#but was instead a ball paint war

[somebodyeeee]

NEIL?!

I found myself having, not exactly an argument recently, but a highly opinionated conversation with someone who did not believe my assertion that once upon a time there were official Hello Kitty vibrators. With the aid of the Wayback Machine, I found this article, and thought the world at large might enjoy it too...

Here's the text of the article:

The history of the Hello Kitty vibrator

By Peter Payne October 4, 2004

Sanrio is one of the top character licensors in the world, having more or less created the business model of doing business by creating something that doesn't really exist and licensing its use to other companies. Sanrio produces nothing -- all their characters, like the Little Twin Star, Minna no Ta-bo, Bad Batz-Maru, exist as legal entities and nothing more. Their most successful character, Hello Kitty, or Kitty-chan as she's known in Japan, is now now thirty years old.

One of the many companies that license Sanrio's characters for their products was a Japanese company called Genyo Co. Ltd. Genyo made a wide variety of products, from bento boxes to children's toys to chopsticks, many with the Hello Kitty character on them. They scored big in the late 1990's with an off-the-wall hit, a series of Hello Kitty toys which featured a different Kitty figure from each of Japan's 47 prefectures, each representing something the prefecture was famous for. (The figure from Gunma Prefecture, where we live, represented a wooden kokeshi doll.)

In 1997, Genyo designed a product that would live in infamy: the Hello Kitty vibrating shoulder massager, which really is a shoulder massager (trust us -- it says so on the package). Sanrio approved this design without batting an eye, and the product enjoyed modest sales in toy shops and in family restaurants like Denny's and Coco's. It wasn't until 1999 or so that people began to catch on to the fact that the Hello Kitty massager had other potential uses, and with amazing speed, they started popping up in adult videos in Japan. The next thing anyone knew, they had changed into a cult adult item, sold in vending machines in love hotels -- after all, what self-respecting man wouldn't buy his girl a Hello Kitty vibrator when she asked him for one?

The emergence of the Hello Kitty vibrator as a cult adult item caused friction between Sanrio and Genyo, and Sanrio ordered the company to stop making the units. Genyo refused, since it had paid a lot of money to license Kitty for their products. There seemed nothing Sanrio could do, since they had approved the item for sale (see the official Sanrio sticker on the boxes). The answer came when the Japanese tax authorities raided Genyo on suspicion of tax evasion. It seems that some creative accounting was going on between the president of the company, a Mr. Nakamura, his vice president, and the owner of the factory in China where the units were made. All three were arrested, and Sanrio had the excuse needed to yank Genyo's license. They seized the molds used to make the vibrators and destroyed them.

And so, the sad, weird chapter of the Hello Kitty vibrator is at an end. The last of the Kitty vibes are gone, so now what will the world do for wacky comic -- and sexual -- relief?

[thinkinonsense]

Bewitched

˖⋆࿐໋ james logan howlett ✦ bridgerton au series

bewitched masterlist

cw: 1800s mentality on marriage and women, pinning, bickering, enemies to lovers

pairing: viscount!logan howlett x fem!reader

a/n: as of right now, i'm not sure how long this series will be but i'm so excited for it! i tried to make the reader as universal as possible but i did have to give her some sort of last name, so if that isn't your thing, you can always change it to fit. after the set up, i'll probably drop the last name.

bridgerton lore: ton (high society), debuting (when you begin dating/looking for a partner), spinster (an unmarried woman)

main masterlist

in early june, everyone returned back to england for this season and whispers of a french woman joining the ton spread around. one morning at breakfast, marie howlett was reading one of the gossip columns aloud to her family when her eldest brother, james walked into join them at the table.

"it says she's staying with her aunt, lady worthington. she is four and twenty and the only child. her passions are literature and painting. apparently, the queen has one of her paintings in her home..."

"she sounds lovely. doesn't she, james?" their mother said, hoping her boy was listening.

"she's a spinster." he says, eating some of the fruit on the table. "that's not viscountess material."

"the queen seems to find her to be diamond material." marie jabs.

james has never fallen for one of the diamonds. sure, their beauty is prominent and sometimes they can hold an intellectual conversation but for the most part they are simply shoved forward so the queen can take credit for their marriage.

"i have more important priorities this season."

"well, this season you should prioritize finding a viscountess." their mother bit at him.

during this time every year his mother gives james the same speech over and over again. the marriage speech. ever since his father died during battle, james has been plagued with not only his grief but also the weight of replacing his father and eventually having to find a replacement for his mother as well. instead of focusing on marriage, james kept himself busy either working or traveling and keeping his family afloat.

"mama, i promise i will find a wife at some point." james sighs. "i just haven't met anyone that can handle being my viscountess."

"what about the red headed girl from last season? you seemed to fancy her quite a bit."

"she married lord summers this past spring."

"and the munroe girl?"

"she's interested in mister brooks."

all his mother does is sigh in response to the news. he takes this as the perfect chance to escape the interrogation.

luckily for james, there was always an excuse to avoid marriage. in the past he's gotten close to making that walk down the aisle but something always held him back. he's never believed much in love or marriage past it's convenience. sure, he believed it was the blueprint of life, to take a wife and start a family but his marriage is seen as a much bigger deal.

all the mamas in the ton were practically throwing their daughters in his direction. at balls, he's always forcing marie to dance with him because if not, he will be forced to socialize with these young unintellectual girls who only value him for his money and title. james didn't want to have to nurture these girls. he would take care of his wife but he wanted someone who was independent from him.

ever since his father died in the war, james has always been guarded of his feelings. especially, when it came to love. when he went with his mother to identify his father's body, james swore on that day that he would never let love destroy him like it did his mother.

"remember, marie is debuting tonight at the first ball of the season." his mother called after him. "don't be late."

"i wouldn't miss it." he smiles at his little sister before dashing out the door and back to his study.

˖⋆࿐໋

a rainbow of silks are spread across your bed as you try to figure out what to wear tonight. if your mother was here, she would know exactly what would look best on you. it's only been three months since her passing yet the ache in your chest grows stronger day by day.

"what are you thinking of wearing tonight?" your aunt asks, lingering in the doorway.

"i'm not sure yet." you sigh, picking at the pretty gowns. "i like the light blue one."

arguably, it was the prettiest in the pile. so simple, you hoped to blend in among the wash of colors in the room tonight. the boning of the corset poked the left side of your ribs a little but beauty is pain.

as you got ready, the nerves started to kick in. by now you should be on your second or third child and pregnant with the next. why was love taking so long to find you?

ever since you were a little girl, you were a hopeless romantic. dreaming of your first kiss and getting married to your knight in shining armor. back home, there was a cruel joke that you were the girl before the wife. you get just close enough before they end it. afraid that the curse would travel with you.

"don't worry." you aunt hums, brushing your hair. "the queen picked you as her diamond for a reason."

"i know, i know." you nod, avoiding your reflection in the mirror. "i just wish mother was here with me."

"i do too, dear."

"she should've seen me married."

a small tear rolls down your pink painted cheeks. it feels like you let her down by not taking a husband before her illness got worse.

men have it so easy. there's no pressure from society put on them. you can marry at fifty to a nineteen year old if you so please because you know that they will marry you out of fear and desperation.

"who says she can't?" your aunts smile reflected in the mirror. "she's still looking down on you, probably working on sending you a lord or a duke for a husband as we speak."

"amusing." you giggle.

"imagine a viscount or a prince!"

both of you laugh at the possibility. viscounts and princes were usually swept up quickly in high society. all of them probably have pregnant wives by now.

"don't get too ahead of yourself."

˖⋆࿐໋

the queens ball was unlike anything you had ever seen. beautiful gardens, bright lights, and people gathered everywhere. inside the ballroom, the chandelier lights almost blind you.

like a hawk, lady chamberlain spots you two. she is an older lady and a close family friend. you haven't seen her since you were a little girl, surprised that she was able to recognize you.

"lady worthington and miss bowery, lovely to see you here!" the woman smiled, wrapping her arms around both of you.

"hello, lady chamberlain." you smile, feeling slightly at ease seeing a familiar face here.

"you look marvelous, sweetie." she smiles, taking in your appearance. at least someone appreciated all the bells and whistles that went into your dress for this evening. "truly like a diamond."

"thank you." you curtsy. a warm rose color rises to the surface of your cheeks at her compliment.

"let's go find that viscount i've told your aunt about." she says.

suddenly, she's pulling you and your aunt over to meet everyone.

quite some time has passed and yet you've only met barton's and a few lords. from one eligible bachelor to the next, it was the same process. you introduce yourself, dance, ask a bit about each other, jump into talks of marriage and children. it was all a bit overwhelming to say the least.

there's no news on a prince yet but lady chamberlain was holding out for a viscount while your aunt held out for a duke. meanwhile, you just needed someone with charm and charisma to save you from these godawful men of the ton.

"i'm going to get a drink." you announce, one the music ends.

in one of the dim corners of the room there was a refreshment table where you poured a hefty amount of wine into your glass and down as much of it –in a very unlady like manner– as you could before another person could find you.

it wasn't long until someone behind you clears their voice loudly.

"i was unaware that they taught women to drink like soldiers in france..."

you spin around quickly to face the man in front of you. he is gorgeous and... huge. dawned in white puffy shirt and a tight black vest with detailed buttons. he towered over you intimidatingly with a small smirk creeping on his lips from shocked expression.

"i-i deeply apologize, my lord. it was just grape juice." you laugh nervously, avoiding his piercing stare.

"hm..." he hums, lifting his hand up and letting his thumb swiftly glide under your lip to catch the bit of liquid there. you watch in awe as he licks the bit of wine off his thumb with a soft groan. "they must make 'grape juice' different in france."

never in your whole life have you been left so speechless. a gentleman has never done more so than touch your hand, let alone act so scandalous. with a satisfied smirk, the man walks away to join a small group of young women. thank goodness that no one seemed to have noticed.

"miss bowery!" lady chamberlain called after you. "i want you to come meet the howletts."

swiftly, you get back to her as she approach a mother and daughter. both of them were stunningly and wore expensive looking gowns with luxurious jewels. lady chamberlains wide smile only made you grow more anxious.

"meet lady howlett and her daughter, the honorable, marie howlett." lady chamberlain introduced.

"lovely to meet you." you say, bowing gracefully before them.

"where is viscount james?" lady chamberlain asks.

"oh! he should be around here somewhere..." the woman looked behind the two of you until she flagged someone down. “there he is!”

the moment that you looked up at the viscount, you feared your heart might explode right then and there. silently pray to the gods above that he won't mention your previous encounter.

"miss bowery, this is my son, viscount james logan howlett." lady howlett announces proudly.

"what a pleasure to meet you, miss bowery." james smirked, trying to get a rise out of you.

