#but the memorized passages remain

[methinmycoffee]

People who draw Craig Tucker as a Hogwarts student, that’s fine.

People who draw him as a Ravenclaw are wrong and need to be stopped. Like I know his color is blue but just give him the hat and some green robes. He is not a Ravenclaw, he is a Slytherin.

[grandisknight]

in bloom | xavier

summary: You take Xavier to see the flowers of memories past, though something changes this time around.

tags: suggestive, established relationship, afab!reader (v genitalia mentioned), kissing, flowers, sneezing, sex pollen, aphrodisiac (in a sense), straddling, dry humping, grinding, dry orgasm, (1) jeremiah mention, inspired by 'celestial message'

wc: 2.4k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: mildly inspired by a portion of celestial message (his birthday card)! my small present to the galaxy’s brightest star, happy xavier day (in advance) <3

The sight you’ve found yourselves in is truly beautiful—natural flora stretches the grounds beyond what the eye could see, in a sea of greens to soft blues and purples that stand proud. Even with the passage of time, the secret garden claimed to be yours and his has blossomed so well.

Part of a birthday surprise for your beloved star, you lovingly roped him into revisiting the grounds once more.

With the warmth of the sun lightly tracing onto your backs, it glitters so effortlessly in the shine of Xavier’s doey gaze. Held gently under you, the bedding of nature supports his reclined posture. It softened his earlier tumble, after a twirl in his embrace and a slight misstep placed you in the very scenery. One hand now laces yours for comfort, the other steadying your waist and gentle to the touch.

The breeze was ever so gentle, tickling your senses and the petals alike. A deep inhale serviced the dewy origins, fresh and yet with a hint of saccharine delicacy to their lingering notes. Refreshingly pleasant, leagues different from the bite of pavement in Linkon City or a battlefield with its loamy terrains and dust.

“The view is as stunning as I remembered,” you say, smiling at an equally pleased Xavier. “I’m glad we were able to make a visit.” 

You brush his bangs aside, letting a spare petal fall beside him and revealing the forehead hidden beneath. Leaning down, you press a soft kiss to the skin, feeling his brow twitch at the touch.

“Mm,” he confirms. By the time you pull away, he’s already risen to meet the distance in a newly upright position. Xavier meets you head on, the tip of his nose nudging yours in thought. “Very pretty.”

You realize his eyes never left yours, and you frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The edge of his lips curls for a brief moment, though his voice remains calm. “Like what, exactly?”

“You know, with those eyes.” 

The kind of eyes that were soft around the edges, ones that only spoke of a gentle affection that yearned for love and to be loved. A look so prominently full of adoration and unspoken emotions breaching their surface—a quiet confession of care that intended to memorize this very moment. 

And in those very pools of blue, you find yourself sheepishly blinking at him, unsure of how to face such a fondness without wanting to shy away.

“It’s not like I have any other ones,” Xavier teases, his hand reaching to cup your jaw. He redirects your shifted gaze back to his, as bright as the star twinkling near his chest. “At least let me look at you.”

“You’re looking at me too much,” you try to reason. You could feel the embarrassment warm your cheeks as you mumble, “It’s unlike you to stare for so long.”

Xavier blinks. Then, blinks again. And by another round of fluttering eyes, he only shakes his head and with a gentle chuckle of, “I want to. I like looking at you, anyhow.” 

His thumb swipes across your heated cheek in thought. “I feel as if there aren’t enough moments in time that let me admire you like this.”

“That’s—“ Even more embarrassing, you want to admit. Not that you could deny the flutter of your heartbeat at the sound.

So you just inhale, like the ones before it—but you pause, feeling a knowing itch creep upwards. With a swift turn of your head, you expel the sudden sneeze into your tucked elbow. 

“Bless you.”

“Tha—ah, ah-kshoo—!” How romantic. You inwardly cringe with a sardonic purse of your lips.

Amusement softens his words. “Bless you, again.”

“Sorry,” you manage, huffing away the sudden fit. A sniffle accompanies your apologetic gaze. Odd, your nose still tingles; partially stuffy, yet you have no urge to sneeze once more. Still, precaution leads you to face away from him in case it comes.

All too quickly, you’re keenly aware of just how warm everything is. Sunshine prickling your skin was one thing, but it never bothered you much until now. A dry swallow drags along the inside of your throat—even more strange, you feel an unnerving wave of need and longing for a drink, coupling something… else.

It shows on your face, though you try to conceal it. Xavier barely reappears in your peripheral, concern drawing his brows together. “Are you feeling okay?”

His question barely registers at first. “Peachy,” you lie, nearly dragging the sound from your tongue. With a turn, you open your mouth to continue a quip, but it falls short and hangs open when you take in his appearance.

Unlike his usually serene and relaxed expression, Xavier’s skin burned a flush so bright, you would’ve mistaken it for a terrible, terrible sunburn. His chest rises and falls—normal, yes—but at a heightened pace, a breathless pace. Shallow, almost. You want to laugh at his blushed state, but stop in your tracks when your eyes search his. 

Dark, and not from the lush of his lashes, staring at you with a half-lidded stare. Does he even realize how alluring he looks in this moment?

The laughter in your throat quickly dies down, and a surging need to do something about it fills you instead. It claws at your stomach with hot hands, traveling down to your core. 

Oh, this is dangerous.

Your questions receive their answers when his nose nuzzles yours once more, this time more insistent than the last. “Really?” The singular word held an edge, roughing the normally soft cadence he spoke with. 

There were only a handful of times where Xavier would sound so different—one, in the mornings where he wants nothing but ‘five more minutes’ trapped in your warmth. (And really, an excuse to avoid going to work so soon.) 

Another, on the rare blue moon of sickness that itches his throat and dulls his senses. Where a remedy of soothing teas and attentive touches would comfort him some.

And then, there was the third—when he was about to devour you whole, skin to skin and reshape your body to remember nothing else but him. The times where his hands and mouth would explore you endlessly, only to eventually find his way into your welcoming warmth and drag out long, needy moans of your name. 

In that tone dripping with nothing but indecency and an affection to you—the very same that you just heard.

If it were any other situation, you think you could’ve managed. But when neatly planted on his lap, hipbone practically digging into one another and a gaze so searing that it could contend to the one bubbling within you, you find yourself shaking your head.

“No,” you whisper, intensely aware of the current predicament. “I feel… hot, Xav. I don’t know why, but I—“ 

Want nothing more than to strip you bare and ruin these flowers, along with you in them. To scratch at the unrelenting heat numbing your senses, to succumb to the spike of desire—all these things run through your mind, yet fall short on your tongue.

“I know,” he reassures, though it comes out heavier than expected. 

His hand releases yours, and for a moment, a pang of disappointment washes over you. It’s put at ease when both of his arms curl themselves around your waist in an almost possessive hold, keeping you to him instead. 

Xavier drags his nose across your cheek, then down to the meeting place of your jaw and earlobe.

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

Too, he says. So the flushing skin carried more than what it seems, and a part of you—the primal urge to unsheathe him whole—is elated.

“What,” you breathe out, squirming when his lips press together and grace your skin. “Is this?” You instinctively tilt your head back, granting him more space to cover you in peppered kisses. 

“There shouldn’t be any major Wanderers nearby to ruin the Meta—ah…” 

Your ramblings bleed into a faint moan when those same lips found your pulse point, wet and ardent as he worked a blossoming rose against it. His teeth graze slightly, sealing their mark before sliding to the other side of your neck, more than ready to mirror the mark. And he does, in ardent succession, repeat his sign of affections.

A hand sneaks to toy with the fabric of your dress, slowly lifting the skirt to bunch at your lower back. Encouraging you to lower your body, to rest perfectly against him. It draws you closer, more so than before—you could barely stifle a relieved sigh when his groin finds your cunt, rubbing at you through hardened slacks. You find your hips rocking against it, chasing the feeling for what it was worth; and it was definitely worth the fine groan that draws from his puckered lips, continuing to suck at your skin with a firm press.

Xavier drank you in like a bee to honey, nosing and kissing wherever his mouth would take him. Feverish even, when he returns your salacious grinding with his own and arms tightening around you. You run your fingers through his fine strands of starlight, and he groans into your clavicle at the feeling of nails gently scraping his nape.

What was once a soft, gentle breeze now carries the palpable tension of your bodies cradled amidst the flowers. The scent of arousal pricked your nose—whether it was yours or his, you couldn’t make heads or tails of it—and only grew worse with every deep cycling breath. Labored, all equally and undeniably filled with primal want. 

There was something gratifying about the way his cock strained to meet you through fabric, and how you had a feverish inclination to take him whole. Every grind that slips between your folds and just barely meeting your clit has you desperate for something more. Tingles in all the right places, sending your mind into your pleasurable overdrive.

A particularly pointed rut of his hips has you choking out his name, thighs trembling to meet them back in tenfold. “I—I might just—if you keep doing that,” you waver between wanton moans, coils in your abdomen quickly coming undone.

Xavier withdraws his lips, sheen with ardor and the efforts of marking your skin. His forehead finds your shoulder, pressing further into your warm body and mouthing there instead. “Close, are you? Just from this?”

“I can’t help it,” you whine, and with a wiggle of your hips you confirm that, “You’re no better than me.” 

The very length that hardened and prodded against you was proud, see-sawing you to the heated brink you found yourself falling towards. A frictional transaction at best, and your undoing at worst.

His hands paw at your bottom, gripping the plump flesh and only moving you further along. “You’re right,” he mutters, angling his jaw to barely skim your ear and says, “Does it make me worse if I want you to come like this?”

“You monster,” you breathe out in jest, though no malice was found in the desire that overwhelms your response.

“Just for today,” he insists, canting his hips into you furthermore. A chaste kiss touches your lower lip, quietly asking for permission to seal them with his own. “I’m close, and I know you are too.”

“Yeah,” you concede with a breath against his lip. His eyes flutter to a close in anticipation when the warmth fans over him. “You got me there.”

Your own thundering heart rings loudly in your ears when you press your mouth to his, swallowing your moans and his in the heat of it all. Dizzying, a pandora’s box of temptation that drives you to trace his canines and fight against his own tongue.

You nearly bite down on said tongue when climax finally crashes into you, toes curling and pleasure ebbing in gentle waves as you come undone. Xavier’s hold was steady, and no sooner did a throbbing between your legs mark his own high—at the very least, he was honest. Sounds of muffled groans flowed from his throat to yours, pleased before parting for much needed air.

The moment stayed this way for a couple of heartbeats, with only the sounds of your breaths coming to a collective slow and occasional bristle of flora in the wind. Your sense of heart came to a calm, detangled from the thorns of indecent intent.

The air is crisp to your inhale, and an exhale makes you realize what exactly just happened. “Xavier,” you mumble, patting his shoulders. “Did we just…”

“We did,” he dryly confirms, and can’t help but chuckle at the awareness. His voice softens as he asks, “Do you still feel hot?”

“I’m good now,” you reassure with a nod. Sliding your hands to cup his cheek, you inspect the fairness of his skin and note the feverish blush was long gone. A bummer, when he looked so cute with it in the first place.

“Guess you’re fine now too.” With a light pinch, you find your jest from before and say, “You were blushing so much I nearly mistook you for one of the tomatoes from Twinkle Toys.”

Xavier’s nose scrunches at that, brushing away your teasing with a shake of his head. As swift as light, his arms tuck underneath your bottom and hoist you into the air—much to your surprise, a gasp escaping your throat.

You steady your hands atop his shoulders, squeezing them in turn. “What are you—“

“We shouldn’t stay here too long,” he says calmly. His head inclines to the bed of flowers briefly—though, his azure rings bore into you with unwavering interest, bright and tender. “Who knows what’ll happen if we never leave.”

You hum in agreement, leaning down to press your forehead to his. “Should we ask Jeremiah about these?” He is a florist after all, only one of the few you were familiar with. “I’m sure he knows a thing or two.“

“Nah.” Xavier touches his nose to yours in greeting. His eyes twinkle as he says, “Unless you want him to find out how you were on top of me and—mmph? Mmph, mmm.”

You silence his tell-tale with a kiss, to which he happily accepts all the same. Looks like you’ll have to table the thought for another time. He chases your lips even when you part, and only a finger could barrier his jutted lip.

“Later,” you promise. “We have a schedule ahead of us, you know. And uh,” your eyes trail downwards, noting a particular patch on his slacks. It registers the feeling between your own legs, to which you sigh and say, “We should make a quick stop home, too.”

“Alright.” Xavier nods, getting the message. With another bounce, he keeps you in his raised embrace and begins to walk along a flowery path.

“By the way.” He says off-handedly amidst the trek.

You hum. “Yes?”

“I promise not to tell Jeremiah how hot you looked on top of me.” “Xavier! Don’t you dare!”

[divineecelestial]

Pretty Girl — Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary — Eddie liked you. Really liked you. You hated him. Really hated him. He was a bully and mean, and you were too damn pretty for your own good. You're partnered together for a project and things are changing between you both.

Word Count — 1.4k

Warnings — somewhat bully!eddie (not really, but it's sort of there) perv!eddie, enemies to lovers (eventually) sub!eddie, virgin!eddie (not explicitly stated here, but eventually will be in the series) somewhat dom!reader. Public situations. Kind of dry humping? Both Eddie and Reader are above the age of 18.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

You flipped a page from the book you were required to read for the project, eyebrows pinched together with concentration and your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes scanned over the paragraphs, occasionally widening and narrowing with whatever was happening on that particular page. He could see you were memorizing each message hidden beneath the passages, marking your notebook with a glitter pink pen. There wasn’t any possible way he was going to finish his portion of the project when he could smell the sweetness of your skin. His own notebook was forgotten, merely three sentences scribbled on the page before he was distracted by you. 

The smoothness of your thighs was peeking beneath the floral fabric of your dress, crossed and occasionally bouncing. When you weren’t writing your thoughts and answers, you brought the tip of your pen between your teeth, nibbling and lightly licking the plastic. He could feel the breath inside his lungs pulled out and his heart was moments from thumping through his chest and clothes. And, of course, his jeans tightened uncomfortably.

Your eyes slowly moved from the crinkled and yellow-stained pages of the book onto him. His fiery gaze remained etched on you as if he were engraving the spectacle before him within the confines of his mind. Lowering your book, you raised an eyebrow, inquisitive. He didn’t respond to the gesture. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to. 

The dynamic between the both of you was complicated. Well, for you it was. For him, there wasn’t anything that could’ve been more simple. Since he was a kid, so for pretty much as long as he could remember, you were always there. You grew up with him. And you hated him. He pulled on the ribbons of your hair, stole your homework answers, and constantly teased you whenever he could. It didn’t matter what you did, he was always there with some snarky remarks. And he liked you. 

That’s how it started anyway.

Because when high school came, and the wave of teenage hormones as well, he didn’t just like you anymore. He was obsessed with you. He followed you around, stole your pom-poms, ruined your hair that you had spent forever doing, pulled your hair when he sat behind you and said every dirty thing that went through his head. He didn’t care if you were mean to him and called him names. Truth be told, he might’ve liked that more than he thought was possible. But you could’ve slapped and kicked him and he wouldn’t do a single thing other than thank you for touching him. He was whipped.

