crouched, extending a hand with a soft smile, but the cat darted away, disappearing into the dark alley.

“Hey, wait!” you called instinctively, curiosity tugging at you.

The alley was silent, the air colder here in the absence of light. Your breath puffed visibly in front of you as you trailed the cat’s paw prints in the snow. But something unusual caught your eye—a patch of crimson staining the pristine white.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. Red snow. The metallic tang of iron wafted faintly in the air. Blood.

The doctor in you overrode every other instinct. You bolted toward the source, boots crunching against the snow as your mind raced. Someone was hurt. Someone needed help.

As you turned the corner, you saw it—a large male figure slumped against the wall, motionless. Blood pooled beneath them, painting the snow in a macabre contrast of red and white.

Your heart pounded, but your hands steadied as you dropped to your knees beside them. "Hey! Can you hear me?" you called, already reaching for their pulse.

As a doctor, you were bound by one unshakable rule: to save a life, no matter the circumstances. And right now, you were prepared to do just that.

The pulse was slow but steady—a small relief that eased the tight knot of anxiety in your chest. You let out a soft sigh, your breath visible in the icy air. Your hands moved with practiced precision as you assessed the situation.

The man’s face was partially obscured by a makeshift balaclava, one crudely fashioned from a torn shirt. It clung to his skin, damp with sweat and streaked with traces of blood. You instinctively reached to remove it, thinking it might help him breathe more easily.

But as your fingers brushed the fabric, a sudden movement stopped you in your tracks.

His hand, rough and trembling, shot up and grabbed your wrist with surprising strength for someone in his condition. His grip wasn’t crushing, but it was firm enough to communicate a clear message: don’t.

His head tilted slightly, icy blue eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver racing down your spine. Despite his battered state, his voice emerged steady, edged with a cold sharpness that only deepened his aura of danger.  

“What do you think you’re doing, kleiner weißer Hase?” he asked, the German words slipping out in a tone as cutting as the accent behind them.  

You straightened under his scrutiny, meeting his gaze despite the unease clawing at your chest. “I–I mean no harm,” you replied calmly, refusing to waver. “I’m a doctor. I was trying to remove this to help you breathe. Do you know where you’re bleeding from?”  

For a moment, his eyes narrowed, and you thought he might ignore you altogether. His grip on your wrist tightened briefly, but then, slowly, it loosened. His gaze shifted, the icy edge softening, though his expression remained distant—haunted, almost lifeless.  

“Doctor…” he muttered, his voice low and strained, as if the word carried more weight than it should. “A little Hase like you should leave. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me. Men like me only have one ending. The kind reserved for mobsters. So go. Pretend you never saw me.”  

His words hung in the frosty air, heavy with bitterness and self-loathing. Your jaw tightened, the weight of his resignation settling over you, but you weren’t one to back down.  

“I will not,” you said firmly, your tone unwavering as you met his distant stare. “I am a doctor, and you are not a dead man yet. So I’ll ask you again—do you know where you’re bleeding from?”  

Something shifted in his expression. His eyes widened just slightly, caught off guard by your defiance. A bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, fleeting but noticeable a glam of life in his eyes.  

“Stubborn little Hase, aren’t you?” he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement cutting through his somber tone before his features darkened again. “Fine. Lower left side. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  

You nodded briskly, already moving to assess the wound. His words lingered, though, like a shadow curling in the corners of your mind. Whatever weight he carried, it was more than just physical—burdens you couldn’t begin to imagine.  

Carefully, you lifted his shirt, exposing the bullet wound oozing dark, viscous blood. Without hesitation, you reached for the tools you’d gathered: a pair of tweezers, a needle, thread, and a bottle of alcohol. The chaos surrounding you melted into insignificance as you focused, your hands steady despite the urgency clawing at your nerves.  

“Okay, hold still—”  

“König,” he interrupted, his voice low and gravelly as he offered his name. His icy blue eyes never left yours, watching you intently, as if assessing whether you were friend or foe.  

“Okay, Hold still, König” you instructed, reaching into your bag for your tools.

He grunted, his lips quivering faintly. “I’ve been still this entire time.”

Suppressing a smile, you worked quickly, sterilizing your tweezers and cleaning the area around the wound. “This might sting,” you warned.

He didn’t flinch, his jaw tight as you began extracting the bullet. His muscles tensed under your touch, and a low groan escaped his throat, but he didn’t move an inch. His control was unnervingly precise, a testament to the kind of man he was.

You gripped the tweezers and leaned in, the edges of your vision narrowing as your focus honed in on the task. With painstaking care, you maneuvered the tweezers to locate the bullet. König’s muscles tensed under your touch, his jaw clenching, but he stayed perfectly still, his control unnervingly precise.  

As the metal object came into view, lodged deep within the torn flesh, you adjusted your grip and pulled. Blood welled around the wound, and König let out a low, guttural groan, though his body didn’t move an inch.  

“It’s almost out,” you murmured, more for your own reassurance than his. With one final tug, the bullet slipped free, clinking faintly as you dropped it onto the snowy ground beside you.  

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Glancing up, you saw König watching you, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps relief, perhaps trust.  

“Now the hard part’s done,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. You grabbed the needle and thread, preparing to stitch the wound. “Just a little more, and you’ll be good as new. Well, almost.”  

König let out a dry chuckle, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Good as new, Hase? I think that ship sailed long ago.”

“I don’t,” you replied, a gentle but firm conviction in your tone. “I believe you’d be lovely company to have around.”

Your words caught him off guard, and his lips quirked into a faint, almost disbelieving smile. He let out a low chuckle, this one lighter, more genuine than before. You couldn’t help but smile back, though your focus quickly returned to the task at hand.

With careful precision, you finished stitching the wound, your hands steady as you tied off the last thread. Grabbing a clean cloth, you cleaned the area around the stitches and reached for the bandages.

As you wrapped them around his waist, your fingers brushed against his skin, warm and solid beneath your touch. Despite the lack of defined abs, his build was undeniably strong, and you couldn’t help the slight blush that crept up your cheeks.

König noticed immediately. His icy blue eyes studied you with quiet curiosity before he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of amusement, “Are you okay, Hase? Your face is red.”

Your head shot up, and you stammered, “I’m okay! I’m fine!” You quickly glanced away, fumbling for an excuse. “It’s just… the cold, that’s all.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as if he didn’t entirely believe you, but he didn’t press the matter.

“We should call an ambulance,” you said, reaching for your phone. “You need proper medical care—”

Before you could dial, König’s hand shot out, gently but firmly grabbing your wrist. His grip was steady, his calloused palm warm against your skin.

“No, Hase,” he said softly, his voice carrying an edge of urgency. His icy blue eyes bore into yours, more serious than before. “But… Can I call someone? Just for a moment. With your phone.”

You hesitated for a moment, but the intensity in his gaze left no room for argument. Slowly, you nodded, handing him your phone.

As he dialed, you shifted awkwardly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You tried not to listen, but his deep voice made it impossible to tune out. After a few rings, a man’s voice answered, sharp and suspicious.

“Hello? Who is this?”

König exhaled through his nose, the faintest edge of irritation in his voice as he responded, “ Horangi. It’s König.”

A brief pause followed, the silence thick with tension. Then Horangi’s voice returned, his tone a mix of disbelief and reprimand. “König, what the hell happened?”

“I got shot,” König admitted, his voice lower now, almost begrudging.

“You what? Damn it, König. Where are you?”

“I’ll send my location,” König muttered, groaning lightly as if he were already bracing for the lecture he knew was coming. He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning his attention to the call.

“Can you pick me up?”

Horangi sighed audibly on the other end, muttering something under his breath in Korean before replying, “Fine. But you owe me for this. Stay where you are. I will be there in a few minutes.”

König ended the call and handed your phone back to you. “Thank you, Hase,” he said quietly, his tone softer now.

You studied him for a moment, unsure what to say. He seemed more tired than before, the weight of whatever world he lived in pressing heavily on his broad shoulders.

“You have a friend coming?” you asked gently, trying to gauge his condition.

He gave a small nod. “Yes. He’ll be here soon.”

Silence stretched between you, broken only by the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional gust of wind that rustled through the alley. Your eyes lingered on König, studying his face—the sharp edges softened by exhaustion, the weight of something unspoken behind his icy blue gaze. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life he led, what kind of dangers waited for him beyond the walls of this quiet alley.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, pulling your attention back to him. “It’s cold. You should go home, Hase.”

You straightened slightly, meeting his tired gaze with quiet determination. “No. I need to make sure you get picked up safely.”

A deep, amused chuckle rumbled in his chest, surprising you. It wasn’t bitter like before, but rich, almost warm. “You’re protecting me. That’s ironic,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you puffed them in mock frustration, gently swatting his uninjured arm. “It’s my job,” you retorted, voice firm despite the blush creeping up your neck. “Would you do the same if you were in my shoes?”

König’s smirk lingered, but his expression softened as his gaze rested on you. For a moment, he didn’t reply, his icy blue eyes searching yours, as though your question had struck deeper than you’d meant it to. Slowly, his hand lifted, calloused fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

The gesture left you momentarily breathless, and silence stretched between you once more, heavy but not uncomfortable. You both sat there, the world around you fading into the background, neither of you daring to break the quiet.

Then, suddenly, the sharp screech of car tires shattered the stillness, yanking you back to reality.

Before you could react, König’s instincts took over. His arms shot out, pulling you close against his chest in a swift, protective motion. His body tensed, shielding you from whatever unknown danger might be approaching.

“Stay down,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding.

The tension broke only when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. Horangi appeared, sprinting toward you both with a practiced urgency, his sharp eyes narrowing as they darted between you and König.

Without missing a beat, Horangi waved over two more figures trailing close behind him. They moved with the same calculated precision, their presence commanding despite the chaos lingering in the air. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sharp jawline and dark eyes—Oni, you guessed from the way he carried himself with silent authority. The other, slightly shorter but no less imposing, had a cocky smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face—Hutch.

“You’re reckless, König,” Horangi muttered, crouching beside him while sparing you a brief glance. “Is this what you call lying low, boss?” His voice carried an edge of exasperation, though there was an unmistakable undercurrent of concern.

König didn’t answer immediately. He shifted slightly, loosening his protective hold on you but not letting you go entirely, as though reluctant to leave you vulnerable. “I didn’t plan for this,” König grumbled, his voice gruff but steady.

Oni stepped forward, his piercing gaze briefly flicking over König’s wound before settling on you. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak, his silence unnerving yet oddly respectful. Hutch, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, his eyes darting between you and König with an amused grin.

“Well, well,” Hutch drawled, his tone teasing. “Didn’t know you had a personal medic, König. Gotta say, she’s a bit of an upgrade from the usual lot we deal with.”

Your cheeks flushed at the comment, but König shot him a warning look that shut him up immediately.

“Enough,” Horangi snapped, his tone sharp as he straightened. “Let’s get him out of here before we draw more attention.”

After Hutch and Oni helped König into the car, he leaned back against the seat, exhaustion pulling at his features. You stood by the door, briefing Horangi on König’s condition—quickly summarizing the severity of the wound, the care you’d provided, and his current state. Your voice was steady, your professionalism cutting through the tension like a beacon of calm.

What you didn’t notice, however, was König watching you intently through the tinted window. His icy blue eyes had softened, their usual sharpness dulled by something almost foreign: quiet admiration. He listened to the cadence of your voice, his gaze lingering on your focused expression. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself a moment of calm. There was something about the way you carried yourself—gentle but unwavering—that disarmed him more thoroughly than any weapon ever had.

As you finished and dismissed yourself, König’s eyes followed you. The faint breeze caught your white lab coat as you walked briskly toward your clinic, the fabric fluttering like wings in the wind. The image was seared into his mind, reforging the thought he’d had before—kleiner weißer Hase.

When you disappeared into the crowd, König’s lips twitched into a rare, almost wistful smile. For a moment, his icy exterior melted, replaced by something warmer, something yearning. A quiet vow slipped past his lips, too low for anyone to catch but himself.

“The hunt is on, Hase.”

Oni and Hutch exchanged a glance from the front seat, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and silent amusement. Horangi, leaning against the car, raised an eyebrow at König but said nothing. The three of them, seasoned in the ways of König’s unpredictability, decided it was best to leave him to his thoughts—for now.