"as is it for me, my lord." you curtsy politely, feeling hot under his gaze.

a cloud of lust fogs james mind at the words, my lord fell from your pretty, slightly berry colored lips. the lower his eyes drift from your face, the tighter his trousers get. every exquisite curve is highlighted by the way that the silk fell on your frame, reminding him of the goddesses he had only seen in the finest of paintings.

"might you wish to accompany me to a dance?" he asks, extending his hand to you.

you nod, offering him your gloved hand in return.

the two of you make your way to the dance floor with everyone else. the orchestra begins and you quickly fall in sync with each other.

"how are you enjoying england?" james asks.

"it's quite lovely." you lie.

"better than france?" he questioned with a small tilt of his head.

"no." you giggle softly. "nowhere on earth is better than home."

"i suppose i cannot argue with that."

"have you journed to france?"

"once. when i was younger, i went with my father. he loved france."

"that's why my mother left england. she fell in love with my father when she visited france."

"they must be true romantics."

"oh, most definitely." you smile.

carefully, logan spins you twice. never letting you stumble over your own two feet like most men would.

"i truly am sorry for earlier, my lord. that was completely unacceptable for a–"

"it's alright, sweetheart." the viscount cut you off with a chuckle. "your secret is safe with me."

james looks down to see your big round eyes sparkle up at him with great appreciation. there's a unique feeling blooming deep in his chest that he can't quite put his finger on.

"i heard from some mamas that you are seeking to wed this season." you say, looking elsewhere as the two of you pull apart.

"seeking is such a complex word." he sighs amusingly.

"i imagine it would be difficult to find a future viscountess."

"you have no idea."

all around you, you can see the women openly fawning over the viscount. some fan themselves while other clutch their jewels with either anger at you or lust for him. any of those women would duel to be in your shoes right now.

"do you have a desire to be viscountess?" his question made your heartbeat increase, pounding in your chest.

as a young girl, you watched your family struggle in order to survive so it would be a lie to say that you don't dream of having a title. you have a father back in france to take care of in his elderly age. but love was your main desire. you would marry a sweet common man as long as he loved you.

"i desire to be loved." you tell him.

the answer caught james off guard. the women of the ton had no issue telling him to his face that they want his tittle or money. none of those women actually cared about love.

"well, my darling, you are quite the fool to be seeking out something as pure as love in a place such as this." james says, pulling you so close that you can feel his heartbeat in his chest and his eyes darken.

"don't be so cock-sure, viscount howlett. i am no fool at all." you glare angrily up at him. "i wish you well on your journey to find such a bird-witted viscountess."

the song ends and you are quick to make an exit. hot on your heels, james follows you outside. perhaps you shouldn't have insulted the viscount to his face but you didn't quite care anymore. this night has been a bust and you aren't any closer to marriage then you were before walking in here.

"miss, bowery..." a man calls, capturing your attention. "would you accompany me to a dance?"

based on the man's appearance, he seems even more important that the viscount. he was definitely the opposite of james. this man wore light grey in places where james wore black. this man had a sweet smile where james had a scowl.

"her dance card is full." the voice behind you threatened.

the gentleman's face fell a little.

"actually, i have one last spot open on my dance card." you smile, showing him the tag tied to your right wrist which had exactly one spot open. "i would love to accompany you..."

"prince harrison." he grins.

you hum, offering your hand. the prince leans down and kissed your gloved fingers before sweeping you off to the dance floor again.

james fumed as he watched you walk away with the prince. lady howlett spots her son alone and walks over to him.

“please tell me that you did not scare off this seasons diamond, james.” lady howlett asked in a low whisper.

“i’m gonna call a carriage” he growls, annoyed.

“dear!”

his mother called after him but he couldn’t care to turn around and stay here any longer.

˖⋆࿐໋

on the carriage ride alone, james is stuck with the image of you. your beauty and the pain in your eyes when james called you a fool. oddly enough, james enjoyed the way you bit back at him. he just wishes that he hadn’t offended you.

apparently you must not be that hurt if you accepted a dance from harrison of all people. not because he wanted to court you but because harrison was barely considered a prince and was a poor excuse of a man. never having to lift a finger a day in his life. never knowing a single struggle. the prince was insufferable.

perhaps it was in james best interest to forget about the beautiful woman he met this evening. she is this seasons diamond after all, desired by too many. james wasn't known to chase the things he desired.

──★

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[hoseoksluna]

THE BALL OF LIGHT, ii. | jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc

genre: angst

word count: 4.2k

summary: inside jeongguk's apartment is where you meet the possibility of life.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: ao3 / wp

warnings: mentions of smoking and vaping, described nudity, oc feels a lot of emotions and she's overwhelmed, guilt.

note: i really enjoyed writing this chapter and it opened my eyes actually to where it's going. i hope you like the chapter as well. writing about jungkook is my biggest comfort. i feel at home. i love you, guys. happy reading. don't forget to tell me what you think. i'd appreciate it if you tell me ur expectations. <3

side note: i also want to update my taglist because i feel like most of the people i tag haven't allowed themselves to be tagged on this app. if you want to be tagged in my works, let me know. in comments below or my askbox.

It seems as though Jeongguk is still turning your words over his heart once you arrive at his apartment and the sullen grayness of his personal space greets you. A certain pensive look, embellished with a wrinkle between his brows, paints him in the shades of stark reclusiveness, the unapproachability of that façade the blue highlights that make the current inertia of his usual hyperactivity uncannily animated. It’s an oxymoron, the stillness of his being, despite the fact you very vividly sense the turmoil happening inside his chest.

Turmoil must be second-nature to him. Almost like a friend.

You don’t know what to say. The downturned corners of his mouth are so engraved into your vision that when you look away, you can still see them. Sad and pouty, caused in most probability by the truth you uttered. War happens, Jeongguk, if Yoongi and I see each other outside of the walls of our home. Those were the most heart-felt, authentic words that were flung out of the chambers of your heart because—yes, if Yoongi were to know that you smoke one cigarette a day with a boy with a nicotine-addiction, a motorcycle and a tendency to go back to people who have spread agony down his lungs like the white fumes of his cigarettes, he would get up from the kitchen table and grab the nearest knife, start a war for your dream that, according to him, got interrupted by temporary, meaningless things.

But Jeongguk isn’t meaningless. You thought for the longest time that he was temporary, but his lingering presence through high school and now through uni convinced you of the opposite. You believe now, now as he bends at the waist to place a pair of pink, fuzzy slippers with a yummy fried egg on top in front of your icy-cold, socked feet, that he has more shape—the eyes of an angel born wrong, born human, the mouth of a saint that fears to say the wrong thing—than your dream does.

Your dream doesn’t have a face.

Your dream doesn’t have a meaning, either.

Yoongi knows this, pretends he knows the contours of that dream when he tells you to go study. Pretends he knows the color of its flesh, all the greens, purples and blues, when the only words he throws your way are of commanding nature. Come eat. Go shower. Go study. Don’t. You can’t recollect the last time you had a genuine conversation with him that did not include those very words.  

It’s exhausting. Your bones are burdened by it—by being treated as a student and not as a human being. But you ignore this because you respect him, hold him in high regard because of his own burden, laid heavy across the length of his shoulders that have become too thin, too skeletal, that have once been broad, beautiful and ogled by those, who had the luck to encounter him. 

He doesn’t go to the gym anymore, to fill the mass of his muscles with exercise. He works long hours doing food delivery to fill your tummy instead. 

And it’s hard—balancing your respect for him and your ostensibly inner desire to go in search of the things you read about in your books. You can’t help but expect to dig them out, selfishly, in Jeongguk. The kind, now somber, boy who has been by your side for so long. With words and simultaneously without. 

Would Yoongi understand? Doesn’t he, also, have a need for company? 

You push those thoughts away and focus on the clandestiny. On Jeongguk’s frown, on his adorable pout, on his emotions. Because perhaps in it you shall find your destiny. 

Jeongguk walks forward and you swell with the guilty need to fix what you’ve broken, to glue back the pieces that put together his traditional cheer. The tree in you shivers in cold. Your own bones are still frosty like that bus stop you both escaped from. But glancing at the span of his shoulders, drooped and rolled forward, the guilt expands, making you think that maybe you shouldn’t have said something, despite the fact the truth made a dent in the birdcage you have been dwelling in since the death of your parents. 

He empties out his pockets. Wallet, keys, phone, a pack of cigarettes, lighter and a pink, fat vape that you’ve never seen him smoking before. He places those essentials on the kitchen counter, stretching his hands backwards and ridding himself of his beige hoodie. The T-shirt he wears underneath rides up, exposing the smooth and muscled skin of his back, and your throat dries up at the sight. The tree stills, pacified by the movement of his shoulder blades. It puts a spell on you, this innocent yet consumingly heated view of a male’s body, one that continues burning down your body even when he grabs a hold of the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it down. 

Somehow, the act made it hotter. 

Your fingers wrap around your throat, a habit of yours that helps you compose yourself, ground yourself in the severity of the moment. Jeongguk reaches his hand towards the kitchen counter again and as you swallow with great difficulty, he fills his lungs with that scented fume before discarding it.

It isn’t until your breath comes out in pathetic staccatos that he turns around. Large eyes heavily lidded, clouded by that white smoke as he exhales. He purses his lips, dimples on full show, in order to make the smoke thinner. And that, the eye contact while blowing out the fumes, his full attention on you, the element that you’re here—in a boy’s apartment, all alone, for the first time, that warms up your bones, the frost melting away. You feel your body form little pearls of perspiration, overwhelmed and so suddenly overheated by his boyish beauty. 

He’ll never know—just like Yoongi. He’ll never know what he does to you. 

“I’m gonna make you some tea so you can get warm,” he says, softly, and shuffles his feet towards the brightly lit kitchen. You hear the water running, the clapping noise of the kettle being shut and then the boiling bubbles, but you’re frozen—red-hot and frozen—in the place you’re standing, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to be a normal human being. “You’re free to take a shower if you want.” 

A headache pierces through your undeveloped frontal lobe. Nothing about this is normal to you—being over a guy’s place, using his shower and his towel, drinking his tea. Being at home all the time never prepares you for this and while you feel so out of place, it also evokes the feeling of thrill. 

This is thrilling. 

And it should stay feeling that way, but your guilt eclipses it so quickly. Your guilt and your self-pity. Due to Yoongi, due to the fact that this should feel normal and that you should act normally. How many girls must’ve been in your place and how well they were able to talk to him and accept his kindness and hospitality without being weird about it. 

You run a hand down your face. Feel like crying. Feel like screaming. Feeling like slapping yourself so you snap out of it and act normal. Yoongi flickers in your chest, however, and you’re reminded that you should let him know where you are. Usually, at this hour, you’re settled in your cage. Right there in the corner, the only warm spot because you sit there all the time. But you’re not there. You fit your body through the slivers, your feet rubbing against the different, more warmer floor than the one inside your birdcage, while your wrist remains chained to the center. 

