#and then in execution they keep tripping over themselves

[broken-clover]

It's sorta astounding that Persona 4 had passable-to-decent narratives about a gay guy coming to terms with his feelings about gender roles, a confused homophobe who has the ability to come out to the player romantically implying his behavior was some kind of self-loathing, a pair of girls fixated on one another with one of them calling the other her 'strong prince' while fantasizing about being rescued and swept off of her feet and a trans man with a literal manifestation of his inner self being dysphoric and obsessed with gender surgery before transforming into a literal god of healing upon being accepted all in the same game and they backtracked on literally all of that in the most comedically inept ways possible

[larryfanfiction]

Omegaverse AU

Ω Alone and Back Again by LadyLondonderry @londonfoginacup (4k, T)

Harry Styles has very few enemies, and even fewer friends. On the outskirts of the village, past the stream but before the river, sits a small one-room cottage, cool in the summers but draughty in the winters. In that one room cottage sits a cooking pot over a fire, a smaller selection of woodworking tools, and a nest of furs that is the pride and joy of one lonely omega. Or, what does one do when a feral alpha shows up in town ready to be executed?

Ω Just Two Stars Passing By by QuickedWeen @becomeawendybird (5k, E)

Harry blew up on TikTok and became a fashion commentator during the pandemic. Now, all of a sudden, big channels are asking him to cover their red carpets and premieres. Somehow he ends up covering arrival fashion for the 2024 Euros, and somehow Louis Tomlinson already knows his name.

Ω keep feeding my soul, and i’ll fall apart by boyfriendstages @boyfriendstages (5k, E)

Harry realizes he’s gone into heat early in the middle of performing Medicine, and promptly has his Alpha casually cross the world to help him through it.

Ω Necessities of Nesting by haztobegood @haztobegood (5k, G)

“I know this is a sensitive topic and you probably don’t want to talk about your nest with me. But I have a friend that teaches nesting classes. Maybe they could help.” “So you agree: my nest sucks and I’m a shit omega.”

Ω Let the Feeling Last by allwaswell16 @allwaswell16 (5k, T)

Omega Harry thinks the alpha at the grocery store buying a cart full of vegetables must be an amazing chef. He doesn't know that Alpha Louis is feeding all those vegetables to his pet pig.

Ω never just the tip by journeytothepast @suckerforhome (6k, E)

Harry believes alphas can't control themselves. Louis proves him wrong.

Ω Runaway Bride by IceQueenRia (12k+ WIP, E)

Forced into an arranged marriage, Prince Harry flees his kingdom on the morning of his wedding. Parading as a commoner, Harry travels alone, eventually finding himself in an enemy’s kingdom. Suffering an injury while coming to the rescue of some of the kingdom’s orphans, Harry is welcomed into the castle and finds himself face-to-face with Prince Louis himself, praying that he won’t be recognised as a member of royalty.

Ω feed a fever, starve a heart by InsightfulInsomniac @insightfulinsomniac (12k, E)

When Louis turns twenty-one, he receives a call from the National Secondary Gender Services alerting him to prepare for his first rut. Everyone presents two to three days after their twenty-first birthday, and all heats and ruts require medical supervision just in case one thing goes wrong: Rut fever. Most people don’t find their soulmates before they present, especially since soulmate identification can only come through pheromones released after presentation. But if a first rut or heat begins without the person’s soulmate present, so does dangerous rut fever. Louis is certain his first rut will be normal. He hasn’t seen the only person he ever had a crush on in childhood in nearly three years, and besides, they were only ever best friends. Everything will be fine… right?

Ω Lost But Won by 2tiedships2 @2tiedships2 (16k, NR)

When Harry loses his passport after a weekend trip to see Niall, the inconvenience of being stranded in America becomes a little more bearable after meeting Louis. Or a lot more bearable.

Ω The Wilds series by jaerie @jaerie (21k, E)

The creatures that Louis observed every day weren't exactly human, but yet they were. Researchers had plucked some of them from their secluded island and transplanted them into an enclosure against their will like a bunch of zoo animals. Louis didn't think they were. But he was only paid to do the yardwork, he didn't have any say about the wilds that lived there. That was until an unfortunate accident changed his life forever and made one wild in particular his top priority.

Ω Unbonded by jacaranda_bloom @jacaranda-bloom (24k, E)

“Look,” Louis says firmly. “Last time I checked, I’m still the pack leader, so you damn well better listen to me. It was Harry who worked out what I’d been poisoned with, then nursed me back to health. And it was Harry who thwarted the plan for my second assassination attempt by literally throwing himself in front of an arrow intended for me, nearly dying in the process, which is why we’re even having this argument in the first place. So if you think I’m going to set foot outside of this hut until he’s fully healed, you’ve all seriously misread the situation, and even more importantly, you’ve all seriously misread me.” OR the one where Harry is an omega who has been cast out from his pack, Louis is the alpha leader of the pack where Harry finds a new home, Liam is an alpha with heart of gold, and Niall is a cook who can't seem to stop setting himself on fire.

Ω As Fox As Lion by Riczekkraczek (25k+ WIP, M)

“The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.”― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince Harry Styles is a liberal omega in the world where omegas are not treated in the best way. And somehow he get mated with an alpha who is in fact a very conservative minister. So of course such a pair have to make a lot of problems. Problems that have to be solved. But did anyone marked that Harry and Louis hate each other?

[itsbubbleteataro]

Heloo! :D I saw your request are open so i decided to send one! what would be Sunday's reaction to a Furina!s/o? If that's a tad bit confusing, can you do Sunday's reaction to his s/o performing Sinners Finale (Furina's execution song) and the execution if you're feeling angsty :3 (You dont need to add that part if you dont want to) SORRY FOR MY BAD ENGLISH IM REALLY BAD AT EXPLAINING

can i be 🤸 anon pls :3

-🤸

You bet you can! Sorry 🤸 if it's not as you'd like but I did have a lot of fun writing about it. I kept some elements that I really enjoyed and found some nice music to listen to in the prosess. I had a lot of fun brainstorming in a cafe with some coffee!

Sorry about my posting being all over the place, moving across the country in the next few months will keep one busy! Anyways heads up this will pull at the heart strings,

Without anymore stalling, I present

La Danse du Chagrin

"Long, long ago, on a small planet named La Sec, a tradition old as the aeons persisted. Every 500 years a lottery was to be held. The winner is said to preform a dance so wonderful that the skies themselves weep and bring this dry and starved planet the water it desires"

You've told this story to Sunday as many times as he asked. Every time he seemed more and more enthralled within the sad story.

The very same story you told him when he first found you, one of of his many trips outside of Penacony.

He saw you dancing for the very first time, a style he wasn't familiar with at first. You lived gracefully, going up en point as if it were as easy as breathing.

The two of you met when he went to extend an invitation, to invite you to dance for the dreamscape. You soon became one of the more popular shows to go to when Robin wasn't present.

It was just after one of your shows, you and Sunday were in your dressing room. Him away from the public eye, watching you make yourself perfect before your next performance.

Sunday's always liked that about you, how your always perfect when you dance, as well as when you dress for the day or for the stage.

A bloodhound knocks on the door to the dressing room, prompting Sunday to get up and answer it as you were busy making sure your hair was perfect. Sunday was handed a note, addressed to you. He passed it along, setting it down on your table while he took his seat again.

Carefully you opened it, taking the note in hand and reading it. You bit your lip, keeping as stoic an expression as you could muster.

"Well my dear dove, it seems we have a show to attend in La Sec. I do hope you will come watch me dance, they did personally invite me too"

You said as you stood up, turning to face him. In hand your point shoes. In the other a red tambourine with matching velvet ribbons tied to it. Your dress a silky white with blood red accents.

"By of course my dear, it seems we are to depart?"

You nodded your head and walked side by side with him.

----

Arriving home was just like you expected. Dry, the earth cracked and starved for water. You took Sunday to Palace d'ear. A grand palace with many a room and beautiful gardens made of stones instead of lush greens. Inside tall ceilings with paintings.

Sunday looked at the paintings, filled with beautiful dancers, tales of woe and sorrow. Some of excutions.

The two of you walked on, further and further. You directed Sunday to a stage, and had him sit in the audience, while you went off to speak with an official.

------

It had been about an hour, he noticed a spinning blue sword above the stage, he figured it was just an effect. After all, it is a stage.

He blinked as he looked at you, then, the music started to play.

He watched you dance both your and his favorite solo, La Esmeralda Finale .

Your white dress swirled around you as you danced, your pristine point shoes matching your skin as always. Your hair half up and half down. Sunday always lived watching you dance.

The music ended as you held your final pose. As Sunday stood clap, the blue sword he saw beforehand stopped spinning, and came crashing down with a thunk.

Your dress was stained red, like the bow in your hair.

His eyes, wide in horror. No one had explained the sacrifice to him.

He bolted to the stage when he could, cradling what was left of you as he watched your body turn to little blue droplets and head into the sky.

Your bloodied point shoes, held close to his chest as it started to rain outside.

Oh what a terrible day for rain.

He clutched your beloved shoes close to his heart. He started to sob.

First he was robbed of his sister, now of his beloved? How the world was cruel to him.

He stayed long past the crowd leaving, gathering up your belongings to take them back to his home, your home.

Sunday never went to a ballet again, it wasn't the same.

How he wished he could have watched you keep dancing on for him

[dulltoned]

Kismet Facts!

In order of oldest to youngest band member.

Ablaze

Four years older than Branch.

- Part Rock Troll. - Anger issues through the roof - He learns how to manage his anger later in life but when he's a kid it's bright and boiling and constant and it makes him feel alienated and unwelcome and scared. - Branch is the one who helps him realize that everyone gets angry, even if it isn't explosively like Ablaze, but Branch himself can relate to feeling like he's nothing more than a ball of rage. - He has a lot of energy and can really be the epicenter of a party. - Ablaze is one of the first candidates to take an exhausted or wasted Troll home from a party because not only will he keep them safe but he's strong enough to carry them home if they pass out. - He lives with his parents and his grandpa, he lost his grandma to Trollstice but he never knew her. Sometimes he feels bad that he doesn't mourn her like the rest of his family. - He thinks Hype is annoying at first and he isn't quiet about it. After he spends a bit more time with the glitter troll, though, he finds that Hype is actually a kind-hearted soul who's eager to offer an ear and apologizes through gritted teeth about his behavior. The two of them are incredibly close after that. - He's not good with trickier emotions but Kismet knows that when he does sit down to talk about things or assure them, even if it's with a scowl on his face, that he's being sincere.

Trickee

Three years older than Branch

- Painfully optimistic but not nearly as bad as Poppy. - Trickee can be a little ignorant to how terrible the world is sometimes but it's not by lack of exposure. He grew up around his Aunt and Uncle going at each other's throats and to him conflict is just a normal part of life. Sometimes it takes a little extra push to get him to realize that fighting or insults aren't normal. - He lives with his Mom, Aunt, Uncle, and baby cousin. He gets overlooked fairly often thanks to the infant in the house but he doesn't mind too much, he uses the freedom to explore the village and spend time with Branch. - His mother hates Branch, she thinks he's a skid mark on the bright image of the village. She doesn't know that he's Trickee's best friend. - After his initial confrontation with Creek to help Branch Trickee's made it a goal in his life to help people who can't see to help themselves. He gets into a lot of fights but he hasn't lost one yet. He keeps a tally of how many times he's had to pleasure of punching Creek. - Trickee is very in-tune with his emotions but he's not really eager to feel the more negative ones. He'll go desperately out of his way to try and cheer himself up and it's a good tell for the others that he's not in a good headspace. - He constantly trips over boundaries but he's very apologetic when he realizes. - He doesn't know what happened to his Dad. His mom says that he died during Trollstice but Trickee thinks she sounds too angry with a dead man for that to be true.