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

part 2

kleiner weißer Hase: litte white bunny

Hase: bunny

[komsomolka]

In the 1970s, the GDR undertook a complete re-writing of the country’s Civil Code. The previous Civil Code of justice had been in place for over a hundred years and indeed some laws went back a lot further. Apart from hardly being appropriate for a modern state, the laws were couched in such archaic language that few ordinary people could understand them. It was decided to rewrite the Code and make it ‘citizen friendly’, i.e. comprehensible without the requirement of a degree in jurisprudence or recourse to a lawyer. Even today this Civil Code retains validity and relevance in terms of its innovative approach and the effective removal of layers of dusty, archaic jurisprudence: it re-empowered citizens to be in a position in which they could undertake much of their own legal administration. Yet, like all other GDR legislation, this Civil Code was rejected after unification and the old, complex and archaic (West) German one was re-imposed.

The GDR Code incorporated a system that provided citizens with the means of making complaints to local, regional and national authorities if they felt they had been unjustly treated or that things that had happened to them were perceived as unfair. [...]

Interestingly, as early as 1956, the GDR had abolished paragraph 175 of the German penal code which outlawed homosexuality, but even beforehand the law had been largely ignored. This was undoubtedly facilitated by the fact that the GDR was an overwhelmingly atheistic state. In the Federal Republic, between 1945 and 1969, around 50,000 men were convicted of homosexual practice. It was not until 1969 that the FRG eventually abolished the persecution of homosexuals.

Stasi State or Socialist Paradise? The German Democratic Republic and What Became of It by Bruni de la Motte & John Green with Seumas Milne (Contributor), 2015.

[bearieio]

total perv...

(könig edition)

warnings: praise kink, panty stealing & sniffing, sorta possessive!könig, shibari, kinda needy/sub(?)!könig, reader teasing könig & vice versa, könig spoiling you

a/n: ugh ignore my poor german…… i have NOT been studying… BUT ANYWAYS...

pervy!older bf!könig who simply can’t shut up about how beautiful your body is and how he’s the only one who gets to see you when its totally ruined for him.

“meins… alles meins..” the way he compliments your every crack and crevice located on (and in) your body, calling you a “pretty baby,” every 3 minutes

pervy!older bf!könig who always has a pair of your panties in his possession. in his glove compartment, in his duffel bag when he goes to the gym, and in the lower pocket of his cargo pants. he takes a pair everywhere. 

pervy!older bf!könig who can’t help but stare at what is his. when you’re changing or getting undressed with the door cracked open, when you’re getting out of the shower, or even when you’re just sitting on the couch in your pjs. 

you’ll be changing your clothes before bed and see a pair of BLUE ORBS staring at you from the hallway, just gazing over every part of your body. 

pervy!older bf!könig who can’t keep his hands out of his pants when you’re away. 

he’ll be at home, on the couch, staring at pics of you on his phone, palming himself under his sweatpants at the thought of your mouth on him.

pervy!older bf!könig who can’t stop himself from looking at your tits whenever you’re looking directly up at him… resisting the urge to grope them right then and there..

pervy!older bf!könig who won’t hesitate to bend you over his desk and pound into you relentlessly if you just so happen to get a little snippy with him.

“want to say that again, liebling? huh? no?” he whispers in your ear, holding you by your neck, holding your small frame up against his much larger one, your hands barely being able to touch his desk below you. “oh… what happened to that little attitude you had moments ago, hm?”

pervy!older bf!könig who loves to have you bound and tied up, like a sort of present… just for him. (ugh shibari is so interesting)

he ties you up in hogties in order to tease and edge you for long periods of time.. loonngg periods of time. no matter how bratty you may or may not have been acting that day he’s definitely taken the time to practice different ties and knots with you, especially when they more elaborate ones that have you suspended in the air n stuff. “du musst fokus, liebling! here, give me your leg-”

pervy!older bf!könig who gets soooooo desperate for you when he finds his way into your pants. panting and practically drooling when you present yourself to him. 

“be a good girl and let me taste you, huh? schatz?” he’d go INSANE if you kept denying his requests. he’d get all needy, his hands inching closer and closer to the elastic hem of your laced panties “nuh-uh-uh!” you’d chime in, seconds before his hands find their way inside. he’d groan and beg s’more… and the process repeats until finally you give in and let him touch & taste you.

pervy!older bf!könig who teases you about both your height difference and age difference. calling you his “little bunny,” and “kleine maus,” and often pretending to use you as an arm rest. 

“how’s-uh- ....how’s the weather down there, hase?” he says, placing his arm on your head, leaning into you slightly. when you start to move from your position, he’s caught off-guard and almost falls over. 

pervy!older bf!könig who tells shows you how much he loves you by spoiling you ROTTEN! buying you plushies, clothes, new trinkets and gadgets to place around your guys’ bedroom.

he somehow always has a present for you. and at the PERFECT moments too needed a new phone because your old one was outdated/broken? BOOM he already has a new one waiting you when you get home. he definitely buys you CASES and CASES of those sonny angels and those smiski glow in the dark figures in order to show his appreciation towards you :)

masterlist

[pamwritessometimes]

Tuesday's Gone — Chapter 10

Russell Shaw x Reader

Summary: When the police does little to no help to find your missing daughter, you are forced to contact Colter Shaw. What you don’t expect is how his investigation will reveal secrets about both your past and your daughter’s, in ways you never imagined.

Warnings: fluff, otherwise none I believe

A/N: Alright, so there’s a tiny chance I may have written my dog into this. But hey, who’s to say? Here we are at the endgame, and I’ve baked this epilogue to be the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed… by the way, I’ve gotten so attached to these characters that we’ll likely see more of them down the road. In the meantime, a huge thank you for tagging along on this journey with me. Ily🤍🤍🤍

Title’s based on Tuesday’s Gone by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Catch up on Chapter 9 here

Tuesday's Gone masterlist

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“I can’t believe you talked me into this” you muttered under your breath, feigning annoyance.

Truth be told, you were thrilled to be here. But no way in hell were you letting either of them know that.

Russell leaned down, his voice low in your ear. “Come on, it was her idea. And don’t even try to act like you’re not fuckin’ enjoying this.”

You shot him a look. He wasn’t wrong, though. The sight of Emma skipping ahead, practically buzzing with excitement as she followed the shelter worker to the kennels, was worth every bit of this “reluctant” family outing.

This wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment decision either. You’d been thinking about it for a while now, especially after everything that happened nearly six months ago. Emma had been so strong through it all, and if anyone deserved this, it was her.

She’d just turned five, and when you asked what she wanted for her birthday – same as last Christmas – her answer hadn’t wavered: a dog.

And, well, you weren’t exactly against the idea anymore. Neither was Russell. 

Team Dog was winning at last.

So here you were, standing in the local animal shelter, after weeks of background checks, interviews, and what felt like an application process to adopt a child. All of it leading to this moment: finding the newest, furriest member of your little family.

By the time you reached the kennels, it was clear Russell had an agenda. 

“What about this guy?” he said, pointing to a massive German Shepherd mix that looked like it moonlit as a bouncer. The dog let out a low, rumbling bark that made Emma flinch.

“No!” she protested, darting behind you for cover. “He’s too big.”

“Too big?” Russell sounded personally offended. “He’s not big. He’s just… sturdy.”

“He’s terrifying” Emma whispered dramatically.

“He’s majestic” Russell shot back.

Meanwhile, you wandered to the next kennel, eyeing a floppy-eared mutt who wagged its tail so hard it was practically levitating. 

“This guy, uh… girl looks sweet” you said upon taking a closer look.

Emma peeked out from behind you. “Maybe. But I want to see more!”

“We have a lot of options. Why don’t we take a look over here?” the shelter worker smiled. 

The next row of kennels was filled with smaller dogs, and Emma’s excitement skyrocketed. She stopped in front of a little black-and-tan pug with a squished face and a perpetually surprised expression.

“This one” she declared with wide eyes. “I want this one!”

Russell, however, recoiled like someone had shown him a tax bill. 

“That? That’s not a dog. That’s… I don’t even know what that is. A loaf of bread with legs? It ain’t even aerodynamic.”

Emma ignored him, crouching down to coo at the pug. The dog tilted its head, then waddled closer, sniffing her fingers through the bars.

“His name is Misha” the worker lady behind you announced.

“Oh, great. He already comes with a ridiculous name. Misha? Misha?” Russell scrunched his face.

Em turned to the shelter worker. “Can I meet him?”

The worker nodded at her with a smile, opening the kennel. Misha ambled out like he owned the place, his curled little tail wagging as your daughter crouched down to pet him.

“Look at him! He’s perfect” she insisted.

Russell groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. Perfect wasn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe it.

“Em, come on. What about one of these guys?” He gestured to a sleek, athletic-looking dog further down. “This one looks like it could run a marathon. That thing” he pointed at the pug, “looks like it’ll need a nap after climbing onto the couch. And an airbag after waking up from a nap.”

The shelter worker cleared her throat, smiling gently. “Actually, Misha’s in great health. Hadn’t had any major issues in his four years of life. He came to us recently. His previous owner passed away. He’s house-trained, doesn’t chew furniture, and loves kids. He’s very low-maintenance, too.”

You perked up at that.

“Wait, he’s not pooping inside? He’s already house-trained?” 

You crouched to look Misha in his bug-eyed little face. 

God, why does he have wrinkles at four? 

“Well, buddy” you patted his head, “that’s a telltale sign you’re coming home with me.”

Russell groaned, clearly fazed by you giving in so easily.

“Unbelievable. We’re bringing home a pug named Misha.”

Emma squealed in victory, while Russell groaned like he’d just lost a bet. “Fine” he relented, glancing at Misha. From this angle he found him almost… cute. Like, cute in a grotesque way. 

“But if that thing starts snoring louder than me, we're gonna have a serious talk” he called after you and Emma as you headed off to sign the paperwork, officially making your little loaf of bread the newest member of your family.

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“Misha, no! Misha!” Russell shouted as the dog launched himself out of the Chevy, heading straight for the building like a furry missile.

“Well, I’ll be damned. They weren’t kidding, he is in good shape” you remarked, helping Emma out of the car. 

In the three weeks Misha had been living with you, you’d learned that his idea of a good day was a 22-hour nap followed by some seriously relentless running.

And the clinginess? That was definitely a thing, too, especially with Russell despite his best efforts to act annoyed. But he couldn’t fool you. Not with all the photo evidence stashed away on your phone showing him passed out on the couch, Emma tucked under one arm and Misha curled up in the crook of his other. All of them snoring in harmony. Or that one time you caught him absentmindedly scratching the dog’s belly while staring at his phone, completely unaware of how soft he’d gotten so quickly.

Misha also grew fond of you and Emma, too, and soon you figured he wasn’t about to wander off too far even without a leash. Probably still a little rattled from his previous owner’s sudden passing. He loved spending every minute of his time in a now somewhat stable family.

The building the dog was charging toward was a big, brick beauty, with towering windows and a brand-new sign hanging proudly above the door. It was the final product of an ongoing battle of bad brewery name ideas between you and Russell.

You’d pitched some real gems like Hop Notch Brewery, Sweet Foam Idaho, and Shawbusiness. You were obviously just having fun, knowing it was Russell’s dream project. 

“I’m just trying to help!” you exclaimed playfully. 

But still – Shawstopper was practically genius, right?

He, of course, was more into traditional names like Shaw & Co Brewery or Shawcraft. 

But then… you pitched the one name that made him crack. One that he absolutely hated. Hated it so much that, for some bizarre reason, he thought it was twistedly brilliant. So, here you were, standing beneath the freshly hung sign above the front door of…

“Shawshank Brewdemption” Emma read out loud, brows furrowed. You were surprised she could read it relatively effortlessly with all the consonants in there. “I don’t understand!” 

“You will when you’re older” you said, crossing your arms with a smirk and gazing up at the sign like it was a masterpiece of wit.

It was the first day this place would be soft launching into the market, with hosting a small gathering to your family. It wasn’t only Emma’s birthday this month. Funny enough, her dad was also a Leo. 