However, for you, things were complicated. That was an understatement. For as long as you could remember, you didn’t like him. Disliking him was easy and simple. You had been doing that for years. But things were changing and you couldn’t explain why. Well, that wasn’t the truth. You did know why. 

Two weeks ago, and you knew this because you couldn’t think of anything else other than that particular night. Your car wasn’t working and you weren’t even going to pretend to understand what was underneath the hood. The night was brimming with darkness and pouring rain and you were completely alone. You trudged to the nearest payphone, shivering beneath your sodden clothes, and called everyone you could think of. Not a single person answered. That was until you called the number Wayne had provided months ago when he suggested he could help with whatever car troubles you were having and not overcharge you. You just didn’t expect Eddie to answer. 

He was kind. The sickening kind of sweet you would find sprawled across romance novels. He called you the nicknames he had been calling you since you could remember, but it was different. He looked at you differently. Talked to you differently. Touched you differently. 

And now you were stuck with him as his partner. 

You were going to roll your eyes and resume with your book and disregard his existence as much as you could when you noticed it. There was absolutely no way of not noticing it. You glanced around, wondering if there was someone within the shadows of the empty library watching and observing. “Are you serious?” You sneered barely above a whisper. His amused eyes merely traveled to his hardening bulge. “Stop that.” 

“I can’t help it.” His voice was breathless, wisp-like. “You’re so pretty.” Your jaw clenched and your glare intensified. He brought his adorned hand onto his bulge and palmed himself. The movements were slow and deliberate, and because you were near the back of the library, there wasn’t anyone around to notice him. “If you keep looking at me like that, I can probably finish like this.” 

You were across from him, the only thing separating you from him was a small round table, and you were debating if you should kick the table at him. His eyes traveled across your body, not bothering to conceal his heavy gaze, and they stopped right where your skirt stopped. When you clenched her thighs together, he could barely see the baby-pink fabric of your underwear. His movements sputtered as he thought of crawling on the floor to you, worshiping you as he dreamed of doing. He groaned as his eyes closed, thinking of staining his lips with your arousal and kissing you until you couldn’t think of anything other than the taste of yourself mixed with him. “Yeah, I can definitely finish like this.”

Your nose scrunched as you watched his movements intently. “You’re a pervert.” Your voice, however, didn’t match your words. Because you couldn’t even understand the wetness dampening your underwear. You didn’t understand why you liked knowing you were the reason for his undoing and for his sick actions. You liked knowing he thought you were so pretty that he couldn’t wait until he got home. But you obviously couldn’t tell him that because you weren’t supposed to like any of that. You were supposed to hate him.

Yeah, things were complicated now.

You leaned closer, intentionally displaying a view of your breasts. “If you’re going to make yourself come, do it fast. We have a deadline.” Those words weren’t what he was expecting. You were tolerating him lately, even occasionally smiling before flipping him off. You were speaking to him without a bratty attitude and sitting next to him in class. He was slowly making progress. This wasn’t progress. This was hurdling over the finish line.

His gaze was ripped away from your breasts when you leaned back against your cushioned chair and he watched with sick enjoyment as you squeezed your thighs together. There was no way you were liking this. “Hurry. I don’t have all day.” Oh, God, you were really going to sit there and look pretty for him so he could come in his pants. You were letting him use you for his perversions. 

He nodded frantically, applying more pressure on his leaking cock. There was a stain soaking through his jeans and his hips were rutting against his hand, desperate for a wetness that couldn’t compare to his hand. Returning back to your book, you slowly spread your thighs open, allowing him a clear and picturesque view of your damp underwear. He couldn’t contain the pathetic whimper escaping his blushing lips. “You’re so pretty. So pretty. My pretty girl.”

He was mumbling, pussy-drunk from only the view of your clothed one. “Come on, let me see those pretty eyes.” Pretty, pretty, pretty. “Look at me when I come for you. Y-Yeah, just like that. That’s so good.” You teasingly looked away from your book and looked at him and you would’ve thought you handed a starving man a full-course meal from the way he crumbled beneath your gaze. “Fuck, you can’t be real.”

So, so, so pretty.

And then you smiled.

He moaned pathetically loud and you watched with twisted enjoyment as the stain on his crotch spread. Watching a man who’s tormented you for so long become undone simply from your gaze was empowering. Addicting even. He was breathless, shaking, and beads of sweat dampened his flushed skin. Bringing your leg back down and closing your book, you gathered your supplies and belongings and stood from the chair. You looked down at the embarrassingly large patch of cum seeping through his clothes and smiled. “I’ve gotta go. Same time tomorrow?”

Yeah, things were definitely different now.

[cherie-doll]

☽COD Characters + Mythical/Monster/Weirdos AU☾

𓆣 Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

No one's ever dared to venture further past the crossroads. Anyone who goes beyond the rusted metal fence that marks the passage the lumberman takes never comes back. You don't got much of a choice but to take the hike when your car breaks down in the middle of the woods. Surely, the feeling of prying eyes watching as you tremble and make your way past the fence and through the lonely road is only your paranoia. Oh, what a convenience! The lumberman who introduced himself as John invited you into his cabin. You'll ignore the dark stains of old blood on his porch steps for the sake of your body in need of warmth.

He who remained silent and shrouded in the dark. Who only saw the dazzling lights dimming as the calling of the audience faded out into the background. And you, standing in the center of an empty stage, staring into the dark. A shudder overcoming you and you feeling as if someone was watching you. Glancing towards the highest box, you knew he had watched your performance. You knew him as Ghost, he never let on more than this cognomen. He was the shadow that was always looking over your shoulder. The faint silhouette in the background of harsh and vivid stage lights. Here was his hand, resting upon your skin. The hand that would not harm you. The graze of an igniting fire burned under his skin, here his suffering had originated; from attachment, from desire. This craving he dared not to fulfill. He vowed to himself to feel it as deeply and express it as he pleased. Unfortunately for you, this ravenous hunger was long out of hand.

Johnny was dared to venture out and explore his town at midnight to prove the existence of the local folklore shapeshifter; you. Being the daredevil he is, he couldn't pass up on this opportunity. You were said to take form in many different ways; sometimes an animal like a raven, some force of nature like wind or water, and on rare occasions in human form. Your presence was very evident by the change in the air, the piling tension that caused his camera to turn off, his flashlight flicker and goosebumps break out on his skin from the chilling wind. He has no evidence of that night, despite standing before you in your human form. He's now set on proving your existence which causes a cat and mouse dynamic to form between you.

You assumed the man, Kyle, that you saw once on the riverbed had been swimming. Clearly, he's handsome. Only, his appearance is... alluring, drawing you in, luring you right into his hands. You don't even feel the scales as he caresses you, his hands going over the map of your body. He's already memorizing where all your bones are, takes notice of where the most fat is on your body as his hands mold and play with it. He can already imagine how soft your skin is, how easy it would be for his teeth to sink into the flesh. His seductive voice and gaze only serve to invite you to wade in the water. Maybe he'll toy with you, you seem so sweet and willing.

Having a roommate is a hit or miss. But what are the chances that roommate is deceased? Rarely does one get along with a dead roommate, but that certainly is not your case. 'Roach', as you called him, "because what type of name was Gary?" dwelled- er, haunted the college dorm you shared. At first, communication was difficult and arguments broke out often, resulting in broken and damaged furniture. Guess that's what happens when your first time messing around with an ouija board goes wrong. It also gets awkward when you wanna try and bring your girl or boyfriend over and you can't make out without acknowledging the horrified ghost in the corner.

You were a forgotten deity; your followers gone. You thought the portal between your world and the mortals was forever sealed, the entrance never to be opened again. Until, one day you're able to pass through to catch a glimpse of an altar made and dedicated to you by Alejandro. He's the most loyal devotee you've had in a long time; every night and every day he lights a candle to you and kneels to pray. Even if he doesn't have access to the shrine he's made for you, he carries one around in his pocket; a stitched image of you along with a symbol. He swears he can feel as you embrace him in your saving veil of grace and grant him protection.

Rudy's crush has gotten so out of hand the poor, sweet man doesn't know what to do with himself. He blushes and freezes whenever he's blessed to be in your presence. Anticipation building within the walls of his chest, antsy to tell you, to confess. If only that doubt didn't plague his mind. Would you be spooked by his way of life? Certainly, modern witches weren't being put on trials and burned anymore, but the social repercussions could be considered equal. Guess he'll go back to perform another manifestation ritual. Don't be surprised at the sudden fluttery effect you start to magically develop one day when you see him.

Having a vampire boyfriend has its benefits. The cons are few; while you're getting your life sucked right out of you, Phillip only seems to revivify and grow younger. He also has little to no self-control and he always holds his age and 'wisdom' over your head, using his 'better sense' to get you to change your mind. On the bright side, thanks to him you've started to save on using tampons + pads while on your period. He also keeps you in check and healthy by not letting your blood levels imbalance, after all, he feeds off of you. Loves going down on you whilst biting your neck and drawing blood. Something about being so close to biting an artery or vein that could spill too much blood and leading you to death yet he chooses not to.

You moved out to the south seeking for a tranquil pace of life. This town had a strange feeling to it, an underlying horror and emptiness; the effects of a ghost town. Under the silver moon one night, you come upon a field, a stretch of land with pasture stretching for many miles. The cattle guarded under the watchful eye of Keegan. The wind rustled the trees as they made a haunting whistling sound. Shadows seemed to dance along the edges of forest as he motioned you over to his campfire, his horse tethered to the log he rested his head against. His eyes captivated the soft glow of the moon as you listened to him speak of guarding this piece of land for many years. He coaxed you to get comfortable, to not leave right away, in fact, you could stay for as long as you wanted. And unless your senses catch up to you, you'd stay caged in this corner of the world, roaming as a ghost.

König couldn't bear to see you whither away as life was slowly drained out of you. Night and day he listened to your sorrows as you spoke of your fear of dying. You couldn't bear to rest in the cold grave, alone for eternity. The townspeople swore he must've gone mad when you died, he obsessed over you dead more than when you lived. He had installed a burial bell, slipping the rope into your lifeless hands. He refused to pay anyone else to wait the long hours of the day and night. Red rimmed eyes from crying, black circles from the sleepless nights, didn't even register the throbbing headaches. And could it be his delirium or did he hear the bell ring? He was quick to grab a shovel and start digging.

Gumiho Horangi who got close to you only for the sake of stealing your soul. He had been digging through the soil, searching through the foul smell of decomposing corpses to find a human heart to devour. You had been on the graveyard shift when he spotted you and decided he'd much rather prey on a living human rather than be contented with decaying corpses. A method of absorbing your energy resembled the act of kissing as he would open your mouth to inhale your essence. You became to know the true meaning of intertwined love when he planned to embed a 'fox marble' in your abdomen and therefore take all your energy. He, however, fell in love with you over time and vowed to never eat another human so he could become human and live with you.

Nikto always talks to the patients on his table, he thinks it helps them loosen up. They're always so stiff and cold when he takes them out of the freezer. When he pulls back the cloth covering your face he can hardly greet you as he's taken by your beauty. His gloved hands run through your hair as he gazes into your lifeless eyes. You're too pretty by the time he's done dolling you up that he feels sorry you'll only be placed in a box and buried six feet deep underneath the soil. He reckons you'll be much happier in a comfortable home, with someone to care for you rather than the cold cemetery where you're sure to be forgotten about. He swore you told him yourself!

[porcelana-r0ta]

The Curse of Sight, Part 7

DCxDP

[Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8]

[Ao3 Link] (Registered Ao3 users only)

Summary: When Wes Weston meets Tim Drake-Wayne, the dots start connecting. And those dots form a bat.

xxXxx

After a phone call with his mom to confirm that it’s alright for Wes to stay the night, Rebecca leaves with the AV equipment in a Wayne vehicle with a WE driver from HQ. (She also absconds off with a few extra Alfred Pennyworth cookies, but no one calls her out on it.) Wes is then left alone with Tim for a grand tour of Wayne Manor. 

The estate is large and sprawling, but Wes is nothing if not observant and adaptive, and he makes quick work of memorizing the layout. He’s careful to make mental notes of places that could potentially hold secret passages. 

Part of Batman’s whole thing was that he had a Batcave, right? Surely it’s connected to the Manor. The entrance is most likely on the first floor for easier access if the Cave is underground, which is the most logical conclusion given that the Batcave has to hold a computer with enough processing power to be the legendary Batcomputer, all the Bat-vehicles, plus any trophies Batman has collected in his lucrative career as a vigilante. Also, if it’s as much of a cave as the name implies, it’s got to be underground. 

Not that Wes wants to go exploring. This investigation is just so he can mentally note what areas to avoid and always have plausible deniability. 

“Oh, no, Mr. Bruce Wayne, sir, I didn’t see you come out of a bookcase secret passageway with bruises that strangely match up with Batman’s. You see, I was over on the bench in the Wayne Gardens, much too far away from the Wayne Library to see any secret nightlife activities. I’m just a simple teenage boy, haha, please don’t steal my kneecaps. Anyway, what did you think of My Immortal? ”

Yes. Foolproof and non-suspicious, two of Wes’s favorite things in Gotham. He even deflects into the Brucie Wayne persona in this imaginary scenario.

God. This is too stressful. Wes knows too many people with alter egos. He needs normal friends—he can’t keep being the normal friend for abnormal people. Maybe he should start going to the community center in his mom’s neighborhood and meet normal teens with normal Gotham interests. (Wes imagines the normal Gotham teen experience to be the universal vaping and smoking, plus minor vandalism and maybe even some pickpocketing in the Diamond District. He’d sidestep any vigilante-chasers or gangsters, naturally. He’s got to avoid the Bats!)

Of the first floor, there are the following rooms: the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the parlor, the drawing room, Mr. Wayne’s office, the game room, the theater room, the servants’ quarters, the bathrooms, and the garage.

The kitchen likely has too much foot traffic to keep a secret entrance, plus Mr. Pennyworth seems too proper to let Bat-hijinks take place anywhere near his domain. The foot traffic would remain an issue for rooms like the living room, the drawing room, and the parlor. The theater and game rooms may be an option — both had bookshelves to hold board games, video games, DVDs, and VHS tapes, and bookshelves are classic rich people hiding places. The library is another potential place, even if it’s rather stereotypical. But maybe he should expect stereotypes from the same people with a cow named Bat-Cow? 

The servants’ quarters, only occupied by Mr. Pennyworth and not included in the tour, would be an unexpected place. It may be too far out of the way, though. The bathrooms could be an option: no one is going to interrogate someone for spending too long in a bathroom. But some people are nosy about what others keep in their bathrooms, and someone as paranoid as Batman would account for that. The garage is likely too much of a security liability given that it’s right there along the driveway for an easy getaway. 

That just leaves Bruce Wayne’s office, where it wouldn’t be weird for a CEO to disappear into for hours at a time, nor would it be weird for it to be off-limits for people to be in. Wes was only shown where the room was, not the inside. It’s totally normal to not be brought into your friend’s dad’s office. So normal, in fact, that Wes wouldn’t have even questioned it if he didn’t already know that the Waynes were the Bats. 