Your bus, the number 59, never came. Jeongguk’s, number 60, was the last one that came due to the thickness of the snow and he said that you should get on with him so you don’t freeze on the bus stop. I’ll drive you home on my bike, he promised. I got a helmet for you. And you agreed, despite the fact your thumb was ready to dial Yoongi’s number, because it came natural to you to follow a male’s order. 

You scratch your fingernails through your scalp, waking yourself up from the stupor, and you take a deep breath. You’re here and you’re safe. Jeongguk is the safest person you can go behind Yoongi’s back with. These are the words you internally repeat to yourself as you lift one leg and the other, watching where they take you. 

You wind up at the very edge of the counter where all of Jeongguk’s essentials lay scattered. You go to study all the charms hung over his keys when your fingers, somehow instinctively, take a hold of his pink vape. Light and pink, fitting just right in the palm of your hand. Your clandestine habits are invariably seen by Jeongguk, however. 

“Don’t puff on that,” he says, pouring the boiling water inside the kettle over your cup of tea. A Christmas-themed one, evidently for adults only. The taupe Gingerbread man has a raging, bare boner that sticks out to the side whilst his hands are lifted, cheerfully, in the air. Your mouth parts, blush coloring your cheeks in dusty pink, and your brain, bizarrely, connects the Gingerbread man’s emotion to Jeongguk—both emotions, in fact. So bizarrely that anger begins to grow in you because a picture of Jeongguk’s own happy boner pops up before your eyes. Big, hard, leaking. Your stifling heat descends to your lower regions and you have to rub your eyelids in order to stop seeing it, your cheeks scalding, embarrassingly hot. “It’s not good to mix it.” 

Without asking, he places one spoon of sugar inside that obscene cup, stirring it diligently. And the clinking noise rams a clapping monkey inside your brain. 

You’ll die. From this headache, from the heat, from how irresistible this boy is. 

You’ve never felt this way before towards him. Never seen him in this lustful light before. And you don’t know what to do—it’s towering you, so much bigger than you and you have very little strength to stand up to it. 

It’s not good to see your so-called friend like this. 

Jeongguk brings the cup over to you, placing it before his stuff. The Gingerbread man faces you, smiling ever so gleefully, and the blush of your cheeks deepens within this proximity. Jeongguk takes his vape from your hand and puffs on it—and your brain remembers what he just talked about. 

“But you mix it,” you say, your words dripping with confusion, and Jeongguk places the device back into your palm, the tips of his fingers brushing against your flesh. You regard it as intimate, that brief physical contact, and it speeds up your heartbeat. 

That touch-starved you are. 

“I shouldn’t, but I do,” he responds, his pretty eyelashes static, unblinking, those macadamia chocolate pools of his penetrating your pupils. “I try to stick to just one from time to time, but my nerves are asking for more.” 

You look down at the pink device, imagine it’s his hand that you’re closing your fingers over. Think his explanation has zero backbone, and so your confusion drips on. 

“Nerves?” you inquire, a wrinkle appearing between your brows akin to his, even though his has been smoothed out. It seems his act of service to you is slowly easing his sombreness. 

Jeongguk doesn’t want to elaborate, though. He flicks his eyes towards the cup and nods, just once, encouraging you to drink. You let out a quiet huff of a scoff. Consider it strange that he’s so unwilling to expand on this matter when he has shared with you in the past the reason behind his smoking habit. Trauma from his relationship with Ka-eun and the difficulty of his field. What else is behind those nerves of his that you can’t know about? 

You follow the trace of his gaze towards the cup, feeling smaller than you are. Incompetent, inexperienced for the vivacity, immensity of his life that looks nothing like yours. Your pointer finger pokes out, clicking against the emerald green handle. 

“Am I supposed to really drink from this?” you murmur, meaning it as a joke that would fix what you cooked in this situation, but it comes out much sadder than you planned, the hollowness from all of your lacks coating your vocal cords. 

Jeongguk scowls and turns the cup around, his brows springing upwards as he glances at the naked and aroused Gingerbread man. You begin to anticipate his laughter that would make you feel worse about yourself, but it never breezes through. 

Actually, Jeongguk apologizes. Makes a big deal out of it. 

“My God,” he sighs, adding your name, running his fingers through his hair before he puts the cup away, but you stop him by enveloping your fingers across the warm, naked skin of his forearm. His eyes widen en route to yours and he holds the misting cup in his hand, immune to its hot temperature. The good ones don’t get burned, your mother would say with hatefulness whenever your fingers would get burned by steaming cups and hot running water in the sink, and she proves you right in this moment. You bet she smiles in her grave, seeing from the afterlife that you are indeed bad while the others are good. “I didn’t notice. I have one just like this, but he’s dressed. I thought I’d pulled out that one. I’m sorry.” 

But you’re not scandalized by it. As a matter of fact, you like the little Christmas man—there’s something oddly comforting about his own comfort in his sexuality, smiling as gleefully as he is. What you said was a stupid joke, one that shouldn’t have left your mouth. 

“No, I don’t mind. It’s fine. It was just a joke,” you say, hurriedly, sweeping your eyes over his in the same pace whilst he remains calmly staring at you, a steady stream of thoughts filtering through those features of his that you wish you knew the contents of. 

You always said you’d die for knowledge, and right now you’d die to discover what he’s thinking about, looking at you the way that he is. 

He flattens his lips. “I’ll make you another one.” 

He turns around and you yelp your disagreement, cupping your hands around his. And the greater intimacy of this physical contact consumes you whole. 

The heat grows, your spine wet with perspiration. Jeongguk swivels his head back, the shorter pieces of his hair swooshing past his forehead, landing on those pretty, pretty eyelashes. And it’s his turn to part his mouth, for blush to creep up his pale cheeks, and your heart—it melts. 

You’ve never held hands with a boy before. And right now, you��ve come very close to doing it. In fact, the tender grip bears the resemblance of hand holding and you can’t take it. 

A pained, indistinct pout quivers on your lips. A characteristic expression of yours, which conveys that something has hurt you. Your mother would give you a hard time because of it and that’s how you learned that you do it. That’s how you learned how to fleetly hide it, too. 

This is the closest you’ll ever get. 

Tears rush to your waterline. You blink it away, stretching your lips into a little, neutral smile. The scent of cinnamon and cloves from the tea hits your nostrils and from the edges of your palms, you feel how hot the cup really is. It sobers you up quite rapidly. 

“It’s hot, set it down,” you breathe and don’t let go of his hands until Jeongguk complies, the pensiveness back to shadowing his face, but he’s not unapproachable, not at all. The entirety of his dispirited and contrite aura is welcoming, pastel blue instead of that grayish undertone, and he looks at you as if you held the entire world in your palms and he was content with just being near it, silently hoping you show him grace and give it to him. 

But that’s not you. You’re too small to cup this world. Too stupid, too unfledged. 

It’s him who’s flown around it, deeply acknowledged with it. Who’s smart, who’s a full-fledged bird, unlimited and unhindered. 

It’s you who should be looking at him like that and drinking from his vulgar cup. 

And you shall. 

“I’ll drink it, it’s cute.” 

He doesn’t trust it, though, and that’s the scar Ka-eun carved into the flesh of his mind. You brush the pads of your fingers across it, however, when you take the scalding cup to your lips, blow on it and take a small, hesitant sip of it. And the wintry taste of cinnamon and cloves, it is the sap to your tree. 

You hum in delight, taking another sip, even though the temperature burns the tip of your tongue. You watch as Jeongguk’s brows twitch and as a certain glimmering glint of endearment laced with unbelief fills his eyes with the canvas of stars. He straightens his spine while you swallow, his lungs inhaling and exhaling slowly but surely. 

It is a sight to behold, the entirety of his boyish beauty. And you hate that you regard him this way, that your forced visit caused this because you’ll walk out of this door with a longing entwined around your heart.

A longing for him to be yours. 

You set the cup down, cradling it in your palms, your sweat clinging to your body. Jeongguk averts his gaze and rubs his chest, roaming his eyes everywhere but on you, landing on the pink vape you placed on the counter before almost-holding his hand. 

But he doesn’t take a puff of it. Not this time. 

And you want to heal that scar of his even more. Only because he pushed you very close to the things you read in your books and always wanted to experience. 

“I think the tea tastes so good because you made it in this cup,” you chirp, tenderly, giving him a genuine smile, one that Jeongguk doesn’t reciprocate. That one corner of his mouth doesn’t lift, the long cleft of his dimple doesn’t appear. Your heart trembles for a brief moment. In a foreign kind of emotion that feels like fear but isn’t because the turmoil in him rages on and you’re useless. Completely and utterly useless in your efforts. 

His stare is deadly, marked by the depth of his thoughts. 

“Why did you say war happens if you and your brother see each other outside?” he asks, his tone low and grumbling. 

A frightening question. Because no one has ever asked you that. Because you’ve never had the chance to answer such an intimate, personal question. Because no one has ever cared about your home situation. 

The trembling of your heart reaches your entire body and you hide your hands behind your back. Lament that you can’t cradle the cup. Lament that you can’t drink it and postpone your response. Lament that you don’t have a normal life. One worth talking about happily, that is. 

You don’t know what to say. How to begin, how to string the words together in a way that he would understand. And it’s not that you fear that he will judge you; it’s that you fear that the way he looks at you, regards you will forever change. 

You were never the cool girl and you never were the weird girl, either. Somewhere in the middle you stand, solitary and detached, regardless. 

You open your mouth, willing the words to spring out of you on their own, without any careful thoughts to cover them. 

“Yoongi wants me to live a life that doesn’t look like this,” you start, mirroring his tone, unable to look him in the eye. You sense the demons of your guilt and your ungratefulness cornering you, coming closer and closer—and you can’t walk away, you can only speak.

Jeongguk, however, is quick and curt with his following question.  

“Like what?” 

The pearls of your perspiration thicken on the planes of your throat, which constricts. You blink, thinking that you don’t wish to offend him with any formulation of your sentences. So you go around it, hoping he understands. The demons inch closer—and you can’t breathe. 

Jeongguk doesn’t blink, focused intently as he is on the emotions written on your form. It creates a delicate, yet protective ring around you that keeps the demons outside. And he lessens your strange fear owing to that.

“He wants me to focus on school and focus on my dream while he takes care of everything else. It was a deal he made between us. I study, he works. Nothing else,” you continue, and Jeongguk bites his lip, nodding in understanding as he glides his eyes down your face to your sweat-coated neck. For some reason, that little act of his acknowledgement dispels those demons—and you no longer feel guilty, you no longer feel ungrateful because Jeongguk validated those emotions, didn’t scrunch his nose at them. And that heals, little by little, your wounded, flightless bird wings. 