So here you were, standing in the small, but cosy main room of the brewery with a nice, industrial-style bar with wooden panels, decorated by the first two batches of Russell’s now-semi-home brew, waiting for your and Russ’s guests to arrive. Tthe white stucco walls were your handiwork – well, mostly. Emma contributed by slapping on a few chaotic brushstrokes before abandoning the task entirely to play around in the unfinished rooms. There were wooden tables – made of walnut tree to match the bar and the legs of the barstools, with black leather couches and chairs.

It wasn’t exactly your vision, but it was definitely your sweat and tears. Russell had thrown himself into perfecting the beer, leaving the interior design entirely to you. His initial ideas? Hilariously unhelpful and vague.

“I dunno. I just want it to look hip. Or whatever kids call it nowadays.”

That hip, he later explained, was what you could best describe as an industrial minimalist style. 

“You know... Some brick walls, some white ones, maybe those long black lamps hanging from the ceiling. Oh, and wood. Lots of wood.”

Somehow, you’d managed to turn his disjointed aesthetic wishlist into something real, and now here you were, standing in the finished product. One wall was left bare, the brick foundation shown – hence his request. Though, you’ve given it your touch: the area was filled with green. Snake plant, chinese evergreen, swiss cheese plant, you name it. They really gave the otherwise minimalist interior design a touch of life.

As you stood there, soaking it all in, Russell walked up beside you, sliding a beer onto the bar. “What do you think? Good enough for a little gatherin’?” he asked, his voice warm but his tone just a bit hesitant.

Emma cut him off with a delighted squeal from across the room. “Look, Daddy! Misha’s helping me decorate!” She was tying a stray piece of ribbon loosely around the pug’s neck, who was, unsurprisingly, just letting it happen.

Russell glanced over, then back at you with a sigh. 

“I swear, that dog’s plotting to take over my life.”

“He already has. I caught you sneaking him bits of bacon this morning despite my continuous requests not to. Who’s the softie now?” you smirked. 

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he glanced at the room around you.

“You really pulled this place together” he said, his voice soft. “I don’t know how you took my half-baked ideas and turned them into… this.”

You arched an eyebrow, smirking. “So, what I’m hearing is I’m the brains and the talent here?”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. Instead of arguing, he slipped an arm around you, pulling you in for a side hug and pressing a kiss to your temple.

The truth was, you’d poured everything into this. Both of you had. This wasn’t just a brewery. It was something bigger, something that felt like a foundation. Russell had dreamed it up, sure, but somewhere along the way, it became more than his dream. It became your dream too. Not the brewing part, for sure. You weren’t about to start debating hops or malts anytime soon. It was the building part, the fact that this place stood as proof of what the two of you could do together. It wasn’t just about beer or business; it was about creating something solid, something lasting.

It was about saying, without words, that this thing between you and him was real. Serious. Built to last, like the walls around you. And standing here, side by side, you couldn’t help but feel it in your bones: this wasn’t just his place or yours. It was yours.

The rumble of an engine outside broke the quiet anticipation inside the brewery. Misha, the self-proclaimed guard dog, leapt off his cozy bed by the bar and started yapping like the apocalypse was imminent.

“Relax, Napoleon” Russell muttered, scooping the tiny pug up and cradling him like a football. “You couldn’t scare off a squirrel.”

You hadn’t seen Colter in weeks, but you could recognise his car anywhere. He’d been off doing his thing, of course. But from what you could gather from Russ, they kept in touch, even if just by texts. And in the last few months, he made sure to come by every once in a while.

“Uncle Colter’s here!” Emma squealed, bolting toward the opening door.

Emma launched herself at her uncle, and Colter caught her mid-air with practiced ease, his face softening just a little.

“Hey, hey. I swear you can’t stop growing” he said, setting her back down with a pat on her head. 

His eyes drifted toward the furball in Russell’s arms. “What is that?”

“This” Russell said, biting back a laugh, “is Misha. Emma’s choice, of course. And now your new favorite family member.”

Emma chimed in, bounding forward and wrapping her arms around Colter’s waist. “Isn’t he perfect?”

Colter looked at the wiggling ball of fur. “Perfect’s a strong word.”

“Careful” Russell said, his tone amused. “He bites.”

You laughed, stepping forward to give Colter a quick hug. “Good to see you, too. Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it” he said with a faint smile. Then, he brought in a clumsily wrapped gift box. “Where should I put it?”

Slowly, everyone arrived, which meant the present pile began to look like the Annapurna. Your mom and dad brought food enough to feed an army, despite you saying you had everything ready, they just had to show up. Your mother, of course, adored the place. Your dad, more direct, gave Russell a curt nod, saying “nice sign, birthday boy”. 

Soon, Russell’s sister, Dory also arrived. You’d only met her a few months ago, but the two of you had clicked instantly. Similar in age, similar in humor, meaning similar in your mutual ability to poke fun at Russell without remorse.

Finally, Anna arrived too, juggling a tray of brownies, asking a breathless “Am I late? Because I feel late.” 

You couldn’t help but take a step back to soak it all in. 

Emma was proudly parading Misha around the room like he was the true guest of honor, his curled tail wagging as if he knew it. Your mom was stationed near the bar, taking charge of the food table like it was a military operation. For her, it kind of was. Meanwhile, your dad stood nearby, his chuckles an unmistakable sign that he entertained Colter with his infamously dry one-liners. Anna was chatting with Dory about some undoubtedly exaggerated childhood story that had both of them laughing hard enough to wipe away tears. Russell hovered nearby, refilling drinks and making sure everyone was comfortable. Though his eyes kept drifting back to you.

The mismatched puzzle pieces of your life, both old and new, were all here, fitting together in a way that felt just like it was meant to be.

And now, nothing could ruin this. James Rourke was behind bars, and as Corter kept reassuring, he wasn’t getting out of that prison uniform anytime soon. Horizon owed Russ big time, and they made sure nobody would disturb the three of you again.

Russell strolled over to you, sliding his arm around your waist as the two of you watched your family fill the space you’d built together. 

After a moment, he said, “If you told me this would be my life a year ago, I’d think you gotta be shittin’ me.”

You leaned into him, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. 

“Yeah, well, life’s funny like that” you replied, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “You go from being a flight risk to hosting family gatherings in a brewery called Shawshank Brewdemption. Quite the character arc, Russ.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing idly along your waist. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Oh, I’m impressed” you teased. “Mostly by how you’re managing to look calm while Misha’s trying to con your sister into feeding him cake.”

Russell glanced over just in time to see Dory holding a fork suspiciously close to Misha’s eager face. He let out a low groan. “I swear that dog’s smarter than he looks. And that’s saying somethin’.”

You chuckled, watching Emma swoop in like the world’s tiniest referee, wagging her finger at both Dory and Misha in mock outrage. 

“She’s got your bossy streak” you said, nudging him gently.

“And your stubborn streak” he shot back, grinning.

You smiled back at him, enjoying the easy banter between you two. You took a sip of his brew, then asked, “So, how old are you getting again?”

“39 and still full of charm” he replied with a wink.

You quirked a brow in mischief. “How long have you been 39, huh?”

“Not that long” he quipped with an equally playful expression.

You chuckled, reaching over to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “Come on” giving his shirt a playful tug. “Time to go bask in the glory of those presents.”

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Aaaand, that’s all, folks! I hope you enjoyed this final chapter. Wishing you all a very merry Christmas, filled with love, cookies, home-cooked meals, and plenty of bejgli (especially to my fellow Hungarian moots, though I probably have none), because that’s exactly what I’ll be indulging in.

Thank you again for keeping up with this story again. If you’re reading this, I thank you personally. Yeah, you. 🤍

xx Pam

🤍Taglist🤍

@bitchykittenconnoisseur @smoothdogsgirl @spnfamily-j2 @winchesterwild78 @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @zepskies @kr804573 @sebastianstangirl01 @kmc1989 @drakelover78 @amberlthomas @lomlbuckybarnes @n-o-p-e-never @roseblue373

[billybob598]

Well Shit (Lena Oberdorf x Reader)

Hellooo people!!! This was requested by the amazing, lovely, (almost) perfect @wosofanstuff! Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ares3460!!!!!!!! I LOVE MY GRANDMA. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this one. As always any feedback good or bad is welcomed! Have fun!

Word Count: 865 (let's ignore this)

Lena observes as you go through finishing drills, dribbling around the cones seamlessly and completing a give-and-go with Lynn flawlessly. To anyone else, it would have looked like Lena was watching you because of your skills. Instead, she was admiring how beautiful you looked, how your hair fell just right over your shoulders, how your eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly in concentration as you controlled the ball, how your legs flexed when you kicked the ball, how the sun shined onto your face making you look ethereal. Yeah, it was fair to say that Lena was whipped. Luckily, you had been dating for a little over three months now. The German midfielder had no idea how she managed to convince you on a date, but by some miracle of God, she did. No one knew that you were together, both of you agreed that it would be too much stress on the relationship if the team knew. You loved them to bits, but sometimes they could be the nosiest people ever. 

“Obi?” A voice breaks her out of her trance.

“Huh?” Jule just chuckles at the confused look on the young German’s face.

“I know Y/N is an amazing player but we have to go do media,” she tells her friend.

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Lena’s cheeks heat up at being caught staring at you. Thankfully Jule just thought she was watching because you were good.

 Later that night, you’re at your apartment when your phone dings from an incoming text. 

Obi💚

Can I come over?

Of course xx

Be there in 5

Sure enough, a knock drew you away from the kitchen five minutes later. When you open the door you’re met with your girlfriend in an oversized hoodie and two cans of Fanta in hand. Fully opening the door so she can walk inside, you watch as she expertly moves around your home, proving how much time she spends there. 

“What are you making?” She asks, gesturing to the kitchen.

“Spaghetti. Have you eaten yet?” You say heading back to check on the pasta sauce. 

“No.”

“Okay, it should be ready in like five minutes,” you wander back to the living room to see your girlfriend already setting up a movie on Netflix. 

The movie plays in the background as you eat your dinner, with light conversation continuing throughout the night. When the movie ends, Lena picks up the dirty dishes and begins to clean the kitchen. You sit on the island watching her. How one person could be so perfect you have no idea. 

“You’re staring,” Lena says with a smirk. You roll your eyes, a blush creeping up your neck.

“No, I wasn’t,” you say defensively. Her smirk only gets wider as she raises her eyebrows. God, how you wanted to just kiss the smirk right off her face. 

“Sure, schatz.”

“If anyone is staring it’s you,” you say, deciding to turn the tables on her.

“What?” She asks confused.

“I saw you staring at training today, you were practically drooling.” Now it’s Lena’s turn to blush.

“Shut up,” she mutters and throws the towel she was using at you. You laugh, music to her ears. A smile works its way onto her face and she walks around the counter picks you up and gently places you on top of the counter. Considering she’s got a good three inches on you, it’s not that difficult. She steps in between your legs, slowly reaches up and caresses your cheek. Your eyes flicker down to her lips and without hesitation, Lena tilts her head up and presses her lips against yours. One of your hands moves to her hair, running through it. Lena lets out a soft moan. You immediately take advantage and slip your tongue inside. The two tongues fight for dominance while Lena’s hand grips onto your waist. Her other hand finds the small of your back. Your senses are overwhelmed, the feeling of her lips on yours, her hair between your fingers, her hands all over your body, just…her. Then, she removes her mouth from your and starts to plant wet kisses down your neck. They get lower and lower and lower until-

“What the fuck?!” Someone yells, interrupting the makeout session. Both of you jump apart looking very startled. You freeze when you see half of the team standing there watching you with their jaws hanging and eyes comically wide.

“Well shit,” Lena mumbles, pulling away from you a little more. Of course, you had completely forgotten that you had given a spare key to Sveindís. And of course, she chose that night to break in and bring half the team for an impromptu movie night. Everyone was silent for a few more seconds when finally Alex spoke up,

“Are you two like, together?” You glance warily at Obi, she looks at you with a soft smile and slips her hand into yours before answering,

“Yeah, we are.” This opens up the floodgates.

“Oh my God!”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Who asked out who?”

“Who else knows?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.”

“I knew it!”

It’s safe to say that movie night did not happen.