So, avoid Bruce Wayne’s study. Not a problem for Wes because he has zero reason to go in there in the first place. This sleepover thing will be a piece of cake. 

Right now they were in the game room, playing Mario Kart 8 on the Switch. The Waynes were wealthy enough that both Tim and Wes had a pro-controller. (Eat the rich!) Right now, Wes was beating Tim by a decent margin as Luigi, but he’s not sure how much of that is Tim letting him win. He’s only played Mario Kart a few times, and never on the Switch, so he’s not really world champ. It’s nice of Tim to fake being bad, though. 

“Damn, you win again,” Tim says, watching Luigi pass the finish line, followed by his avatar, Princess Peach, seconds after. 

“‘Cause you’re going easy on me.”

“What? No I’m not.” 

“You liar.” One of the best ways to lie is to pretend to be a bad liar. Make a few sacrifices with your integrity and no one will question you when you lie well about something that actually matters. His parents taught him that. “Play better this next round.”

“Are you trash talking me?” Tim is playfully offended. 

Wes scoffs, grabbing one of the sofa cushions and setting it against the armrest. He buries himself into it, swinging his legs onto the couch. He’s just barely tall enough to shove his socked feet into Tim’s ribs where he’s sitting. “Am not. I just know that you’re a little tech nerd, and that you can totally kick my ass. No way you haven’t obsessively played Mario Kart.” 

“First of all, I resent that.” He shoves Wes’s feet away. His ears are red. Still cooling down from outside? They weren’t so red a little bit ago. “Second of all, fine. Let’s do Rainbow Road.”

“Sweet, a challenge!” 

Tim selects the Special Cup, and Wes does semi-decently in the first three courses, though Tim only barely holds onto first. The last course is Rainbow Road, and Wes proceeds to fall off the track every thirty seconds. He crosses the finish line in a very humble tenth place. Tim, impossibly, does worse than he has in previous rounds, ending in fourth place rather than the calculated second to spare Wes’s pride of their previous Cups. 

“Hmm. That was humiliating.”

They both turn to look at the doorway, where Damian Wayne lurks, holding Alfred the Cat. 

“Don’t be rude, Demon Spawn.” Tim scowls. Wes stretches his feet out to nudge at Tim admonishingly. 

“Dude, c’mon. He’s right. That was bad.” 

“Weston is correct, Drake. And besides, I was talking about you.”

“Okay, that’s it—” Whatever Tim is about to say is cut off when Wes kicks him, harder than a nudge, but not enough to hurt for longer than a few seconds. “Wes! What the hell?”

He ignores Tim, “Did you want to play, Damian?” He gestures at the TV with his controller. 

The boy straightens up, and the movement makes Alfred the Cat wriggle free of his hold. She darts into the room, behind the sectional couch and out of sight. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am merely here to relay Pennyworth’s message that supper will be ready in thirty minutes.” 

“Oh, so you’re scared that you will do worse than me?” He raises a challenging eyebrow. 

“Tt. I could defeat you and Drake blindfolded.” 

“Prove it.”

Wordlessly, Damian marches into the room and swipes the controller from Wes. He laughs, kicking his feet off the couch and getting up to grab a third controller. When he turns back to the couch, Damian is already sitting beside his big brother, his back straight and his face neutral. He turns on the controller and joins them on the couch, leaving enough room for Damian to not feel crowded with a stranger. 

The kid reminds him of some of the more minor-league ghosts who like to annoy Danny for attention. Ghosts like fighting, they like arguing. Siblings shared in that trait, usually. 

Tim grumbles and switches to three person multiplayer, then asks, “What tracks do you want to play?”

“The same one you and Weston were on. I will defeat you both.” 

“Well, definitely me,” Wes says. Damian only sniffs in response. 

They speed through character selection, Wes keeping Luigi and Tim keeping Peach, and Damian chooses Shy Guy. After choosing their vehicles (Wes is the only one who chooses a cart instead of a motorcycle), they start the Special Cup. 

They quickly discover that Damian is a ruthless competitor. Wes lets out a frustrated groan at the third green shell that hits him, whereas Tim curses at his little brother. “How are you so fucking good? I thought video games were beneath you!”

“Jon has a Switch. He likes Mario Kart and Minecraft.”

“Of fucking course he does.”  

Wes wonders who this “Jon” person is. A civilian friend? A fellow superhero? He hates knowing superhero identities, but his mind runs theories anyway. 

Damian continues to win against them, and when that gets boring, he purposely keeps a middle-pace so he can collect shells. His aim is unfortunately impeccable. After twenty minutes of losing to his little brother, Tim calls it quits. “Okay, that’s it. We need to wash up for dinner before Alfred gets mad.” 

“Scared to continue losing, Drake?”

“Hardly. Go wash your hands, brat. You were holding the cat earlier.”

“She’s cleaner than you,” Damian insults. Then, before Tim can retort, he bounds out of the room. 

Tim turns to Wes, “Dude, seriously?”

“What? He obviously wanted to hang out with you.” 

“No he didn’t! He’s Damian. He wanted to spy on me and you so he can insult us better later when you aren’t around.” 

“Mh-hm.” Wes is doubtful. “I don’t know about that. He acts like how I did when I was in middle school and wanted to hang out with my older cousin.”

“It warms my heart that you’re capable of seeing the good in evil.”

“You don’t mean that, dude.”

Tim smiles, “I guess not.” 

After washing up themselves, they head downstairs for the dining room. They are greeted by the savory scent of steak. Wes’s mouth waters. Real rich people food. 

Bruce Wayne (Batman!) is already seated at the head of the table, Damian to his right. Tim grabs Wes’s hand and pulls him to sit on the other side, with Tim acting as a buffer between him and Bruce Wayne. 

“B, this is Wes Weston, my friend. He works in PR, specifically with our TikTok team.” There is no TikTok team, unless Wes and Rebecca count as a team. What is she supposed to do when he goes back to Amity with his dad at the end of the summer? “Wes, this is Bruce, my adoptive dad.” 

Well, only after the whole fake uncle thing, Wes thinks to himself. But he isn’t supposed to know about that. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Please, call me Bruce when we aren’t at work, Wes.” Bruce Wayne grins that Brucie grin, big and disarming. I’m onto you, Batman. You can’t fool me. “It’s great to see Tim with friends his age. I had a lot of concern after he dropped out of high school, you know, but—”

“Bruce, please. Stop embarrassing me!”

“I’m just expressing my love for my son, Tim.” He turns to Damian, “Don’t follow your other brothers’ examples. Stay in school.” 

“Of course, Father,” Damian says while Wes snorts. 

The Waynes are really zero to nil on children who have high school diplomas. Dick Grayson ran off (or was run off?) at age sixteen, Jason Todd was declared dead (though Wes suspects that maybe he really did die—is there a way to get Danny and Co. to look into that without spilling identities?), and Tim dropped out and created an uncle after his parents passed so he could become a full-time CEO and vigilante (Wes should sit down with Tim and talk about good coping mechanisms, and also never admit to knowing about the fake uncle or the vigilante activities). Hell, even Bruce Wayne is a medical school dropout!

They still at least had Damian Wayne and Duke Thomas, Wes supposes. Maybe they can be the Wayne kids who finally walk at graduation. 

As if on cue, Duke Thomas trudges into the room, clearly tired from daytime patrol as The Signal. Though, Wes is likely supposed to believe that Duke is out doing volunteer work or something of the like. 

“Hey, guys. New person.” Duke squints at Wes, then rubs his eyes. A pair of tinted glasses hang on the collar of his yellow shirt. He grabs them and puts them on.

“Hello, Thomas.”

“Hey, Duke.”

“Welcome back, Duke! Have you met Wes yet? Are your headaches acting up again?” 

“Nope,” says Duke, taking his seat next to Damian. “Nice to meet you. I’m Duke. And my head’s fine.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“Is Dick still here?” Duke asks. 

Bruce shakes his head, “He had to leave to make it back to Bludhaven so he’d be able to rest before his shift with the BPD tonight.” 

Wes translates that as He’s got Nightwing work tonight. But who knows? Maybe he really does have a night shift. 

“Ah, that sucks,” Duke says.

Alfred walks in pushing a cart of the mouth-watering steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and roasted vegetables and starts to serve everyone.

Wes may have to sleep over more often. 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Wes says when his food is plated. 

“Of course, Master Wes.”

He wrinkles his nose at that, even though Alfred’s called him that a few times upon coming in for snacks after filming. Being called “master” makes him feel like some kind of egocentric wealthy elitist. 

“So, Wes,” Bruce Wayne, literally Batman, starts after everyone has been served. Wes straightens up tp better search for any signs of dinnertime kneecap removal. “You’re Penny’s son and that you intern at WE. How are you liking it so far?”

Normal dinnertime conversation. Excellent. Wes has been to dinners every evening of his life, so he should ace this. 

“It’s fun. I mean, I just did coffee runs and stuff at first, but it’s a lot more engaging now that Rebecca is running the TikTok and is using me as her Gen Z brain monkey.” 

“She’s not that much older than you.” Tim rolls his eyes. 

“The WE TikTok is doing very well,” Bruce compliments as if Tim hadn’t opened his mouth. “We should have started one much sooner.”

“I love the one you’re in. Wes, the one where you talk about the American public school experience,” Duke says, rubbing at his temple. Which is unhelpful because Wes directly made fun of Bruce Wayne in that one. “Sorry about the maybe trauma it inflicted.”

He winces, “I mean, it was fine. We were in a safe room the whole time. It genuinely was like the average American high school experience.” He cuts a concerned look at Bruce. The guy who literally can fire his mom and also rip out his kneecaps if he decides to take offense to something dumb Wes says. He just can’t help it—he’s an Amity Park teenager!

Bruce notices and laughs, “Now, now, none of that! I think it’s great that you raised awareness about school shootings. I’m very aware of my privilege, and I don’t have any hard feelings about it being called out.”

“That’s… good.” 

Tim nudges him from under the table with his foot. When Wes looks at him, he’s smiling. Wes’s stomach twists. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. 

Damian sniffs, “Well, nothing will compare to the appearances of Bat-Cow, Titus, Alfred the Cat, and Haley.”

“Everyone will love them,” Wes agrees. “People go crazy for animals.” 

“They would be wrong not to.”

“Wes, not to be rude, but are you from Gotham?” Duke asks. He squints from behind his tinted glasses. “You don’t have a Gothamite accent.”

“That’s not rude at all.” Wes racks his brain for reasons why the meta vigilante might look constipated whenever he looks at him. Is it an Amity Park thing? The Signal’s power set isn't 100% known—the only things confirmed by witness accounts are light and shadow manipulation. Is the electromagnetic radiation spectrum that Duke can see wider than a baseline human’s, thus allowing him to see more visible light? Can Duke see auras? Can he see ectoplasmic radiation? Can he see that radiation in Wes? 

He needs to be careful about what he says. “I’m from Amity Park, Illinois. So is my mom. But she and my dad divorced a few years ago and now I visit Gotham every other holiday and every summer.” 

“Oh damn, that sucks, dude.”

“Nah, it’s fine. They were super chill about it.” They had an amicable divorce. Wanted different things. His parents still text semi-regularly, and they will usually steal Wes’s phone for a few minutes when he’s talking to the other. They might still be together if his mom hadn’t wanted to move up in her career and his dad hadn’t been firm on staying in Amity, or if they’d both been okay with long distance. 

Still… it would be nice to be a complete family, again. Together and whole. Preferably in an Amity Park not infested with white suits or ectophobic ghost hunters. 

Ugh. He really needs to call his dad after work tomorrow. Maybe his cousin, too.

Dinner goes smoothly from there, and after, Tim drags Wes to the movie room to watch Lord of the Ring: Fellowship of the Ring before turning into bed. When the credits roll, he asks, “Are you cool with just staying in my room, or do you wanna stay in the guest room?”

Honestly, what kind of rich people shit is that question? (Ignoring that his mom owns a townhouse in Gotham City and is the director of Wayne Enterprises’s PR Department. He had humble beginnings!)

“Your room is fine,” Wes says. 

“You… just wanna share the bed?” 

Wes had seen Tim’s bedroom in the tour already. He had a California king sized bed. Sleeping in a bed that size would be just the same as sleeping in separate sleeping bags on the floor in terms of intimacy. 

“Yeah, that’s fine, dude.” 

Fast forward to them actually in pajamas and actually under blankets and actually turning off their phones for the night, and Wes is learning that it’s actually not fine. 

He’s hyper-aware of Tim’s form beneath the blankets, the same blankets Wes is under. And sure, they are on separate ends of the bed, nearly three feet between them, but still. 

He’s slept in the same bed as a few friends before, but that had stopped around middle school, when it was suddenly gay for guys to do that. Wes is secure in his sexuality, sure, but he was still in a small Midwestern town at the time, so he hadn’t exactly wanted to do anything to confirm any queerness about him. 

Tim, on the other hand, has been publicly bisexual for a while now. And he wasn’t in the room with Wes when he’d gotten his fitting and made his request that his suit reflect his sexuality, so he didn’t know that Wes was any flavor of MLM. (He’d been too insecure about his lanky basketball player frame to let a superhero overhear his measurements.) 

Is it weird that Wes knows Tim’s sexuality but Tim doesn’t know his while they share a bed? Is it creepy? Is it wrong? Should Wes say something? Or would it be even creepier to come out while in Tim’s bed? Fuck, is it hot in here?

He kicks a leg out from under the covers, allowing it to be exposed to cool air. It’s completely dark in the room, but he stares at where his foot should be. Should he have worn socks to make it not gay? Is it gay at all? What even is “it” at this point, anyway?

He forces a deep breath. This is probably not weird. It probably would be weird if he did decide to come out while sharing a bed with his friend, who is a queer vigilante and his boss and could have his adoptive father rip out Wes’s spine if he so wished. 

Right. So Wes needs to chill the fuck out and think of literally anything else. 

His first thought is unfortunately that time he fell off the monkey bars in the first grade and landed on top of Paulina Sanchez, who had cried and hated him until sixth grade for it. 

Even worse, his second thought is of his parents’ divorce, and he wants to slap himself. But he can’t do that when there’s a maybe-sleeping-maybe-not body next to him, so instead he takes another deep, quiet breath.

He thinks of Duke Thomas and the way he squinted at Wes. Right, light and shadow manipulation. But to what extent? The way he reacted to Wes might suggest he can see more than a regular human’s visible light spectrum. (More colors, like a shrimp?) If he can see ecto-radiation, then he can see that there’s something off about Wes, who has lived in Amity since the portal’s opening nearly a year ago. The average Amity Parker has a little ecto-contamination in them, but Wes’s may be higher thanks to his stalking of Team Phantom. 

So Duke might know that he’s a little irradiated. Not a big deal, Amity’s a small town. There’s no reason to assume that Duke will meet other Amity Parkers and start to ask questions. 