“What does your dream look like?” he asks once again, and you wonder at the formulation of his question. It’s not what’s your dream; he’s asking for a description of the biggest mystery of your life. 

And you chuckle, humorlessly. Jeongguk flicks his gaze back to your eyes, seemingly not knowing what to expect.

“That’s the thing,” you say. “I don’t know what it looks like, and Yoongi doesn’t know either.” 

The roundness of his eyelids spasms, as if the truth you just uttered irks him. The validation grows and buds of blossoms sprout open, in the middle of this sunless winter, upon the twigs of the tree within you. 

“He doesn’t know what your dream is and yet he decided how you should live,” Jeongguk scoffs, shaking his head, and you marvel at the light bursting in your sternum. It is the sun to your growth, to your tree’s growth. 

A moment of bliss that is too brief, for you begin to sense an uncompromising responsibility to stand up for your brother. He means well—he’s doing it out of the love and kindness of his heart as the root of this declared problem is literature. 

And literature is your life. It’s all you know. 

You begin to say these words, but Jeongguk interrupts you. 

“I understand, but you need to live a life that you want to live,” he rasps, standing taller than he was a minute ago, greater and powerful than he ever was. That confident and assured he is in his opinion and you gawk at him as if he were a cult leader, about to change the course of your life. Maybe, just maybe, the cinnamon tea was the kool aid—and you want to drink again, but you’re ashamed of the trembling of your hands. “And if you feel like you’re indebted to him, you shouldn’t. You’re an adult. It’s your life, it’s not his just because he’s older.” 

Your throat dries and you risk it all, enveloping your fingers around the cup. Jeongguk’s all seeing eye notices your movement and his powerfulness drops. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

Bare, bare you are all for him to see. For anyone for the first time in your life—and at this point, you don’t even know how it makes you feel. 

Where light and so many emotions were inside you, emptiness falls like fine dust. You’re reminded of that one sentence in White Nights and, quietly, you reflect on it while your fingers tremble on. 

My God, a moment of bliss. Why isn’t that enough for a whole lifetime? 

Jeongguk makes space, like the ring of protection he created around you, by taking a few steps back and leaning against the counter. He crosses his arms over his chest and simply looks at you, reads your body language, and lingers at your hands. At the fact you don’t drink. At the fact you don’t speak. At the fact that nothing will ever be the same after this conversation. 

When he asks his last question, he softens his voice. His demeanor, too. Allows his arms to plummet down to his sides. Sags against the counter. 

“He doesn’t know we’re friends, does he?” 

Something that resembles a cry leaves your mouth and you’re so shocked by the freedom of your emotions that your hand leaps to cup your mouth, as if to hold back any more outpouring. That is your reaction. 

Jeongguk’s is more earth-shattering. 

By his instinct, he lengthens his spine and his hand… his beautiful, strong and veiny hand jerks towards your direction, as if to catch your hand, prevent it from hiding your outpouring—or as if to catch your outpouring alone. 

And it is so heartbreaking to you that you mutter the first thing that comes to your mind and run away. 

And you don’t realize where you are until you get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. A mascara tear stains your cheek in blackness, and the smallness of the bathroom encloses around you. 

You want to wash it away. Feel like the decision is yours to make, a right one at that. Feel like it’s the first step in the new way Jeongguk bestowed over your life by his wise words. And so you undress. 

And you don’t lock the door. 

And you don’t hear your phone ringing ten minutes later. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

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[sylusjinwoon]

{ 179 }

company.

academy arc

jinwoo sung x fem.reader

{ let's end each other's lonely nights | be each other's paradise | need a picture for my frame | someone to share my reign… }

you walked to school in the early hours of the morning, simply looking down at the novel you were reading in your hand. a smile paints your features the more you basked and read each scene, and as you were in the midst of turning the page, you felt a strange sensation creeping up on you-

the sensation of being followed.

your steps begin to slow just then, unaware of the large hand that reaches out to you-

as sung jinwoo lets out a rich chuckle of your name, wrapping an arm around you as he brings you closer to the front of his chest.

“morning, angel.” he purrs into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. you give him a playful pout, lightly pushing yourself away from him.

you missed the lost expression seen in his gaze the moment you pulled away from him, trying to calm down your racing heart as you smoothed down the skirt of your uniform.

with a cough, you put your novel back within the confines of your bag, choosing instead to walk side-by-side with jinwoo to school.

you and jinwoo had a special relationship-

this didn’t mean that you two were a couple or anything, oh no.

what you meant was that you still had memories of another life with jinwoo…

where you and him were both hunters, taking on raids while supporting each other throughout it all.

jinwoo was your best friend during those times; he helped train you, a mere b-rank hunter, making you more proficient in your raids as you slowly rose up the ranks, given you freedom to attend more high level raids despite never being able to level up like he could.

your memories became a little hazy after the war, and once jinwoo used the cup of reincarnation one last time-

you found yourself being 14 again, living with your parents and little brother in your humble home. perhaps what came as the most shocking to you was how you retained all of your memories.

which was why you felt so happy when you and jinwoo ended up going to the same high school together. he was a great source of comfort during the times when memories of your past life became too much to bear.

ah, but you were getting ahead of yourself-

you’ve since then gotten better at dealing with the hardships of your past life, even getting the tiniest bit upset when jinwoo admitted to taking on all the monarchs on his own, spending a total of 27 years within some strange, dimensional rift. you knew that he had won the war all on his own while telling you how he succeeded his mission, now living his life as a normal human despite how truly godlike he was.

jinwoo’s knuckles were suddenly felt being gently placed against the top of your head. “you’re dozing off again.”

“what? i am not dozing off, woowoo.”

a blush immediately paints his features when you refer to him by that stupid nickname. “h-hey, that nickname is dumb as hell, and that’s not even how you pronounce my name! the ‘woo’ in ‘jinwoo’ is more subtle than that, like a soft ~u.”

“heh, whatever, woowoo…!”

you giggle when his eyes flash purple in annoyance, running to catch up to you, but all while hiding his grin.

you would never know the depths of his feelings for you, and that fact alone was killing the shadow monarch on the inside.

{ … }

you and jinwoo end up enjoying lunch together back in the classroom, with you taking casual sips of your juice.

“so do you have track practice today?”

jinwoo takes a rice ball from your lunch box as you stole a piece of his bulgogi beef. “yeah, i do.”

“hehe, did you want me to hang out with you on the field?”

a soft smile paints jinwoo’s features, “if you don’t mind, then yeah. i could use your company.”

a teasing grin paints your expression, “you still trying to get with cha hae-in?”

jinwoo chokes on his rice ball, “w-what the- you know about that?!”

“what? it’s so obvious that you’re still into her! want me to look her up and give you her number or something?”

you giggle in response, basking in jinwoo’s embarrassed expression. you recall how jinwoo was pretty much dating cha hae-in in the original timeline, and they were truly such a cute couple in your eyes!

two of the most renowned s-rank hunters taking on high level gates, never once failing their missions or goals. because of jinwoo’s blossoming romance, you, being simply labeled as his best friend, took a step back and gave them the space they needed in order to let their romance bloom.

and now, with time going backwards due to jinwoo’s actions, you were certain he was going to try and capture her heart once more, leaving you more than willing to play as his wingwoman once more.

despite your playful words, jinwoo appeared uncomfortable, shifting his rice around his lunch box with his chopsticks, eyebrows furrowed in response. noticing the change in his demeanor, you softly ask him, “are you okay?”

your question snaps him out of his reveries. “i’m fine. here, you can have the rest of my lunch… i’ll be right back.”

you could tell something was wrong with jinwoo, watching as he stood up a bit too fast for your liking when you stop him, allowing your hand to wrap around his wrist. “wait, where are you going?”

he looks down at you with gentle grey eyes, allowing the pad of his thumb to grace at your cheek as he wiped away an imaginary stain. after that simple touch, he points to your empty juice bottle.

“i was going to get you more juice. are you opposed to it?”

your eyes go wide, but you shook your head in response. “no, i don’t mind it.”

jinwoo gives you a nod, shaking your grip off of his wrist, leaving you utterly confused as you kept staring at his quickly retreating form.

“how strange…” you look down at your shadow, seeing a few, glowing purple eyes glancing back at you.

at least he still wanted to protect you-

even when you knew you did something to upset him.

{ … }

jinwoo told you he didn’t mind you watching him at practice-

but you didn’t feel like your presence was warranted after upsetting him at lunch earlier. so, you hid out at the library, working on some assignments while doing your readings for your classes. you had thoughts about going home first, but deep down, you knew that avoiding jinwoo wouldn’t help with making this whole situation any better.

as you were writing, you immediately became aware of the shadow looming over you, a pair of solemn, glowing violet eyes staring down at you with a neutral expression.

“why didn’t you join me at practice?”

you tremble a bit, detecting the accusation in jinwoo’s voice as you let out a sigh.

“how could i join you when you’re mad at me?” you whisper back at him.

hearing his scoff tones down your anxieties the tiniest bit, and you felt your shoulders visibly relax at the sound of it. you finally gather the courage to meet his gaze, seeing jinwoo leaning closer to you while placing a hand on the table.

he was dressed in his track uniform, consisting of a purple and white shirt with matching shorts. he taps the top of his sneakers against the linoleum floors, giving you a nice view of his muscular calves.

you were ready to tease him about it, your lips puckered up as a low whistle escapes from them when jinwoo suddenly wraps an arm around the back of your head.

your words die against your throat, eyes going wide when your face was pressed directly against jinwoo’s chest. he runs his fingers through your hair, a pained whisper heard coming from him when he asks,

“do you really not feel a single thing from me? am i doomed to remain just friends with you in this timeline, too?”

your mouth goes dry when you hear his question, and you were uncertain as to how to respond to him. you felt your lips open and close, yet still, not a single syllable would come out.

jinwoo lets out a disappointed ‘tsk’ then, shoving you away from him as he gazes down at you with a neutral look. “forget about it. just… forget about it.”

you watch helplessly when jinwoo picks up his duffel bag and backpack, facing away from you as your heart clenched painfully in response.

if you didn’t stop him now, then you’d lose him forever.

shoving back your chair with such intensity that it nearly falls to the ground, you grab jinwoo’s wrist once more. his eyes go wide, and you catch his shocked expression momentarily before standing on the tip of your toes to fully kiss him.

his reaction was immediate- instinctive even when he wraps his arms around your back, bringing you achingly closer to him all while deepening the kiss.

you lost track of time, uncertain of how many kisses you shared when you finally found the strength to pull away from him. he keeps both of his arms wrapped tightly around you, purple eyes gazing down at you in amusement and love, all while running his hands through your hair.