[vmygdvlv]

Stray Kids AU (italian boy version) ;

Lee Know as Leonardo Caruso

Leonardo came from a Sicilian family, Caruso surname basically gives it out, but he moved around considerably due to his parents jobs and making him growing up around different cities: late childhood in Florence, high school in Rome and University’s life in Milan.

Even if he never lived the Sicilian lifestyle and customs, he proudly says he is. He also deeply loved the food and culture. He doesn’t know Sicilian unfortunately but at lest he was fluent in different languages (Italian aside) such as English, French and Spanish. He knows some Germans basics, but he’s not able yet to hold long conversations.

Leonardo was born into a loving family that celebrated creativity and passion. His father, Giovanni, was an architect who admired precision, yet harbored a secret love for theater. His mother, Maria, was a marketing manager with a deep appreciation for literature and the performing arts. Together, they nurtured Leonardo’s talents from an early age, recognizing the spark in him that longed to create and express.

As a child, Leonardo was constantly moving to music. He loved the way dance allowed him to express emotions that words could not capture. His parents, recognizing his passion, enrolled him in dance classes, where he thrived. Dance became a vital part of his life, not just as a hobby, but as a form of self-expression. However, when it came time to choose a field of study, Leonardo didn’t pursue dance professionally.

Instead, he chose to study Performing Arts Management, a field where he could combine his love for the arts with his natural talent for organization and leadership. Thanks to his family economic status, he was able to enroll at the Università Bocconi. Even if the school had a residence located right on campus, he decided to rent a rather cheaper place since the university’s regulations, obviously, would not allow animals inside and he wanted to bring with him his cat (Bella) and his little parrot (Gino).

There was also some times where the dream of becoming a professional dancer/choreographer would come up in conversations, but since it was not a well-supported field in Italy he decided to pick a more solid path while enjoying dance’s classes and teaching it to kids as a part-time job. This decision helped him creating choreographies for shows and events around the country, giving him the possibility to know more while coordinating both studies. His parents supported this decision wholeheartedly, understanding that it was a path that allowed him to blend his passion with practicality.

Leonardo’s time in Milan wasn’t without its challenges. The competitive nature of his field sometimes led to intense stress, and his perfectionist tendencies made it difficult for him to accept anything less than excellence. Leonardo’s perfectionism wasn’t his only burden. His fear of failure, of not living up to the high standards he set for himself, created a constant state of anxiety. He became obsessed with his work, unable to detach from it even when he knew he needed to. His mind was always racing, always thinking about the next project, the next goal. He pushed himself to the brink, ignoring the toll it was taking on his mental and physical health.

However, unlike those who might have crumbled under such pressure, Leonardo’s drive was tempered by the unconditional support of his family and friends. His father often reminded him of the importance of balance “It’s the imperfections that make something truly beautiful.” While his mother encouraged him to stay true to his passions. “Art is about expression, Leo. Don’t lose yourself in the pursuit of success.” This foundation of love and support kept Leonardo grounded. He learned to balance his high expectations with self-compassion, realizing that mistakes were not failures, but opportunities to learn and grow.

His life in Milan was filled with both work and play. By day, he attended classes, managed events, and collaborated on projects. By night, he would often find himself in a dance studio, lost in the music, or out exploring the city’s vibrant arts scene with his friends. The balance between his studies and his love for dance made him a well-rounded individual, respected by both his peers and his professors.

He might be seen as energetic, charismatic, and driven, with a strong sense of discipline and creativity. His personality would reflect a blend of confidence and approachability [when he wanted] combined with a passion for his interests such as dance, football (he is an AC Milan supporter) and museums. On the other hand he was impulsive, potentially causing issues in some situations, impatient, with high expectations and a tendency to have conflict avoidance.

Through it all, Leonardo remained a paradox—a man of incredible strength and fragile insecurity. He was a loyal friend, always there for those he cared about, yet he struggled to let others be there for him. He was creative and innovative, yet trapped by his own need for control. And while he pursued beauty in all things, he often overlooked the beauty within himself.

Even if he came out as an introvert, he actually loved social interactions, especially if he could’ve communicate with people who had a similar interest. Plus drinking was a common part of Italian social life, so he did likely partake in it. When he was younger this thing helped him a lot in social settings, making him feel more comfortable and confident. Now he just enjoyed being there and have a nice glass, maybe two or three, of Chianti (red wine) or Negroni (cocktail).

He was also a social smokers. Didn’t have an addiction since he was a really health-conscious and has active lifestyle, but he smoked during night out or in social gatherings. Normally the pack of Camel Blu he bought on Friday lasted seven days. He stoled the first cigarette from his father.

Leonardo, also, got frustration with inefficiencies like bureaucracy, the chaos of traffic, that’s why he decided to have a motorbike instead of a car, relaxed attitudes toward time since he gets annoyed by people being late or plans not starting on time; gossip culture finding it intrusive and unnecessary and overly traditional mindsets. These aspects clash with his desire for structure, privacy, and progressiveness.

Family background

He has a supportive relationship with his parents, who encourage his interests and career aspirations. He has a strong bond with both his older brother and younger sister. They share common interests in art, design, and fashion, and often collaborate on creative projects.

Giovanni “Gianni”, father (architect, 60) supportive and disciplined, with a strong emphasis on education and professional success. He has a passion for art and design.

Maria, mother (marketing manager, 55) – warm and encouraging, with a strong influence on Leonardo’s cultural and academic interests. She enjoys cooking

Luigi, older brother (graphic designer, 30) – creative and outgoing, with a passion for music and the arts. He is close to his younger brother and often shares his interests in fashion and trends.

Rosa, younger sister (fashion design student, 22) – studying fashion design in Milan, she looks up to Leonardo and shares his enthusiasm for artistic and creative pursuits. Energetic and fashion-conscious

Friendship

His social life would revolve around close relationships and local traditions. Also his friends are the ones made along the way, having a tight-knit group of people from school and cultural events.

Francesco – an old friend from high school in Rome, they bonded over sports and have maintained a close relationship.

Sofia – his sister’s friend, who shares interests in design and fashion. They became friends through family gatherings and shared activities.

Elena – a university classmate in Milan who shares his interest in performing arts. They met through academic projects and social events

Cesare (Chagbin) – they met in Milan through a mutual friend, connecting over coffee to discuss a potential collaboration. The friend knew Leonardo was interested in organizing dance events and thought Cesare could help with the business side, given his expertise in finance and management. Their shared ambitions quickly deepened their relationship, with Leonardo’s creativity and Cesare’s business acumen complementing each other perfectly. Over time, their professional connection blossomed into a strong, supportive bond, with both relying on each other for advice, motivation, and friendship.

Riccardo (Bang Chan) – they met at a dance workshop in Milan. Carlo was attending to improve his rhythm for music production, while Leonardo was refining his choreography skills. They connected over their shared dedication to mastering their craft. Their mutual respect for each other’s dedication led to a lasting friendship, with Riccardo often offering guidance and support as Leonardo navigated his studies and creative pursuits.

Edoardo (Hyunjin) – they met thanks to their professional collaboration in a major fashion and performing arts event in Milan. They began collaborating on dance performances, with Edoardo designing costumes for Leonardo’s shows. Their friendship is built on mutual respect for each other’s talents. Leonardo admires Edoardo’s fashion design skills, while Edoardo appreciates Leonardo’s dedication to dance.

Federico (Felix) – Leonardo met Federico through Cesare. Cesare and Federico were childhood friends from Naples, and when Leonardo and Cesare became close during their time in Milan, Cesare introduced Federico to Leonardo. Federico’s warm and friendly nature quickly led to a strong bond between them. Despite their different fields of study, their shared love for creativity and the arts solidified their friendship

Giulio (Han) – they met at a university event in Milan where they both attended a literary discussion panel. Giulio was studying literature and Leonardo was intrigued by his insights. They struck up a conversation, discovering a mutual interest in storytelling and the arts. Their shared passions and intellectual curiosity led to a close friendship

Vittorio (Seungmin) – met at a theater production in Rome. Lee Know was assisting with choreography, and Seungmin was part of the musical ensemble. They connected over their love for performing arts. They discovered a shared enthusiasm for storytelling and visual arts, which led to a strong connection. Their friendship grew as they collaborated on various artistic projects and supported each other’s academic and creative pursuits.

Valerio (Jeongin) – met during a collaborative project between Milan and Turin’s universities. Leonardo, studying performing arts management, was tasked with organizing a multimedia performance event, while Valerio, a sound engineering student, was responsible for the sound design. Their friendship is characterized by a dynamic where Leonardo plays a somewhat protective and advisory role, while Valerio brings fresh ideas and energy to their interactions

Neighborhoods

Milan – Isola District, a trendy and up-and-coming neighborhood with a mix of modern and industrial charm

Rome – Testaccio, known for its authentic Roman atmosphere, food scene, and a more local, laid-back vibe

Florence – Santo Spirito, a charming and bohemian neighborhood with a strong local vibe and artistic flair, with plenty of bares and cafes

Favorite Italian artists

Tedua – his lyrical depth, unique flow, and ability to blend trap with introspective themes would resonate with his appreciation for artistry and emotional storytelling. His innovative style aligns with Leonardo’s love for both modern and classic influences.

Marracash – appreciated for his depth and socially conscious lyrics. He loves his lyrical depth, versatile sound, emotional expression and cultural significance. Marracash’s music offers the kind of artistic and meaningful content that Leonardo value. Songs such as Crudelia, Madame and Bravi a Cadere are some of the first songs he added to his playlist

Lazza – his technical skill as a rapper and his classical piano background would intrigue Leonardo, who appreciates both precision and creativity. Lazza’s versatility in both hardcore rap and more melodic tracks would align with Leo’s eclectic tastes.

Adriano Celentano – one of the most important singers of Italian pop music. In the beginning of his career, he was heavily influenced by Elvis Presley and other American musicians.

Lucio Battisti – widely recognized for songs that defined the late 1960s and 1970s era, considered a progressive artist, though his original approach to the music was highly influential for many later performers

Favorite dishes

Pasta alla norma, sicilian classic made with fried eggplants and ricotta salata

Pizza alla diavola, spicy and flavored

Cannoli, a sweet and crunchy sicilian dessert

Osso buco, milanese specialty, consisting of braised veal shanks cooked with vegetables, white wine and broth

Caprese salad, a light and refreshing dish with fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, basil, and a drizzle of olive oil

Pasta alla carbonara, a satisfying rich and creamy roma’s pasta dish, made with eggs, cheese, guanciale, and pepper

Favorite movies

La Vita è Bella (1997) by Roberto Benigni: a heartwarming and tragic story set against the backdrop of World War II

8½ (1963) by Federico Fellini: a surreal ad introspective film about the struggles of a filmmaker

The Best of Youth (2003) by Marco Tullio Giordana: an epic tale spanning decades, exploring family and personal growth

Favorite writers

He would likely be drawn to writers who explore themes of identity, independence, relationships, and the human condition

Luigi Pirandello – “Uno, Nessuno e Centomila”, the first book he read and one of his all time favorite, narrates Pirandello’s exploration of identity and the masks people wear. It resonate with Leonardo’s reflective side, as he values self-awareness.

Alessandro Baricco – “Seta”, his personal favorite, represents the poetic and evocative style of Baricco’s storytelling. This book appeals him, who appreciates beauty and subtlety in art.

Giovanni Verga – “I Malavoglia”, Verga’s realistic portrayal of rural life and the struggles of a Sicilian family definitely interest him, who has a deep appreciation for stories about resilience and family ties.

Favorites seaside spots

Caprera – located on the northeastern coast of Sardinia, Caprera Island is known for its pristine landscapes, historical significance, and outdoor adventures

Taormina – located in Sicily, perched on a rocky cliff above the Ionian Sea, Taormina is a charming beach town known for its beautifully restored mediaeval buildings

Bari – features a charming old town and a lovely coastal promenade

Most used slang words

Figo – similar to “cool” or “handsome,” often used to compliment someone’s appearance or style

Sbroccare – means to “freak out” or “lose it,” reflecting his passionate nature

Che tamarro – someone with flashy, tacky taste

Gufare – to jinx something or bring bad luck.

Sgasare – to accelerate quickly (usually with a car or motorbike).