But what would happen if the Guys In White decide to outsource help and they decide that someone who can see more forms of light would be beneficial to the cause? 

….Fuck. He was supposed to calm himself down, not work himself up.

Wes settles in for a long night. 

xxXxx

Taglist: @theamazingfox

@theamazingfox @quietlyscared @lumosfeather18581   @blankliferain @amercurio @gin2212 @starscreamlover @hoarder-of-gender @the-ghost-trader @iariinay @ectoplasm024 @theblackcatscratchpost @chaos-n-kindness @overtherose @roseinbloom02 @jaguarthecat @i23432i

If you want to be added to the Tag List, just ask in the replies! 

Ao3 is updated first BUT I upload onto Tumblr 10-30 minutes after uploading on Ao3, so don’t worry about missing out on early content or anything. Everything is updated within the hour :)

[tojisun]

just a short spitballing here but—

The gods were slaughtered, and all that remains are remnants of ruined cities, scavenged from the yawning of the earth. Their songs and ways of worship had long since been erased from history—it is not a surprise, not when it were the young cults which blossomed into the religions of today.

Still, they do not hunger, not when they hear hymns and still find a sliver of their reflection within the songs; no human remembers but they know—they have long memorized the elegies made in their names, after all. Such poetries were sung from the base of their worshippers’ throats, spilling into the air for it to be passed on to their gods. The people believed so fiercely that their gods were always close. That they were all-seeing. All-loving.

And perhaps they are.

Perhaps they spoiled their little mortals too much—accepting their offerings with such enthusiasm, before repaying them for their tribute—but look where that got them. They are trapped in time, with dwindling existence. They loved and they protected, and yet their temples were razed and their cities were burned, and their followers turned. They were abandoned by the people, until not even their names were remembered.

The reverence was important, but more so was the remembrance for it always acted as a spark, never to be snuffed out even during times of turmoil. But the years crawled by and even the flickering embers were killed, and now they are left to live like dogs, fighting each other for scraps of mortal affection. Of the wonder within humans that sometimes was turned towards them as their long histories are turned into mere fables and songs.

Then, a shift envelopes the limbo, and lapping waters filter in—the banished gods saw the budding passage and flocked towards it.

The humans called it a miracle; they know it is anything but.

The new gods are tired, that is the reality, and they are hungry for a battle. For a war. And that is how he is pulled in and spat out into existence.

The new gods call him Simon instead of Tyr—he knows it is meant to be a shackle; gods are not allowed their true names, after all, lest one makes the mistake of bestowing them the breath of life. And, for the price of a cult, with its worshippers and its temples, he is made to battle a god they endearingly call Johnny.

Amidst cheers, Tyr meets the familiar eyes of Neit.

Seeing him as he once was makes Tyr aches, fists tightening around his sword because if Neit is here then Woden and Yngvi surely are too.

And perhaps, if they are all here, then maybe, just maybe, Erce is alive too.

It is such a foreign feeling—for a god to pray—but Tyr does, letting his words fall like wisps, like quiet embers, hoping it would reach her.

i had a vision then it segued into this other thing 😭

tyr (simon), neit (johnny), woden (john), yngvi (kyle), erce (f!reader)

[whencyclopedia]

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American author and poet, often credited as the father of the short story, a pioneer of science fiction, the inventor of the detective story, and the master of the horror genre. He is best known for his poems The Raven, Annabel Lee, and Helen, the short stories The Fall of the House of Usher, The Cask of Amontillado, and The Masque of Red Death; and the detective story The Purloined Letter.

Poe was one of the most influential writers in his own time as well as generations later. Robert Mead in his Literature of the American Nation wrote that Poe's stories, poems and essays, "convey the conviction of intensity felt experience, the authority of extraordinary intelligence. That was Poe's genius" (71). One of his best themes is the difficulty of establishing a discrete limit between the living and the dead, the exploration of the border between things that one may wish to remain separate: life from death, the human from the animal, and the real from the imaginary.

Although Poe was a brilliant writer, his life was one of poverty and misery, and his short stories and poems reflect the deep sense of loss Poe experienced throughout his life. Charlotte Montagne in her book on Poe called him a giant of American literature "but his life was a disaster, a tale of unremitting misery, constant poverty and repented frustration and disappointment" (Intro). He was the first American writer to try to support his family through his writing. Unfortunately, he failed. While he may have lived in poverty, he changed American literature forever. Despite his tragic death at the age of 40, he left behind over 70 macabre stories, poems, and one novel "filled with suspense and brilliantly twisted plots." (Montagne, Intro)

Early Life

Edgar Allan Poe was born on 19 January 1809 in a boarding house near the Boston Commons in Boston, Massachusetts. Mead wrote that, from the beginning, his life seemed destined for destruction. Both of his parents were actors, not a respectable occupation at the time. His father, David Poe, Jr. (1784-1811) was a member of the Boston Thespian Group. He proved to be a major disappointment to his parents, who wanted him to become a lawyer. He and Elizabeth (Eliza) Arnold Hopkins, an expatriate English actress, met in Norfolk, Virginia, and were soon married. She was a widow. Her husband Charles Hopkins had died six months earlier. Poe's brother William Henry was born nine months later in 1807; he would die in 1831 of tuberculosis.

David and Eliza traveled the theater circuit up and down the East Coast leaving young Poe and his sister Rosalie (1810-1874) with David's parents David Sr. and Elizabeth in Baltimore. By 1811, David had abandoned his family. Never getting any respect for his acting ability, his stage career had stalled owing to his heavy drinking. He died in December of 1811 in Norfolk. Considered a talented actress by most reviewers, Eliza became ill with tuberculosis and died at the age of 24 on 8 December 1811. The young couple died within three days of each other.

Although he was only two years old, with little memory of his father, many believe Poe inherited his father's character and bad habits. Since his grandparents were financially unable to care for Poe and his little sister, Rosalie was adopted by the Richmond merchant William Mackenzie. Although never formally adopted, Poe was taken in by John Allan, a tobacco merchant and his wife Frances. Poe was given Allan as his middle name. John was said to be impulsive and quick-tempered, but Poe wanted for nothing. He was encouraged and given opportunities to indulge in his literary pursuits. He had the unique ability at a young age to memorize and recite long passages of poetry.

Continue reading...

[calitsnow]

Is Hong Lu the tea ?

I really like this title but of course I'm not trying to imply that Hong Lu is literally tea but I would like to talk about a potential foreshadowing or metaphor (?) concerning Hong Lu and which takes place in the story Liu association 5.

It is not so much a theory but more of an analysis which serves to point at elements which seem to reinforce ideas we have about Hong Lu and to better understand or even guess what his canto will look like.

Summary:

Hong Lu is = to the tea of this story

The objectification of Hong Lu

Hong Lu is like water

Spoilers further below

I/ Hong Lu is = to the tea of this story

It's time to talk about the frames that initiated this over-analysis.

Frames that appear to be a rather trivial conversation about tea leading to a humorous exchange between the three characters. But is that really all there is to take from this exchange? What if there was a foreshadowing or/and a metaphor hidden behind it?

It's true that the dialogues at the end of this story, where Hong Lu discusses the ability of his left eye to shine, is more memorable. I admit that it was also the part that caught my attention the most at first. However, upon rereading this passage, I find this exchange very interesting to analyze.

So here we go:

I've seen some people discussing that Hong Lu's age is around 30 years (I think), but I couldn't find the post, so I'll rather assume that Hong Lu is between 20 and 30 years old, as many people (including myself) think.

And this is where it all begins, because when I see Hong Lu talking about a tea "fermented for over 20 years in an ideal environment" and described as "nigh priceless," I can't help but wonder if there's a direct parallel to be made with his character.

We already know that Hong Lu has lived a sheltered life, presumably since forever, in an environment isolated from the rest of the world by and with his family, until finally he joined Limbus Company, which became (it seems) his first experience of the outside world.

If we follow the idea that, Hong Lu is over 20 years old and that him joining Limbus Company was his first interaction with the outside world, then we can see his arrival at the company as if he was taken out of the closet, like the tea that was brought out after more than 20 years of fermanting in this "ideal environment".

It remains to be seen whether Hong Lu escaped this "closet" or if he was brought out for a particular reason.

All this to say that Hong Lu's life until the game’s events could be seen as that of tea fermenting for years before serving its purpose.

We can therefore draw a parallel between the fermentation of the tea Hong Lu talks about and the type of life Hong Lu has led so far: Hong Lu is like the tea, and perhaps this image can give us or confirm what Hong Lu's life was like and how it is meant to be seen: that Hong Lu was fermented within this familial environment to produce an individual nigh priceless.

[SD: Now, if I use the term "fermentation/fermented" to talk about Hong Lu, I will, of course, be referring to his sheltered life with his family, but it will be easier to use the same term to talk about both the tea and Hong Lu and to support the parallel.]

What's also interesting is that the ones behind the fermentation of the tea and Hong Lu happen to be the same: Hong Lu's family.

This, I find, reinforces the legitimacy of this comparison.

We can also note that Hong Lu often talks about the tea he savored while still living with his family, so in a way, tea is a reminder of home for Hong Lu or more precisely, his past life.

I know it's not much, but it could still be an indication inviting us to make this comparison or to pay attention to details where tea is mentioned.

Returning to this idea of fermentation, whereas we know that the fermentation of this tea is supposed to give it a unique taste or/and a unique smell, it's hard to say what the goal of Hong Lu's "fermentation" was.

Perhaps to give him a unique "taste," which for Hong Lu would equate to a predefined personality and/or identity corresponding to his family's expectations.

It may also correspond to the fact that Hong Lu was kept isolated from the rest of the world because: rich people's mentality that doesn't want to coexist with those they consider inferior. Who knows…

But ... I can't help but think that there's another reason for this, but it's still too early to really know which one.

II/ The Objectification of Hong Lu

Small parenthesis: Before continuing with the analysis of the tea, I think it's interesting to dwell on this parallel between Hong Lu and a precious object that might make us understand that the question of objectification is a theme that will be relevant for his character.

After all, if in this story Hong Lu is also supposed to be paralleled with, or even "be" the tea, then his status is reduced to that of a precious object brought out for special occasions or to boast to guests.

Moreover, in the same story, Hong Lu lets slip a phrase that might make us think he is reduced to the status of a precious object in his family's eyes, more precisely a precious stone.

Indeed, his heterochromia wouldn't be due to nothing since, if we follow the original plot of *Dream of the Red Chamber* from which his character is drawn, the color and glow emanating from Hong Lu's eye should be due to him being born with a magic jade in his eye (similar to Jia Baoyu (the character Hong Lu is supposed to be inspired by) who was born with a small magic jade stone in his mouth)).

So, a magic jade stone would be in Hong Lu's left eye or something equivalent that might, at least, looks like a jade stone.

And this discussion around his eye (and in a way, his "jade") is probably the first clue showing us that Hong Lu is reduced to this small stone that is the (only) thing giving him value (for his family).

Returning to the idea of objectification, this seems to be supported by the phrase I mentioned at the beginning of this parenthesis:

"To them… I was a gem of a child"

Which might be more literal than one might think.

What's interesting is that this phrase has the appearance of a "false truth" and of something trivial that might be more nightmare fuel than one might have thought if taken under a certain angle.

This seems to be a recurring mechanism in Hong Lu's character (and ties in with the novel's theme) where the first appearance of something can hide the exact opposite. This trivial phrase suggesting that Hong Lu was pampered by his family because he was their little treasure might actually be a phrase hiding a much crueler and darker reality:

That Hong Lu was literally a precious stone to his family and that his value as a human being was reduced to his eye, which seems to be what his family reduced his being to, if we follow this theory.

And Hong Lu seems to be trying to belittle or/and hide his situation.

Hong Lu was summed up to the precious stone in his eye, and that's all he was to his family: a precious gem.

And I mean, I'm fascinated by this atmosphere of falseness that seems to surround Hong Lu: everything seems to be a mirage, an illusion (pun intended).

No, but seriously, I don't know if these are coincidences or over-interpretation, but most of Hong Lu's stories and dialogues (especially those mentioning his family) are steeped in this atmosphere of smoke and mirrors.

It's all the more fascinating that these moments seem to be a glimpse, a warning of what Hong Lu's canto will be: deceptions everywhere. I find it impressive that even in Hong Lu's mechanics / construction and writing, everything brings us back to this impression that we're facing an illusion.

This last paragraph might not have been very clear, but I'm having a bit of trouble describing my thoughts, hope you’d get a part of what I meant.

III/ Hong Lu is Water

So far, this served to show that it was possible to draw a parallel between what's said about the tea and Hong Lu.

It's time now to look at the last element that might give us more to understand how Hong Lu sees himself or the shape his identity crisis will take.

Indeed, we know that each sinner, through their canto, gets through a sort of identity crisis.

They reconnect in a certain way with their identity and face or evolve from a toxic way they had of dealing with their vision of themselves and their identity: Gregor existed only through his mother's expectations and his trauma related to the war and him being dehumanized, Rodya lived through her guilt feeling responsible for what happened to her neighborhood and the view Sonya had of her, Sinclair also lived with his guilt but also his anger towards Kromer, Ishmael lived only for revenge on her captain, etc...

Well, it is still debatable whether each sinner listed and from future cantos are/will be at the same stage of "personal development" and if they all managed/will manage to detach from their past to live for their future (cough, *cough* Gregor).

But I think that, through their Canto, the sinners learn to reconnect (at least a little) with their identity, their true self by "eliminating" what hindered this recognition so far: Herman, Kromer, Ahab...

And I think that's the essential: this reconnection with oneself.

Moreover, I'm not saying that each sinner has renounced their past, forgetting it in a drawer to live entirely differently without it impacting them, but that they have learned to live for a future rather than for and through their past.

A canto thus serves (in part) to help the concerned Sinner reconnect with their identity and their vision of their life/self.

But how would this apply to Hong Lu?

On one hand, I think first by breaking this image of an object that Hong Lu may possess in his family's eyes and perhaps in his own if he was raised with this vision of himself.

But also by tackling this illusory image of himself that Hong Lu displays.

After all, despite the rarity of this tea, the only remark Faust makes is:

"Despite the intense scent, the taste is essentially blank…" and she emphasizes this again by calling it "scented water."

I find that this image of tea being "scented water" is perfectly reflecting the idea that it's a deception, that what we are presented with is actually an illusion.

Indeed, this description could be an excellent example/metaphor of what an illusion is:

"A false interpretation of what one perceives. and Appearance devoid of reality."

The reality of this tea, which is its taste, is masked by an illusion, its scent, which comes across much more intensely to drown out this reality.

I believe this description underscores one of the themes that I think will be very important regarding Hong Lu: this often blurry distinction between what is real and what is an illusion and the idea that what appears true is false, and what appears false is true. This echoes one of the most important passages in the book from which Hong Lu's character is drawn:

"Truth becomes fiction when the fiction's true;

Real becomes not-real when the unreal's real."

We have seen many examples with Hong Lu where what he shows/says is either the opposite of what we thought, or the first impression was ultimately not the reality. For instance, when Hong Lu tells his story on the abandoned ship, we first think it’s a horror story before the twist reveals a truth radically opposed to what we thought.