“i… i always thought that you always deserved a girl like cha hae-in… because, well, you know… she was pretty powerful… and gorgeous, too.”

jinwoo scoffs at your admission, but remains quiet, wishing for you to go on and explain yourself.

“that’s why, i kept all my feelings hidden for you.” unable to meet his gaze, you play with the front of his shirt, smoothing the fabric while picking away at the imaginary lint. “i always figured you deserved better than me-“

“tch, stop.”

jinwoo then gently pulls you back by your hair, eyes becoming more passionate when he crashes his lips against yours. you could only whimper in response to his sudden kiss, hands remaining curled up against his chest as jinwoo presses you even closer to him.

he pulls away first, lightly panting before admitting to you, “please… i never wanted hae-in… but you were so determined to set us up that neither one of us knew what to do.”

you blink up at him in complete shock. “what…? but, she had such a huge crush on you…?!”

jinwoo chuckles all while tracing the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip. “well yeah… she liked me, but that didn’t mean that i liked her. how could i like her when i already had you?”

your head was spinning, yet despite it all, you couldn’t stop the smile from forming. “eh? but didn’t you say you wanted to join track to meet her someday?”

jinwoo lets out a huff, bringing your frame into his chest once more before coming clean to you. “forgive me and my poor attempts at making you jealous. joining track was just an excuse, really.”

his admission finally earns bouts of laughter from you, feeling so relieved and happy that your feelings were requited after all. after spending a few more minutes in each other’s embrace, jinwoo gives your body one last squeeze before pulling away from you, giving your forehead a gentle kiss.

“how about i walk back home with you, then, we can talk about our plans for our upcoming first date.”

you giggle, watching as jinwoo packs up your notebooks and assignments before carrying your bag for you, giving you a lovesick expression while you cling on to his side.

perhaps dreams do come true after all…

a.n. - this is so self indulgent, but oh so much fun to write! (/ω＼)

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[death---dealer]

That picture of blue eyes holding Cornelius but instead it his and his s/os kid. *melts from cuteness*

Gahdamn i am no better than a man. I'm supposed to be working on the customary series SH-

Blue Eyes had never thought it possible as he set his gaze on your breathing, sitting himself at the edge of the nest as he prepared to depart for a hunt with his Father, Cornelius, Ash and Rocket. Never imagined that you felt the same way that he did towards you, the year it took to even get you to look each other in the eye, followed by two more years of fruitless mating, something he bared through knowing it was a remarkable impossibility. But, upon rounding your third year together... He balled his hands into fists for a moment before he drifted his eyes downwards to the small ball of fluffed hair laying snugly against the animal pelt next to your head, tucked in so deeply and so warmly that Blue Eyes felt a bit jealous that he was about to throw himself into the cold of the morning, dawn right around the corner. Soft and shallow breathing. Blue Eyes was entranced by it for a moment and felt the tiniest of smiles split across his face at that. He turned to leave. Giving you one more glance, giving the small bundle one more glance, satisfied beyond comprehension.

--

'When will you bring... your child with us?' Ash signed to his friend, smiling rather smugly at him at the notion that Blue Eyes had succeeded in doing what he aimed to do. Breed you. Mate with you. Bear fruit with you. It left a pit of unturned pride in Blue Eyes' stomach as he made brief contact with his father's gaze, a huff leaving his nose as he shuffled his horse to the right.

'All they do is cry.' Cornelius groaned audibly, 'Keep family nest up at night.'

'Not able to hold head up like Ape young,' Blue Eyes explained as the five of them rounded the corner towards the embankment that lead towards the mouth of the Colony's border. He ignored his younger brother, full of nothing but complaints at his age. 'Very fragile.'

Caesar snorted at that to himself, though it was heard from the other Four Apes. He knew that to be abundantly true from his time with humans.

'Will take time.' The King of Apes signed at them, leading the pack with Rocket trailing behind with the bulk of the hunt.

Blue Eyes fell into a small silence at the thought that in only a few years, he'd be able to bring his own son, the one you had given him out of love and adoration despite the complications of the birth itself, to hunt with himself, Caesar, Cornelius... Family, he thought, looking over at Ash who was processing what was said, sliding back towards Rocket and nodded to himself. Yes. Family. Upon rounding near the Colony gate, Blue Eyes was able to see the back of your head and the knotted nature of cloth against your shoulder as you were shuffling young Apes around your feet to get them upwards towards Maurice for the afternoon lesson. He stared at you longingly, bringing his horse in a bit faster, trotting right passed Caesar and hurdled to a stop right next to you. You had heard the trotting in the distance, excitement hitting your chest at the fact that your mate was returning, safely, as you so often worried after his bear attack years ago. The sheen of the scars on his shoulder captivated your attention for a few seconds as you looked up at him with mildly-hungry eyes at the sight of him wearing his War Paint.

'Good hunt?' You signed with one hand, holding a small head against your chest with the other as you had strapped the baby to your chest in a very secure perch. You had no fur for them to hold on to, something that... Much like a Baby Chimp, your baby enjoyed doing.

Blue Eyes looked down at that action, dropping right off his horse and came to greet you without having to gaze down at you. Forehead pressed against yours swiftly as a greeting. Sinking into it, you let a small sigh leave your parted lips.

'Many elk.' He signed in return, bringing his hand upwards to place it against yours as you both cradled your small baby. 'Slept well, I hope. Timber up all night again.' Blue Eyes hesitated for a moment. 'Apology for leaving you all day.'

'No apologies, babies are always up all night.' You always gave him too much grace, Blue Eyes felt like he didn't deserve it at times. Your eyes fell to Caesar as he trotted in, giving you a not-so-stern glance. Five years ago had you thought about your father-in-law being the King of Apes would not have even crossed your mind. But, here you were. He was followed closely by his second son, then Ash and Rocket who went to greet their own family.

You looked down at the grasp that Blue Eyes had on your baby. So soft and gentle like he was afraid of hurting them. The cooed right against your skin in response to sensing their fathers touch, vibrating it gently as Blue Eyes brought his other hand up and cupped the back of your head to kiss foreheads once again.

'Want to hold?'

Blue Eyes did not speak or sign, only nodded as you were careful to untuck your baby from his warm homely nest against your chest, balling himself into a tight knit at the chill that hit him all of a sudden before he was incredibly wrapped into more warmth as Blue Eyes took him - all to gentle in his actions, into his arms, against his chest. Little fists found themselves balled into a thicket of fur. 'Gets bigger every day,' Holding his child in one arm, he used his free one to sign. 'Looks more like you as well.'

A blush hit your cheeks, "Well," You were speaking and leaned inwards to place a hand on your baby's head, twirling your fingers into the thick fur of his head, "I am their mother. I see more of you in him."

Blue Eyes looked down at them. Hazel eyes peered right back up at them, only now coming into their color rounding their 4th month of being here. He looked back towards you, a look of intent in his eyes that left your mouth flying open at the innate and undeniable implications.

'Just gave birth four months ago!' Blue Eyes only stared at you, leaning his head in suggestively, 'I am not getting pregnant again.'

Blue Eyes contemplated for a moment and offered, 'Practice?'

'Would Caesar and Cornelia feel comfortably watching Timber?'

"Can ask," Blue Eyes muttered quietly, finally giving you the taste of his voice that was all to rare, "Sure... They would... not mind watching... Grandchild."

[hyperactively-me]

OMG! please more of King Ghost🙏🏻🤤🥵

i gotchu babe.

Being the spare princess of the kingdom never really bothered you much. Really, it was your four older siblings that had much more responsibility than the rest of you. Seventh out of ten in line for the throne? No, you were never destined for the throne of your own kingdom. It’s why you were not all too surprised when your parents informed you that you would be wed to a man in a neighboring kingdom. Although, they never specified which one…

You have been prepared to wed nobility since you were a child. You were trained to act like the perfect, prim and proper princess. Countless hours of teaching you to be the “perfect wife” transformed you into the “perfect” wife, but that never meant you enjoyed a second of it. When you’re a child, you don’t really question everything your parents do. As you grew older, the more you held a certain disdain for the hours of the day dedicated to this training. Day after day, you would learn proper manners, how to sew, play the piano, paint and draw. You were taught the duties of a wife, to care for your husband, to bend to his every whim and wish, to depend on him, and only him. You hated it, loathed it, but it was what you had to do. You had no other choice.

Thankfully, your parents did not neglect your education, although they had some…select pieces of history taken out of your studies. The best tutors in the kingdom were called upon the palace to educate you and your siblings. When you were a child, you were too busy focusing on your teachings and playing to notice the tension in the air, or how you and your family remained unharmed while the kingdom’s village suffered from famine, war, and civil unrest. Your male tutors had deemed some portions of history to be “too violent, too descriptive” for a “young female noble” as yourself. Of course, it wasn’t your fault that you didn’t know about select parts of history when you were older. You didn’t even realize that you didn’t know all that you thought you did later on…

You knew that you were to be sold off for marriage when you were a teenager. To whom, well, that was a mystery. Until recently.

Ghost. King Ghost. Ruler of the Kingdom of Kastron, slayer of any who dares cross him. A skilled and ruthless killer. A machine on the battlefield, a stoic and cold leader.

. . .

“What do you mean?” you blurted out, incredulous.

“It’s been planned for some time now. You’re his betrothed, whether you like it or not, and that’s final.”

You ball your fists, resisting the urge to scream and cry. Instead, you turn your head up high, your brows furrowed in anger as you shoot a glare at your parents.

“I will never marry a killer.”

“You’ll be thankful, one day.” Your father adds, shuffling his papers that he was oh so focused on.

Anger grasped at your throat. You were breathing hard, couldn’t see straight. You felt you had no other choice than to run. So you did. You ran, down the endless hallways, down the stairs, and out into the gardens. Your heart was caught in your throat, a sob building up in your chest as you slowed to a stop. Crumpling into yourself, you grasp your arms, hugging yourself as you try not to sob loudly. It’s what you were born to do, after all. Be the blushing bride.

Oh, he can come, you thought. But you would do everything in your power to make him run and to never take you as his bride.

. . .

Today was the day King Ghost would arrive at your palace. You hoped he would be discouraged by your attitude, enough to see your blatant disgust and leave. You vowed to yourself to make his life more difficult, minute by minute, before he arrived.

Your maids had dressed you in one of your finest dresses, painted your face with makeup, and styled your hair in a flattering manner. You tug at the sleeve of your dress haphazardly, a frown etched on your face.

You didn’t want to see the bastard standing at your doorstep, high and mighty with the stupid helmet he always wore, according to the rumors you’ve heard.

But, alas, here he was. Standing in front of you. A hunk of pure iron armor. Surprisingly, his armor was simple. It wasn’t adorned with precious jewels or carvings. Just simple, smooth iron. A large silver sword was sheathed at his side, the handle a pure black obsidian adorned with a single diamond on the crest of the handle.