Hype

Three years older than Branch

- ADHD Nightmare - Hype struggles a lot with executive dysfunction. He's a very energetic and organized person so when he knows he has to get things done but he just can't he spirals. - Kismet do their best to help. When Hype just can't do something they'll start for him. If Hype needs to organize his room Kismet will be there with some tubs to start the process and make it a game between friends and it usually helps a lot. - He's really loud and he's constantly moving but he's one of the sweetest trolls you could ever meet. He's always happy to listen and he'll be a shoulder to cry on for anyone that needs it. - He's ridiculously smart. When he's eventually allowed into Branch's bunker he's the only person who ever recognized his organization system. - Hype lives with his parents and his siblings. He has an older sister and a younger brother and while they aren't the closest they do love each other. His parents are a little overbearing and don't really understand how his brain works but they try. - He has stupidly overreactive tear ducts. It does not take much to make him cry, happy tears, excited tears, angry tears, sad tears. Kismet will tease him about it sometimes and he'll glare daggers at them while they laugh.

Boom

Two years older than Branch

- Gay but not a stereotype. Your typical gay wouldn't be able to clock him if he didn't lean into the aesthetic as he gets older via rainbow hair and gay earring. - He's a bit of an airhead sometimes but he's astonishingly emotionally intelligent. He's the best at reading the rest of Kismet and he'll always be the first person to pull one of the other members aside to make sure that they're okay. - He's a great listener, to the point where you won't even realize that he's doing it. He'll say just the right thing to get you talking about whatever's bothering you and then by the time your done letting it all out he'll just be there with a soft smile and gentle assurances. - He wishes he was smarter. He's not stupid but sometimes he misses the mark and his dad has always made fun of him for it. He can tell that his dad doesn't mean to be malicious but the jokes hurt sometimes and it's made him a little insecure about his intelligence. He's jealous of Branch and Hype sometimes, they're both so smart, but that only makes him feel worse because it's not their fault. - Life of the party. Boom is the kind of troll that'll bring the good alcohol and end the night drunk on the nearest table, screaming the lyrics at the top of his lungs and shining like the sun under the spotlights. - He wished he wasn't gay when he was a kid. Not because people were mean about it or because it was wrong but because it made him different in a way that he wasn't really comfortable with when he was younger. The more time he spent with Kismet the more he realized that differences made people better and made them easier to love and so he leaned into what made him stand out. - He lost his mom during the Great Bergen Escape. He and his dad assume that she's long dead but losing her has only brought them closer.

Branch

Twenty-four as of Band Together (Twenty-two in the first Trolls).

- Getting close to people again terrifies him. Everyone he's ever loved have left him, willingly and otherwise, so meeting people and caring about them shakes him to his core. - He tries really hard to keep the rest of Kismet away. He snaps and he threatens and he scowls but they all keep coming back. They come back because he treats their wounds when they're hurt, he listens when they're angry. These people have entered his life and shown him kindness and support that felt so foreign to him now and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he left them alone to hurt. - Hype is the only person Branch will ask for advice on his inventions and projects. He's seen how brilliant Hype is and he can respect it. - It takes him a long time to let them into the bunker for any longer than ten minutes at a maximum. They're only allowed in for patch jobs for a while and they're never allowed pasted the first room. It's only after he finishes the kitchen and the living room that he even begins to let them look around the space and even then it makes his skin crawl. - Eventually Branch makes them their own space. He hates having them in his bunker but he's come to enjoy spending time with them so he does something about that. He finds a big space under some tree roots not too far away from his bunker and he transforms it into a large recreational area with couches and games and even a small kitchen and bathroom. That space is where they end up forming Kismet.

[tods-void]

Spoilers for Fallout New Vegas Honest Hearts!!!

You've been warned.

So, something I've thought about since I recently did a run of New Vegas and all the DLCs, is that Daniel is a piece of shit and Joshua is the morally superior option. Here's why:

While the entire story of Honest Hearts has white savior stink all over it, Joshua does not condescend to either the Dead Horses or the Sorrows. Daniel for starters is entirely responsible for bringing the White Legs to Zion and everything he does is motivated by guilt. Furthermore the way he treats the Sorrows is fucking disgusting. He infantilises them, treats them like "noble savages" wants to keep them "pure" i.e. ignorant of combat. He would sooner have the Sorrows and Dead Horses leave their homes and risk the trip to find a new place to settle rather than teach them to use more advanced tech to defend themselves. He'll even decide not to tell a woman that her husband is dead because "she needs to be strong for her people" and like bitch, who the fuck do you think you are to decide that for someone else, especially someone who trusts you.

Joshua Graham does none of that. Now he is absolutely a piece of shit in his own right, I mean he was Caesar's second-in-command, no amount of atonement is gonna wash that blood off. And he's clearly motivated by a selfish desire for redemption. But he never treats the Dead Horses or Sorrows as less than equals. He doesn't condescend, he doesn't decide for them. Sure, he teaches them how to wage war but I call that learning self-defense. Cos Daniel's plan is just kicking the can down the road.

And sure, if you let Joshua execute the White Legs survivors it's fucked up and absolutely reeks of Legion butchery but you can stop him. For what that's worth. And obviously there's the born again mormon zealotry that drives Graham and there's a good argument to be made that he just substituted the Legion for his god but still. Also Joshua never preaches his religion to the Dead Horses or the Sorrows, something Daniel is all too happy to do, cos he's a missionary and his first job is converting. He doesn't do it violently but the practice in of itself is no less incidious.

So yeah, tl;dr Honest Hearts is still bad, fuck Joshua Graham but double fuck Daniel, that Mormon fuckwad can piss off back to whatever church he crawled out of.

[thetormentita]

ad astra per aspera - chapter 1

Dulce et decorum est pro cor cupiditatis mori.

Pairings: Ofc! Princess x Lucius Verus, Ofc! Princess x Lucilla (platonic)

A/n: finally! Here we have a snippet of the character that will accompany Julia on her way 🌚😊 enjoy!

Warnings: nudity, mentions of slavery, physical abuse and mentions of it.

Rating: Explicit (+18) (just in case)

Tag list: @novaursa @maegelletargaryen @mmkkzz

The news of a sudden trip of Caracalla to Germania catches her by surprise, and it is hard for her to keep her joy to herself, with the perspective of about a moon or even more without the constant threat of his temper flaring over trivial matters.

“You look happy, Domina.”

They are alone in the privacy of her quarters when Hala dares to speak, always in a murmur, her body close to hers in a delightful solace. Julia takes her companion’s hands between hers, feeling the warmth and comfort they offer. “I am” she admits, allowing herself a small, genuine smile that she rarely shows. “We should thank the gods to push my brother to leave.”

Julia’s voice carries a hint of lightness, a rare occurrence that Hala cherishes. They sit together, their proximity a testament to the trust and deep connection they have cultivated over time. The room around them is quiet, the only sound being their soft conversation and the gentle brush of the curtains moved by the breeze. Closing her eyes, almost blissful, she takes the Syrian’s hands to her lips and kisses them, a gesture laden with gratitude and respect.

It had been Caracalla the one to push forward the execution of their eldest brother when their father was starting to make plans about his successor, an act that forever altered the dynamics of their family and the empire. They no longer had Gaius as their guide and protector, the one who was destined to lead them with wisdom and strength, Emperor Septimius Severus was forced to rely on his second son, on the lad quickly known to the rest as Caracalla, and had even pushed his third, Geta, to rule along him to control his temper; who could have known the damage it would make to her once sweet brother.

“What if we celebrate it with a trip to the baths? It may do good to you, Domina. Other women will be there as well and you have all the right to enjoy your freedom.”

Julia still has the hands of her companion by her lips, her eyes closed and her skin savouring the feel of her touch, rough and gentle at the same time. The suggestion pulls her from the depths of her thoughts, her gaze meeting Hala’s, always filled with an unwavering loyalty despite the conditions of her own arrival to the imperial household years ago.

They arrive at the newly opened baths around the meal time, with less people crowding them despite Julia feeling that half of the city is congregated there. The Praetorian guards sent by Geta to keep an eye on them for their own safety station themselves in strategic places as they walk into the humongous complex as if they were trained for it, their eyes scanning the surroundings with the precision of seasoned hunters. The architecture of the baths is a marvel to witness, boasting columns that reach towards the heavens and mosaic floors that tell stories of gods and mortals alike. The air is filled with a mixture of steam and the scent of various oils, adding a sense of mysticism to the already enchanting atmosphere. The sound of water, from gentle trickles to the resonant echo of splashing, fills the air, creating a symphony of serenity that envelops all who enter. Amidst this tranquil setting, individuals move with a grace that belies the casual observer, their movements deliberate and unhurried, as if time itself has slowed within the confines of this sanctuary.

Despite her initial enthusiasm, Julia finds herself hesitating at the apodyterium, akmowledging the fading bruises on her side and her arms, easily covered by her clothing but now exposed, showing her frailty. It takes her a moment to gather all courage she can and create a feeling of something simillar to pride.

She is strong enough to endure. She has always been.

After leaving the newest slaves gifted to the imperial family keeping their things safe from any possible thieves, Hala and Julia make their way into the part destined by women, almost blending with the rest, nothing to distinguish them from the countless others who walk among the other women gathered there. They murmur as they make their way to the pool, with Julia wondering how her friend happens to know about several rumours that should not be known. Hala smiles knowingly, her eyes gleaming with the mischief of a thousand secrets untold. “Oh, Domina” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper as they approach the marble edges of the luminous pool, “there are many ears within any walls, and even more whispers that float through the air like leaves in the wind.”

“Do not speak in tongues” Julia allows herself a giggle, her curiosity now piqued beyond measure. "You know you must share with me. How do you come to know all these hidden tales?"

“If I told you, I would lost the magic I hold, Domina.”

The princess allows herself a smile as she shakes her head, her mind flowing free from the heavy shackles of imperial court. As they both enter the pool, the water embraces them with a gentle warmth, allowing the stress of their respective roles to dissolve into ripples. The secretive aura surrounding the conversation doesn’t leave them, instead, it grows thicker, like a tangible veil of mystique floating on the surface of the warm water.

It doesn’t take long until the first prying eyes spot them, forcing them to leave their conversation aside and adopt a more guarded demeanor.

“It is a high honour, princess, to share this serene moment with you.”

Quickly the wives of a senator and a consul approach them, ready to make them part of their own gathering. Julia Septimia, adept at navigating these waters, smiles graciously, her eyes reflecting the practiced poise of royalty accustomed to the ever-watchful gaze of Rome’s elite.

“It has been some time, princess,” one of the wives begins, her tone laced with the kind of respect and envy reserved for those of Julia's stature. “The city buzzes with tales of your absence since the last games.”

The quick moment of vain tranquility changes with those unfortunate words, and Julia can feel Hala biting her own tongue to not retort. It only takes her to raise her hand, slowly, just her fingers out or the water, to prevent the situation to escalate further. Noticed by two matrons, Julia’s eyes go to them, leaving the unfortunate words of the woman loom in the air, like a threat to her own status and her husband’s, making Julia wonder for a moment if she would have any chance to convince her brother to send that people far from the city.

“Princess” Clodia Pulla bows respectfully before introducing herself, allowing herself to preen for a cautellous instant about the position of her husband, the owner of the Ludus Maximus, before throwing a darted glance at the failed matrons who between mumblings decide to make a getaway. “Forget them. One is bitter because her husband is more focused on his lover than on hers, and the other is just a leech with too much makeup” she laughs, careless, almost obscene, and the soft wrinkles around her eyes frame her sass in a way Julia finds appealing. “May we?” with a gesture of the hand she points at the pool, and Julia nods, happy to find a fresh company.