The fact that Faust refers to water as a base is logical since we’re talking about tea, but it could also be an intelligent way to create a metaphor/foreshadowing with Hong Lu's behavior, which remains quite subdued and sometimes seems deceptive/false.

Moreover, this metaphor is made through an element that is more than perfect to describe someone who only reflects an image and is never their own reflection or lacks personality: water.

Transparent water can symbolize a lack of true substance or character. Similarly, a person whose personality is transparent can be perceived as lacking authenticity or sincerity. This transparency is masked by a scent to try to hide this emptiness and show the opposite of what it really is.

It’s a bit like Jack Vessalius in Pandora Hearts for those who know it.

Oswald describes Jack as water, as someone who only reflects an image, without true authenticity or a real identity of his own. In a sense, he is always playing a role.

It is also always interesting to remember that one of the most important characters in the novel "Dream of the Red Chamber," Lin Daiyu, who has a close relationship with the main character, Jia Baoyu, is a character associated with the element of water. She spends most of the novel being described as weeping or crying, and this is due to the “debt of tears” she promised to repay to the jade stone that helped her in her previous life when she was a flower. Lin Daiyu, being the reincarnation of the flower, repays her debt by crying in her new reincarnation. Hence her association with water.

But let’s get back to our main point.

Next, what’s interesting is the sentence Faust uses right after to criticize the tea she was served:

“I must wonder though, is there a good reason to pay such a stiff price for… for lack of a better word, scented water.”

We try to mask the transparency of this water with a strong scent, but in the end, it remains an illusion and doesn’t fix the real “problem” of this tea: it’s tasteless, without personality. Could Hong Lu then be just scented water that conveys an image filled with scent (that of a young aristocrat who has had an easy life and has been immersed in wealth all his life) to mask his lack of identity or self/ownness (is that a word)?

Hong Lu is merely scented water; he emits a strong and misleading scent that seems to suggest a certain vision he is or/and others have of him, but in the end, he remains just water to which a scent has been added. Perhaps this water couldn’t develop its own taste because it has been fermenting for over 20 years in an ideal environment, imposing on it a scent that has defined its entire identity.

This could also be seen as a metaphor that ties back to the idea of smoke and mirrors and that this image of a dandy that comes from Hong Lu is just an illusion whose scent is stronger and masks his real "taste".

And it also could be a way to reinforce this idea that Hong Lu try to hide or belittle the/his reality with a stronger "scent", masking the reality with something more noticeable even if it's just an illusion.

Hong Lu should then, during his Canto, learn to renounce the bases that has given him a bit of scent until now, what allowed him to be more than just water, to have an identity, to find a new one/ his true self that would be much more authentic and real.

[sqyyadina]

how much sand can a hand hold?

_ Chapter 2, "Sand"

Pairing: Lady Jessica X Reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Tags: fluff!!,

Summary: Lady Jessica needs to be held. You're the one to do it.

Author’s Note: I just feel so deeply for this woman, I can barely handle it. This is also on my AO3!

The entirety of Castle Caladan could fit into the massive frigate you’re brought on board of, early in the morning before the sun has even risen on your home planet.

You’ve handed off all of your worldly possessions to whichever guard is to be trusted with them, so with nothing in hand, all you hold are images of sandworms and Harkonnen soldiers as you step onto the massive ship.

There’s a lump in your throat, an uneasiness in the pit of your stomach. You’ve never flown before, not even on one of the small No-Ships that the Atreides family so often employed. Your feet have never left the ground of Caladan, and you’ve the nerves to prove it.

You may not be prepared for a journey to Arrakis in the slightest, but least you look the part.

Jessica had kept her promise, as much as you begged her not to, you’ve been supplied with all of the lightweight cottons and shimmering chiffons that you could ever dream of. She’s kept you as her stylistic twin, as she’s always said you look prettier in her clothes than she does. You hate to disagree with your lady, but she has never been so wrong.

Stepping onto the Atreides’ utilitarian frigate, there’s an eerie silence. All of the royal guard have been strapped into their seats, with only a few remaining for you to fill, along with the royal family. You truly believe that this is the scariest day of your life, and you have yet to encounter the army-swallowing worms that inhabit your new home.

You follow behind your royal family obediently, hands lifting Lady Jessica’s long train, so it never dares to touch the ground. The duke takes a seat in the foremost row of the ship, his doting son and ever compliant concubine seating themselves beside him. You quickly take the seat next to your lady, hoping you can pass it off as need to keep an eye on the beautiful dress she’s only just received. You wouldn’t dare to let it get dirty.

The moment that you sit, strapping yourself into the many buckles of the ship’s seat, your leg begins to bounce entirely on its own accord. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your mind at bay when the large door of the frigate finally closes, preparing to lift you from the ground. You grip the organza between your fingers so tightly that you fear that it may rip. That’s certainly not the only thing you fear, but it’s better to focus on your lady’s dress than the fact that you’ve now left the only home you’ve ever known.

Your body is working overdrive, heart racing, eyes fighting back tears, eardrums so full of noise that they’ve started to muffle every minute noise within the ship. And it works, except for one voice. Your lady’s.

She’s laid a hand over top of your own, putting enough pressure to calm their frantic squeezing.

“You must not fear.” She whispers from behind a sheer curtain of fabric, and when you turn to face her, all you see is yellow over yellow, jewels sparkling under the harsh white lights of the ship. “Fear is the mind killer.” You’ve heard the Litany so many times in your life, when Jessica has been verbally abused by the duke or during the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam’s many visits. You’ve heard it enough times to have the entire passage memorized by heart, and yet, it does nothing to soothe your nerves. They are just words, and words do not remove the fact that you will likely never see Caladan again.

Jessica must have noticed that the duke and his son are in bustling conversation, and none of the men on this ship would ever pay mind to the two veiled women that sit amongst them, so she pushes herself even closer to you, giving your hand another firm squeeze.

“I know you are frightened, my love. Hold my hand. It will be over soon.” She whispers only to you, only focused on your feeling, on calming your mind and holding your hand. The way that her voice lightly cracks tells you that she is awfully scared too, and you quickly upturn your hand so that you are interlocking fingers. You swallow the bump in your throat, praying that your time spent on this freight ship will be minimal, and you will be on Arrakis soon enough.

“I’ve heard that Arrakis is beautiful right as the sun sets.” You whisper to her, trying to rattle off whatever information you’ve learned from the many filmbooks that you’d sped through in the days prior to your journey to the desert planet. “The videos were gorgeous. Orange and red and pink... Nothing like anything we’ve ever seen on Caladan.”

“Then we shall watch the sky tonight. Together.” She responds quietly, hand lifting up to tuck a loose curl that had fallen from your intricate braids. A house’s first arrival on its newly claimed planet was truly one of the most important events in a young maid’s life, so you had begged Jessica to help you make your hair as decorative as possible, even if it were to be covered by a veil soon thereafter.

“I would like that very much.” You smile shyly to her, giving her hand a squeeze, a pain shocking through you when you come into contact with the ring that she’d worn all while you’ve known her. Though the duke would never be able to set down his pride and marry the woman that he forces to be subservient to him for the rest of his life, he had caged her with this ring, staking his eternal claim over her.

The ship had started to rattle, loudly booming out of nowhere. It causes you a great deal of strife, shutting your eyes tight to try and find some happier image, but no such image comes.

“It’s only the Heighliner. The larger ship that will carry us to Arrakis. Don’t worry, darling.” It pained you to think that a ship greater in size than your current frigate was even possible. This Heighliner would have to be larger than all of Caladan itself to be able to contain several ships in its hull, and the thought only made you more uneasy.

You try and shake your fear, try to hold on to your lady’s soft grasp, try to find your center. Jessica had taught you the Bene Gesserit calming breath, and as many times as it had worked, it had failed twice as many. You were simply cursed to be eternally hurt, with no remedy but your lady’s kisses, a cure-all that was never readily available to you.

You forced your mind to conjure ideas of your new home. You tried to distract yourself with thoughts of decorations, mentally scanning through your few suitcases to take a list of everything you’ve brought. All of the woven wall-hangings and small paintings that you had accumulated over a few weekends spent perusing Caladan’s markets with Jessica, the small statues of creatures from other lands, the one stuffed toy that you held at night when the thunder crashed too violently. You hoped to bring even a small bit of Caladan with you, and though you were sure that Arrakis would never truly feel like home, you could try to make it at least a little more comfortable for your stay.

Your heart calmer now, your eyes finally fluttered back open, returned to Jessica. Her own eyes closed, body slightly bent forward, and the hand that’s not holding yours is pressed against her temple. Prana-bindu. You’ve rarely seen her do it; there isn’t much that stresses the fair lady so much that she must control each muscle and organ of her body in this manner. You feel a tinge of worry shock through your heart, knowing that if Jessica is fearful enough to practice such a technique, then she must feel completely awful. You have always been entirely empathetic, but only towards your lady. When she has ever hurt, you have taken on twice the amount of pain.

You would do truly whatever it took to make her feel better. It ripped your heart in half that there was nothing you could do for her now.

♱

It’s a light the likes of which you’ve never experienced.

Even the brightest sunrises on Caladan were never true sunrises. They were always hidden behind clouds or mist, a grey-green hue covering the shimmering sun. You had started to lose faith that there even was a sun on your home planet, that maybe it was just a giant, fluorescent glowglobe put in the sky by someone that wished for eternal night.

No, you had never seen this kind of light. But something was telling you that your awe of the colors would be short-lived, and you’d soon grow tired of the total-orange of Arrakis.

Eyes squinting, pupils contracting to save yourself the pain, you look out at hundreds—thousands— of humans standing in the sand. Those to the right wave the Atreides flag, that garish green and black that appears to you only as a blur of color. Those to your left stand still, and as your eyes adjust to the light, you find that they’re only eyes. Eyes and mountains of fabric, robes flapping in the wind, eyes staring straight at your direction. They don’t seem pleased, though they don’t seem particularly angry either. Simply content. As if they have an obligation to be here. Much as you do.

“Shields!” It’s a voice you don’t recognize, don’t care about. A voice of a random lieutenant, who is clearly more important than you, for he is standing much further forward in the freighter than you are.

And then it dawns on you— everyone on this ship dons a shield. Except for you. You and Jessica. The only two women on board, the only two people deemed disposable enough that a stray bullet may hit you on this newly claimed planet and not much strife would come of it. You’re sure it has to do with the duke’s ego, that he feels himself strong enough to protect his lady if a riot were to break out as you step onto Arrakis. At least he would look noble as Jessica sighed her dying breath.

You suddenly feel even more unsafe than you had while hurtling through space.

You feel truly scared, especially as you watch as Jessica is one of the first bodies to step off the ship onto the sand.

Your fear is quickly overtaken by anger when a large, gloved hand grabs onto Jessica’s, squeezing it tightly, though it lets go, moves with the quick stride of the duke before the heads of the household step off of the ship. You feel furious, watching Leto’s confident stride towards the dunes, leaving his concubine to step off the ship alone. How can he even call himself a man and not offer a hand to a terrified woman stepping onto a new planet for the first time— especially while wearing the platformed shoes and tight dress that Jessica has chosen? It was surely no way to treat a lady.

You quickened your own pace, stepping onto the sand hastily and extending an arm to Jessica, scanning her face just as she had once taught you to. Though it was covered by veil, you could still see the worry carved into her forehead, the shine lost from her eyes. It would be cruel to say that she appeared lifeless, but her demeanor now was one of a statue. The Prana-bindu technique had worked.

You continued to follow the house silently, assisting your lady with her dress against the whipping wind of the dessert, eyes frantically searching the crowd with a newfound fervor. The knowledge that you were completely on your own in the middle of the dessert, hordes of people who had spent the last few decades under Harkonnen rule staring you down, had your body on high alert. You were prime targets for a projectile, and any number of these Fremen could be concealing a weapon beneath their robe.

Your awareness so high, you were the first to notice the yelling in the crowd. Trough filmbooks you had only picked up a few words in Chakobsa; zahra, meaning flower, malak, an angel, and habun for love.

Clearly, you were only focused on words you could use on Jessica.

The words flung at you by the crowd were entirely unknown to you, though you noted a sense of reverence in them. If you followed the pointed fingers of the crowd, you would see the led towards Paul. Perhaps they saw in him what the Bene Gesserit did not.

♱

“My men have swept the city twice over, and each wing of the residency more times than I can count.” You were barely listening as the old Mentat spoke, your mind too occupied by the architecture of the grand space you’ve just entered. The Arrakeen Governor’s Palace is probably twice the size of Castle Caladan, with ceilings higher than, you’d bet, even a suspensor system could reach. The windows are just as tall, shining that beautiful orange hue across the rock-cut walls, across Lady Jessica’s freckled face.

You have to force your mouth closed, as you’re sure it had been hanging open since you first stepped foot in the palace.

“You’ll find that the duke and his heir have each chosen rooms in the western wing of the residency, close to many of the council’s strategy and training rooms. The past ladies of the house have taken their stay in the east wing. It’s further from the entrance of the house, and many of the rooms are conjoined for maids to move as they need.” Hawat spoke calmly, though he carried an air about him as if he were desperate to get out of this conversation, to go and talk with the rest of the Atreides guard instead of the two women that would soon be forgotten all together in their own wing of the house.

“Thank you, Thufir.” Jessica said, voice more monotone than usual. It seemed that some of the life had returned to her cheeks, yet clearly, she was still trying to keep herself as far from emotion as possible.

As Hawat walked off, you quickly made your way to your lady’s side, grasping her cold hand in your own. How the slender fingers still managed to be freezing on a planet so warm, you weren’t sure. She had probably forced her heart to stop pumping as much, leaving her extremities with less-than-optimal blood flow.

“It’s beautiful.” You smile up at her, and her eyes only flash over yours for a second before they once again stare into nothingness, as though she’s looking down a long hallway in which only a Harkonnen army stands at the end of.

You begin walking, nearly dragging your frozen companion down the long, silent corridor, until you’re out of sight of any other human in the building.

“My lady.” You hum, flipping up her veil, unclasping some of the jewels that weighed heavy against her face. “You can let go now. We are safe.” You give her a smile of weak encouragement, though your upturned eyebrows betray the fact that you are just as scared as she is. You both know that your words aren’t true, that you’ll never truly be safe on Arrakis. You both feel the tense air around you, but it’s better to focus on each other than it is the potential jihad looming over your heads.

Jessica softens a bit under your gentle grasp, her stiff control over her own muscles beginning to weaken. Her eyes regain their glimmer and her head droops to lean into your fingers, which have slid down to lightly rub at the back of her neck.

“This planet…” She begins, leaning forward until her forehead connects to your own. Her breath tickles against your nose, her hands finding their favorite resting place on your hips. Her voice dies out, as though she’s unable to articulate the multitudes of feelings in her heart towards the planet on which you stand. She must be impossibly tired, and it shows around her eyes, but she still holds herself strong against the test of her fatigue.  