The air was thick with tension as you stared at the foreboding creature in front of you. For a moment, you couldn’t move. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you know his gaze was piercing right through you. Your heart beat fast in your chest as you moved into a bow at his feet, disgust rising in your throat.

When you stood, you forced yourself to lock eyes with where you think his eyes are. Your gaze is fierce, unwavering as you opened your mouth to speak.

“Your majesty,” you began. “What a delightful pleasure it is to meet you.”

Your words rang hollow, your interest in his presence glazed with venom.

He stands, stiff as ever, before bowing ever so slightly towards you.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says gruffly, taking in your appearance for a moment before turning his attention to your father. A shiver runs up your spine as the cold iron seems to fill the room with a certain degree of hostility.

“Come,” your father beckons towards Ghost, urging him to follow him down the palace hall. “We will begin dinner shortly.”

King Ghost does not bother to acknowledge you as he stands by your father. You turn around, rolling your eyes, beckoned by your mother to follow them. Lovely. Wonderful first impression.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[expectopatronum18]

One thing the fandom does tht annoys the absolute crap out of me is making Dumbledore out to be this evil villain manipulating kids into fighting in a war and inturn being the cause of all their losses and resultant trauma. He did what he did in the circumstance of a war. And thts still saying something coz hp paints and incredibly black and white picture of war and good vs evil in general

Ofc he's not going to be completely morally right, but given tht the choices r risking losing the war or being morally wrong, u can see the obvious pick.

He didn't manipulate anyone into joining the war, the marauders and lily volunteered(and we hv no evidence of forced conscription in the wizarding world). It's a choice they made right after school and they deserve all the credit for it without reducing it to 'dumbledore raised a child army'. He even offered to be james's secret keeper, but james chose his friends instead, thts not on dumbledore. Seems lyk fandom has a real problem with grasping the concept of characters making their choices without being forced into it, whether good or bad. Even in Harry's era the kids called themselves 'dumbledore's army' and he had nothing to do with it, he even took the fall for their foolishness and saved them from being expelled.

Yes, he manipulated Snape into becoming a double agent early on (he wud hv protected the Potters anyways) but srsly, look at the choices in front of him, what is he supposed to prioritise? a) having a spy in voldemort's circle and gaining information tht cud save countless lives, b) sm death eater crying abt saving only the muggleborn he loves in exchange for her infant son. Also he might hv been manipulated in the very beginning, but adult Snape chose to continue in this role (as shown by the yule ball scene in the Prince's Tale), reducing tht to 'dumbledore manipulated poor, helpless uwu Snape' cheapens his redemption.

Now, with regards to raising Harry lyk a pig for slaughter....what other choice did he have? Smother baby Harry coz he was marked for death? It's definitely his least prettiest move, but what wud u choose btw saving the world and saving one kid? Also he hardly does it out of spite, he really did love Harry, which is y he doesn't tell him about the contents of the prophecy earlier.

Ultimately, he was a very flawed man, but he did what he had to do to win the war and 90% of the cast would be dead without him. He is a complex, flawed, and much more interesting character character without being reduced to evil incarnate, so y bother?

[willowser]

bakugou hesitates beneath the dim light of the station lamp.

you notice it at the last moment, half-turned from him already. red riot is waiting at the end of the sidewalk, far back behind him, a fuzzy, red little blip in the distance; before, he at least tried to act like he was interested in something on his phone, though now that he is safely out of reach of his partner's searing glare, his attention is all yours.

it feels like permission, for something. whatever it is has your heart growing in your chest, beating almost painfully.

in one quick flash of movement, bakugou pushes a rough hand up his face, dragging his mask along with his fingers until it's free. there, it dangles a bit limply as he stares down at it, picking at a loose string. he's fussed his hair up a little, but you don't think he knows and it's too cute to call attention to.

by now, he should be half-way back to kirishima, back to patrol. back to the city.

"think y'can manage not to die if i catch up with shitty hair?"

you had hummed coyly, silly and light beneath his severe stare. the darkness of his mask bleeds into his eyes, making them seem deeper, sharper; it's hard not to squirm at the other end of it.

"we'll see, i guess," you grinned. "listen for me to scream real loud, okay?"

bakugou had huffed, material of his gloves scratching against itself as his fists balled. "don't say shit like that."

now he's pulling them off, his gloves. staring down at his own hands, skin a bit pale in the winter evening. you watch him flex his fingers, warming the life back into them, before he's glancing up at you from beneath his long lashes.

"got this," he murmurs, without explanation, "shit on my face."

and — he does; eyes still shadows, outlined in his tacky, grease paint. a ghost of his breath floats by every time he huffs, but there's a sheen to the paint, high on the points of his cheeks, where it's smeared, like he's sweating in this kind of weather.

again, you see the ant in distance move, and you think he may be closer.

finally, you ask, "what are you doing?" because — he should be gone by now.

the rare moments you earn with him are often stolen away by dynamight; this should be no different. instead, he is here, having quietly accompanied you to the train too late at night, borrowing time neither of you can afford to pay back.

not that you would. not when he's shuffling in his heavy boots, gloves crumpled in one tight, icy fist. bakugou raises to his full height — a sudden reminder, of his greatness; his slouch is terrible — and you feel the night closing in on you both. shrouding you in something unfamiliar.

he doesn't say anything, just fixes you with a determined stare that makes you feel seen; maybe too seen. before your heart can land another beat, he's there, too close in front of you, melting what ice has gathered over your own fingers.

you gasp quietly, visible in the winter. there's something a bit frightening about him like this, dressed in his warring gear, painted like a warrior, but heat floods your face and builds on the back of your neck, excited by the hazard of him.

he's so beautiful, unappreciated. you look into the soft plain of his face and melt a little further, lean in as if to press your cheek to his.

bakugou lets out another huff; a mirror of your own breath. he murmurs, "fuck it," before closing the space between you, finally.

his lips are a little dry, but so are yours, by the chill, and the first kiss is quick and firm and chaste. he doesn't move away from you when it's over, though, just crowds you with a furrowed brow, nudging it gently against yours in an affectionate little headbutt.

it makes you laugh and that pulls him in again, rough fingers sliding along the curve of your jaw, keeping you together as his lips part with your own, deep and slow, savored. you've day-dreamed this moment with him one-thousand times since entering into his weird, intimate little space, but he's easier to fall into than you could have ever imagined.

bakugou breathes against you, open and panting, and you know he needs to go — but he doesn't fight when you rest a hand on his chest; his fingers tangle in your hair and his lips become kiss-bitten, red and wet as he parts to you for the last time tonight, tongue brushing your own before he's pulling away with a rushed, "fuck,"

you blink up at him, smile growing as red riot hoots and hollers down the street. bakugou's face is as red as his partner's costume, not dimmed in the slightest as he breathes in the night air, turns his face up to the chill.

"i—" he hesitates again before taking a step away, yanking his mask back on. "call me when—y'get home."

you laugh, and the sound stops him for another split second, though his eyes are bright and alive as he gazes at you, this time. "okay," you agree, cheeks aching from your smile. "okay, i will, i promise."

it releases him; he doesn't waste another moment before turning on his heel, tugging his gloves on as he saunters back down the sidewalk — to a jumping kirishima. bakugou shoves him once, voice low and angry and unmistakable, even from the distance.

you both savor the moment one last time, with one more look, before it slips away.

[sssammich]

cyborg alien + scientist AU

just gonna drop this bit and go

--

Lena doesn't look up from her work desk when the handle of her door turns followed by the thudding footsteps that beeline for her, the sound growing louder with each step. Instead, she takes her time fiddling with the final bits of solder at the tip of her iron, investigating her handiwork through the large magnifying glass perched between her and her desk. Her movements are steady, at ease, even though her visitor has been standing by the doorway for close to almost five minutes now.

When she eventually deems her work adequate, she stops. She takes her safety goggles off, folding them and placing them in the breast pocket of her fraying lab coat. She pulls the ventilator mask down, unbuckling it from the back of her head, her cheeks exposed to the barely cool air. She brushes the back of her knuckle on her face, noticing the indentations of where the mask had kissed her skin. She curls her fingers until they make a fist before extending them, her joints aching and popping as she stretches her hands.

All the while, she pays her visitor no mind, her green eyes scanning her workspace and the monitor at the corner of her desk. Her visitor makes no noise, raises no complaints, simply exists somewhere behind her. It's not until the old cuckoo clock—bright springtime carnation yellow and baby blue hues of a pastoral relic so mismatched with the dullness and coldness of the wires and gadgets and tools scattered in her office—jumps out of its window to signal that it's the top of the hour that she finally glances over her shoulder.

Standing just in front of Lena's bookshelf full of haphazardly shelved research notes and half-abandoned projects is her visitor, a woman, with messy blonde hair that stops by the lobes of her ears, highlighting perfectly sunkissed skin. Her shoulders squared and her hands held behind her back, her body standing at attention. Truly a product of the military, Lena notes.

The only difference, of course, is the focus of oceanic blue eyes on Lena paired with a small but radiant smile etched on the woman's face, a smile directed right at her. A smile that her visitor flashes at her during every visit. If Lena didn't know any better, she might think her visitor was doing it intentionally.

"Hello, Dr. Luthor."

"You're late." Lena looks away, wheeling her office stool towards some metal drawers, one foot atop the casters, the other planted on the concrete floor, controlling her speed.

Her visitor huffs before striding towards the only other seating in her office, a metal folding chair with paint chipping off, and sitting on it backwards so her front pressed up against the backing of the seat. "I got held up."

"You're always held up," she retorts, the very same words echoing what she'd said when her visitor had shown up in her office for the first time, a gash across her face before Lena patched her up.

"Blame the war. Otherwise, I'd be here on time."

Her visitor unbuttons her shirt revealing the vast expanse of her back, littered with intersecting silver lines of intricate circuitry that are visibly more apparent up close, each and every one following the various paths of her body's muscles. This time, there is a darkened and jagged crater about the diameter of a tennis ball just left of center of the spine. Lena's index finger traces the crater, her mouth slanted in a frown. She can tell that it's begun the healing process, though if her visitor is here, then that must mean that the process isn't moving fast enough to return back to normal.

The first time her visitor had taken off her shirt, Lena had gasped despite herself, her gaze latching onto the slowly-healing injuries that adorned intertwined with inked circuitry that mapped her visitor's back. It wasn't until Lena began her first inspection that she had noticed the defined musculature of the woman in front of her. Piercing blue eyes had stared at her in a mixture of curiosity and concern, but she only shook her head and needlessly advised her visitor to be more careful.

No, her patient.

The woman in front of her is her patient, though Lena certainly doesn't feel qualified in the slighest.