Most used slurs

Cazzone – term meaning “big idiot,” used to describe someone who is perceived as quite foolish

Imbecille – means “imbecile,” used to express that someone is not very smart

Merda – literally means “shit,” used to express frustration or anger

Testa di cazzo – meaning “dickhead” (very strong, derogatory term)

Vaffanculo – a strong expression meaning “fuck off” or “go to hell,” often used when someone is extremely irritated

Representatives phrases

Essere se stessi è il vero successo [ being oneself is true success ] reason: emphasizes authenticity

Il tempo vola quando ci si diverte [ time flies when you’re having fun ] reason: reflects his enjoyment of life and creativity

La bellezza è negli occhi di chi guarda [ beauty is in the eye of the beholder ] reason: highlights his appreciation for diverse perspectives.

Favorite idioms

L’abito non fa il monaco [ the habit doesn’t make the monk ] meaning: appearances can be deceiving

Prendere due piccioni con una fava [ to catch two pigeons with one bean ] meaning: to achieve two goals with one action

Essere al settimo cielo [ to be in the seventh heaven ] meaning: to be extremely happy

[angelwheat]

The Mundane and the Magic

༻ a codz x reader story ༺

➶ The Giant // ❝ Self-righteous Suicide ❞

➶ Chapter Six , 1336 words

Every clock strikes three in unison, followed by a resounding chime that signifies not a positive event, but rather a monotonous signal that Richtofen had just shot his future self point-blank in the face.

The German steps off the teleporter platform, his leather boots crushing the grit as he strides forward, his expression utterly impassive as he looks down upon his older self pooling in his own blood with sheer disgust for his dastardly ways. Despite feeling a sense of mental relief at having completed the first and most crucial step in securing the betterment of the universe, he is also pleased to have eliminated a lurking horror of a man he was supposedly destined to become from his conscience.

However, it seemed that only the German perceived the positive aspect of this vengeful deed. The others stand scattered around the murder scene, none of them gratified by what they had witnessed.

“You’re sick, Richtofen.” Dempsey expresses himself assertively, with a visible look of disdain on his face that Richtofen chooses to ignore.

Richtofen countered, practically growling back at him, “I did what was necessary.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dempsey feigned his belief with a dramatic eyeroll.

Prior to this, Richtofen had finally informed them of their mission in greater detail during a time when they had a break for the night. He delved into almost all aspects of the potential outcome if they followed the plan accordingly, as well as warning them of the challenges they were yet to face, and the upheaval if things went wrong.

They all listened intently, and surprisingly with no one adding their input. Although, Richtofen knew it was difficult to sound sane when you were practically describing the collapse of the entire universe if you so much as dropped a pin at the wrong place and time.

Yet Richtofen had not fully convinced them that this current step was essential, as he always seemed too shifty in the presence of a certain someone, especially as he holds the secret that this person was informed of the basis of the plan before the rest of them.

And it was (Y/n).

The chiming of clocks briefly stilled the air when they stopped all together, instead causing an unpredictable tension to rise between the men just moments after that single bullet was fired.

Richtofen had knelt beside the corpse of his former self, and the men watched him just as (Y/n) was. Although, they chose to turn their backs when he began rummaging through the pockets of his uniform, not caring for what more he had to do.

However, (Y/n) was unable to avert her gaze, despite the horror contouring her features as Richtofen deliberately placed his hands on the body, retrieving a couple of vials from his jacket before rising and intentionally stepping over the corpse, leaving it to drown in its own blood gushing from the bullet wound between its eyes.

As Richtofen moved away from the body, his gaze fixated on her. His stare was cold, yet (Y/n) noticed a subtle change in his otherwise impassive expression as his brows furrowed slightly and his lips momentarily formed a straight line, almost conveying a sense of awkwardness or a feeble attempt at an apology for what she had unwillingly been exposed to.

But there was no time for contemplation as an alarming cacophony of hissing and screeching filled their ears, prompting everyone to assume a defensive stance.

“This building is not secure.” Nikolai asserted as he advanced, shotgun in hand. “We must go!”

His articulation was gruff due to his pronounced Russian accent, but he was undoubtedly correct. Judging by the intensity of the shrieks and piercing screams, the impending invasion of undead would render it virtually impossible for all five of them to escape unscathed.

The structural integrity of the facility had deteriorated significantly, rendering it incapable of withstanding a light snowfall. Given the extended duration of the fivesome’s occupation, which spanned weeks, the situation had become dire.

“We must relocate to higher ground.” The Russian commanded.

Recognising the gravity of the situation and the absence of alternative survival strategies, the group unanimously complied with the Russian’s directive. They promptly initiated their ascent to safer locations.

Anticipating the potential for the crew members to become separated, Richtofen issued a clear instruction. “Proceed to teleporter C! We are leaving!”

As (Y/n) navigated the perilous environment, a barricade collapsed beside her. A decayed, grasping hand emerged from the debris, narrowly missing her hair. In a swift and decisive manoeuvre, Takeo intercepted the zombie’s attack, severing the arm with a single strike of his katana.

Without pausing to express gratitude, (Y/n) swiftly joined Takeo in pursuit of the rest of the crew.

The were only few locations around the facility that were secure from ambush, albeit rather small. A few had hastily departed when the area became congested, leaving (Y/n) and Takeo to remain side-by-side.

Retreating across platforms as undead creatures charged directly at them and sprinting through corridors before hordes could encircle them from both ends caused them to perspire profusely despite the frigid temperatures.

On several occasions, they lost their footing as the sheet of ice on the ground acted as a deadly trap, and (Y/n) found herself caught when her foot slipped out from under her, causing her to stumble and fall heavily into a barricade. She was unable to break her fall and injured her arm on a piece of wood that protruded like a blade, tearing a portion of her sleeve in the process.

Takeo had observed with a flash of concern as (Y/n) scrambled to her feet, drawing his katana to protect her from the approaching zombies. Fortunately, their destination, the teleporter, was not far off.

Proceeding through an underpass, the facility situated at the rear of the premises came into clear view, where Nikolai and Dempsey were spotted clearing hordes from inside the building, presenting an opportune moment for a swift escape.

As (Y/n) glanced over her shoulder, she noticed a decrease in the number of zombies. The rapid gunfire from the two men behind her had slowed, but the horde approaching her, and Takeo remained substantial.

The crew retreated into the building, unleashing a barrage of bullets upon the seemingly endless stream of creatures.

Amidst the chaos, Dempsey’s voice boomed, “Where’s Richtofen?!”

(Y/n)’s eyes widened in shock as she quickly scanned the building’s surroundings.

The Doctor’s absence caused significant distress, leading to a surge of apprehension and disturbing mental imagery involving his potential demise at the hands of the undead, hindering (Y/n)’s ability to concentrate on eliminating the imminent threat posed by the approaching hordes.

“We can’t leave without him!” She exclaimed, her voice betraying a sense of urgency. “We need to hold them off until he- “

A male figure, clad in a soiled waistcoat and shirt, emerged from a small opening within the zombie cluster, barging his way through. His attire stood out amidst the uniformity of the undead. Richtofen stumbled forward, hastily regaining his balance and inevitably kicking bullet shells as his arms flailed dramatically.

Richtofen’s appearance prompted the group to proceed towards the teleporter, but (Y/n) remained steadfast until the German reached her.

As Richtofen approached, his arm instinctively extended to guide her alongside him, to which she complied.

They arrived at the teleporter together, and Dempsey instinctively extended his hand to grasp hers, failing to notice her wounded arm as he drew (Y/n) to stand in the centre of the group. Although, his action went unnoticed as he called out,

“Get us outta here, Doc!”

Richtofen promptly activated the machine seemingly with the snap of his fingers. The device emitted a sequence of indiscernible sounds as a surge of electrical energy coursed through its intricate mechanisms, causing the ground beneath their feet to vibrate intensely. A brilliant flash of purple light enveloped them, and in an instant, they vanished, leaving only a wisp of smoke to dissipate from the machine as it transported them to an unknown destination. 

To be continued…

[kit-williams]

Tanz Mit Mir

Music fic inspired by Eisbrecher's Tanz Mit Mir (Lyrics are translated to English originally sung in German)

Based off of @ghouljams Regancy AU

Lose all your virtues Lose them deliberately

He pulled her out onto the dance floor as she had been haunting his vision this whole night.

Also forget your conscience Because you don't need to know anything

She didn't need to know that murder was already on his mind as he spun her around to the music. Watching how the fake smiles she was flashing before hardly compared to the genuine ones she was giving him.

Step by step One, two, three, four

He led her in the dance as it felt like just the two of them as he guided her feet away from his own. She just needed a firm hand and well what firmer of a hand is there than a kings?

Dance with me Don't look back

He would spin her just at the moment her Fiancé would look back or if she looked around to look for him he would move her in such a fluid way hearing the gentle laugh that would erupt from her throat.

Step by step One, two, three, four Come with me Let's get carried away!

The way her head tilted back as she let out a laugh and the way she practically skipped in some of the moves. All these little movements that only a dance partner would notice... and only a fool would ignore.

I hold you tight in my hand Pull you up close to me

His hand holding hers holds on a little bit tighter and his hand about her waist pulls her closer just a bit more as he watches her have so much fun.

Dance with me Dance, dance with me Dance with me Dance, dance with me

It was like they were the only ones in the room as he danced around with her as what other woman had captured him with just a look. Did he believe love at first sight?

I hold you tighter in my arms, So I can lead you better

With how he was holding her so tightly... he was willing to believe it. He once more maneuvered her with such grace that it looked like she could dance so effortlessly as he led the dance.

Dance with me Dance, dance with me Dance with me Dance, dance with me

They made their first circuit around the dance floor of the ballroom. It was her turn to flash her friends smiles as she started to dance past.

In truth, I want to lie to you Tough times last too long

Once more he could spy her Fiancé as his eyes flicked over to the man who was completely unworried about his Fiancée dancing with the visiting royal. His tongue clicked in his mouth as he was only saddened by the thought of what tears she might shed for him...

A brief happiness should satisfy us Spin to the beat of sweet sounds

But it wouldn't last too long. For now he was eager to make her his! To fill her with the promise of what will come. What joys they would feel.

Beat by beat One, two, three

She felt like the luckiest woman in the room with the way he looked down at her and how he guided her with such skill. How his hand moved her waist with such skill. She swears that at times she feels like her feet leave the ground but she focuses on trying her best to not make the king do all the work.

Your heart wants more Don't look back

Once more he looks down at her and this time she doesn't bother to look for her fiancé as her eyes seem to sparkle with the desire to keep going as long as he was willing to give her. And he was willing to give her everything.

Step by step One, two, three, four

The sounds of fabric swishing and swaying were drowned by the music and for the king... the sound of his beating heart drowned it all and only her laughter could pierce the rhythmic beating of his heart.

Come with me I sweep you along with me

He had a larger than life presence and of course she was swept up in all of it. How she acted its... to him it was like she was trying to get his attention and well she had all if it. He couldn't stop looking at her no matter how hard he tried.

I have you tight in my hand Pull you up close to me

Of course... he was less likely to let go. He pulled her ever so closer making the dancing a little more intimate but he was certain that her Fiancé wasn't looking far too busy with trying to get his business ventures off the ground.

Dance with me Dance, dance with me Dance with me Dance, dance with me

The second circuit made around the dance floor. His eyes flicked over to the man and of course he wasn't paying attention to the pretty lady that König was dancing with. Oh if she was his he wouldn't let some strange man sweep her off her feet like this.

I hold you tighter in my arms, So I can lead you better

She did not fuss at all when he had pulled her closer once more hiding it as how he led her in the dance. To help her avoid stepping on her toes. Such a silly fragile man her fiancé must be if he was unwilling to dance with such a divine creature. Anger rests in his belly as he remembers not being introduced to her for so long. Oh he could not wait to always hold her close...

Dance with me Dance, dance with me Dance with me Dance, dance, dance with me Dance with me Dance with me Dance, dance, dance with me

She laughed once more, softly and tried her best to stifle it, it was akin to a secret between the two of them. A lovely little noise he would treasure and make sure to get her to make again... and again... and again.

I adorn you for the dance Braid flowers in your hair

When she was his he would make sure she would be the prettiest thing in the room. Whenever the balls would happen she would be in his arms in the finest fabrics. She exuded such warmth that he was sure if he braided flowers into her hair they would bloom.