Clodia Pulla sits at the border of the pool, sliding her feet into the water as the woman next to her bows her head towards Julia, softly, a warm bright upon her brown eyes.

“I am afraid times have not changed, princess. Unpleasant people are always a constant in our lives.” Lucilla, the ever respectable Roman matron, joins them, and Julia can’t help but think of her own mother, her vague memories of her reflected in the figure of the eldest daughter of the late Marcus Aurelius.

“Please, do call me Julia” their gazes meet, and if it weren’t for the public of the place, Julia is sure the woman would have even dared to do more than just throw a soft smile at her.

“If I were your friend I would have gauged that blabbermouth’s eyes before she could keep talking.” Clodia guffaws, and Julia can’t help but look at Hala, who just raises her eyebrows, silent, constantly observing around them, her eyes used to scan any looming danger as if they were still at the imperial palace.

It feels refreshing to give up to small talk, to just forget about the worries of the imperial court and be just Julia, not the sister of the emperors.

“You should see how happy my Priscus is” Clodia leans over her back, her exposed body almost claiming attention by itself, her curves catching the eye of a pair or women not too far from where they are, frowning, and Julia in some way admires the freedom running through the veins of that woman. “Since the news of General Acacius’ victory in Numidia he keeps going here and there, he says that new men will come to the ludus and he must prove Rome that they are worthy.”

The ludus. Gladiators.

Clodia Pulla is the wife of Priscus Gaurus, the man behind the most important ludus in the whole empire. His job is to train and shape gladiators into the fierce warriors that fight in the arena of the amphitheater every time games are arranged. His wealth comes from the success of his men, and Clodia does nothing to hide the origin of her oppulence despite the slight disgust in Julia’s guts.

“Numidians. I think I haven’t seen any fighting yet.”

Lucilla’s gaze upon her feels scorching.

“They fought with Hannibal, if I am not mistaken, Domina.” Hala’s voice is soft, almost a caress, a balm against the glares of the woman whose position now she has. “Scipio had them in great esteem.”

“Let us hope then that the editor does not get any inspiration on Carthage’s boldness.”

They are again by the apodyterium when Lucilla takes advantage of Clodia’s curiosity on Hala to talk, her hand landing softly upon her forearm.

“How are you?” her voice, sweet and at the same time worried, is only for her to hear, her eyes swiftly roaming over her features, stopping by her lip. “Julia…”

“Cannot complain, can I?” she smiles, and it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“He is cruel and bloodthirsty, and your brother does not seem able to control him. Take the boy and leave, hide for a time.”

Their gazes meet, and Julia can’t help but wonder if the woman before her is hiding something.

“He adores his nephew, no harm can fall upon him.”

“What about you?”

Lucilla’s grip on her arm tightens, almost like wanting her to confess how sometimes fear clings to her clothes and accompanies her through her days like a heavy burden. Julia has certainly heard about Lucilla’s brother, how his mind started to decay when the grasp of the imperial power felt too much for him to handle— he had never hit her, did he?

Julia searches Lucilla’s eyes, looking for a hint of truth or perhaps a glimpse of the same fear that lingers around her own heart. The air between them is thick with unspoken words, a tangible tension that feels almost suffocating.

“I was called once ‘Filla Romae’. It is expected of me to endure what the gods see fit.” her voice is a mere whisper, barely audible over the distant hum of the vibrant life outside the confines of their private space. Lucilla’s gaze finally meets Julia’s, revealing a depth of resolve mixed with an undeniable vulnerability. It is a look that speaks volumes, conveying years of bearing burdens silently, of walking the fine line between duty and desire, between the public facade and the private torment. The only difference between them is that Lucilla had the chance to marry while her father was still alive while Julia has to endure the will of her brothers wanting her close to them, her will bent to their desires, her dreams subjected to their approval.

“Julia, please.”

…

The parade is a sparkling celebration of colors and joyous sounds, stretching down the bustling streets of the heart of the Empire. Music, soldiers, and elaborate floats move in perfect harmony, delighting onlookers with their vivid displays and synchronized rhythm.

“Father told me once about Victories like this” Geta’s mumble reaches her ears only, almost like a secret message carried by the wind. She watches the procession with wide eyes, marvelled at the grand display of festivity. “Marcus Acacius is probably the most important man in the whole empire out of our family, and we must earn his favor, no matter what.”

Julia knows about the power of the military, her mind still fresh with the images of her father’s legion supporting his ascension to the throne. She knows this parade is as much about power as it is about celebration, and the man parading himself as a champion of Rome is one of the most influential figures she will ever see. His voice may sway senators, his decisions shape policy, and his favor can elevate a mere soldier to glory. A glorified general bound to one of the most prominent families of Rome by his wife, the perfect Lucilla, the woman who exemplifies grace and cunning in equal measure.

His carriage rolls by, decked with gold and pulled by four majestic steeds, the pure vision of victory illuminating the path before him. The crowd erupts in cheers, their admiration swelling with each step the golden chariot takes. Julia watches the scene reveal itself in glorious vivacity—a tapestry woven with pomp and high expectations.

But not everybody celebrates Rome’s last triumph.

When the procession stops by the dais, the acclaimed general himself shows a face of distaste and battle-worn exhaustion, as if the accolades weigh heavy upon his soul. Julia’s quick eyes observe the faces following him, the image of defeat and silent rage, their hopes and families shattered by the command of the man honoured today.

It only takes her brother a raised hand to stop any noise and music, all eyes upon them, expecting words of admiration and loyalty to flow effortlessly, but they do not seem to notice the slight tremor on Geta’s hands, nor the sweat upon his palms.

Oh, the tolls of having to deal with Caracalla.

“General Acacius” begins Geta, his voice firm yet holding an edge that no cheers could mask. “We honor your valor and triumph today. You bring with yourself not your own success, forever reminded, but Rome’s own victory. May the Gods continue to favor you and grant Rome many victories under your command.”

As if she had been commanded to, Julia takes a step forward, her gaze observing the retinue behind the carriage, the people forced into slavery because Marcus Acacius had to comply with the wishes of a mad man. As she takes the golden laurel wreath, she spots a pair of eyes upon her, filled with a mixture of sadness and defiance. The eyes belong to a man, proud despite his defeat, his strong hands gripping the heavy chains that bind him to his fate. He observes her as she walks towards the general, each step intent on conveying grace and control. Julia can feel the weight of every gaze upon her, yet her focus remains on those eyes—not hollowed by defeat, but blazing with unyielding pride and resistance.

“General” her words are soft, enough for him to ease his gesture as he kneels before her. “Rome thanks you for your service. Your deeds will be remembered and carried forth in the annals of history.” She places the laurel wreath upon his head, a crown of victory heavy with unspoken burdens.

Her touch lingers upon his hair, and Marcus closes his eyes for a moment, the feel drawing a silent sigh from his lips. The crowd erupts into applause, a jubilant roar echoing across the square, yet amid the clamor, Julia's mind drifts back to the man in chains, whose eyes have never left her, and a quick glance towards him is challenged by the prisoner, who meets her gaze with unwavering conviction. A shiver runs down her spine, and she wonders what stories those eyes might tell, what fire they hold behind their steadfastness.

…

“Wait until he knows” her brother’s voice trembles like the candle by his desk, his hands roaming his hair in restless movements. “I should have been the one to do it, Julia. I—”

She crosses her arms over her chest, the scar upon her lip tight, reminding her of the reason behind the fear upon her brother. If things would have been different, she would have been far from there, married to a senator, or a consul, or even a famed general raising his children in a peaceful villa far from the city, from the nest of vipers she has to call ‘home’.

“You should temper yourself” she retorts, her eyes observing him with a mixture of pity and frustration. “If I were you, I would enjoy this opportunity to search the favour of the Praetorian guard instead of pitying yourself. What’s done is done, Geta.”

Both siblings exchange looks, the weight of their brother’s presence lurking between them like a phantom in the dim room.

“You have the chance to take the throne for yourself, to avenge the years you spent under his shadow, and yet you hesitate, letting doubt cloud your judgment.” Julia’s voice remains steady, yet there's an undercurrent of urgency threading through her words. “Remember what happened to Romulus and Remus” as she talks, she approaches the table, banging it with her hand opened when she talks about the foundation of the now Empire. “Do you wish to be Romulus or Remus, brother?”

A quick hand reaches her neck before she can react. Years of practice have made of Geta and Caracalla experts on the art of venting their frustrations with her, nimbly leaving any marks as proof of their anger.

“Remember who you are talking to” he hisses, his eyes upon hers without blinking, the pressure of his hand enough to hurt but not to prevent her from breathing. His voice, though quiet, carries a dangerous edge, one that she has become all too familiar with over the years. Geta, the elder of the two, has always had a way of asserting his dominance without resorting to the outright brutality that Caracalla seems to favor. Where Caracalla’s anger is like a tempest, unpredictable and violent, Geta’s anger is cold and calculating, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface, ready to unleash its fury in the most meticulously planned manner.

Julia just sighs, her lips curving in a defiant smirk despite the turmoil inside her.

“Will you mourn me when I die, brother?”

[2demondogs]

Dutch x Reader. just pure heartbreaking, soul crushing, stomach aching angst you can write where Reader gets killed by Colm , making them yet another lover of Dutch’s fall victim to him.

We never see Dutch have a breakdown, and not a "Oh my God, we need money or else we all die" breakdown, but a "Oh my God, my whole world just got taken away from me and there's nothing I can do to save them" break down (maybe with Hosea but I need this man to UGLY CRY)

Doesn't matter how you get reader in Colms hands. That's completely up to you! They could be kidnapped and killed, caught in a shootout between Dutch and Colm, perhaps a ransom situation gone wrong! I'm just throwing ideas out there, but I'll say it again it up to you!

I love your writing so much, thank you :))

Thank you! This one got the Evil Gears working. You guys never fail to complete my villainous whump urges. I be like "cut his arm off with a boulder" and y'all are like "he will never love again."

Hosea's there and so's some others... it takes a village. Thank you to my platonic husband once again for some ideas because the block on this one was tuff. I'm sorry if the execution is not that good T-T.

Words: 3.7k Tags: canon typical violence, grief/mourning, trigger warning Micah (and I guess the rest of it)

The muscle memory kicks in before his consciousness does: the boom of a rifle — Charles' bolt-action, Dutch knows in his veins, can usually tell each of his men's guns apart by report — and then instantaneous sit up, find his gun, rub his face into some semblance of wakefulness as he storms half-dressed out of the tent, canvas flapping. Chilly midnight air is hitting his skin before the echo of the shot has faded into the treeline surrounding camp.

The stillness wakes him up the rest of the way. At least, the stillness of the woodlands, eerie-quiet as they always fall after fire. For the camp's part, men are stumbling out and tripping over themselves, tents rustling, and the women are getting up, Abigail shushing a too-loud Jack. Susan nearly beats Arthur to meeting his stride, her kerosene lantern roving light over the dying grass on the ground.

Micah is always first, a dark shadow already standing at the perimeter where Charles is looming over two shapes heaped on the ground. He doesn't think that man ever sleeps.

"Charles!" He calls, and the two turn from talking hushedly. "What's goin' on?"

Charles tenses up, and Micah speaks before he does, face clearing as Dutch squints the blurriness from his eyes. "Your, ah," — throwing a hand up at Charles, starting towards Dutch with his hands out to grab his elbows — "You oughta be warned, sir."