“My lady, we should find a room. You ought to lady down for a while.” You purr, pressing a light kiss to her cheek. You’ve found yourself suddenly cautious of the moisture of all things—from the wetness of your lips to the water-plump flesh of Jessica’s cheek— you’re acutely aware of it now.

It’s safe to say that your worried nature about all things is not going to do well on a planet on which you need to worry about your minute-to-minute survival.

Jessica begrudgingly pulls her head away from your own, looping her arm through your elbow, leaning most of her weight against your shoulder. You lead her down the hallway, the taps of your shoes echoing all around you as you peek into each door. You find a few empty closets, restrooms, and a large room that you assume was once used for an indoor sport of some kind, but your main concern is finding a bed for Jessica. You can feel exhaustion radiating off of her, and you’re not quite sure that she’ll remain awake much longer. You soon find a room, the one that must have belonged to the past lady of the house, for its grand ballroom style and large canopy-covered bed seemed only befitting of the lady of a Great House.

Leading Jessica to sit atop the bed, unsure who had left it covered in satin sheets but quite happy for their presence, you begin stripping her of layers of translucent fabric, creating a small pile on the floor of her yellow veils and jewels. You swiftly remove her shoes and add them to the pile, not caring much for the wellbeing of the clothing when the wellbeing of your lady is at hand.

“Please, try and rest.” You hum, laying Jessica back against the soft pillows of the bed, pleased enough with the air circulation within the palace to lay a blanket over her lap. You press a kiss against the woman’s forehead, and it’s not too long before she’s asleep.

As your lady slumbers, you decide to make a quick check of the room and all of its doors. The closets are bare, and you are quite thrilled to fill them with Jessica’s gowns; you know she has enough to fill every closet you passed on your way down the corridor. You open the largest door on the far side of the bedroom, swinging its heaviness to open upon a wrapping balcony.

A gasp escapes your lips as you step onto the orange stone, looking out across the tan buildings and colorful fabric tents of the city. The sun sits low enough in the sky that you can just make out the dual moons, better the one that, if you remember correctly, the Fremen call Krellin, the Hand of God. If you squint hard enough, you are able to make out the claw-marked pattern on its side.

You stand in the wind of Arrakis, eyes closed against the sand particles that lightly nip at your face. You kick off your own shoes, leaning against the banister of the patio, fingertips running over the soft rock there. Though it will never compare to the rain of Caladan, the quiet of this balcony may someday bring you a similar peacefulness.

♱

You’ve lost track of time, standing with your bare feet against grainy rock, ears listening intently to the village commotion less than a mile from you in one of the more heavily populated streets of Arrakeen. You’ve nearly met your meditative state when a pair of arms wraps around you, a nose nuzzled into the braids at the nape of your neck.

“You slept well?” You muse, hands trailing down your body to wrap over the frail ones that rest at your stomach. You notice they’ve regained their warmth, are no longer icicles attached to your lady’s palms.

“Yes. Thank you.” She whispers softly against the shell of your ear before pressing a kiss there, then a few to your jaw. She is back to herself, with that soft voice and wandering hands, though she still grapples against the tiredness.

“I’m pleased.” You return, pulling her arms even tighter around you as you open your eyes, playing with one of the many bracelets around her wrist. “This room must have belonged to the Countess Richese. It seems it’s not been used in many years; it has a feminine touch that I very much doubt came from Baron Harkonnen.” You giggle lightly, dropping your head to hide your eyes from the now setting sun. You’re sure it’s been dangerous for you to spend this much time out in the sun’s heat, but after so long in a state hidden from the sun entirely, you figure your body will much welcome it.

“It’s also connected to that room.” You point to your left, down to the end of the balcony where lies another entrance door. You smile at the thought of being a mere knock’s distance from your lady, that you may even spend most nights in her bed instead of your own.

“Well then, I do believe it’s perfect.” She purrs against your skin, arms squeezing hard enough against you that you fear she might strangle you if she adds any more pressure. As was Jessica’s way; she always clung to you as if her life truly depended on it, as if someone were trying to tug you away. The strength behind her grasp was always welcomed by you, even when you felt she was going to take the air from your lungs.

Though, Lady Jessica was capable of taking the air from your lungs with only a look. You’ve grown quiet used to lack of breath in her presence.

You are simply entranced by the peach color of the sky around you, the bustling street only becoming louder as the sun tucks itself beneath the horizon. It made perfect sense that Arrakis would be a planet of primarily nocturnal individuals; you could feel the air drop ten degrees when the sun disappeared entirely.

“Don’t you fear someone may see us?” You question, the thought of being caught curled up in your lady’s arms completely enticing, yet when you truly weigh the consequences, it creates a small knot in the pit of your stomach.

“Let them.” Jessica says in her oh-so very serious tone, without an ounce of humor, so you know she’s serious. Her voice vibrates against your skin as she presses her nose to the crook of your neck.

You blush, eyebrows peaking in shock when a small run of lights against the bottom of the balcony suddenly illuminates, seemingly in tune with the sun’s cycle. It seems that every aspect of this land works in tandem with its ruling sun, something that you’ll soon do as well.

You lean back, letting Jessica carry most of your weight, but more careful than normal because of the fatigued state you know she’s in. You play with her fingers, staring up at the moon, trying your hardest to remember the filmbook narrated by a Liet... something…  you couldn’t remember the name, but you knew them as the planetologist. Really you had only spent so many hours retaining this information so that you could impress Jessica with all of your knowledge.

Here's hoping you can remember your fun facts when they’re actually necessary.

“I do hate the thing.” You hum into the warm air, fingers toying at the ring looped around Jessica’s finger. You’re a bit shocked that you’ve made the statement, that you’ve aired one of the many grievances you hold against the duke. You do hope it’s not an overstep.

“What’s that, my love?” Jessica lifts her head from its spot against your shoulder, and you can feel her large green eyes boring into you. Though you won’t turn your head to meet the gaze, you can feel its intensity.

“Oh… it’s nothing, my lady.” You hope your false disinterest in the subject is fooling her, your eyes stuck to the large hand in the moon, admiring how it casts its great glow.

You should be smart enough to never wish foolishness from your lady.

Jessica plants a kiss to your cheek. “I think we’re well past honorifics.” She says, and you can feel her smile against your flesh. “What is it that you so hate, rouhii?”

You have to take a moment, several moments, for your mind to catch up. Not only has the woman you so dearly loved practically just announced that she cares for you enough to forgo the years of formality built up in your relationship, but she’s also spoken in a language that makes your knees go weak. You’ve now leaned into her entirely, but Jessica’s arms are strong enough that she’s holding you up. She won’t let you go anywhere, not until she’s learned of whatever little secret you’re hiding from her.

“I…” You mutter, eyes shutting for a moment for you to find your footing in the conversation again. Your fingers twitch against her jewelry, and you remember what it was that you were talking about. “Your ring.” You finally manage, standing up a bit when you feel your knees aren’t about to give way at any possible second. “I despise it, really.” You know you’re being bold, but you know that’s what Jessica wants. She’s kept in the dark about so many things, that it must be a breath of fresh air for her to hear someone’s true feelings without having to put in the work to hear them.

“Why is that? It’s a gorgeous color, don’t you think?” There’s a satirical tone to her voice as she picks up her hand, fake admiring the ring in the light cast by moons.

“I’ve always disliked green.” Your cheeks are blushed as you turn around in the woman’s arms, looking into her eyes, the green-blue that meets you making you immediately retract your statement. “It’s just that… I hate what it means. That the duke possesses you, yet he will never give you a true ring. I just… You deserve more.” You’re rambling, and you know it, and you lose your ability to maintain eye contact with the woman, so you drop your head.

There’s a smirk on her lips now, but it’s only there to conceal a more genuine expression. It’s hiding the fact that she wants to cry, that she does agree with you, that she wants to rid herself of the duke altogether.

“You think you should be the one that possesses me, then?” She hums, her voice still sly, but now with a tinge of the seriousness that you know to be so purely Jessica.

“No, my lady. Of course not. That’s not at all what I—” You’re cut off when Jessica pulls the ring off her finger and tosses it over the balcony as if it’s no more than a stray leaf that had landed in her hair. Your mouth hangs open, quite shocked that she would take your words so seriously, that she would discard something simply because you conveyed a disliking of it. It’s Jessica’s thin fingers that cup your jaw and force your mouth closed.

“I’ve hated it since the moment that man forced it on my finger.” She hums against your lips before planting a kiss to them, pressing you against the balcony’s railing. “I am yours, and you are mine.” The declaration makes your heart begin drumming a million beats a second, a sudden wave of desperate love for the woman crushes against you. You kiss your lady back feverishly, hands bunching up the remaining fabric at the small of her back, tugging her so that her chest is flush with your own.

“I am yours.” You whisper back in the millisecond you have to breathe between heavy kisses, back arching into the strong, yet so very delicate grasp of your Jessica.

Her tongue swipes against your lower lip, pressing for entrance, which you greedily accept, and you wonder how the Fremen in the deep desert would feel about your current exchange of moisture. The thought doesn’t last long, though, as Jessica’s tongue presently dances with your own, and she’s pressing against you so hard that you’re nearly bent backwards over the railing.

It’s just as her thigh slips eagerly between your own, that there’s a shuffling behind you, a knock on the door. You gasp against her lips before pulling away, licking at the saliva that’s accumulated on your swollen lower lip. You sense Jessica swallowing hard, flushed face whipping towards the door of the bedroom. When no one enters, she turns back to face you.

“Go.” She demands, and her voice is pitched so that there’s a hint of the voice in it, like she’s been caught so off guard that her forcefulness slips out. You immediately obey, and whether it’s on your own volition or if Jessica has truly forced you to, you can’t tell. You race towards the door to enter your own bedroom, praying you haven’t slammed the door behind you too hard.

When your bated breathing has calmed as best as it can, you sit with your ear to the wall shared with Jessica’s room, listening in with hopes of hearing the intruder on the other side. Much to your distaste, you immediately pick the voice out as belonging to the duke.

“Why have you chosen a room so far from my own?” The muffled voice more commands than asks. “You’re lucky you’ve yet to unpack. You’ll select another.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” You can hear the frantic nature of her voice, there’s a light shake that betrays her, but the tone conveys enough of the lady’s confidence that you believe the duke will argue this no further.

Your ears are straining as best as they can, but you’re unable to make out the rest of their conversation. Duke Leto always had a way of lowering his voice when he spoke to Jessica, so that none may hear the distrust that filled each of them when they spoke.

Giving up on your panicked listening, you decide to turn to face the width of your new room. It’s much bigger than the room you’d inhabited on Caladan, if you could even call the thing a room. Your bed was much bigger too. Though you weren’t sure you would be spending much time in it.

It would certainly make do.

You find yourself quite lucky to have your own vanity for the first time in your entire life, and a twinge shoots through your heart when you pull out the wicker chair and sit in front of the mirror. Your cheeks are deeply blushed like it were the middle of winter, lips puffy and small red marks along your jaw from Jessica’s nipping kisses. You never want them to leave. They were a sign of who you belonged to, and you’d have them permanently tattooed to your skin, if the idea didn’t sound so painful. You’ll simply have to have Jessica re-mark you each night, you suppose.

Though it pains you to remove the intricate work your lady had done so thoughtfully this morning, since you still haven’t been brought your bags to change out of your arrival attire, the only thing you can do now is begin to unpin your hair, which is sure to come undone in a mess of curls that you’ll need to tame.

In a while you’ll go to check on your lady, you’re sure you’ll need to mend her spirits and make her a meal with whatever Arrakeen spices you can find in a kitchen, and it pains you to know that she currently stands in a hushed argument with the head of the house, but all you can do now is run your fingers through your hair, thinking about that little green ring that sits in the bottom of a bush in the garden below you.

[whumpyourdamnpears]

Fruit of the Wicked: Chapter Eleven

Content Warning: lady whump, male whumper/female whumpee, POC whump (whumpee is a Black woman), age gap whump (whumper is an older man), religious whump (Christianity), captivity whump, starvation

A big thanks to Marz and Gen for beta reading this chapter

Word Count: 1214 Previous Next

The day was turning to evening, and the man still hadn’t come to see her.

She knew they were home. Sunday had came and went, as did a few more days, and for whatever reason, the man had chosen to not come and see Dani at their usual time of day for one of their “conversations”—times where the man would attempt to pry information out of Dani about her life—and with the evening coming in, it’d soon be time for one of their nightly lessons.

It’s not that Dani looked forward to their daytime meetings—in fact, she loathed them entirely—but they helped her to gauge what kind of mood the man was in that day, and how intense their lessons would be that night as a result. On his good days, the passages were easier to memorize, and the punishments less severe. On his bad days, everything was that much harder, and with the man not coming to see her, she couldn’t even begin to gauge how bad of a mood the man could be in.

Dani spent the day on the floor, too dizzy to attempt standing, peering through the glass paned doors of the study, attempting to make out what the man and his daughter were doing throughout the day. She didn’t see much of them, admittedly, seeing them only when they left the house and again when they returned, until evening time. They spent that time in the kitchen, talking to each other and cooking together. When Dani could see that dinner was on the table, she sympathized with her growling stomach and looked away.

She waited for them to finish. When she thought they had, she scooted herself even closer to the door, only to find out that they hadn’t finished at all, just entered a new phase of their meal. The man, who had gone into the kitchen just moments before, returned to the dining table with a round pan in his hands, its contents covered in tiny candles. The daughter, who had remained at the table during this time, was smiling.

They were celebrating. Presumably the daughter’s birthday, by the look of things, but for all Dani knew they could be celebrating anything under the fucking sun. She watched on as the two went through the birthday ritual, with the singing and the blowing out of candles. After two slices had been cut from the cake and only as the man began to move his knife away from the cake did the daughter say something that made the man’s knife stop midair. Dani couldn’t quite make it out. Dani watched as he said nothing back, and then, they were both looking at her.

Dani pushed herself away from the doors, embarrassed to have been caught watching. They looked away from her, too, to look back at each other and continue their conversation. So it was her they were talking about. That didn’t bother Dani. It really didn’t. Not at all. They kept talking, and all Dani could hear of it was their muffled, hushed tones through the door.

Soon, they were finished, cleaning up their plates as usual, and Dani thought that might be the end of it.

Until the man opened the door.

Dani turned towards the sound to see him standing in the doorway, a plate in his hand. He sighed as he looked at her, gesturing with the hand that held the plate. “Lady of the house says today is a special day, and that you should be included in it. Do you agree?”

Dani stared up at the plate. From her angle, she couldn’t see what was on it, but she tried to imagine what was on there. They sat in silence for a moment before Dani realized she was supposed to answer back.

“Sure. Sure, yeah.” She said, still staring at the plate, mouth watering at the thought of being able to eat something.

“What do you say to her?” The man asked, impatient.

“Please.” Dani shook her head, realizing he would not be satisfied with that answer. “Thank you.”

The man shook his head, bending down to put the plate on the floor in front of her. “Don’t think this means you’ve earned the right to eat. You haven’t. Today’s just… a special day.”