Crimson red on pale cheeks suits you wonderfully

The blush on her cheeks as she kept trying to have polite small smiles... but the way she just grinned up at him as he once more elicited a laugh from her painted lips.

I have you tight in my hand Pull you up close to me

He pulled her close enough that her belly would brush his occasionally. He knew he would be getting more but König was a greedy man. Always had been since he was a prince. He wanted a taste of what was to come but he wouldn't embarrass her by stealing a kiss just yet.

Dance with me Dance, dance with me Dance with me Dance, dance with me

They were on their third circuit of the ballroom floor and they were both enamored with each other. He was willing to even toy with the idea of just dancing right out of the room with her... steal her away and say the nights festivities got the better of him. He was certain that she wouldn't mind it as he could tell she was eating up all of his rapt attention. Oh when she was his... he would make sure she would never be left wanting for attention like this.

I hold you tighter in my arms, So I can lead you better

He smiled as he didn't have to pull her when she would normally stumble she was learning! And he could see the recognition in her eyes as she realized she was getting the hang of it.

Dance with me Dance, dance with me Dance with me Dance, dance, dance with me

He could spy her Fiancé now getting upset with how intimately he was holding her now. How tightly his hand was on her waist. How lost in his eyes she was... how the man was a fool and König would make sure that he would pay for not treasuring what was in front of him.

[justforbooks]

On Mysticism: The Experience of Ecstasy by Simon Critchley

Philosopher Simon Critchley’s painstaking attempt to explore transcendent experience provides a fascinating overview of Christianity’s great outliers

Isometimes think of mysticism – the name we give to ecstatic, transformative experiences of absorption into absolute reality or, if you will, into God – as the subject that fascinates where all others merely interest. And yet it denotes something singularly hard to talk or write about, indeed virtually defined by its ineffability. On Mysticism, the philosopher Simon Critchley’s stab at effing the ineffable, feels oddly timely. As he notes: “There is an awful lot of mysticism about. More than ever in recent years.” He doesn’t speculate, but the widespread interest may point to that metaphysical restlessness that wells up during periods of acute cultural change – the return of the transcendental to a reality system no longer adequate for the times.

Among the more widely read and prolific of modern academic philosophers, Critchley has written books on topics as disparate as football, suicide and David Bowie. In a faintly defensive account of his interest in his current subject, he rightly points out that mysticism has been relegated and ignored within modern philosophy (with rare exceptions such as Nietzsche and Georges Bataille), whose rationalist bias favours critique, sobriety, laboriousness and rigour. He sees his book as a bid to push back against this epochal neglect.

An Englishman with a love of TS Eliot’s poetic evocations of the country and for medieval (mostly female) mystics – he knows his Hadewijch of Antwerp from his Mechthild of Magdeburg – Critchley sticks to the religious tradition he knows best: his study should more accurately be titled On Christian Mysticism. The riches of the Hindu-Buddhist east don’t get a look-in. Nor do Sufism, Kabbalah, or the philosophically subversive field of psychedelic experience – a post-monotheist bleeding edge of mystical consciousness. This narrowness notwithstanding, On Mysticism is a welcome, sometimes fascinating, perhaps inevitably frustrating book.

Most of the historical figures we think of as mystics did not see themselves as such: they were, rather, religious people whose devotion inspired experiences that revitalised, and in some cases, threatened the religious traditions they lived within (Marguerite Porete, a French Catholic mystic, was burned as a heretic in 1310). Critchley delves into the often fragmentary writings of various medieval Christian mystics – with particular focus on Julian of Norwich, notable for being the first female autobiographer in English, and Meister Eckhart, a cryptic German mystical theologian (and another heretic) who would influence Martin Heidegger.

Critchley prefers to talk of mystical consciousness rather than mystical experience. More than a matter of intense sensations, mysticism comprises “new ways of knowing and loving” that flower from elevated awareness. Following the theologian Bernard McGinn, he sees “mysticism as a practice that melds together experience and theology… Mystical experience without theology is blind. Mystical theology without experience is empty.” Critchley highlights the interplay between reading and contemplation: studying texts can trigger ecstatic transport, which in turn leads to a deeper “layering of concepts with experience”.

He runs us through various distinctions within the tradition of mystical theology. Cue plenty of exotic words: kenosis, kataphasis, soteriology, theosis. He’s particularly drawn towards apophatic or negative theology: the tradition of moving ever closer to the divine by naming everything that God is not.

Post-Enlightenment philosophy, Critchley notes, writes off mysticism as delusion, charlatanism or nonsense – and yet I wondered if he remains too much within academic orthodoxy to effectively spike his discipline with the mystical virus. (His admission to stridently professing a less than robust atheism to fit in with “fiercely secular” colleagues doesn’t allay such suspicions.) Mystical vision naturally calls for conceptualisation – Julian of Norwich had a single divine experience lasting a few hours, then spent decades working out what it meant – but Critchley’s compulsive parsing of mystical utterance into ever finer abstractions comes between his fascination with mysticism and the blood-red heart of the thing itself. His vivisections of Julian of Norwich and Meister Eckhart work against the mystics’ promise of immediacy, transfiguration, “experience in its most intense form”. We’re left wistfully eyeing mystical transport in a shop window: “I admire mystics who luxuriate in God and I luxuriate in their luxuriations.”

But perhaps this is splitting hairs on my part, towards a writer professionally committed to hair-splitting: it’s a stretch to expect a book about mysticism to deliver mystical experience. Critchley is largely content to serve as a tour guide to other people’s transports (he unambitiously claims he will consider his project a success if it persuades a few readers to check out the biblical Song of Songs). The best sections depart from the medievals to broaden our sense of who and what the mystical tradition includes: a bravura series of chapters traces a line from Julian of Norwich through the wondrous American nature writer Annie Dillard – in particular her short, crazily metaphysical book Holy the Firm, which features a little girl named Julie Norwich – to the incantatory mysteries of Eliot’s late, great Four Quartets… which, looping back around in a mystical spiral, quotes Julian (“And all shall be well and/All manner of thing shall be well”). While Eliot was himself no mystic (bar “a few flashes during my life”), Critchley’s reading paints the quartets as a kind of poetic mysticism – a work that approaches, and ultimately vanishes into, that which is beyond poetry.

Reflecting on how the monastically incubated mysticism of old has diffused through modernity as aesthetic experience, Critchley veers close to banality in suggesting that by listening to the music we love (and Critchley not very illuminatingly tells us about music he loves), we’re enjoying mystical consciousness. Better to think of music – or drugs – as the gateway drug that turns people on to mystical promise in the first place. Critchley can undermine his own credibility – I like Jarvis Cocker as much as the next guy, but calling him “a poet of the first magnitude” does no one any favours. Fortunately, though, he’s sceptical enough to see that the channelling of religious intensity into aesthetic bliss entails a domestication of the ecstatic. A corollary might be that we think of mystical yearning under capitalism as a kind of underground resistance – the glimpses that break through, despite everything, of a mysterious splendour invulnerable to economic, technological or political encroachment.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[klett161]

So I think many people are not aware about the current state of Julien Assange, the founder of Wikileaks since he‘s not getting a lot of media attention any more and the news cycle has long moved on.

Around 2 years ago the British courts already ruled that hell be extradited into the Usa where he will spend the rest of his life in jail under according to amnesty International: „a real risk of serious human rights violations including possible detention conditions that would amount to torture and other ill-treatment“. In the Usa he will face charges for his Journalistic practices such as leaking footage of Us soldiers committing war crimes.

Right now he‘s being held in Belmarsh high security prison in the east of London, England. He has been there since two years ago and is currently being held in solitary confinement. While the courts in the Uk already ruled about his extardidment to the Usa two years ago he is right at the moment in the process of making his last appeal. if it fails which it mostly likely will his last chance would be an appeal to the Un human rights comitee. The last appeal in front of the court in the Uk will be held on the 16th and 17th of February.

He is being charged for „being a risk to the national security of the United States of America“ under the 1917 Espionage act which was put in place during the Usa‘s Involvement in the first world war to fight german spy’s in Us Institutions and should have been abolished after the end of it. Instead it stayed in place up until today conveniently giving the Us-Government a reason to jail some of their stongest critics.

You just have to really think about the Implications that this whole case carries with it, if the Us Government can classify every document they don‘t want the public to know about because it would Inform them about their atrocities and crooked doings and everyone leaking them can get charged how can you still talk about a functioning Democracy? Not that I think that any representative democracy especially not the one in the Usa represents the true will of the people. But even taken this aside the rational of a democracy must be that information is somewhat available for voters to base their decision on. The thing is the Us-Government knows and this includes both parties that all of their little war adventures in the middle east and the all civilian casualties, displaced people and other atrocities commited would,even under the most ignorant Americans, raise some eyebrows. THEY FEAR THE TRUTH

And I think all of this is not only typical for the Us but for basically every liberal democracy. Nominally there is a right to free speech for everyone up until the point that you pose a real thread to the Government. And no, the constitution will not defend you because guess what even if there are no convenient laws like the Us espionage act that help to prosecute you, there are all sorts of secret services that don’t give a fuck about the constitution and their only purpose is to do what ever is best for the nation-state they are serving weather that is overthrowing government’s, bribing a court or assasinations doesn’t matter. And if the Usa can keep on silencing its sharpest critics without international condemnation or condemnation by their citizens, other western countries will follow this example and be more confident to prosecute their own critics openly, I do believe this is somewhat of a slippery slope.

There will be some last big demonstrations on the 20th and 21st of February outside of the royal court where the hearings will take place. Demonstrations starting as early as 8:30(GMT) so if you live in the area consider going. And even if you don’t live near london you can still get active, share Information, talk to friends and family, make solidarity graffitis, write an article for a local newspaper or zine, attend solidarity demonstrations or if there are none in your area organize one yourself. Anything really just don‘t look away

Please Reblog and share not only this post but all posts aiming to raise awareness about this topic.

This struggle is not merely about Julien Assange it‘s about press freedom as a whole. And not just in the Us but everywhere, so go and fight for free speech while you still can

Source:

amnesty International: https://www.amnesty.org/en/petition/julian-assange-usa-justice/

[blubushie]

as much as i say shit like 'you cant ship scoutpauling because scouts kind of a loser' its all in good fun and i. really dont care. theyre all fictional characters and other peoples headcanons and interpretations are pretty cool even if i dont agree and if i DONT agree then i just ignore (or for genuinely bad takes like 'medic is a nazi because german doctor!' then i block) because its just not that deep and im not about to get into discourse over it. hardcore multishipper and multi-headcanoner (?), my interpretation of these characters changes for the scenario a lot

Oath oath oath

Also one of my favourite things to do is take really shitty headcanons (subjective) and make them good. Like Nazi Medic? Yeah I roll with it (kinda). In LTBs Medic was in the Wehrmacht in WW2 as a frontlines combat medic specifically because he's Jewish, and part of the Final Solution was forcibly conscripting young German men of Jewish descent and placing them in high-contact front lines (typically on the Eastern Front) where they were practically guaranteed to be killed for the Fatherland.

However because I'm a history nerd I also know there's a major difference between being conscripted into the Wehrmacht and being a fucken Nazi, so Medic isn't actually a Nazi. He was never involved in the Nazi Party for very obvious reasons. He was a combat medic who did his best to save his men (many of which were also conscripted by that point of the war) who very much also didn't want to be there, and didn't fully grasp what exactly it was that they were dying for (not that they had a choice in the matter—pick up your rifle or be shot for desertion).

So in LTBs, Medic was studying to be a doctor when the war began. He'd lived mostly undercover as a Jew, but eventually the Schutzstaffel did enough digging to determine he was Jewish and he was forcibly conscripted with the intention being he'd save Aryan blood and eventually die A Good Jew on the battlefield somewhere. But he survived, and he fled Germany after the war, and eventually got caught up with TF Industries and that's how he ended up a merc. At the worst being in the Wehrmacht may have altered his sense of morality—the horrors of war will do that to a man—but in my eyes Medic has never been a Nazi.

Nazi punks fuck off and all that.