His brows furrow. Micah of all people is not one to beat around bushes, let alone with him. It gnaws at him, some, a vague sense of dread. It passes his mind where you are, but you had a habit of staying nights over in town if it got too dark to ride comfortably.

"What the Hell are you talkin' about?" He repeats. He shrugs his hands off, pushes past him, hears his gunbelt clinking as he stumbles a step. "Charles, what—?"

"Ain't no one else," Charles starts, not stepping from where he stands in front of the tree they'd assigned as an unofficial camp outpost. That's odd, too, and he has a feeling the man doesn't believe there's no one else, not with his gun clenched in his hands like that. No one else? "But there was an O'Driscoll with—"

And then Susan's lantern swings once across the start of the brush, throws light against hair and a fallen hat, laying on its crown. His fingers ready at his trigger, eyes hardening. "How did they find us this goddamn time?" Dutch asks the air.

Unlike usual, Charles does not keep talking once he's put his two-cents in the pot. He has that tension about him that he always does when there's something he would prefer not to say aloud, a habit that scratches Dutch raw in the wrong ways. He's about to spout off some aggressive twist to avoid the one in his gut, something about I'm the fucking man, Thomas, why are you not explaining this to me? until Susan steps the few paces ahead of him to meet the tree, and the warm glow of her lantern lands on familiarity.

His finger slips from the trigger, all curling bone-white around the grip instead.

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, and he waves at the heap with his gun, throat clicking loud enough he thinks he may have cocked it on accident. When he turns to him instead of the ground, he can't make out his son's face in the shadow cast by his own head, only sees glints off his eyes in the darkness.

"You... you take care of this, Arthur," Dutch is saying, feels a hand on his elbow, curling into the inner of it to hold him back, and brushes Micah off once more. Micah, or someone else— the fingers were thinner, but his ears are starting to ring. His throat feels clogged, sticky.

"Dutch," a voice says, and he isn't sure who it is through the roar of blood.

Sanguine is seeping into the ground that Susan's lantern reveals, sliding over the dirt from a gaping hole in the skull of an O'Driscoll. Always goes for the instant kill, Charles does. Green bandana, green vest, dressed like a big green clown by his standards — an imitation of uniform, all of them wannabe munton-shunting clowns wear green, munton-shunter wannabes is all those men are at the end of the day: swine united under one God, hollow be His name — and flailed onto the dirt by the rifle blow. Not from this close, no, he'd be gone from the shoulders up, which means the bastard had almost made it past the perimeter, unnoticed. Dutch can't find it in himself to tear Charles a new asshole for that.

You lay there, too. Unbleeding, but shot all the same.

"Dutch," comes again. He listens this time, because it's Hosea's sleep-ridden nasal and his cool fingers on his burning wrist, pulling him away as his mind grows louder. "Let Arthur handle this."

And he listens to the words this time, because it's Hosea.

He won't think of why Charles is good at fashioning these wooden crosses. Perhaps it's selfish to think that, and to neglect most anything besides the blackness eating at himself— but you are gone.

If he were a different sort of crier, maybe he'd turn to him now and tell Hosea he's lucky to have lived through two. That Arthur and John are, too, and especially Susan— but you are gone, and Dutch only finds one thing funny, in the sour way men laugh over spilled blood and ashes and misfires.

It's own his negligence that must've led to this. Letting you do as you wished, wanting you to be happy instead of entirely safe. If he had only listened to that little voice in his head, surely, you would have come back from town alive and well and pressing some little jewelry piece you'd stolen into his hands like some of promise, the way you always did.

But no, that's not right. The regret is talking now that something has happened, trying to paint over the simple fact that Dutch trusted you enough there were no nagging inclinations when you went out on your lonesome. He wouldn't have liked you this much if there weren't that ability to hold your own, how you offered him some semblance of safety in every regard that he hasn't felt in a long, long while. Give and take.

There is, too, the wish that he had been with you in your last moments. If he were, they wouldn't have been your last; but even if things went the way things always do — which is the end, eventually — he would've liked to have been there, holding you, the way lovers die.

Susan did her best to clean you off and freshen you up. Charles' crosses, and her mortuary sciences. They're both skills that shouldn't be held. Dutch kneeled by your side and gripped the stiffened hand as if the warmth of his skin could've made the flesh tender and rosy once more.

The work is done by the time the sun reveals itself over the treeline. A patch of clearing near camp holds you now, in the grave Charles and Arthur have dug. The two strongest, as reluctant as he was to ask anything of them knowing they were his first choices for scouting a new campsite. He was reluctant to even consider the fact that as soon as you were buried, he might have only a few minutes with that sorry, scored cross that now claims to be you.

Dutch wasn't sure what to do with himself when the work began, and he isn't sure what he spent the hours since midnight doing now that they've passed. He doesn't think he's moved from the spot he stepped into, and Hosea's arm linked through his is so burning hot in the crook of his elbow that he believes maybe he hasn't even breathed.

A respectable distance, in front of the boys. Arthur offers him the last shovel's-worth of dirt, and it means something that Dutch will probably soon regret shaking his head to. His brain skitters at the hard casing of his skull when he does, eyes backed up and stinging. That pain started sometime while he knelt beside you, which seems so long ago now.

Once Charles and Arthur leave, he crumbles onto Hosea, and it all feels very far away. Enclosed in it, locked outside of it; his nostrils burn as if he's snorted capsaicin, mucus coming to his throat without any tears.

"I know, Dutch," Hosea says, voice so weary that Dutch feels his fingers grow stiff and numb with it.

Here he is, and there goes his knees, Hosea stepping back once under his weight but holding him up, in the end, arms tight around his ribs. He realizes it hurts because he's talking, that Hosea has spoken in response to him.

"I should've—" He's starting, but now that he's listening to himself he does not know what he was going to say, and grows frustrated enough that he only groans, inhales a mouthful of the half-dirty collar of Hosea's fur-lined coat.

Here he is, and how he has forgotten what the shards of a broken heart feel like stabbing into a man's lungs.

Dutch has crumbled two sets of tobacco leaves in his fingers, blinking the sun out of his eyes where it crawls up and beneath the overhang of shading the folding chair beside his tent. He sighs sharply, hanging his hands and head between his knees. At this rate, he'll crush every last leaf in his rolling tin and still be out the soothe of nicotine.

Months have passed, but still he struggles to grasp himself again. The idea that you were gone for a job was a lie so clear to him by the end of that first week, Dutch could no longer fool himself on why his cot didn't smell like you anymore. He packed your things alongside his own, but they stay in the crates they were placed into — not stuffed, not like his possessions were — since the gang moved from Blackwater, to Colter, to here.

God, you're all the way back there.

Why did life not cross the border with us? He wonders, at times. He then remembers that it's little use to think that way, before he continues to do it.

There was no use toting a — as impersonal as it sounds, he has no other words for it — corpse around. If he could have, he would've buried you where he believed they might stay for a while. That place hasn't come to him yet, either, as quiet as the overlook seems to be, and so who knows how long he would've been playing that sick game. A proper graveyard was out of the question, if it even could've been done; the only usefulness in such a burial is a relatively sure landmarker by which to find you. Dutch has never been one to go back to the past.

But it's you. He did not go to his mother's grave, and he wouldn't go to hers now. You're more than the past, though. He wishes he could have buried you somewhere beautiful, at least; he wants to go back and sit with you. He doesn't think you will ever be so little as the past.

Dutch doesn't realize he's been mumbling these things to himself until Arthur's voice breaks through the drone of his own, rumbling murmurs and brings them to light amongst the ambiance of camp that he had tuned out.

"You okay, Dutch?" Familiar, gritty like his own voice. Lighter, and concerned.

Dutch looks up at him and sighs, seeing the draw of his brow. His hand raises to gesture before he can think of what he should say— what he even can say, or if there's anything that needs saying to begin with. Finally, the struggle exhausts his mind too much to do anything beyond summarizing his thoughts.

"How many more people I love?" He muses, flicks his wrist and lets it fall back to limply resting on his knee. The sentence cracks and falls between them, Arthur shifting on his feet uncomfortably.

Everyone has been uncomfortable around him, as of late, and that's getting on Dutch's nerves more than it is depressing him. He supposes it does its fair share of that, too. He believes that he does a fine job of swallowing himself and giving them what they need: a leader, strong and shiny and well-groomed, who knows what he's doing, what they're all doing. A man to be proud of, and to make proud.

A man who feels very unlike the way Dutch feels behind that blank expression he lets them paint something better onto in their heads.

Arthur is nodding, looking both ways as if clearing the camp of witnesses before he lays a hand on his shoulder. Lord, Dutch remembers when his hands weren't so meaty and rough. Near dainty, spindly fingers on some teenaged mutt that could barely lift an arm long enough to wave, hands that always seemed too-cold and clammy. That— now, that is the past.

"I know, man," he starts, and says something else he does not hear. All he can think of is when Arthur used to call him Dad, every now and then. "—have to move on," he's saying.

Dutch assumes what needs brushed past, and he has never been a man to agree with the truth, so he asks of Arthur the least he can imagine asking of him. "I know, son," he interjects, gently moves his hand from his shoulder to raise. Arthur steps back, sighs. "Can you...?" Dutch aches, he does; aches for something here that he cannot put a name to, unsure what would soothe any part of him that's currently stirring. He doesn't find the answer as his eyes search the collar of his red workshirt, the treeline past his shoulder where the horses are grazing on the sloping ground. "I need to be alone. Please."

Arthur's jaw clicks as he moves it, then nods and steps away. He pauses before he obeys.

"I..." — that pregnant, lingering thing comes between them again, keeping Arthur's chin raised as he hesitates — "Sure, Dutch," he says, and leaves him to picking up the larger crumbs of tobacco that fell to the ground.

Bitter brown and orange scattered through green grass and patches of raw dirt. In the soil, he figures out that, foolishly, he wanted to be embraced.

Not much more can be done about you. Not now.

It's been burning his skin, this need to be held. It's less than that, Dutch thinks, maybe just a desire for a vague thing like the right kind of comfort.

What can fill a hole this vast?

What can mend a man?

"What's wrong?" Hosea asks, and it's the only what Dutch knows the answer to.

He must know, too. In the lantern light inside Dutch's tent, his face is sliding away from even into one akin to the expression men turn on kicked dogs. They've grating on one another since abandoning the Overlook, and it's been too long since he's seen that much warmth in his eyes.

If only the kinship didn't come from something so terrible. Dutch hasn't pulled him aside this late into the evening since Annabelle's death sent him to nightmares. How strange it feels to taste her name in his thoughts again. Slowly, you've come to stand beside her, to be dead just like her. Nor with as much haste, with hands that shook so hard gripping Hosea's shoulder that he followed without a question.

"I just," — wringing his hands, pacing around the sprawling bear rug thrown over the ground, seems so gaudy now, all of it seems gaudy — "I don't know what to do with myself."

"Ah, Dutch," Hosea says, voice soft. His face grows hot with the sting of oncoming tears. "I know."

His hands are shaking before the words have fully left his mouth. It comes to him that he hasn't cried in the months since you've passed, and suddenly the wave of it hits him at once. He didn't cry for Annabelle until a year had gone by and Arthur had asked, unknowing, if he'd felt the same way with her as he was feeling with that Linton girl.

He had, was the worst part.

He had felt it with you, too. That youthfulness, the carelessness, let them all know; the way his eyes would soften and give him away before he could ever hope to hide it; the burning of loneliness without you, your hand on his arms or how right your skin felt under his palms; how he liked the way you laughed and smiled, so much that it left him bristling with an energy he didn't know how to waste. Dutch was always bad at hiding himself away, in anger or love. His breath never steadied, 'round you. Nothing was even, nothing was ever as clean-cut as he wished it to be. He realizes he's thinking as if he is dead, and stops himself.