On the plate laid a thin slice of light brown cake, covered in white frosting. It was clearly homemade, and in any other circumstance, Dani wouldn’t have even considered it edible. But right then, it looked like the best slice of cake Dani had ever seen. Her stomach gurgled with anticipation.

But Dani did not touch the cake.

The man stared at her. “Aren’t you going to eat it? It’d be awful rude to snub food so graciously given to you.”

“I will. I am.” Dani said, licking her lips. “It’s just—do you have a fork?”

“No fork. No knife. You know why.”

Dani unconsciously nodded. “Then… do you have to watch me eat it?”

“What? You’re shy about eating in front of other people? You weren’t very shy with the water, were you?”

The water was exactly why she didn’t want to eat in front of him. Dani said nothing, expecting him to pick the plate back up and leave with it.

The man simply sighed. “Alright. You can eat with all your privacy intact. But just know, I’m coming back for that plate, and if that plate ends up being broken in any shape or way, you’ll lose access to water, too. Understand?”

Dani nodded, barely even listening. The allure of the cake was much louder. It took all of her willpower not to reach forward and grab the thing with her bare hands.

The man nodded to himself and turned towards the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Dani waited until the door shut. Then waited a few more beats before reaching for the plate. Sliding it across the floor and onto her lap, Dani sat and stared at the slice of cake now sitting with her, mouth watering. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, Dani reached forward to break the tip off of the slice of cake with her fingers. Frosting coated the tips of her fingers as she did so, as she brought the small piece up to her mouth.

The cake was better than she had imagined.

She tried to savor the cake, she really did. But hunger dictated that she shove every morsel of food into her mouth as quickly as possible without giving taste a second thought. Dani felt like a wild animal with the way she ate, faster than should be humanly possible and messy as can be. The mess didn’t last long, though. She swallowed every crumb she possibly could. Her messy, frosting-covered hands eventually became clean, every lick of frosting and crumbs sucked off. Before she could even register what she had done, the cake was gone. Dani stared down at the empty plate.

Happy Birthday, Dani thought to herself, for the girl who had allowed her to eat. For some reason, she had advocated for her. Not to be let out, but at least to eat. The gesture was promising enough.

Dani considered, for the first time, that maybe the girl felt sorry for her.

Tag List: @flowersarefreetherapy @generic-whumperz, @deluxewhump, @another-whump-sideblog, @pigeonwhumps, @lektricwhump, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees, @sowhumpshaped, @starsick1979

[bonebabbles]

Slash's Famous Scene

Here we are, lads. Everyone's favorite scene in the totally best arc of WC. The one where Slash pins a pregnant woman to the ground and licks her face, while threatening her fetuses and cutting her cheek open so Clear Sky can have more man pain.

So far I've been using "fridging" as synonymous with the brutal killing of a female character to advance a male character's arc; but I do want to remind everyone that the term "fridging" describes disproportionate violence done to women in the service of their husband/brother/father/son's arcs. It doesn't HAVE to be death; it can also be battery, maiming, depowering, or sexual assault.

So far, 8 women have died to serve male arcs, most of them for Clear Sky specifically. Fluttering Bird, Bright Stream, Storm, Misty, Bumble, Turtle Tail, Rainswept Flower, and Petal. Now Star Flower gets sexually harassed and kidnapped, bringing the arc's fridge total to 9.

Anyway content warning, obviously. It's still Warrior Cats and doesn't get too graphic, but this bag contains a dead dove.

First, Clear Sky gets another toesucking from the ghost of his wife who died after leaving his controlling ass. Specifically, after he threw his disabled brother out of his Clan, and after his lust for seeing random people (including his brother) get mauled at the border resulted in the death of Fox.

She tells him that his behavior never drove anyone away, it was all totally not his fault. I'm waiting for a laugh track and it never comes. The apologetics in this arc are unrivaled.

Then, Clear Sky wakes up and his pregnant wife is not next to him. So he goes looking for her and sees her being flanked by Slash and his memorable minions, Grunt 1 and Grunt 2. Star Flower is so possessed by fear that she doesn't move.

They REALLY need to sell that Slash is TRUE evil, PURE evil, because of the wet fart that is Clear Sky's redemption arc. They're saying that Clear Sky ISN'T bad, because he is not this. A dirty, sadistic monster who coos evilly about how he's going to hurt the kittens in his wife's belly and cruelly twitches his whiskers.

(as a petty side detail, please also note that this passage cannot even keep Slash's fur color straight. Behold, a cat so evil that he cannot even remain a brown tabby! He turns gray when he commits nefarious deeds! Ashfurification included!)

Star Flower is the one being pinned to the ground and having her face cut open as Slash screams about how she promised her father she'd be his mate, but this scene is about Clear Sky's distress. Star Flower is an object to this narrative, which these two men are in conflict over.

The pinning, the violence, the sexual implications, are being done to make Slash as monstrous as possible to contrast to Clear Sky. Slash doesn't kill anyone, so the narrative needs to make you SO UPSET your emotions are thrown into overdrive, so you'll accept how truly terrible he is.

The simple truth that this rancid book is trying to make you ignore, is that Clear Sky is exponentially more deadly. He has caused harm so unspeakable that they have to describe his bloody murders in passive voice. They "died" now, instead of "were killed," and the violent system he created is presented as "making up" for the trauma he's caused to the survivors.

"Pushing his muzzle close to her injured cheek, he licked the blood from her fur with a long, lingering lap."

Think critically about the characters they are presenting and the actions they make them do. None of these are real people. They are writing choices. They have portrayed Slash as a perverted, domineering, child-abusing savage, so Clear Sky the Settler can look good in comparison.

then Star Flower gets dragged off, kicking and struggling, feeble and completely unable to defend herself as clear sky thinks about how she might die along with his fetuses.

Obviously Clear Sky is so very stressed out by all this and needs to blow off some steam, so he smacks the nearest woman and starts screeching about how Star Flower is more loyal than the son he abuses

The first thing he does after the Slash event was physically assault the nearest woman. I can't... I don't have the words. Are you seeing this. Do you see what I am fucking dealing with. literally the first woman he sees.

"DOES THAT FEEL LIKE AN ACT??" He bellowed like a fucking wifebeater at the girl whose face is bleeding because he cut her in a fit of rage. That's fine as long as you don't lustfully lick it afterwards I guess!!!

[seraphiism]

❀ ﾟ. ༄ ┊ 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 ( 𝐩𝐭. 𝐢𝐢 ) ;

( AT THE END AS AT THE START, & THROUGH ALL THE IN-BETWEENS, I LOVE YOU )

characters : kaveh / dehya / cyno / ayato / diluc fandom : genshin impact quote cr : amal el-mohtar and max gladstone a/n : part 2 of 4! each character is limited to 150 words.

pt. i

↬ kaveh ࿐ ࿔

"of all the creations i've made, none can compare to your beauty."

kaveh has always been a romantic, love language born from touch and fervor. you blink, disoriented expression meeting your lover's through the mirror. it is barely morning. you've just woken up, head out of sorts as you brush your teeth. you wouldn't say you're the epitome of beauty at this moment, but he thinks otherwise.

how can someone be so radiant in the most mundane of things? he leans against the doorway, watches as you get ready for the day. you toss a reluctant glance in his direction, but he simply smiles.

"already hitting on me, huh?"

he hums, beckons you closer.

"what can i say? i'm an honest man."

his hands rest on your hips as if that's where they have always belonged and he presses a gentle kiss to your temple in greeting.

"good morning, dearest."

↬ dehya ࿐ ࿔

"sunshine, you're not blushing, are you?"

dehya is not one to be trifled with, strength and skill in combat unmatched. she is not as intimidating as she lets on, altruism in her nature.

no, dehya isn't one to be messed with, but you do it anyway. with one hand in hers, the other pressed against her cheek, you grin, almost think it might have grown warmer after your words. she has yet to become accustomed to these nicknames, and in truth, she does not think she ever will.

"sunshine? you..."

she sighs, knows this is already defeat. she has fought many battles, none of them this difficult.

"not a fan? should i call you something else?"

she blinks furiously, tries to hide her flustered visage. she clears her throat, fails to maintain eye contact, but squeezes your hand all the more.

"i'll only let you call me that, you know."

↬ cyno ࿐ ࿔

the first time cyno made you laugh is the most memorable, he decides. his jokes, while quite humorous, often miss the mark, so he vividly recalls that moment, knows it to be one he cherishes ever so dearly.

the flow of time is one that cannot be changed, days gone by as he seeks out those who taunt justice. it is an arduous role, but one he carries with pride.

it's when he finally comes home to you that he feels at ease, heart lightened, and so he is once more reminded that the passage of time is not one to be taken for granted.

"did you know," cyno begins, "that your laughter is one of my favorite things to hear?"

"are you saying that because i laugh at your jokes?"

cyno grins, loves the way you naturally place your hand in his when he reaches out for you.

"maybe."

↬ ayato ࿐ ࿔

the role as the head of the kamisato clan is seldom easy, ayato's past filled with hardships paving the road to a masterful deception, fabricated smiles shown with ease despite a quiet suffering.

how warm you are, he thinks, so he relaxes in your hold, allows a rare vulnerability in the presence of the one he's sworn devotion to.

"what a special occasion." he comments, wavering between consciousness. "you're hardly this kind to me."

you've always been used to his banter, but there is something dispiriting in his teasing tone, so your fingertips lightly trace circles into his skin, your lips against his forehead in reverie.

"what can i do for you, ayato?"

he leans into your touch, and you know the smile that blossoms on his lips is one of genuine happiness.

"you've done enough. so long as you remain by my side, i could ask for nothing more."

↬ diluc ࿐ ࿔

diluc does not know when the right moment is for declarations of adoration; although you've already exchanged confessions, it has always been a challenge.

maybe it's the way you weave cecilias into crimson locks, tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. maybe it's how you smile, look at him wordlessly yet announce your love for him. diluc is uncertain, but he recognizes this feeling that takes over and makes the echoes of a heartbeat terribly known.

it is instinct, the way he draws closer to you when your fingers trace his jawline with utmost reverence. you still at the little space that exists between two lovers, and perhaps the silence is louder than ever.

i love you is spoken in the way diluc kisses you, and in the way he pulls you closer, there is a i love you, i will gladly give all of myself to you.

[natty-taffy]

the handmaiden - [natasha x reader]

Interactive fanfiction

series masterlist

Summary: Wanda could say she had told you so

Previously, on this path: Chapter I.I.I

  ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ CHAPTER I.I.I.0

Five seconds.

Your trembling legs barely manage to guide you to the chair, you pray for everything holy that your aim is anything but perfect and the gun has at least one bullet.

Four seconds.

Another shot.

You fight another whimper at the same time that bile rises burning through your throat. You grab the gun- you don’t think you have ever touched anything as heavy as this, and it doesn’t really weigh much on your hands. 

Three seconds. 

Two shots at the same time, you wish your ears could muffle the screams as the tears are blurring your vision. 

You can’t afford to think anymore, all you do is turn around and aim for the chandelier- you pull the trigger three times before you had even decided you would do it in the first place. The unexpected pull from each fired bullet almost throws you on the ground.

You don’t look down as the heightened fears of the screams and the glass shattering make a horror-full symphony, you simply can’t shake Anastasia’s screams from your mind. It’s for her your legs are running, although rather poorly, it’s for her your lungs are burning, she is the fuel for the adrenaline that is shooting through your body.

Once you reach the ballroom grounds- never once daring to stop- her red hair is the one thing your eyes are looking for, amidst the smoke. You know you have to be quick, the fire has spread through the long curtains, but there are too many people in the castle with eyes solely on the royal family- and, by default, you.

As the first intake of smoke burns through your nose and throat, you almost step back, but your legs- those two living beings of their own- can’t grant you this pause. The tears, already soaking your neck, are now reborn as waves of ashes wash your face, you don’t know whether you should try to hold your breath or breathe normally as none of them are proving to be any efficient for your survival as of now.

It’s when your coughs are starting to hurt your chest, creating havoc amongst your lungs, that you hear her grunting, not much farther from you. With the last remaining strength of your body, you reach your arm to your left, in her direction- the one in which you’re not still holding a loaded gun- and grab the first thing that you can touch.

Your fingers know it’s her from the second they touch her skin, having memorized every inch of her after long years and even longer, careful caresses.

She tries to break free, but, whether from weakness or recognition, it doesn’t last much before her arm goes slack against your grip. 

“Please, Natty” You wheeze pulling her with you, half to yourself, half in hopes she would hear you “I can’t carry you” 

Anastasia doesn’t show much signs of having heard you at all, which sends a small wave of panic into your stomach. The imminence of death suddenly becoming more real as the passing second is enough to not only trigger another whimper out of your throat, but to grant you one more shot of adrenaline.

There’s not much to think about as the smoke is starting to clear out- the fire having being extinguished quickly by some of the responsibles for the massacre- so you yank her groggy body against yours and hold her waist as tight as your muscles allow you to.

Anastasia is somewhere in between consciousness and the lack of it, you realize, as her green eyes- the ones who have bewitched you- are open, but not, in fact, registering much of anything. But at least she is able to keep her legs moving, and that is all you need right now.

Being Anastasia’s handmaiden for much of your life has granted you the knowledge of almost every single secret passage of the castle- and, not for the first time, you happen to be very thankful for it.

You blindly feel the wall against you for one of the six that are in the ballroom, and, within seconds, you are able to twist a small handle and send both of you tumbling against the recently opened passage. 

As you frantically close the door, the unmistakable voice of Niko, the royal butcher and, once, a close friend of yours, is heard from a few feet away from you “Quick, the north passage!”

You don’t have much time to access Natty’s state, so you pull both of you up again, with much more effort than you usually would, and shake her as strongly as you can “I really need you to run, Anastasia, can you do this for me?” 

The cough that leaves her mouth doesn’t do much for your anxiety, but in seconds, her hold on you seems firmer. 

“For you, dove” Her whisper of a voice sends a wave of relief crashing through your body.

You don’t waste another second before pulling her with you, once more, and running as you have never dared to do before- you pray her shaky state is able to follow your path, because, as you turn the first left, you hear the secret door being pulled open.

The end of the passage is close since the ballroom is not far from the back garden, so you enlace this spark of hope on your every step as your calves barely touch the ground you are running on- between your incessant wheezing and Anastasia’s sloppy steps you’re making too much noise, you know that, but when you reach the trees- that are so so close- you know you’ll be able to lose them.

As you turn your last left, barely escaping an unused trap, the silhouette of the exit door can be already deciphered by your eyes, having been used to the dark by now. You use your upper body to open it, but when you fall, you frown when the ground never reaches you.

A strong pair of hands holds your right arm and you can hear Anastasia screaming for you at the same time you do for her, when the icy feeling of something piercing your arms takes over your body. For some reason, you can’t see much, but you frown as you register the symbol of an eagle from the uniform the men are wearing.

-

Wanda is thrown out of your memories as your mind closes itself to her ogling and her breath hitches; it’s a soulmate tie preventing her from seeking deeper memories.

She can’t begin to unravel her own thoughts as the weight of reality starts to dawn on her- she shouldn’t have dug so much, are you even ready to deal with all of that ?