[denimbex1986]

'Is Tom Ripley gay? For nearly 70 years, the answer has bedeviled readers of Patricia Highsmith’s 1955 thriller The Talented Mr. Ripley, the story of a diffident but ambitious young man who slides into and then brutally ends the life of a wealthy American expatriate, as well as the four sequels she produced fitfully over the following 36 years. It has challenged the directors — French, British, German, Italian, Canadian, American — who have tried to bring Ripley to the screen, including in the latest adaptation by Steven Zaillian, now on Netflix. And it appears even to have flummoxed Ripley’s creator, a lesbian with a complicated relationship to queer sexuality. In a 1988 interview, shortly before she undertook writing the final installment of the series, Ripley Under Water, Highsmith seemed determined to dismiss the possibility. “I don’t think Ripley is gay,” she said — “adamantly,” in the characterization of her interviewer. “He appreciates good looks in other men, that’s true. But he’s married in later books. I’m not saying he’s very strong in the sex department. But he makes it in bed with his wife.”

The question isn’t a minor one. Ripley’s killing of Dickie Greenleaf — the most complicated, and because it’s so murkily motivated, the most deeply rattling of the many murders the character eventually commits — has always felt intertwined with his sexuality. Does Tom kill Dickie because he wants to be Dickie, because he wants what Dickie has, because he loves Dickie, because he knows what Dickie thinks of him, or because he can’t bear the fact that Dickie doesn’t love him? Ordinarily, I’m not a big fan of completely ignoring authorial intent, and I’m inclined to let novelists have the last word on factual information about their own creations. But Highsmith, a cantankerous alcoholic misanthrope who was long past her best days when she made that statement, may have forgotten, or wanted to disown, her own initial portrait of Tom Ripley, which is — especially considering the time in which it was written — perfumed with unmistakable implication.

Consider the case that Highsmith puts forward in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Tom, a single man, lives a hand-to-mouth existence in New York with a male roommate who is, ahem, a window dresser. Before that, he lived with an older man with some money and a controlling streak, a sugar daddy he contemptuously describes as “an old maid”; Tom still has the key to his apartment. Most of his social circle — the names he tosses around when introducing himself to Dickie — are gay men. The aunt who raised him, he bitterly recalls, once said of him, “Sissy! He’s a sissy from the ground up. Just like his father!” Tom, who compulsively rehearses his public interactions and just as compulsively relives his public humiliations, recalls a particularly stinging moment when he was shamed by a friend for a practiced line he liked to use repeatedly at parties: “I can’t make up my mind whether I like men or women, so I’m thinking of giving them both up.” It has “always been good for a laugh, the way he delivered it,” he thinks, while admitting to himself that “there was a lot of truth in it.” Fortunately, Tom has another go-to party trick. Still nurturing vague fantasies of becoming an actor, he knows how to delight a small room with a set of monologues he’s contrived. All of his signature characters are, by the way, women.

This was an extremely specific set of ornamentations for a male character in 1955, a time when homosexuality was beginning to show up with some frequency in novels but almost always as a central problem, menace, or tragedy rather than an incidental characteristic. And it culminates in a gruesome scene that Zaillian’s Ripley replicates to the last detail in the second of its eight episodes: The moment when Dickie, the louche playboy whose luxe permanent-vacation life in the Italian coastal town of Atrani with his girlfriend, Marge, has been infiltrated by Tom, discovers Tom alone in his bedroom, imitating him while dressed in his clothes. It is, in both Highsmith’s and Zaillian’s tellings, as mortifying for Tom as being caught in drag, because essentially it is drag but drag without exaggeration or wit, drag that is simply suffused with a desire either to become or to possess the object of one’s envy and adoration. It repulses Dickie, who takes it as a sexual threat and warns Tom, “I’m not queer,” then adds, lashingly, “Marge thinks you are.” In the novel, Tom reacts by going pale. He hotly denies it but not before feeling faint. “Nobody had ever said it outright to him,” Highsmith writes, “not in this way.” Not a single gay reader in the mid-1950s would have failed to recognize this as the dread of being found out, quickly disguised as the indignity of being misunderstood.

And it seemed to frighten Highsmith herself. In the second novel, Ripley Under Ground, published 15 years later, she backed away from her conception of Tom, leaping several years forward and turning him into a soigné country gentleman living a placid, idyllic life in France with an oblivious wife. None of the sequels approach the cold, challenging terror of the first novel — a challenge that has been met in different ways, each appropriate to their era, by the three filmmakers who have taken on The Talented Mr. Ripley. Zaillian’s ice-cold, diamond-hard Ripley just happens to be the first to deliver a full and uncompromising depiction of one of the most unnerving characters in American crime fiction.

The first Ripley adaptation, René Clément’s French-language drama Purple Noon, is much beloved for its sun-saturated atmosphere of endless indolence and for the tone of alienated ennui that anticipated much of the decade to come; the movie was also a showcase for its Ripley, the preposterously sexy, maddeningly aloof Alain Delon. And therein lies the problem: A Ripley who is preposterously sexy is not a Ripley who has ever had to deal with soul-deep humiliation, and a Ripley who is maddeningly aloof is not going to be able to worm his way into anyone’s life. Purple Noon is not especially willing (or able — it was released in 1960) to explore Ripley’s possible homosexuality. Though the movie itself suggests that no man or woman could fail to find him alluring, what we get with Delon is, in a way, a less complex character type, a gorgeous and magnetic smooth criminal who, as if even France had to succumb to the hoariest dictates of the Hollywood Production Code, gets the punishment due to him by the closing credits. It’s delectable daylit noir, but nothing unsettling lingers.

Anthony Minghella’s The Talented Mr. Ripley, released in 1999, is far better; it couldn’t be more different from the current Ripley, but it’s a legitimate reading that proves that Highsmith’s novel is complex and elastic enough to accommodate wildly varying interpretations. A committed Matt Damon makes a startlingly fine Tom Ripley, ingratiating and appealing but always just slightly inept or needy or wrong; Jude Law — peak Jude Law — is such an effortless golden boy that he manages the necessary task of making Damon’s Tom seem a bit dim and dull; and acting-era Gwyneth Paltrow is a spirited and touchingly vulnerable Marge.

Minghella grapples with Tom’s sexual orientation in an intelligently progressive-circa-1999 way; he assumes that Highsmith would have made Tom overtly gay if the culture of 1955 had allowed it, and he runs all the way with the idea. He gives us a Tom Ripley who is clearly, if not in love with Dickie, wildly destabilized by his attraction to him. And in a giant departure from the novel, he elevates a character Highsmith had barely developed, Peter Smith-Kingsley (played by Jack Davenport) into a major one, a man with whom we’re given to understand that Ripley, with two murders behind him and now embarking on a comfortable and well-funded European life, has fallen in love. It doesn’t end well for either of them. A heartsick Tom eventually kills Peter, too, rather than risk discovery — it’s his third murder, one more than in the novel — and we’re meant to take this as the tragedy of his life: That, having come into the one identity that could have made him truly happy (gay man), he will always have to subsume it to the identity he chose in order to get there (murderer). This is nowhere that Highsmith ever would have gone — and that’s fine, since all of these movies are not transcriptions but interpretations. It’s as if Minghella, wandering around inside the palace of the novel, decided to open doors Highsmith had left closed to see what might be behind them. The result is the most touching and sympathetic of Ripleys — and, as a result, far from the most frightening.

Zaillian is not especially interested in courting our sympathy. Working with the magnificent cinematographer Robert Elswit, who makes every black-and-white shot a stunning, tense, precise duel between light and shadow, he turns coastal Italy not into an azure utopia but into a daunting vertical maze, alternately paradise, purgatory, and inferno, in which Tom Ripley is forever struggling; no matter where he turns, he always seems to be at the bottom of yet another flight of stairs.

It’s part of the genius of this Ripley — and a measure of how deeply Zaillian has absorbed the book — that the biggest departures he makes from Highsmith somehow manage to bring his work closer to her scariest implications. There are a number of minor changes, but I want to talk about the big ones, the most striking of which is the aging of both Tom and Dickie. In the novel, they’re both clearly in their 20s — Tom is a young striver patching together an existence as a minor scam artist who steals mail and impersonates a collection agent, bilking guileless suckers out of just enough odd sums for him to get by, and Dickie is a rich man’s son whose father worries that he has extended his post-college jaunt to Europe well past its sowing-wild-oats expiration date. Those plot points all remain in place in the miniseries, but Andrew Scott, who plays Ripley, is 47, and Johnny Flynn, who plays Dickie, is 41; onscreen, they register, respectively, as about 40 and 35.

This changes everything we think we know about the characters from the first moments of episode one. As we watch Ripley in New York, dourly plying his miserable, penny-ante con from a tiny, barren shoe-box apartment that barely has room for a bed as wide as a prison cot (this is not a place to which Ripley has ever brought guests), we learn a lot: This Ripley is not a struggler but a loser. He’s been at this a very long time, and this is as far as he’s gotten. We can see, in an early scene set in a bank, that he’s wearily familiar with almost getting caught. If he ever had dreams, he probably buried them years earlier. And Dickie, as a golden boy, is pretty tarnished himself — he isn’t a wild young man but an already-past-his-prime disappointment, a dilettante living off of Daddy’s money while dabbling in painting (he’s not good at it) and stringing along a girlfriend who’s stuck on him but probably, in her heart, knows he isn’t likely to amount to much.

Making Tom older also allows Zaillian to mount a persuasive argument about his sexuality that hews closely to Highsmith’s vision (if not to her subsequent denial). If the Ripley of 1999 was gay, the Ripley of 2024 is something else: queer, in both the newest and the oldest senses of the word. Scott’s impeccable performance finds a thousand shades of moon-faced blankness in Ripley’s sociopathy, and Elswit’s endlessly inventive lighting of his minimal expressions, his small, ambivalent mouth and high, smooth forehead, often makes him look slightly uncanny, like a Daniel Clowes or Charles Burns drawing. Scott’s Ripley is a man who has to practice every vocal intonation, every smile or quizzical look, every interaction. If he ever had any sexual desire, he seems to have doused it long ago. “Is he queer? I don’t know,” Marge writes in a letter to Dickie (actually to Tom, now impersonating his murder victim). “I don’t think he’s normal enough to have any kind of sex life.” This, too, is from the novel, almost word for word, and Zaillian uses it as a north star. The Ripley he and Scott give us is indeed queer — he’s off, amiss, not quite right, and Marge knows it. (In the novel, she adds, “All right, he may not be queer [meaning gay]. He’s just a nothing, which is worse.”) Ripley’s possible asexuality — or more accurately, his revulsion at any kind of expressed sexuality — makes his killing of Dickie even more horrific because it robs us of lust as a possible explanation. This is the first adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley I’ve seen in which even Ripley may not know why he murders Dickie.

When I heard that Zaillian (who both wrote and directed all of the episodes) was working on a Ripley adaptation, I wondered if he might replace sexual identity, the great unequalizer of 1999, with economic inequity, a more of-the-moment choice. Minghella’s version played with the idea; every person and object and room and vista Damon’s Ripley encountered was so lush and beautiful and gleaming that it became, in some scenes, the story of a man driven mad by having his nose pressed up against the glass that separated him from a world of privilege (and from the people in that world who were openly contemptuous of his gaucheries). Zaillian doesn’t do that — a lucky thing, since the heavily Ripley-influenced film Saltburn played with those very tropes recently and effectively. Whether intentional or not, one side effect of his decision to shoot Ripley in black and white is that it slightly tamps down any temptation to turn Italy into an occasion for wealth porn and in turn to make Tom an eat-the-rich surrogate. This Italy looks gorgeous in its own way, but it’s also a world in which even the most beautiful treasures appear threatened by encroaching dampness or decay or rot. Zaillian gives us a Ripley who wants Dickie’s life of money and nice things and art (though what he’s thinking when he stares at all those Caravaggios is anybody’s guess). But he resists the temptation to make Dickie and Marge disdainful about Tom’s poverty, or mean to the servants, or anything that might make his killing more palatable. This Tom is not a class warrior any more than he’s a victim of the closet or anything else that would make him more explicable in contemporary terms. He’s his own thing — a universe of one.