It's almost more than you, now. The weight of it takes him to his knees, all the while ashamed in the back of his mind of what he's come to. Hosea follows. Grunting when his knee joint pops, but follows instantly all the same. For some reason, Dutch's face scrunches up harder at that, and he lets it happen when arms link around his shoulders. He remembers the cold of the air the morning you were buried, and lets out a whinging, broken noise.

Time lapses fast and slow. He's unsure how long he spends crying, or how pitiful it must sound. He's unsure when the last time he even cried was. There's not much to mourn in a life spent living amongst the dead, not really— and not much else warrants tears, not out of a man like him.

They come hard, and then dry up enough his head throbs with the strain to find more with which to release himself. His heart races alongside, pounding hard in his wrists where they are both pressed between their stomachs, fingers clenching and unclenching, rings making divets in the webbing that ache. Nose pressed to the breast pocket of Hosea's shirt, gasping breath in between sobs, Dutch comes to a semblance of his senses, to consciousness. It's still difficult to think through the migraine threatening to take out his vision entirely when he attempts to crack his eyelids. It's almost like a first hangover.

Whiskey would do me much better than bawling, he hears himself pondering.

There's nothing more to think of, not about that evening nor the ride you took. There's nothing he has not thought of on the matters of what those groveling weasels may have done to you before they took your life, and there's nothing he has ever doubted on what information they tried to extort from you.

It was personal, it was. No point would have been had in ratting Dutch out to the law, no safety in sending one of his sniffling newsies to the cops only for that one to be extorted and take everyone down with them. Nothing is fair in love nor war, and this feud has always been made of both.

Your death was a chess piece to Colm. If he really meant it, really wanted Dutch to do anything but get pissed off and show his soft belly while struggling to retaliate— Colm would have brought himself and his best men, and he would have dumped your body before him. Personally, like a real bastard. At least, this is the fantasy Dutch imagines in a world where revenge is feasible, and smart.

There's nothing he hasn't done for you in this world besides cry, and if he doesn't stop this heaving, he'll suffocate. His temple is scorching, burns worse when he tries to pull his head away and he cringes, fumbling for his handkerchief to get rid of the mucus sticking his nose to Hosea in thick strands.

"God, I'm sorry, this is— I'm disgusting," he groans, throat clogged. He's on the brink of tears again just from using his voice. It's thick, and he squeezes his eyes shut trying to fix the mess he's sobbed onto him.

Hosea's hand smooths over his shoulder blade. "No, you're grievin'," he says. "You're lovin'."

Curse him and how— how open he is in being kind. Dutch's feverish forehead falls onto his shoulder, but at least these new tears well up right into the handkerchief instead of all over the already soaked patch on his friend's shirt.

Friend. Brother, really. Hosea must be a brother to hold him this quietly as his organs try to squeeze out his body, to give him this thing he never could have asked for in a silence so much more tolerable than lies of how things will be better soon and reminders that men do not show their pulse points like this.

He is getting old, and Dutch doesn't know what he will do. He thinks the last piece of his soul will die with the man.

His mind thrashes so violently inside his head, he thinks it may come out in bloody chunks as he blows his nose. The skin is screaming and raw by the time he can wrangle a bit of air through his nostrils again. Once hot and writhing, he feels his body going numb, painfully empty. His fingers lock up where they cling to each other at Hosea's chest, and it grows hard to breathe; he slumps against him, rakes in air until his stomach feels connected to himself again, and lets out a shuddering sigh that sinks his shoulders back towards the ground.

Wherever he had been, it was very far away. Maybe it was closer to you.

"When does it stop?" Dutch asks, moving to lay his mouth hard against Hosea's collarbone through the shoulder-seam of his shirt. It's sharp and he leans hard enough to feel as though the bone is grinding on his teeth.

He opens his eyes, though it feels more like prying with the drying tears on his lashes, and— looks at the tent, he supposes, but doesn't see much. A crate of your things stares back at him.

Hosea sighs. "It doesn't," he says, pats his shoulder once. "You'll hurt until you join them."

Dutch hates that he's right.

[jev-urisk]

OOPS, I dropped my laptop and Kazimier X Reader smut fell out! 😮 🌶 

Fang Kink | Monster X Human | World of 🌐7 Circles🌐

I sure hope the two people who voted for this on my poll don't find it~

And I don't know what I would do if @monstersflashlight knew they inspired me to post my smut directly on Tumblrrr....~

Notice: 18+ interacts only. Explicit sex, Ungendered reader insert, alcohol consumption, references to blood, author unable to resist worldbuilding

[Part 1/2]

You’ve been keeping a secret for a couple months now.

As a human, you’re not allowed into the monster empire, you’re supposed to live your measly life outside its borders in the Outlands. If you ever were to venture into the dark claws of Du’Preve, the closest monster district to your human settlement, you would be executed or worse if they discovered you weren’t one of them.

So you’ve taken extra care not to be discovered.

You could never pass as a vampire, with their red eyes and sharp teeth- nevermind a gorgon or gargoyle. But Liches… those looked just like humans until they put too many magic runes on themselves. A little black paint, and some inspiration from a Lich warning poster in your area, and viola, TOTALLY not a human.

Thus far, you’ve hopped the border just to look around for a little while. Du’Preve has some kind of strange curse over it that dims the sun, even at high noon it seems like late evening. You LOVED it. Something about it made you feel alive- you always did have more energy at night and it was a wonder to experience it at 2pm.

You would walk the dirty streets, trying not to stare as you passed people with hissing hair, barking owners of strange market stands, and old rune-riddled liches mumbling incoherently in the gutters.

You also tried very hard not to squint, to act like you weren’t used to the perpetual darkness. You’d overheard monsters spit that word onto the pavement, ‘Squints.’ ‘Damn Squints,’ ‘Filch-beggin’ no good fuckin’ Squints.’

It has the same other-ness that ‘Fang-Banger’ has back home, a term that’s spat at anyone who gets cozy with a monster, even when it’s not the person’s fault.

You might get called that just for visiting Du’Preve, honestly.

But no one back home knows about your adventures, just as no monster knows what you really are. It’s been working so well that on today’s trip into darkness, you decide to do something a little different.

Du’Preve was known to host all kinds of escapism- drugs, whores, alcohol, you name it. But the most interesting to you were the parties and the clubs that hosted them. Last time you were here you overheard talk of one club in particular, The Club Lascivia, where patrons are generally safe from gang involvement and getting drinks spiked by malicious strangers.

You had gone through what few Du’Preve-looking outfits you had, needing something to wear to a club- eventually settling for something skimpier than you’d usually wear in your excitement to dance the night- or the day, away. You slip through your settlement in an old cloak which you leave at the border, soon arriving at your destination- by all appearances just another monster looking to party.

The scene was electric, with colored lights and dirty music that hummed beneath your skin. You moved between the dance floor, enjoying yourself with your heart racing at how close you were to the monstrous patrons, and simply watching the crowd from the safety of a booth, seeing for the first time how human these monsters really were.

In the booth next to you were two gargoyles, their stone-colored wings slightly unfolded to give a sense of privacy as they gossiped about a third gargoyle between flustered giggles.

You see a male gorgon leaning too close to a disinterested woman at the bar and after a few heated words she throws her drink in his face, causing his snakes to curl back with a hiss.

On the dancefloor you watch a little lich flirting with a stunning vampire, dancing so close, rubbing against one another. The vampire brushes closed lips against the lich’s throat in a dangerous tease and you shiver unexpectedly, drawn to the tantalizing threat.

Hot.

Wait- ‘hot’? What are you thinking?! Are you.. a fang-banger? No but you haven’t-

Before you can really parse out your thoughts, you notice a man approaching your booth with a couple of drinks.

He’s in a leather jacket that he hasn’t bothered to zip up over his fishnet shirt, allowing you to see the shape of his hips and the toned ‘v’ of his pelvis peaking up over a studded belt and artfully ripped jeans.

He stops a pace or so away from you, looking at you through tinted glasses as the lights of the club backlight his mane of curly black hair. Something about the way he looks at you makes you flush. He smiles, as if he knows what you’re feeling, and you see fangs glinting in his smirk.

“Mind if I join ya?" He asks in this brassy yet silken voice.

“Yes.” you find yourself saying, “-You can join me, that is.”

“ ‘Preciate it.” he says, and as he sits a strange thrill buzzes through your skull. “Here, for your hospitality.”

He sets a tall drink garnished with a twist of orange in front of you and your voice of reason momentarily returns. Was this safe to drink? You didn’t see the drink made, so it’s possible this was a sexy trap to lure you into a surprise kidney removal or something, right? You rotate the glass, as if somehow that would help you tell if it was spiked.

As you’re grappling with how to politely refuse the cocktail, his hand and its many rings brushes against yours and he plucks your glass off the table to take a deep drink, smiling as he catches the look on your face.

He sets it back in front of you with about a third less liquid in it and leans back, his arms draping across the top of the plush seating. “You’re smart not to trust a stranger, but I don’t get my kicks at this club from unwilling participants.” he teases, not unkind, but with a hint of what those kicks may be, “Go on then.” he urges, looking at you, not the drink. “If you want it.. It’s here for you.”

You had never been propositioned quite like this. His air was pushy, dominant, forceful even. But in his words and relaxed posture he invited you to walk away. What if you did? He might chuckle as you excuse yourself with a scarlet blush.. but you don’t think he’d follow.

What if you didn’t?

In a streak of boldness you look him in the eye and pick up your drink, draining it entirely as you stare him down. You were a human with enough gall to sneak into monster territory, after all.

“Moxie.” he praises with a quirk of his brow. It crosses your mind that you’re impressing a monster with your bravery and you feel tipsy off that alone. He licks one of his fangs and you can’t take your eyes off him. You think to the vampire on the dance floor and wonder what it feels like to have those sharp teeth on your skin.. on your lips..

“Now that you're done with your drink, you wanna taste of somethin’ else?” He asks, and you blush at his ability to seemingly read your thoughts.

What.. What should you say? Obviously you were getting hot and bothered here but to do anything physical with a person from Du'Preve, to willingly walk into his grasp, that was a much much bigger taboo than taking yourself on a little adventure across the border now and again.

You feel a light touch on your wrist, the man has moved in the semicircular booth to sit beside you. “Hey now..” the man soothes, his fingers barely resting on your skin. “You can be nervous, moxie, or anythin’ between. If we do somethin’ I just need you to want it.”

Your voice comes out as a whisper, anxious and daring all at once. “I want it.”

[PART 2]

7C taglist:

@gioiaalbanoart @biblicallyaccuratefruitbat @katenewmanwrites @pencilpusher1000 @lychhiker-writes @autism-purgatory @wyked-ao3 @cowboybrunch @zackprincebooks @smellyrottentrees @fortunatetragedy @aalinaaaaaa @the-golden-comet @urbiggestfan-01 @quillswriting @nbkuhn @ddgraywrites (hmu to be =/- to the list)

[twyftwyt]

a little Noah imagine I wrote last night, so enjoy

warnings: smut

“Did you miss me?”

We hadn’t seen each other in over a month until I decided to go surprise him on tour. He had a few more shows before the end but I just couldn’t wait any longer. I had been touch and love deprived for a month now and I needed to see the only man that could ever make me crawl out of my skin. So I took the first flight to Toronto, where they were playing tonight and landed a bit dizzy but ready to surprise the hell out of him. I had previously called Jesse to let him know I’m coming and he made to sure to send me an AAA pass, so I could access the venue before they even got to it themselves.