The only patient that's been assigned to her because she's the only living person in the whole of Terran who is knowledgeable and capable of working with Kryptonian physiology. A particular fact that sat uneasily on her conscience. Not when the only reason she'd ever learned was due to the copious and obsessive notes and files that her now deceased brother had compiled about Kryptonians when they first touched down on terran soil for the first time fifteen years ago.

Not when she'd been entirely too late to stop her brother from murdering the only other Kryptonian—her patient's cousin—in the name of human advancement.

She wheels herself towards a dresser of drawers on her patient's other side, pulling on a lead-lined drawer labeled KZE, carefully extricating tools out and placing them on the table nearby.

"That can't always be your excuse," she murmurs, even as she puts on her gloves and quickly inspects the tools, each one more likely to be found in a surgical room than an engineer's workbench. Radiating green crystals are in every single one as a means to penetrate through what has otherwise been considered invulnerable skin.

"How about 'I was helping get a cat named Streaky unstuck from the top of a tree on my way here'?"

Lena stops to meet her visitor's gaze and goofy grin, even in the face of visible effects to the proximity of her glowing green tools. Lena narrows her eyes to avoid rolling them. She just knows that her patient will be watching, is always watching, just to give more meaning to her simple response.

"This is not a negotiation, Ms. Zor-El."

Her patient sighs. "Zor-El was my father. You know you can call me Kara. I've never heard of anybody ever once wearing it out."

"Face forward, Ms. Zor-El." She says, waiting until her patient turns around. This is a familiar song and dance between them starting from the moment Kara Zor-El was assigned to her care only four months ago, the Cadmus Council providing Lena very little room to protest or decline—not when she wanted to avoid any ramifications for her experiments at Mount Norquay.

When they first shook hands (Lena noting the faint traces of circuitry that adorned her patient's perfectly sculpted body), the Kryptonian had insisted on being called by her first name. Yet, Lena did not budge, citing a need to maintain professionalism. Naturally, her patient has attempted to change her mind ever since.

Truth of the matter is that Lena can't allow herself an inch of this familiarity. Not when she knows what she knows, not when she carries the burdens of her family's sins, of their legacies, not when her healing hands learned everything from the success of a murder.

Instead, she focuses on the tasks in front of her, fixing and healing the fresh new injuries to the Kryptonian's systems.

"Hope," she calls out to her virtual assistant, surveying the damage on her patient's back. The damage isn't so severe, she surmises, but she does need to re-update internal systems before she can physically patch the massive crater on the Kryptonian's back so it can heal eventually itself. "Roll back to an old Myriad update, please."

"Of course, Lena." The voice responds from somewhere up above, her centralized computer system whirring in the background. She then opens another drawer and pulls out more traditional wound treatments.

"Howcome your robot gets to call you by your first name, but this robot can't?" The Kryptonian asks, thumb pointing at herself, befoere twisting to look over her shoulder. Lena immediately pauses, ensuring that she does not cause any unnecessary harm to her patient.

"Hold still, Ms. Zor-El."

The Kryptonian exaggerates her sigh, resigned to what Lena can only assume is another bout of failure, all while she attempts to ignore the jut of pouting lips as blonde head rests on strong forearms.

Lena, steady yet gentle in her touch, tips the Kryptonian's head down so she has better access to the nape before inserting a trapezoidal rod from her tray of fine tools. The silver circuit lines begin to emit a green glow, as if powering her patient's body on, matching the glowing from the green crystals embedded in it, in the center of the diamond markings inked on alien skin. The penetration causes indigo blood to trickle out, Lena quick to use the back of her sleeve to wipe it off.

"Alright?" she asks after her patient sucks air through her teeth before releasing a shaky breath. Lena subtly rubs a couple of gentle circles using the side of her palm on the skin just to the side of where the rod sits.

"Never better."

She does roll her eyes then knowing that the Kryptonian can't see her. Lena proceeds by turning the rod ninety degrees until the expanse of her patient's back begins to glow around particular inked lines, three stacked panels along the spine appear, revealing the Kryptonian's internal systems. It's a technological marvel to witness every time, a perfect combination of mechanical innovation so well integrated with organic lifeform.

She makes quick work of the more technical components of her patient's body, fiddling with some delicate wiring amidst flesh and updating and upgrading where necessary. All the while, she keeps a close eye on her patient's skin, the circuitry glowing green, and her breathing—steady in parts, haggard in others. She tries to speed the process along as much as she can, even knowing that this truly requires a deft and delicate touch, the knowledge not lost on her that the Kryptonian must be in immense pain while her internal systems are meddled with.

As expected, her patient does not complain, does not react save for an occasional twitch or stiffness in tension. After a silent twenty minutes, she finishes with a relieved sigh. She's quick to treat the injury with specialized antibiotics before properly dressing it, more than eager to cover that wound. Regardless of how she feels about her patient, she genuinely does not want to further the pain the Kryptonian experiences, war soldier or not. She pushes her stool back after placing her tools back on the table.

"Go ahead and put your shirt back on."

"Not so bad this time, right?" The Kryptonian asks with her own sigh of relief, already shrugging her shirt back on.

"Just be more careful next time," she advises, though she knows that these words mean nothing, have never been heeded. Not for what the Terran government and Cadmus Council want from their superpowered alien.

"You got it, Doc." Her patient then rises from the chair and begins walking towards the door. By this point, Lena has come to expect that on her fifth step towards the door, she will turn around, hands in her pockets like she's just a regular woman, and opens her mouth. "Say, Dr. Luthor, would you like to join me and some of the others for drinks later at Noonan's? I think it'd be nice."

The Kryptonian stands to her full height, another smile on her face. Lena doesn't know what's more tragic to watch: how her patient continues to try to invite her out to spend time together after every visit, or the fact that her patient truly believes it'd actually be nice to spend time with her cousin's murderer's sister.

Lena has since rolled back in front of her workbench and pointedly stared at the Kryptonian. Admitting defeat, her patient only widens her smile and nods in understanding.

"Until next time?" she asks, now at the threshold. Lena offers her a polite smile, the best she can do.

"See you then."

—

So it goes.

Each visit near identical.

Lena fixes her patient.

The Kryptonian pursues the impossible.

—

A month later, it all changes.

[tallulah477]

Push Me, Push Back

Kinktober Day 10: Knife Kink

Pairing: Spider x Fem!Na’vi!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Spider, Semi-dark!Spider, Fingering, Bullying, Physical fighting/grappling, Knife kink/knife play, Blood play, Dub-con, Dirty talk, Dom Spider, Sub Reader, Size Difference, Mentions of Spider wanting to physically hurt the reader (briefly)

Word Count: 3K

A/N: It's technically not midnight here yet, so I'm still on time!

Summary: He doesn’t know why you target him - why you make fun of him, or push him around, or threaten him. But he’s tired of your shit, and he’s going to prove to you why him being shorter than you doesn’t mean he can’t still take you down. 

Translations:

Tawtute - Human, sky person

Tewgn - Loincloth

Vrrtep - Demon

Kurkung - Asshole

Skxawgn - Moron, idiot

Teylu - Beetle larva

Meyp - Weak

He doesn’t know why you target him.

He’s always been good to The People, always tries to prove his worth and value to the clan despite being born of the sky people. He’s never been anything other than kind, helpful, and respectful. 

The clan has come to accept him over the years. His psycho father is gone, all the other humans sent back once again to their dying planet with the firm expectation that this time they stay there. Even Neytiri who has every reason to hate his guts has mostly come around. He’s proven his loyalty to the Sully family a million times over, proven his bond with her children is true and never wavering - and when the time came to choose between the man who has the memories of his birth father and his found family, he let Quaritch drown and saved Jake instead. 

Neytiri had started to look at him a little differently after that, and he couldn’t be more grateful that he finally has the family that he’s always wanted.

Life is good now. He feels seen, heard, and loved. He finally has a place in the world and a position within the clan that garners respect from all.

All except you.

He doesn’t know what he did to make you hate him. It wasn’t like this before he got caught and the Sully’s fled to Awa’atlu. He remembers you from back then. You were barely on his radar, not direct friends with any of the Sully children so there weren’t lots of opportunities for hang outs or conversations. Plus, at that time, The People were still a bit hesitant to let their children play with a human. Despite them knowing that not all humans were bad, the stigma was still there, made worse by the knowledge of exactly who birthed him. 

But you were still around. He remembers the cute toothy smiles you used to send him from where you stood glued to your mother’s side. The small three fingered waves he would get as your mother dragged you off and out of sight. He remembers when Kiri’s lesson with Mo’at ran later than intended and you popped out of nowhere and offered to help him mix the fruit dye he uses to paint on his stripes. You were sweet, even if a little shy.

But when he and the Sully’s came back to the forest after the end of the war, you were different. Once innocent amber eyes had turned cold and angry. The goofy smiles had turned into scowls and frowns at the mere sight of him. Your words, once friendly and helpful, were now scathing jabs meant to hurt and anger. 

And you were relentless with it. 

“Move, vrrtep,” You snap, bodily throwing your shoulder into Spider’s, cutting in front of him in the line to get food, and nearly tossing him to the ground with the force. 

He stumbles, only saved from face planting by his agile nature. The food he was holding is not as lucky though and lands on the ground a couple of feet away from him. He whirls around, glaring daggers at your smirking face and trying to ignore how your friends laugh behind you. 

“What the fu—”

“The actual Na’vi get food first,” You say, grabbing a fig leaf and filling it with teylu, but your eyes don’t leave his, watching with glee as anger floods the dark orbs. “Then the little pets can have the scraps,”

He scoffs, fists balled up at his sides. “I am one of The People. I have every right to be here,”

You step up to him, towering over him and trying to use your natural height as an intimidation tactic. To his credit, it doesn’t work, and he holds your stare without an ounce of fear. He just barely is able to hold himself back from throwing a punch at your stupidly pretty face when you sneer, voice low and teasing. “You have the right to be locked in a cage. You can stay in my hut. I’ll keep you fed and watered, like my own little personal pet,”

He doesn’t dignify you with an actual response, can’t even think of one through his anger. Instead, he hisses, blunt teeth on full display as his face scrunches up, and the sound that rips out of his throat is as animalistic as it can be for a human. 

He turns, stomping away from you and heading for the safety of the Sully’s, fuming at the blatant disrespect. A pet - what a fucking joke. 

Your eyes follow his retreating form the entire time, glued to the way his tense back and shoulder muscles shift underneath his skin with each step, but you rip them away when you catch yourself staring - annoyed . . . and feeling a little too warm. 

The science guys have been working on an alternative for the oxygen masks for years. The original masks are clunky and, even though they get the job done, it’s difficult to use for everyday activities like eating or just general smelling of all the fantastic things Pandora has to offer. And, frankly, sneezing into the mask is gross, so when the science guys finally finished developing the alternative tech to the masks, Spider jumped on that shit fast. 