Anyway, sexuality gives any Ripley adapter more to toy with than money does, and the way Zaillian uses it also plays effectively into another of his intuitive leaps — his decision to present Dickie’s friend and Tom’s instant nemesis Freddie Miles not as an obnoxious loudmouth pest (in Minghella’s movie, he was played superbly by a loutish Philip Seymour Hoffman) but as a frosty, sexually ambiguous, gender-fluid-before-it-was-a-term threat to Tom’s stability, excellently portrayed by Eliot Sumner (Sting’s kid), a nonbinary actor who brings perceptive to-the-manor-born disdain to Freddie’s interactions with Tom. They loathe each other on sight: Freddie instantly clocks Tom as a pathetic poser and possible closet case, and Tom, seeing in Freddie a man who seems to wear androgyny with entitlement and no self-consciousness, registers him as a danger, someone who can see too much, too clearly. This leads, of course, to murder and to a grisly flourish in the scene in which Tom, attempting to get rid of Freddie’s body, walks his upright corpse, his bloodied head hidden under a hat, along a street at night, pretending he’s holding up a drunken friend. When someone approaches, Tom, needing to make his possible alibi work, turns away, slamming his own body into Freddie’s up against a wall and kissing him passionately on the lips. That’s not in Highsmith’s novel, but I imagine it would have gotten at least a dry smile out of her; in Ripley’s eight hours, this necrophiliac interlude is Tom’s sole sexual interaction.

No adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley would work without a couple of macabre jokes like that, and Zaillian serves up some zesty ones, including an appearance by John Malkovich, the reigning king/queen of sexual ambiguity (and himself a past Ripley, in 2002’s Ripley’s Game), nodding to Tom’s future by playing a character who doesn’t show up until book two. He also gives us a witty final twist that suggests that Ripley may not even make it to that sequel, one that reminds us how fragile and easily upended his whole scheme has been. Because Ripley, in this conception, is no mastermind; Zaillian’s most daring and thoughtful move may have been the excision of the word “talented” from the title. In the course of the show, we see him toy with being an editor, a writer (all those letters!), a painter, an art appreciator, and a wealthy man, often convincingly — but always as an impersonation. He gives us a Tom who is fiercely determined but so drained of human affect when he’s not being watched that we come to realize that his only real skill is a knack for concentrating on one thing to the exclusion of everything else. What we watch him get away with may be the first thing in his life he’s really good at (and the last moment of the show suggests that really good may not be good enough). This is not a Tom with a brilliant plan but a Tom who just barely gets away with it, a Tom who can never relax.

Tom’s sexuality is ultimately an enigma that Zaillian chooses to leave unsolved — as it remains at the end of the novel. Highsmith’s decision to turn Tom into a roguish heterosexual with a taste for art fraud before the start of the second novel has never felt entirely persuasive, and it’s clearly a resolution in which Zaillian couldn’t be less interested. Toward the end of Ripley, Tom is asked by a detective to describe the kind of man Dickie was. He transforms Dickie’s suspicion about his queerness into a new narrative, telling the private investigator that Dickie was in love with him: “I told him I found him pathetic and that I wanted nothing more to do with him.” But it’s the crushing verdict he delivers just before that line that will stay with me, a moment in which Tom, almost in a reverie, might well be describing himself: “Everything about him was an act. He knew he was supremely untalented.” In the end, Scott and Zaillian give us a Ripley for an era in which evil is so often meted out by human automatons with even tempers and bland self-justification: He is methodical, ordinary, mild, and terrifying.'

[tf2-oneshots]

can we get one where medic likes big men and heavy makes his brain short circuit? please?

Big men my beloved

Warnings: none!

Rating: General

It was the first day of work for the newly hired Medic. He straightens his coat, hair fixed into place before he steps through the doors of his new office. He starts by organizing his filing cabinet. While he hasn’t met anyone else on the team, the Administrator gave him brief overviews of everyone.

Each teammate is placed in alphabetical order until Medic reaches Heavy. He pauses to admire the photo of the large man. Despite it only being a headshot, Medic can tell that he’s a burly man. Before he can get ahead of himself, the doors swing open.

“You are Doktor?” Comes a deep voice that shakes Medic to the core. The German turns, and its a sight to behold. Heavy, the man he was just ogling, is in the medical room! Right now! Medic stammers, papers slipping out of his hands and onto the tile floor.

“I-I apologize. Ja, I—I’m Medic.” A nervous laugh as he kneels to pick up Heavy’s paperwork. He tries to ignore the massive man before him, focused on putting the pages in their correct order. God, he’s weak to men like Heavy!

The doctor stands, nervously smiling, but it likely looks deranged. Still, Heavy nods and takes a seat on the operating table. He looks to the German, silent as he gathers his thoughts.

“Many doktors say Heavy is too heavy. These doktors do not practice anymore. Heavy broke them.” Years of his weight being mocked and belittled by so called medical professionals has left the Russian with a bitter attitude towards doctors. Every ailment had the same diagnosis: fat. Heavy’s weight was always the issue.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that! Men your size are no issue for me! Aheh, I-I mean, I don’t see weight.” No, even that sounds wrong. Medic bites his lip, trying to find the right way of saying that men like Heavy are his favorite.

“Understood. Doktor has nothing to fear.” But he has something to admire. As Heavy turns to leave, Medic watches him walk out. Despite his nerves, he’ll get that Adonis wrapped around his finger.

[justcallmehappy]

hi! since you said you are taking requests for writing for our life, so could you write one of tamarack and the mc in step 2 on their first date? thanks! I like the writing you've posted so far :]

yesss ofc! please enjoy! sorry for how long this took <3

“Awkward”

(step 2) Tamarack Baumann x gn!MC

synopsis: It’s finally happening. After years of being best friends with this lovely, energetic, sweet girl, you’re going on a date. However, as soon as you arrive, things are a bit… well, awkward.

word count: 1.3k

You let out a quiet sigh, breath shaky.

Your hands nervously fiddle with the hem of your nicest clothes; this is a special occasion, after all.

Possibly the most special occasion in your life.

You were going on a date. With Tamarack.

You know, the girl you've been crushing on for you don't even know how long?

You don't even know how you got to this point. One moment, you and Tamarack were hanging out in your room as normal, the next you blurt out if she'd go to the Freshman Welcome Dance your school is holding.

You didn't understand why they held it, as most students were just coming from the middle school attached, but it was a fun event, anyway.

Anyways, back to how you're even in this situation in the first place, she miraculously said yes. Both of your cheeks were in flames at that point.

You can hear the faint music playing in the school's gymnasium where the actual dance was. Heaving yet another sigh, you anxiously run a hand through your hair.

You offered to pick up the girl but she refused, saying she'd take too long and wouldn't want you to wait.

You had a feeling she was lying, but accepted anyway.

You squeeze the bouquet you bought her (really only because your mother thought it would be nice) in your hands as your eyes trail over the many kids walking into the school.

Then, suddenly, you see a familiar neatly braided golden head of hair in the crowd—well, significantly lower than the rest of the heads, at least.

“Oh…”

Your eyes meet. Hers widen and her lips curl into a shy smile. You can see her picking up her pace, eager to meet you.

Then, she’s practically in front of you in a cute little German dress Granny must have bought her; at least, you remember her shyly mentioning that she went on a shopping trip with Granny over the summer.

Her dress is simple and cute; a short, pink skirt that went out, a bow at the waist with a laced corset-looking top. A dirndl.

Her hair is in its usual braid, but a little daisy is tucked behind her ear.

She looks just like a doll.

You can feel your cheeks heat up, and you two are staring at each other, a smiling, flustered mess.

“You look really ni—“

“Tamarack!”

The girl’s eyes widen in embarrassment as the familiar voice calls her name.

“Omi…” She groans quietly and hesitantly turns around, little hands clutching at her skirt. You smile sympathetically when Tamarack’s grandmother waves from her spot in her car.

“Be good! I’ll pick you up at 9pm, okay? 9pm!”

Said girl’s cheeks all but burst into flame as she fervently nods her head, and you suddenly grow aware of the many eyes watching Tamarack.

She does what she always does when nervous—fiddles with her fingers as she turns back to you, determinedly ignoring the eyes trained on her back.

“…Hi, (Name).”

Her voice is soft and sweet with a cute little smile gracing her lips. Your mouth pulls into a stubborn line as you stiffly nod your greetings in return.

Once again, her cheeks redden at your reaction. You’re usually the one who initiates things, yet here you are, getting flustered?

Oh, boy.

Tonight will be interesting.

And so, you stiffly extend your arm for Tamarack to take as you ready to walk inside.

Her eyes light up and, although bashful, she gently takes hold of your arm.

For a moment, you both just stand there, unsure of what to do until you remember you actually have to walk inside.

And so, among the many students walking in, the two of you cling to each other as you enter the school, finding it's gymnasium.

The bass is on max, and as you enter the gym you can feel the vibrations all throughout your body. You shuffle inside together; but you were more pushed inside than going inside on your own.

Suddenly, you two were in the middle of the dance floor, awkwardly clutching each others hands as everyone dances around you.

The air is suffocating, and all you can smell are countless different absolutely terrible colognes and perfumes.

You can feel a blush creeping up your neck as you turn to your just flat out adorable date.

Tamarack is awkwardly staring at the floor, shuffling awkwardly as she tries to figure out what she should do with her body. Dance? Move to the edge of the gym?

You gulp and gingerly take her other hand, and her red eyes find yours.

You'd like to think you look charming; like a charismatic royal inviting a princess to dance.

However, you knew that your smile is crooked, your hands are shaking, and your face is flushed.

The princess in question returns your smile, but instead of closing her mouth like normal, she showcases her braces.

Tamarack never smiles with her teeth anymore; the braces made sure of that, since she's so self-conscious over them.

It warms your heart to see her so comfortable with you to smile with her teeth in public.

"...I didn't say anything earlier, but you're really pretty, Tamarack."

You murmur quietly, expecting the music to drown out your words, but the song ends just as you say it.

Tamarack's ruby eyes widen, and for what seems like the millionth time tonight, her cheeks flush.

You swear everyone is looking at you now; everyone heard you, right?

"...Thank you. You look really nice, (Name)."

And a new song starts to play.

You gently squeeze her hands and, not knowing how to dance, you pull your arms back and forth; and you two end up just shimmying while holding hands.

Knowing how silly you look, you both just start laughing as you dance.

"You're such a dork!" Tamarack exclaims, and you snort.

"Says the cello player!"

"Yeah, and?" She giggles, eyes alight with mischief.

You two end up dancing there for a little while longer, enjoying yourselves much more than you'd anticipated.

Eventually, you two loosen up, acting like your usual selves while not entirely forgetting why you're there together on the first place.

Not forgetting you two are on a date.

Soon enough, you two sidle off the edge of the dance floor, still holding hands while giggling.

"I can't believe we're actually at a dance," Tamarack's eyes travel to the disco ball that you two won't even dare to wonder how the staff managed to hang it up.

You shrug, smiling down at the floor.

"I can't believe you actually said yes," Your voice comes out a little louder than you intended to and Tamarack's eyes widen in turn.

"Of course I said yes!"

Surprised, you look at her with wide eyes. "I- uh, I mean..." She trails off, itching her cheek awkwardly.

"...How could I say no? You're, like, my favorite person. Ever. You're super nice to e even when I'm being stupidly stubborn, constantly comfort me when Qiu is being a jerk, and you were friends with me when I was 10. When I was an annoying, bossy 10 year old!" Her voice gradually gets louder as she goes on, and you frown at her words.

"Hey, that's not true..." You murmur softly.

"But it is! I was annoying-'

"You were cute."

Tamarack slowly looks at you with wide, surprised eyes. Determined to get your point across, you stare right back.

"...And you still are."

Cue you both looking away, blushing.

"...Thanks." You look over to Tamarack, seeing her smiling softly at her shoes.

"You don't need to thank me for saying the truth."

A silence follows, but soon Tamarack starts to laugh.

Confused, you frown at her. However, seeing your face only makes her laugh even more.

"I- I'm sorry! It's just... I can't take these things seriously," She giggles, gently squeezing your hand.

Your frown morphs into a smile, and soon you join her.

People glance over curiously, wondering why the you two are laughing like maniacs, but this time the two of you don't care.

You're here, enjoying each other's company.

And that's enough.