I put my bags down in one of the green rooms and got a bottle of a water from the mini fridge. 12:30, they should be here any minute now. My phone, discarded on the leather couch I was sitting on currently, came to life with a buzz.

“Just got here. Where are you?” - Jesse

“Third green room to the left once you enter from the back.”

“Cool. I’ll send him there.” - Jesse

Jesse was a top tier friend for keeping my secrets and helping me with the execution of all the little, sinister plans I had for Noah. Like that one time I surprised him with a trip to New Zealand for his birthday but had to make up a story that the AC in his room broke down and he couldn’t use his room for a few days, so essentially Jesse sent him to my place.

I heard the knob of the door and my eyes immediately shot at the tall, lean figure that entered the dim lit room.

“Hi, handsome.”

His eyes pierced mine the moment my voice danced around his ears. He was wearing his Naruto hoodie, a pair of black shorts and a black Omens cap. And damn, did he look good.

“What the–“ was all he could mutter

“Surprised to see me, baby?”

I got up and started walking over to him slowly. He was still looking at me in disbelief. The moment I reached him and locked my fingers behind his neck, I felt his muscles tense. Our bodies responded in such a way every time we were around each other and it was fucking epic every single time. Like electricity but worse.

“I sure am, so give me a fucking minute, please.”

I was already on my tippy toes grinning up at him. My eyes lingered from his eyes down to his lips and back up to his eyes.

“You’re not gonna give me a little smooch?”

I puckered my lips at him and he showed me his pearly whites, grinning back at me.

“I’ll give you a fucking beating, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Mmh–“

My moan was cut short by his hungry mouth. I felt his tongue slip inside and trace my own before getting into a little fight with it. He was cute like that but I quickly felt him turn primal.

“I’ve a sound check in 30.”

“30’s a solid number. We can do 30.” I moaned into his mouth.

“Then let’s do fucking 30.”

I felt his hands around my waist, guiding me backwards until my knees hit the couch. He pushed me onto it and took his sweatshirt off along with the shirt he had underneath. I wasted no time tugging at the hem of his shorts, pulling them down until I freed one my favorite things about him. Looking up at him, I wet my right hand and gripped him firmly.

“Fuck–”

“Did you miss me?”

“Almost every fucking bight, babe.”

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Lady C Tea Christmas Eve 2024 (The "Meghan is a Nightmare Across Many Continents" Edition - a few nuggets paraphrased by me) by u/daisybeach23

Lady C Tea Christmas Eve 2024 (The "Meghan is a Nightmare Across Many Continents" Edition - a few nuggets paraphrased by me) Greetings from Castle Goring,I was told something by someone who shall remain rather opaque.  This person was on the delegation of Harry and Meghan’s Colombia trip.  Oh my, it is so delicious to be told something that everyone suspected.  I was told Harry was fine.  Nobody complained about him.  I was told that Meghan is a living nightmare.  She was demanding.  She was abrasive.  She didn’t want to interact with people beyond the photo ops, including the children.  She had to be pressured to earn her keep.  She was a nightmare to such an extent that Vice President Marquez stormed off and said she wanted nothing to do with Meghan.  She felt Meghan was running up expenses and not living up to her end of the bargain.  VP Marquez wanted Meghan there as a woman of color and wanted Meghan to help press that agenda.  VP Marquez now realized her judgement was poor to have anything to do with Meghan. And now my bongo bongo drums are beating in a different direction.  Netflix wants to dump them.  They are trying to find a way to dump them that will save face, save Ted Sarandos’ face, and stop any more money being spent on them.  Evidently, ARO is not impressing them.  A top executive says they are losers and Meghan is a witch with a B.  I have also been given another bit of news. Lady C applauds the NYPD for mocking Harry.  She says Harry is an idiot to believe he was in a high speed car chase near Times Square.Lady C, why didn’t Netflix do any advertising for POLO?  Do you think Netflix wanted it to flop so they could get out of their contract?  Your reasoning is very interesting.  Netflix did not promote POLO at all.  I don’t think Netflix wanted it to flop but early on realized they had a flop on their hands.  I understand that Netflix cannot stand Meghan and find her very difficult to work with.  They think Harry is stupid and stubborn.    They would have loved to have a continuing relationship with Harry and Meghan, especially if they had remained Their Royal Highnesses, but they loathe Meghan in particular.    They have tarnished their own brand.  They have revealed themselves to be uninteresting and unpopular.  It will be interesting to see how Netflix extricate themselves.  If they can dump Harry and Meghan, they will do it.  If they can’t, they will ease them out.  Before they even made a program with Netflix, they showed themselves to be unreliable partners because Netflix watched Harry and Meghan give away content to Oprah.  I gather Oprah paid money to them, maybe through Archewell.Lady C, I’ve been noticing that the Daily Mail seems to be bending over backwards lately for Meghan.  They seem to be absolving her of blame for anything.  They say the trouble started when Princess Michael wore the blackamoor brooch.  Isn’t it interesting how these stories seem to be regurgitated.  Princess Michael wore a moretto veneziano which is a sign of racial inclusiveness, not racial exclusivity.  Princess Michael said she was sorry if her brooch caused offense, not that she was sorry.  I don’t think she should have done it.  She should have explained the history of her brooch and that anything otherwise was misunderstood.  This is all rubbish.  Meghan always playing the race card.Toodles Sinners!PS…Nothing new from Lady C but I thought I would post anyway. Merry Christmas and I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season! post link: https://ift.tt/Ceq39Ol author: daisybeach23 submitted: December 25, 2024 at 05:55AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[skankinator]

Complications Ch. 8

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Fem Reader

18+ MDNI

You woke up early Monday morning feeling well prepared for the day. Today you would be meeting the squadron selected for your mission. Yesterday all you did after breakfast with Stacie was go over the mission and practice your briefing in the mirror. You dressed in your Captain’s uniform and left for the base.

You had a meeting that morning with Admiral Simpson and Admiral Bates. You reach the meeting room and greet the admirals. You exchange small talk about the weather and your trip when someone you don’t recognize enters the room.

“Captain Y/LN, I would like you to meet Captain Pete Mitchell,” Admiral Simpson gestures towards the old captain. You shake his hand with a smile. “He will be teaching this mission with you.”

The friendly smile is wiped off of your face. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I was under the impression that I was the sole commander of this mission.”

Admiral Simpson explains, “Maverick here is one of few naval aviators with combat experience similar to those required for the mission.”

You have worked your butt off for months on this mission and some old white man thinks he can just take over? You try to keep your frustration hidden. “I appreciate the thought, but I can complete the mission training without additional help,” your attempt at a cheerful tone is undermined by annoyance.

“Sorry captain this is a nonnegotiable. You will work with Maverick or you will be off the mission. Is that clear?” Admiral Simpson shut you down quickly.

“Yes sir,” you say through clenched teeth, “am I dismissed?”

The Admirals look to each other and nod agreeing that you may leave. You charge out the door not bothering to respond to your new coworker when he says, “I look forward to working with you.”

You try to blow off some steam as you walk to your office. Do they not trust you are capable of executing this mission? They had to give you a babysitter. Despite your nearly perfect career.

You don’t have much time before you need to gather your things and head to the briefing room. Here you will meet the Top Gun recruits and go over what you will expect from them. Captain Mitchell is already there when you arrive. He is already standing at the podium talking.

You set down your things and stand next to the Admirals waiting for him to finish. You look at the aviators in front of you gauging their responses to Maverick’s speech. He has quite an unconventional way of teaching.

There is an overly confident blonde chewing on a toothpick in front. You look forward to deflating that ego. You seem to share that sentiment with the woman flipping him off. You like her already.

You do a double take when you see a familiar face. You must be seeing things. There is no way that is who you think it is. Just as the world begins falling apart all around you, Maverick has decided it is time to introduce you.

“Captain Y/LN,” he says probably for the second or third time. You walk to the podium taking deep breaths to calm yourself. All you have to do right now is complete the briefing, just like you practiced.

You look up and see Bradley looking back at you with wide eyes. You decide to avoid looking in his direction to help you focus. How are you supposed to give a professional briefing in front of everyone with the man who fished a condom out of you sitting in front of you?

You have a slow start, but eventually pull yourself together. Once you say everything you had planned, you dismiss everyone to prepare for flight. As you go to gather your things, a few pilots approach you to formally introduce themselves. Likely to earn some brownie points with the person who has final say of team leader.

The last pilot needs no introduction, but does so anyway. Bradley holds out his hand and says, “Lt. Bradley Bradshaw call sign Rooster.” You hesitantly shake his hand. It is hard not to remember what those hands have done to your body.

“When you said you were a teacher, I thought you meant math. Not aerial combat,” Bradley says still holding your hand.

You look up to meet his eyes. His big brown puppy dog eyes. “Most men find that intimidating,” you respond softly. You look back down to your hands and quickly pull away clearing your throat. “Anyway, we should go preflight,” you blurt out turning away.

Before he can call after you, you are gone. You will have to face him eventually, but not now. You need time to figure out what to do. A superior officer does not sleep with their subordinates. It is ethically wrong and just complicated. Hopefully, flying will clear your mind.

[rubykgrant]

I can't remember if I posted about it already, or if I just can't find it (because searching for something on here is impossible), but I'm thinking about my Avatar story idea from when I was a teenager (literally right after the original series ended, and way before we had Korra or the comics as a continuation), so here it is again-

-Zuko realizes his dad will never tell him where Ursa is, and just keeps using it as a bargaining chip, so decides to ignore Ozai and focus on helping put the Earth Kingdom/Water Tribes back together, and get the Fire Nation out of "war-mode"

-He also tries to figure out how to help his sister; Azula isn't being violent now that she's fully accepted defeat, but she is SUPREMELY depressed (and seems to expect him to "execute" her, which he very much has no interest in doing). Iroh and some others from the White Lotus find a group of Healers, some Waterbenders, who also understand emotional/mental pain, who agree to help her (she does improve eventually, but it is painful for her to even go home to the Fire Nation... finally realizing how badly her father messed her up was a big deal). Eventually, Ty Lee and Mai visit her, sort of trying to have a "new" friendship

-A couple years go by. Things have mostly settled down, but every once in a while there is a problem (a group in the Fire Nation who think Zuko shouldn't be Fire Lord call themselves "Azula's Army". they aren't very powerful, but are definitely annoying, and sow discontent with other people). After an adventure helping a young Fire Sage who is training, Aang and Zuko find some old scrolls about strange "distant islands"

-Sokka recognizes some of the scrolls are from Wan Shi Tong's library (stolen however long ago). The satchel they were in belonged to Zhao; these were other things he found when looking into information about the Moon and Ocean Spirits. One scroll with a map has the island closest to the Fire Nation circled, with notes in the corner about this being a "Secret the Fire Lords keep". Zuko researches a little more, and finally has the answer...

-This island was where a once "disgraced" Fire Lord was sent, and since then, other Fire Lords have used it as a place for banishment. While it is more common to just banish people from the Fire Nation itself, when a Fire Lord wants to entirely erase somebody without actually "killing" them, they are sent to that island. More secrets imply that a few soldiers who were part of Sozin's army secretly saved infants from the Air Temples during attacks. They weren't strong enough to outright oppose the Fire Lord, and there wasn't enough of them to fight the other soldiers, but they wanted to at least save the children. The babies were smuggled away to the island. This is also where Ozai sent Ursa

-The group decides to make a big trip to the island; after all, they have the possibility of not only finding Zuko's mother, but Aang might NOT be the last Airbender! Aang, Zuko, Katara, Sokka, Toph, Mai, Ty Lee, Suki, and Hakoda are all going out on a ship with a few crew members (it would be too far for Appa to fly over the sea, but he and Momo are still along for the ride). Zuko is leaving behind Iroh as temporary Fire Lord, and Suki asked some of her Kyoshi Warriors to help

-At one point as they travel, they find a small, much newer island, formed by a volcano that has started to grow plant life. They all stay for the night to camp and gather some fresh fruit/do some fishing. Katara has figured out a way to "pull apart" salt water so it can be drinkable. Toph just REALLY needs a good dose of LAND before sailing again. In a small tide pool, Zuko teaches Toph how to swim (suddenly remembering how his older cousin Lu Ten taught him way back on Ember Island, before Azula was even born. she finally gets her own Zuka field-trip!)