It’s no wonder that Natasha- or should she say Anastasia, now?- doesn’t know how to act around you, how can a soul yearn for another for a hundred years only to, in less than one, have to accept their soulmate is alive and has no recollection of anything that they’ve shared? No recollection of who any of them were?

Wanda tries not to walk on this line, but her heart grieves for Nat, the love story you might never truly remember and you.

Your pained groan shakes her off of her thoughts for but a brief moment- her eagle eyes follow your tiniest changes of microexpressions, now knowing what to expect or even what she wishes to expect.

But of one thing she is certain, out of everything, she was neither expecting nor wishing for you to utter the following words:

“Who are you?” You ask her before she can even get anything out of her mouth.

Her blue eyes are as wide as yours when you sit up, with the agitation of a scared animal, and demands “Where’s Anastasia?”

 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

CHOOSE YOUR PATH!

[Wanda takes you to Natasha] [Wanda tries to fix the situation on her own]

[dknuth]

Ephesus

Today was the visit to the leading ancient site of the cruise, Ephesus.

Ephesus was a Greek and Roman city founded in the 10th century B.C. on an earlier Arzawan settlement site. It was one of the region's principal cities based on its port, location on a river providing access to the interior, and sanctuary to Artemis.

We first stopped at the local museum, which contained sculptures and artifacts from the site. Some of these, like the Minoan pottery, attest to the early occupation.

Ephesus also developed coins early, using the local electrum ore. The first coins had images of a bee.

Most of the statuary was Roman. Only a few Greek statues remain for two reasons: their age and the fact that most Greek statues were bronze, which was melted down and reused, both for decorative items and weapons.

However, the most significant statues were of Artemis. Greek Artemis was the equivalent of Roman Diana, the goddess of the hunt, the wilderness, wild animals, nature, vegetation, childbirth, child care, and chastity. The local version was equated to the earlier Great Mother Goddess and portrayed quite differently than the Roman version. A chart on the wall showed the development of the Great Mother Goddess images over time.

In Ephesus, she was portrayed in a a very dramatic manner.

There is a lot to unpack here. Starting at the top, she wears a crown with the city on top. She has wild animals on either side of her head.

She has a lion on each arm; the most noticeable thing is all those protuberances. There has been much debate over what they represent. Breasts reflecting the abundance of the Great Mother? Stories say she was often hung with bull's testicles, and there is undoubtedly a resemblance there. Other sources indicate her statues could be hung with gift bags. We don't know, but it is undoubtedly a memorable image.

Her skirt is covered with the wild animals she was also a protector of.

There was also a slightly smaller statue. Here, you can see the two hunting dogs accompanying her as the goddess of the hunt.

In antiquity, the Temple of Artemis was one of the Wonders of the Ancient World. The last and greatest version was built starting in 356 B.C. It stood for 600 years until it was destroyed by the Goths in 268 AD. With the coming of Christianity it was finally abandoned.

The stones were, of course, recycled into other buildings. Today almost nothing remains.

The one lone, sad column was haphazardly re-erected in modern times from odd bits left around the site.

There was a model in the local museum.

Antipiter of Sidon described the temple thus in his Seven Wonders:

"I have set eyes on the wall of lofty Babylon on which is a road for chariots, and the statue of Zeus by the Alpheus, and the hanging gardens, and the colossus of the Sun, and the huge labor of the high pyramids, and the vast tomb of Mausolus; but when I saw the house of Artemis that mounted to the clouds, those other marvels lost their brilliancy, and I said, "Lo, apart from Olympus, the Sun never looked on aught so grand".

Alas, all we saw was a barren field and a poor column.

Then, it was on to the city itself. The most impressive part of the city was its marble-paved streets.

A gate on the street, consisting of two statues of Hercules, narrows the passage, apparently to stop the use of carriages.

What at first looks like a theater is a bouleuterion, or city council chamber.

It is so much larger than any others we've seen we al thought it was a small theater.

The most famous structure in Ephesus is the library.

It's a beautiful and impressive building front, but it is all restored. Before the restoration, only the column bases and lower parts of some columns were standing. The restorations Türkiye does are controversial. Some archeologists believe that everything should be left as found. Some people want to rebuild. I think that some restoration is beneficial for people to understand the ancient sites. Of course, they need to be done accurately and respectfully. Also, not all sites or structures should receive this treatment. It's costly and does some damage to the materials. But I certainly agree with the restoration of the Library in Ephesus.

Throughout this entire area, archeologists from various European countries did excavations. They also took may of the best artifacts and buildings back home. So museums in London, Berlin, and Paris have the absolute best of these ancient cities.

Completing our visit was the road down to the agora, theater and harbor.

One area I had not heard about was the "Terrace Houses." These are a series of huge Roman houses on the hill above the main street. They are decorated with marble paneling, frescoes on the walls, and mosaics and marble on the floors. Even the second floors of the houses had frescoes and mosaics. The one even had private bach and toilet.

Cleary Ephesus was an influential and wealthy city with some very wealthy residents.

[vengefulvermin]

Can i get more passage of time/music development yapping ☹️☹️☹️??? I give you official permission to yap the most you can im so interested

YES YES YES YES YES I LOVE THIS ASK

warning beneath the cut SCARY WALL OF TEXT WARNING 😱

decided to divide it into colored parts if you dont gaf about certain elements 😭

second warning all of this is unedited rambling so some points might contradict each other or just plain not make sense.

okay so for CONTEXTTTTT

i have diagnosed OCD, and like, roughly since the end of last year and the beginning of this one, the 'obsession' part of OCD that was negatively affecting me, was the concept of time. how fleeting it was. how it's basically unescapable ALL THINGS MUST PASS (get out of my head george harrison) that shit proper cold dead SCARED ME MAN. sleepless & haunting me in my dreams type shi. sometimes it still does. i try not to think about it too much

to cope, i found great comfort in the 70s-80s since at the time i was and still am hyperfixated on david bowie and that was sort of his prime (love his 90s-00s work tho.) i was also starting to think of how much parallels and similar experiences i have to previous generations and how it's not ALL that bad after all so far. i can still walk to a record store and roller skate if i really wanted to, or go to a diner.

okey here's where the life changing stuff happens. i decided i'd listen to pink floyd's the dark side of the moon. then TIME CAME ON. ohhhh god oh gosh golly god i was bawling and everything the whole song spoke to me on a molecular level. then i found out about DB's song also called time, and i ALSO crode to that. i was like. wow. i'm not alone on this feeling of utter desperation and helplessness as eventually all things Must Pass. (GEORGE HARRSION GTFO)

i used to be bitchy on how i whined i was part of the 'wrong generation.' i thought i was alone, but virtually everyone of almost every era has thought this. somebody who lived my dream life wished they had what i have now.

that's when i started to lowkey realize the parallels and oneness of human experience. i could go to a club in the 70s, and (granted the infrastructure and music remains similar) i could today. nothing would change on how i perceive events. there is no color filter on the past. unless you got huge TVs and stuff all over your house, you could walk around, and think it's the 80s. AND IT'S BASICALLY THE 80s. the way your parents or any other gen Xer saw the world with their *eyes* (not counting the changes in buildings and stuff) is the same as you today pretty much.

i already really enjoy subcultures, and particularly how they evolve and adapt. the indomitable human spirit prevails no matter how gentrified or 'banned' things become. nowadays i feel like there is No Youth Subcultures. at least, none that will pass the test of time and be memorable enough to be remembered in the books. nobody's gonna go to their child and proudly say: "when i was your age, i was a chav" or something. and i credit this to the lack of creativity allowed in the wider music industry.

HEAR ME OUT this is because 90% of youth subcultures had everything to do with music. and now, everything must be palatable. to be clear there's nothing inherently wrong with that type of music, but to me it speaks no soul. it has no risks. contemporary pop music is very much formulaic and this is because now more than ever entertainment (this also applies to movies btw) is more of an investment than passion. I WILL SPECIFY.

music production is so vastly different genre to genre, and we're not letting it flourish because of how much short form content is valued nowadays. LET ME COOK.

tiktoks are formulaic. algorithms are formulaic. WE'RE GETTING SOMEWHERE. there must be an instant hook or rift in music if you want to 'go viral' as a musician. digitized fame doesn't mean SHIT (to me), since clearly monthly listeners don't equate real world fans. album sales are being replaced with streams, and because of how ASS spotify treats its artists, newer, less established acts need to GET ON THE GRIND INSTANTLY to earn Coin. that means that to be smart and work with the exploitative system they're given, they have to make albums filled with 1 minute 30 second songs. so you can technically give them the most amount of streams possible. i feel with this formulaic approach, you can't get 6 minute long gutwrenching guitar pieces. no more 4 minute drum solos, hell avant garde experimental works were 2 people shout their names out at each other for 20 minutes. THERE ARE NO MORE FRANK ZAPPAS.

i'm not going to be one of those sad assholes who claim there's 'no more good rock music' and how it'll never be the same. as corny as this is, the next beatles or nirvana could be right under our noses and we'll NEVER know because of how fame is distributed. it sucks to see a small band beg on tiktok for streams to kickstart their career. but this is what we gotta work with. if we want subcultures to be created and thrive, we gotta go looking underground again, except unlike in the past it's a kajillion times easier now AND everything gets gentrified in 2 tiktok weeks. but this is evolution. MUSIC EVOLUTION

the end honk shoo honk shoo (it's midnight)

[moodoo-van-spoon]

Figaro's Famous Fanfare | 66 Brilliant Baritones Battle OUT NOW!

Gioachino Rossini’s opera Il Barbiere di Siviglia (The Barber of Seville) remains one of the most beloved and enduring works in the operatic repertoire.

Among its many memorable moments, Figaro's entrance aria, "Largo al Factotum," stands out as a tour de force for the baritone voice and a cornerstone for both character development and comedic expression.

The famous "Figaro, Figaro, Figaro" section, performed unaccompanied, exemplifies Rossini's wit, musical humour, and masterful control of operatic timing.

This moment showcases the singer’s vocal precision, agility, and musicianship, while also highlighting their acting skills, characterisation, dramatic flair, and ability to engage the audience.

In this 10-minute video, 66 great operatic baritones bring their own unique interpretations to this iconic a cappella passage.

List of Figaros:

Giuseppe Campanari [1855–1927] — Over 200 Met performances Mattia Battistini [1856–1928] — ‘King of Baritones’ Joseph Winogradoff [1866–1936] — Sang Figaro in Yiddish John Forsell [1868–1941] — Debuted as Figaro Mario Sammarco [1868–1930] — Noted for versatility & acting Emilio De Gogorza [1872–1949] — Recorded prodigiously

Riccardo Stracciari [1875–1955] — Figaro a signature role Giuseppe De Luca [1876–1950] — Created Sharpless & Schicchi Titta Ruffo [1877–1953] — ‘Voice of The Lion’ Pasquale Amato [1878–1942] — Sang at the Met 1908–1921 Peter Dawson* [1882–1961] — Bass-baritone. Over 1500 recordings Carlo Galeffi [1882–1961] — One of the finest interwar baritones

Enrico Molinari [1882–1956] — Sang as bass & baritone Armand Crabbé [1883–1947] — A lead in London 1906–1914, 1937 Giuseppe Danise [1883–1963] — Four Met premieres Anafesto Rossi [1883–1933] — Graduated as a bass Enrico De Franceschi [1885–1945] — Figaro in Turin & Honduras Umberto Urbano [1885–1969] — Recorded ‘marvels of lyric beauty’

Apollo Granforte [1886–1975] — c.1800 performances Giulio Fregosi [1887–1951] — Figaro in Paris Luigi Montesanto [1887–1954] — Created Michele Giacomo Rimini [1887–1952] — Sang Figaro with GalliCurci Heinrich Schlusnus [1888–1952] —Top German interwar lyric baritone Mariano Stabile [1888–1968] — Outstanding singing-actor

Richard Bonelli [1889–1980] — Sang Figaro in early sound film Benvenuto Franci [1891–1985] — A top Figaro interpretator John Charles Thomas [1891–1960] — Hollywood Walk of Fame Mario Basiola [1892–1965] — 66 roles. Taught by Cotogni Giovanni Inghilleri [1894–1959] — Sang with Ponselle & Gigli Lawrence Tibbett [1896–1960] — Legendary singer & actor

Iso Golland [1898–1961] — Respected pedagogue Dennis Noble* [1898–1966] — Bristolian [UK]. Prolific broadcaster Carlo Tagliabue [1898–1978] — Sang Wagner, Excelled at Verdi Ivan Petroff [1899–1963] — Debuted as Figaro Igor Gorin [1904–1982] — Cantor fluent in 8 languages Alexander Sved [1906–1979] — Taught by Sammarco & Stracciari

Frank Valentino [1907–1991] — 26 roles in 21 seasons at the Met Leonard Warren [1911–1960] — Met lead. Had a top C Gino Bechi [1913–1993] — Cast in musical films Tito Gobbi [1913–1984] — 136 roles over 44 years Paolo Silveri [1913–2001] — Sang as bass, baritone & tenor Giuseppe Valdengo [1914–2007] — Debuted as Figaro

Josef Metternich [1915–2005] — Created Hindemith’s Kepler Giuseppe Taddei [1916–2010] — Aged 69 at Met debut Robert Merrill [1917–2004] — Met’s principal baritone Manuel Ausensi [1919–2005] — Famous full recording of this opera Sesto Bruscantini [1919–2003] — Also sang Bartolo Aldo Protti [1920–1995] — Student of Basiola

Ettore Bastianini [1922–1967] — Recorded this opera for Decca Cornell MacNeil [1922–2011] — ‘Rivals, but [..] no equals’ Renato Capecchi [1923–1998] — Singer, actor & director Frank Guarrera [1923–2007] — Figaro a signature role Rolando Panerai [1924–2019] — More than 150 roles. Famed for buffo Piero Cappuccilli [1926–2005] — 17 major Verdi roles

Nicolae Herlea [1927–2014] — Sang Figaro c.550 times Peter Glossop [1928–2008] — A lead in London, Europe & USA Hermann Prey [1929–1998] — Figaro in film and live TV Yuri Gulyayev [1930–1986] — Figaro a best role Yuri Mazurok [1931–2006] — People’s Artist of the USSR Stoyan Popov [1933–2017] — ’The Bulgarian Titto Gobbi’

Sherrill Milnes [1935-] — Recorded Figaro under Levine Franco Pagliazzi [1937–2018] — Became dramatic tenor Silvano Carroli [1939–2020] — Taught by Mario Del Monaco Muslim Magomayev [1942–2008] — ’Soviet Sinatra’ Allan Monk [1942-] — Awarded a Golden Jubilee Medal Amartuvshin Enkhbat [1986-] — Numerous international awards

*Recorded 'Largo al Factotum' in the Key of Bb

Please join me for the premiere of this new video and share your thoughts in the comments and in the chat! I’m curious… Who’s YOUR favourite Figaro?! 🎶

There's a 'notify me' option available on the video page

Feel free to invite anyone else who might enjoy it— I look forward to you joining me there! Moodoo Van Spoon