-They finally arrive at the island; there are a LOT of people here. Some who's ancestors were banished by a Fire Lord generations ago, some who were sailors that got stranded out here after bad storms. A few people who had been Fire Nation soldiers back then decided to stay, not wanting to be part of the war anymore. They all have their own communities... and so many of them are Airbenders! Aang is very excited, and shows off some of his own abilities. The people are amazed, especially because they have never been taught any actual "techniques". Their history and heritage has been lost to them. As everybody walks around, Zuko eagerly looks for a familiar face... when he hears somebody suddenly call his name. He and his mother finally meet again, crying and embracing each other (she sees his scar, and when she touches it and sees his eyes glance down sadly, she knows Ozai did it)

-Lots of catching up, both happy and sad. Some of the people banished here were Waterbenders that had been captured by the Fire Army, in the attempt to have them control whirlpools/tidal waves (searching for some long-lost treasure). The Waterbenders would pretend to be swept away, and escape, eventually finding this island. Now that the restrictions that "banished" them are gone, everybody on the island is welcome to return to the outside world. The ship isn't big enough for everybody, but Ursa and several of the Airbenders make the return trip (more boats will be sent later, both so people on the island can see the other Nations, and so the island can be visited; they won't be alone out here anymore)

-Ursa and Hakoda talk a lot together while sailing back (wishing they could have protected their children better), and Aang shares stories of the Air Nomads with the Airbenders, also teaching some of them how to make an Air Scooter. When they arrive, Iroh is happy to see Ursa again. Zuko takes her to go visit Azula, who at first doesn't believe her mother could return, or EVER love her... but Ursa reassures her daughter; she is real, and so is her love

-Zuko makes one final visit to Ozai; his father has gotten a little "impatient", expecting that Zuko wouldn't be able to resist coming back to ask about his mother for so long... Iroh also walks in, and Ozai tries to mock his brother. Azula walks in as well, finally confronting her father. This throws him, because she looks different (short hair, no make-up), and also because she doesn't care about his approval anymore. He tries to bargain with her, but she refuses his offers. Then, Ursa walks in. Her son and his friends found her, WITHOUT him. Now, she is back with both of her children. Ozai is struck silent. Finally, Aang walks in, telling Ozai that his ancestor failed, the other Airbenders were NOT wiped-out. They will all walk out of here, and have happy lives. He will stay. Nobody wants anything from him anymore. Too late, after they leave, Ozai starts shouting, trying to beg or threaten, but nobody listens (nobody cares)

-In the years that follow, the other islands are eventually located and explored, with more people found there (new people who are Fire/Water/Earth/Air Benders, but with different cultures than the Four Nations. Sokka is sort of the official diplomat for making new friends, and eventually, all the new places are able to travel and communicate with each other). Hakoda and Ursa grow closer, but take a while to act on any romantic feelings (they're worried their children might find it awkward, and Hakoda especially didn't want Katara and Sokka to think he doesn't care about their mother's memory... but the kids are all very happy about it! this makes them all family). Aang helps the Airbenders who want to move back to the Air Temples adjust and recover. People from other nations who have made homes near the Temples are welcome to stay as well, and also help repair the buildings. Hakoda and Ursa live part of the year on Ember Island, and part in the Southern Water Tribe village that was his home (which has also been rebuilt). Azula eventually feels content enough to move on, and she lives on Kyoshi Island with Ty Lee (Azula avoids bending, finally realizing she has PTSD, but she can still help train people with hand-to-hand fighting techniques). Toph makes a home for herself outside of the swamp, where she also begins teaching Metalbending (haha, yes, ironic~). Now that Zuko is very at home being Fire Lord, Iroh stays in Ba Sing Se full time for his tea shop, but returns for special occasions (like when Zuka and Mai get married). Katara surprises Aang with a gift one day; a necklace~

[agentravensong]

Ros & Guil Being Victims of the Narrative Compilation

propaganda for @doomed-bythe-narrative's poll tournament

If you've never heard of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, it's a play from 1966 that follows two side characters from Shakespeare's Hamlet. Any other context I'll provide as we go. This post will spoil the whole play, so keep that in mind before reading further. TL;DR these guys are arguably the progenitors of being doomed by the narrative in our postmodern understanding of the concept, and, as much as it sounds like those orv guys deserve the title too, I want my boys to win. Please vote for them.

If you need more than that to be convinced... I'll oblige.

1.

Ros and Guil don't have any solid memories from before the start of the play, at best impressions of memories, because they only exist within the context of the present narrative. They don't get to have pasts because it's irrelevant. They don't even get to know which of them is which (and every other character treats them as interchangeable).

2.

The reason for Ros and Guil's presence in Hamlet is that they're supposed to figure out what's wrong with Hamlet on behalf of the king (because they apparently used to be his friends), but their efforts are unsuccessful. In this play, it's framed as an impossible request -- they get as close as they can get, despite not really understanding a word he says, but get tripped up at the thought there must be more to it than that -- because they were written to fail.

After Hamlet does a murder, their function in the narrative switches to being the ones to bring him to the king, and then to accompany the prince to England where (currently unknown to the two of them) he will be executed. Roles that, as Guil points out, could have been fulfilled by anyone:

The answer to that last question, is, of course, no. The reason it has to be them is because of how this sequence of events ends: with their deaths.

In short, Hamlet changes the letter with the King's declaration when the pair is sleeping so that they will be killed instead. In the context of Hamlet, this is a key moment for his character (it's his first use of the state violence that's his birthright, and it's a situation he could have gotten out of in plenty of other ways) and for how his bestie Horatio sees him.

But in the context of this show? For as far as Ros and Guil get to know? It is simply what has to happen.

3.

Ros and Guil have no agency over the events of the narrative. When they're not "on stage", they're left in limbo, at the mercy of the other characters' comings and goings.

They try to summon the other characters, because they don't know what to do with themselves otherwise, but nobody comes. Eventually, Ros gets frustrated with this, and then this happens:

When they're "on stage", everything sticks to the script. Even in this example, where Ros and Guil have failed to detain Hamlet and bring him before the King, the world adapts just enough to keep things on track:

They are at the whims of the narrative.

There's even a dig at how they can't get the ever-passive audience to meaningfully react to them:

They can't escape the bounds of the narrative, even if both of them wanted to.

Any chances they might have had to actually change the course of events come too late, when they're already convinced (arguably more as a coping method than anything else) that their choices don't matter in the shadow of what they've been caught up in.

That last snippet is the conclusion of a bit about how Ros doesn't believe in England because he can't conceptualize it as a place, can't conceptualize his and Guil's arrival there -- which is because it doesn't happen, because England is out of the scope of the narrative and thereby doesn't exist. They can't even imagine a different future for themselves.

4.

There's one other major character in the play: the leader of the traveling players (aka tragedians). He basically exists to prod at Ros and (especially) Guil and explain, in a manner that they can't quite grasp (or refuse to), how they're trapped in a tragedy -- and the cost the two of them will therefore have to pay. As he puts it, in this genre of narrative, "blood is compulsory".

5.

Rosencrantz has this whole monologue in parallel to Hamlet's "to be or not to be" soliloquy about being trapped in a box, which imo is a pretty clear metaphor for being a doomed character in a narrative and whether it'd be preferable to live that existence or to not be part of the narrative at all -- that is, to not exist, to have never been alive.

6.

Lastly, the ending. Ros and Guil are sent off with Hamlet on the boat to England. Pirates attack (yes, really, it's what happens in Hamlet too), and the prince escapes with them. Our pair discovers that the letter they were sent with now inexplicably calls for their heads (not knowing that Hamlet switched it).

Guil, at his wit's end, desperate to prove he has some influence, some agency, stabs the Player. But the man gets right back up.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern face their deaths.

And the worst part of it all?

The promise of "next time". They're in a time loop. Because that's how theater works. Every performance, following from the previous, is them living through these events again. The same exact events, as dictated by the narrative.

They don't remember, loop to loop. Not enough to make different choices. Not enough to say "no".

They won't learn. They won't improve. They won't save themselves/each other. They will do this forever.

And since that gets me basically to the image limit, that's where I'll stop. These bitches (affectionate) are the definition of doomed by the narrative, and it would make very happy if they could at least get past round 1 of the tournament, as stiff as the competition is.

As a closing bonus, take the ending of Act 2 (of 3) of the play, which just. Kills me every time.

[fortheloveofaussiegrit]

(WIP) spicin’ up date night; in which Mark and Oscar decide to head to a strip club ahead of the Vegas Grand Prix and decide that its not really them. 

It had been a silly little idea of Mark’s for the pair of them to go to a strip club in Las Vegas ahead of the race. One that Oscar hadn’t even opposed and had just simply replied to the text with “Yeah, i’m free tonight,” after backspacing the thumbs up emoji he usually used to reply to Mark with and hitting send. 

Mark had opted for a female strip club because, well, what would people say if they saw him stumbling out of a gay strip club in the early hours of the morning? …there was little to no thought, however, that went into the presumptions that would entail him taking his mentee to a strip club. 

The club itself was not nearly as cringe-inducing as Mark was expecting; he had to admit that the decor and the inhabitants of the place were not as shabby as expected. It was... adequate, and the grin Oscar was giving him almost reached from ear to ear and that alone was worth the trip.

They had already downed a few before they had left, deciding that hitting the strip club stone-cold sober wasn’t the best idea and needed some liquid courage, but the oval-shaped bar in the more shadowy part of the club was the first place they headed. Muffled but steady-going beats filled the large room and reciprocated the heavy, quickened beat in Mark’s own chest, carrying the anticipation of the night’s promises. The neon-illuminated light spelling out B-A-R above their heads was far too ghastly, in Mark’s opinion, but it lit up Oscar’s little radiant face as he leant against the bar. The light was bouncing off the tops of his cheekbones, his rosy-stained cheeks, and his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store as he smiled at the bartender. 

He was too happy, and it was way too evident that it was his first time ever stepping foot in an establishment of this kind. 

The bar overlooked a number of booths, surrounded by seats of deep red velvet cushions, with the pole, of course, in the centre. It was a slightly more sophisticated strip club than the majority that littered the Las Vegas strip, with lavish red drapes of identical colour covering the walls and creating a division between some of the sections. The girls themselves, in little velvet shorts and matching tops, executed a somewhat uniform for the club as they swanned in between the few customers that sat scattered around the room. 

Oscar nudged a bottle of beer into Mark’s hand as he headed towards one of the booths. Mark gave the bottle a nod and a shrug in acceptance as he followed suit. Beer. Good choice, because of course, they had to keep up with the somewhat toxic heterosexual, masculine image that was projected onto them by society, which was another reason why they were trying to gawk at scantily clad women instead of men right now. 

He sunk into plush booth, the red velvet fabric being much cleaner than he expected. It was as hygienic as a strip club was going to get. Unsoiled, no marks or stains from previous inhabitants allowing himself to relax a little bit more into his surroundings. He cradled the glass bottle in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the rough label absentmindedly as he gaze fell upon the kid next to him who looked to be having the time of his life. Eyes wide, set ablaze as they darted between every inch of the scene unfolding in front of them. 

A couple of guys darted around the place. Not too busy as it was still early into the night.

Giddy. The excitement visibly bubbling under his skin. delirious ecstasy 

euphoria of some kind. But it was just the this is my first time in a strip club kind of buzz. 

He turned to Mark, “not your kind of thing?” he poked with a grin, resisting the temptation to physically jab his digit into Mark’s flesh. “We can go.” He offered with a shrug realising that there actually wasn’t much more that he would want to see anyway, but Mark shook his head, decisively. 

“I can appreciate a women's body.” Gesturing to the women in the centre of the room swinging around and around the pole in positions with limbs sticking out in opposite directions that Mark thought were quite literally impossible for ones body. “Relax.” He winked with twinkle in his eyes that Oscar couldn’t quite place. “Enjoy it.” 

Oscar fumbled with the bottle, haphazardly bringing it to his lips and taking a sip before his eyes tore back to the girl he was meant to be drooling over. The lighting was as neon and distracting as they get. In sometimes pinkish, sometimes bluish tones that illuminated the stage. Reflecting off of the girl’s limbs as she stuck them out in each and every direction. Big, bouncy, golden curls highlighted by the multicoloured lights. Pretty. Very pretty. She was the type that would have most other guys begging on their knees just for her to look in their direction, but she didn’t do much for Oscar, not so much as even twitch in his jeans. 

He preferred something different. He wanted someone with a pair between their legs instead of a pair being held up by a tiny string bikini. He didn’t want a girl with petite little shoulders and a dainty little waist; he yearned for broad, strong shoulders that could muster the strength to throw him across a room, and, well, he liked the tummy Mark was beginning to show.

//

Mark reached up to pull the curtain, tugging at it as Oscar did the same with his jeans.

“I always forget…” He trailed off as he gazed — his fingers wrapped around the base of Mark’s cock. 

“Forget what?” Mark stared as a red glaze streaked over the tops of Oscar’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose, dancing around the freckles that were scattered across his skin, seemingly painted on by the hands of tiny little angels. Heavenly.

“The size.” The blush deepening to an almost blood red as the mischievous grin permeated across his cheeks, looking up to Mark through his eyelashes, “don’t let that go to your head.” He spoke as it did just that in his palm. 

Oscar let out a giggle as it twitched again. 

“You want me to?” He teased, bemused by the free-rein he had over Mark in times like this. Mark would let him do anything. 

“Of course i fucking do.” He — resisting the urge to clout him round the head. “Get on with it.” He wanted to __ , but then Oscar did just that and his whole body felt like it was about to collapse in on itself. His head falling back as he let out a shuddered breath as Oscar sucked him into his hot, wet mouth. 

//

Fumbling with the key as he tried to slot it into the lock. He had already came once tonight and nothing on earth was stopping him from doing it again just hopefully this time it was nestled deeply into Oscar’s rear-end. 

“No little dance?” Mark joked as Oscar across the room, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. 

“You want to prolong this any longer?” He answered back, raising an eyebrow at Mark. 

“Nope.” Shaking his head as he smirk grew on his lips. “Definitely don’t.” 

[nswerlvr]

Lily’s lost the plot kinda ?

Morrow Lily x fem!member reader

— Trainee Days

The JYP practice room was a flurry of movement as trainees bustled about, perfecting their dance routines. In one corner, Lily and Y/n were working through a particularly challenging choreography.

Y/n wiped sweat from her brow, frustration evident. “I swear, this move is impossible. I keep messing up.”

Lily, glancing up from her own practice, smirked. “Not impossible. Just tricky. Here, let me show you.” She adjusted her stance and executed the move with effortless precision.

Y/n watched with a mix of admiration and mock annoyance. “Great, now I have to live up to your dance prowess. Thanks for making me look even worse.”

“Hey, you’re doing better than you think,” Lily said, nudging Y/n playfully. “Besides, I’m just here to help you avoid looking like a clumsy mess. We all know I’m the clumsy one in the duo.”

Y/n chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, right. Like I don’t remember you tripping over your own feet during the last practice.”

“True, true,” Lily admitted, laughing. “But at least I’ve got your back. Let’s try this again. And this time, less spaghetti arms.”

With renewed determination, Y/n followed Lily’s lead, gradually mastering the move. “Thanks for the help,” Y/n said with a grin. “And for not laughing too hard.”

Lily gave her a warm smile. “Anytime. Just remember, we’re a team. We succeed or fail together.”

— “Lily’s Lost the Plot” Live

The set of Lily’s live show, “Lost the Plot,” was lively, Y/n had been invited as a special guest, adding a fresh spark to the episode.

As the live stream began, Lily waved energetically at the camera. “Hello, everyone! Welcome to another episode of ‘Lost the Plot.’ Today, I have a special guest—our very own Y/n from NMIXX!”

Y/n smiled and waved, looking slightly nervous but excited. “Hi, everyone!”

Lily turned to Y/n with a teasing glint in her eye. “So, Y/n, there’s been some buzz about you and Ni-ki from Enhypen. Care to share any details?”

Y/n’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “Oh, Lily, come on. It’s nothing serious. We’re just friends.”

Lily leaned in with a playful smirk. “Just friends? I’m sure our nswers would love to hear more. How’s that friendship going?”

Y/n fidgeted with her microphone, trying to play it cool. “Really, Lily, there’s nothing to tell. We just hang out and talk like normal friends.”

“Sure, sure,” Lily said with a knowing look. “But you have to admit, it’s a little more fun to tease you about it.”

Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “Alright, you win. Just don’t expect me to spill any more details.”

“Deal,” Lily said with a grin. “But for now, let’s dive into today’s book. And remember, you’re always welcome to join me for more fun.”

They continued the show, their natural chemistry and playful banter making it a memorable episode. The genuine affection between them was clear, their easygoing interaction captivating viewers.

Post-Practice Snack

After another long practice session, Lily and Y/n found themselves in the break room, grabbing snacks and catching their breath.

“So, how was your day?” Lily asked, opening a packet of chips and offering some to Y/n.

Y/n took a handful, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Not too bad. Although, I might have accidentally spilled water all over the floor earlier. I’m a walking disaster today.”

Lily laughed, shaking her head. “Really? And here I thought I was the only one with clumsy moments. You’re in good company.”

“Well, if you weren’t so good at covering up your mess-ups, I might have been the clumsy one in our duo,” Y/n teased, taking a sip of her drink.

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And what about that time you tripped over your own feet in the middle of a performance?”

“Hey, that was one time,” Y/n said defensively. “And I’ve learned to laugh it off.”

“Exactly,” Lily agreed, nudging her gently. “Laughing off our mistakes is what makes us a great team. We’ve got each other’s backs, no matter what.”

Y/n smiled, feeling a surge of warmth. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for always being there.”

“Of course,” Lily said, her tone softening. “That’s what big sisters are for.”

They chatted and laughed together, their bond evident in every interaction. The playful teasing and mutual support made their time together both enjoyable and comforting.

[chaiaurchaandni]

the only thing zi0nists dont lie about: plans to exterminate Palestinians

UN Expert Warns Israel on Track to Exterminate Nearly Entire Gaza Population | Truthout

in Gaza, people are klled by:

directly targeted zionist airstrikes on homes and tents

zionist imposed starvation

zionist blockade preventing medical aid/insulin/dialysis + cancer treatments

diseases contracted due to lack of sanitation

shrapnel from zionist bombs

being crushed to death under tonnes of rubble

dying of suffocation under tonnes of rubble since rescue workers do not have resources to help everyone in time

being crushed to death by zionist tanks and bulldozers

zionist snipers who pick off and kill Palestinians randomly

being targeted for covering zionist warcrimes through journalism

being targeted for providing aid and food to displaced Palestinians

being targeted for providing medical aid

mass executions after rounding up Palestinian men and teenage boys

in addition to this, zionists:

kidnapped scores of Palestinians, many of them children

keep Palestinians hostage in zionist jails

torture Palestinian hostages to death

gangrape Palestinian hostages to death

starve Palestinian hostages

forcefully amputate limbs of Palestinian hostages

steal organs from the corpses of Palestinian hostages

bury Palestinian hostages in unmarked graves + mass graves

steal Palestinian corpses from graves for organ trafficking

bulldoze Palestinian graveyards

destroy historical Palestinian infrastructure

destroy places of worship including mosques and churches

organize cruse trips to watch Palestinians get bombed for entertainment

protest for the right to rape Palestinian hostages

prevent Palestinian children from going to school

target clearly marked WFP and UN aid workers and trucks

target ambulances and hospitals

cut out power to Palestinian hospitals, killing several newborn babies

forcefully evcuating hospitals and residential areas and refugee camps

declaring UNRWA to be a terrorist organzation

preventing many journalists from entering Gaza

and this is just in Gaza.

in the West Bank and 48 territories, zionist soldiers and settlers (so-called 'civilians'):

invade Palestinian communities

cut off water, electricity and medical aid to Palestinians

destroy and bulldoze Palestinian homes, roads, other infrastructure

kill Palestinians in their homes

kidnap and torture Palestinians, often making mocking videos of blindfolded Palestinians

order airstrikes on Palestinians gong about their daily lives

detain Palestinian children

arrest Palestinians for expressing support for Gaza

organize mob lynchings

drive Palestinian students out of their schools

invade al-Aqsa mosque and instigate violence on holy grounds

use tear gas and skunk water on Palestinians

beat up elderly Palestinians as well as women and children

force Palestinians to demolish their own homes

steal Palestinian homes, quite literally zionists just force their way into Palestinian homes and force out the Palestinians, with the help of the IOF

hold concerts and festivals over colonized Palestinian land

violently protest for the right to rape Palestinian hostages to death

charge Palestinian children with terrorism and hold them hostage for years in zionist jails

essentially steal the childhood of Palestinian children - watch Ahed Tamimi's interviews

call for the mass murder of 2.2 million Gazans

criminalize Palestinians for defending themselves, their families and their homes

criminalize Palestinians for speaking about the freedom movement

shut down journalists and news agencies talking about Palestinian rights

enforce a system of apartheid against Palestinians

encourage African Jewish refugees to take part in the genocide of Palestinians to obtain citizenship

torture and sexually abuse Palestinian children in jails

shut down human rights agencies documenting sexual abuse of Palestinian children

humiliate Palestinians at countless military checkpoints

furthermore, in Lebanon, zionists:

bomb Lebanese communities for the past year

kill thousands of Lebanese civilians, including children

commit nation-wide terrorist attacks using electronic devices, targeting civilians and children

destroy infrastructure, roads, homes

target ambulances

forcefully displace more than 100,000 people

kill entire families as they seek shelter

threaten brutal ground invasion

previously invaded and occupied southern Lebanon for years, killing and torturing thousands

in every way possible, zionists:

desecrate Palestinian and Lebanese life itself

fantasize about occupying all of Palestine and Lebanon as part of their judea and samaria wet dreams

receive the greenlight from the so-called 'civilised' West to carry out a large scale genocide of Palestinians and possibly, the Lebanese

reminder that the only reason the barbaric zionist occupation of southern Lebanon came to an end was through relentless armed resistance, not UN resolutons, nor by appealing to the non-existent humanity of Westoids who have a history of celebrating the genocides of indigenous people, not through condemnations, not through bullshit both-sides narratives, not through religious/sectarian divisions, not through voting, not through begging

note: the above info about zionist activities in occupied Palestine and southern Lebanon is mostly limited to events of the past year. if we were to create a list of zionist warcrimes since the inception of the illegitimate zionist entity, the list would be vrtually endless