The new breathing apparatus sits snugly around the back of his skull, curving around his ear and filtering out the bad stuff while allowing oxygen to pump in through the nose tubes. It’s not perfect, and the nose tubes tickle the inside of his nose sometimes when he thinks about it too much, but it’s already so much better than the other mask, and he finally feels a little closer to feeling like an actual Na’vi. 

It feels so freeing, not to have to take off his mask and hurriedly shove food in his mouth every time he wants to eat something. Now, he can savor it, feel the juice of the fruit explode on his tongue and drip down his lips and chin and not have to worry about wiping his face clean to replace his mask. He can return Kiri’s ikran’s affectionate nuzzle, feel the smooth leathery skin against his cheek and its playful puff of breath against his face. He can wear the Omatikaya face paint proudly during celebrations or special hunts, the sacred markings unobstructed on his mask free face.

“Oh, look! Little tawtute got a new toy,” You say loudly when you see it, and Spider’s happy mood quickly turns sour. “Trying to look a little less vrrtep and a little more Na’vi?”

“Leave me alone, y/n,”

He thought he was going to get away with it. By some miracle, he hadn’t run into you or your dumb gaggle of followers all day and when he left the Sully’s hut after the last meal and headed into the forest to start back to the lab, he thought he was home free and free of you. At least for the day. Apparently, the Great Mother is still trying to test his willpower.

“It’s not working,” You continue, drawing closer to him. “You still look like a tawtute. A small, tiny, little meyp tawtute,”

Spider’s eyebrows scrunch in annoyance, a harsh breath punching out of him as he speaks through gritted teeth. “I’m not weak,”

You laugh, a terrible sound that shoots adrenaline through his veins as you begin to circle him. It’s just you right now, your friends are nowhere to be seen. He’s immediately on his guard, hand shifting closer to the knife sitting at his hip. 

In a group, he’d have no chance - the Na’vi height and strength giving them every advantage over his human body. But by yourself, he has some tricks up his sleeve. You’re not a warrior, or even a hunter. You’re a crafter with a specialty for weaving beautiful and sturdy baskets. Spider, on the other hand, he’s a trained warrior. He knows how to fight and how to use his shorter frame to his advantage. 

You’ve gotten physical with him before, pushing and shoving him more times than he can count. But those have all been in public places, with other people’s eyes watching. There’s a dangerous glint in your eyes now, large amber eyes locked onto Spider as you circle behind him. 

“You smell like one too,” You continue, leaning forward to steal a deep breath against his neck. Goosebumps explode along his skin at the touch of your flat nose against his skin. “Smell like a skxawgn who doesn’t know his place. Like a kurkung tawtute who’s trying to forget what a traitor he is - to both the Na’vi and his own kind.”

Frustration builds inside him at your words and he pushes his shoulder back roughly, catching you in the chest and knocking you back from your spot at his neck.

“I have never betrayed the Na’vi,” He growls. 

“Aw, poor baby. You just don’t really fit in anywhere do you?” Your fingers can’t help but reach out and brush against his arm, fingers gliding up and down the smooth, tanned skin. The light touch, so much like how a lover might touch him, a soft and gentle caress of his skin, only pisses him off more. The muscles are taut under your teasing fingertips. “Not with the Na’vi, not with the humans. Not with your father--”

In an instant, he snaps. Without another thought, he’s knocking your hand away from his arm and twisting your wrist so hard it makes you gasp in pain. He throws his body to the side, the sudden and unexpected movement of his weight is enough to catch you off guard, and you stumble into him only for him to kick the back of your knees and send you flying to the ground. 

You land on your stomach, face narrowly avoiding smacking into the ground, and cry out when Spider pins you down, body pressing you harder against the moss as he grips your hair tightly and pulls your head back.

You open your mouth to yell at him, scream all kinds of curses at him, but the knife he places at your neck makes your words catch in your throat.

“Say something else,” He snarls. The blade pressing in tighter against your jugular. One wrong move on your part and you’re done. “Come on! You wanna be a tough girl? Wanna be a bitch? Say something else!”

But you can’t, the words won’t come out. Suddenly, you can’t focus anymore. He’s pressed tightly against you, his legs bracketing your waist, and you can feel the outline of his cock against your lower back. Your hands ball against the ground, curling around the moss and ripping it out of the ground as he pulls your head back further. 

“What happened?” He taunts, scraping the side of the blade up your neck and over your chin, nudging the tip of it against your bottom lip. “Meyp tawtute got your tongue?”

“Get off me,” You say. You aim for a firm voice, something serious and intimidating, but it comes out breathy, voice shaking as the tip of his knife digs into your lip. Blood wells up from the small puncture, pooling into a dot and cascading down your chin.

The knife moves from your lip back to your throat. 

“You’re going to leave me alone,” Spider tells you, and his hand feels huge where it’s tangled in your hair. “Understand? I don’t want to ever hear any bullshit come out of your mouth again.”

The twinge of pain at your scalp sends electricity down to your core, and you whimper at the flood that’s suddenly filling your tewgn. The hard muscled body on top of yours is driving you crazy. The deep growl of his voice caresses your eardrums and sends shivers down your spine as the words wrap around your brain like a thick, warm blanket. 

The knife at your neck takes away all your power, any control you might have had over the (frustratingly gorgeous) human is gone in a second. It makes him powerful, gives him power over you, over your body, and you want to cry at the unfairness of it all. Cry about the fact that you even let him pin you in the first place. Cry about how you like it, how a human can even make you feel this way. Cry about how wet you are because of him, soaking through your tewgn already.

If Spider were a Na’vi, he would be able to smell you. His human senses aren’t that enhanced, but his eyes can still see, and his body can still feel, and he recognizes Na’vi nonverbal actions just like a normal Na’vi would - so it’s hard to ignore the way your tail slides along his spine and curves around his waist. 

The possessive move has Spider’s eyebrows raising to his hairline. He rises off you, grabbing your shoulder and rolls you over, eyes wide when they land on the large wet spot on the front of your tewgn. 

“Woah,” He whispers. “Interesting.”

You’re shaking, eyes struggling to stay on him as your thighs rub together, needing friction, needing something. You gasp when he lands on you again, legs bracketing your hips and the flat of the knife pressing against your cheek.

“What’s all this, hm?” Spider breathes, running the cool blade across your cheek. His eyes have gone dark, the brown of his irises almost completely swallowed up by the blacks of his pupils. “Is someone getting a little too excited?”

You whimper and you want nothing more than to scream at him, to push him off and make him stop his teasing, it’s what you’ve always told yourself you wanted. But your hands come up to rest on the tops of his thighs and your heart pounds at his satisfied grin.

“It all makes sense now,” He muses. He slides the knife down your throat again, over your collarbone and in between your breasts. “Why you target me. Someone has a crush on the tawtute.”

“No,” You try to protest, but a shallow slice on your chest makes you gasp. 

“Shut up,” He grunts. “Don’t lie,”

You both watch as the blood wells up from the slice, and, with a quick wicked glance up at you, Spider’s head lowers to your chest. His tongue is like fire as he drags it between the valley of your breasts, warm and wet as he licks up the blood from your skin.

“Huh, f-fuck,” You whine, and feel a new surge of arousal at the slight red stains left on his perfect white teeth.

“You think about me, don’t you?” He says, sliding the flat of the knife across the swell of your breast. He pushes your chest covering up and teases the tip against your nipple, the azure bud immediately hardening at the feeling. “You do. The thought of getting turned on by a tawtute makes you so angry, doesn’t it? But I bet when you go home at night, and you’re all alone on your mat, your fingers find their way to your cute little clit...”

He trails off, knife slowly making its way down your belly until it reaches the top of your tewgn. The ripping sound as the knife cuts through the thin material shoots through your ears, a damning echo as Spider’s eyes feast on the evidence of your embarrassment. 

You’re drenched, tewgn sticking to your pussy as he pulls it away from your body. His eyes fall to your swollen clit, thumb reaching down to brush over the reddened nub and smirking at the sound of your desperate cry. 

“Yeah,” He mutters, the blade pressing against your hip bone as his fingers play with your pussy. Two fingers slide into your leaking cunt while his thumb continues to circle your aching clit. “You definitely think about my fingers. Am I right? Do they feel as good inside you as you imagined?”

The moans and whines that fall from your lips are so pathetic sounding, desperate whines and whimpers as you try to move your hips harder into his thrusting fingers, but having to stop every time you feel the bite of the knife against your hip. The sounds coming from your pussy are so embarrassing, and you want so badly to cover your face in shame as Spider smiles at the wet sounds, but your hands have taken up a death grip on the moss below you and you can’t seem to remember how to unclench your fists.

“Feels so good, doesn’t it, baby?” He asks, fingers thrusting faster, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. “I make you so uncomfortable, don’t I? So needy for me. Make your pussy feel all wet and gooey just from the thought of me.”

You can feel your orgasm approaching, the tightness in your belly undeniable and, fuck, he won’t fucking stop talking.

“You’re gonna stop the bullshit games, okay?” He says, curling his fingers against your walls, fingertips rubbing relentlessly against that special spot inside you that makes you see stars. Your breath catches in your throat at the onslaught of pleasure and when you don’t respond, Spider is over you again, blade back at your throat as he hisses, “Okay?”

“Okay,” You whimper. You’re a second away from cumming, running along the edge towards an oblivion that you just know is going to destroy you, and his dark eyes are gleaming as they stare directly into yours.

“Good girl,” He grunts. “Just because you’re pretty, doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch,”

His words trigger your orgasm, and you cum, crying out as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. You arch against him as he rips his fingers out of you, fingers working roughly against your clit, and the movement just barely causes you to knick against the knife. The slight jolt of pain only enhances your pleasure and tears prick at the edges of your eyes as the waves finally crest. 

Spider is looking down on you, knife removed from your throat and placed safely beside him on the ground as he holds himself over you, but his eyes hold an untamed heat inside them that makes your stomach flip in excitement. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

**Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite (saw your comment, but still can't respond - thanks for the tip tho! Idk what's going on)

[homunculus-argument]

Y'all really know what's a lost art form that I really miss? The kind of 1980s oil painted Over The Top fantasy novel cover art in books. And I don't just mean the style, the brightly coloured and dramatically lit paintings themselves, but the way it becomes progressively more glaringly obvious as you read along that either the artist whom this was commissioned from didn't get a proper description of the characters, or didn't give a shit about what they got and did something cool instead.

So while the book's character descriptions are like "the protagonist is the scrungliest, most pathetic weasel of a teenage boy you've ever seen in your life, who can barely hold a sword. The first thing anyone who sees him says is 'are you sure this is the right guy?' because that's not what a hero is supposed to look like. The girl is often described as a buck-toothed runt, and her first suitor for an arranged marriage almost started a continental war by completely refusing the union because he thought she was so ugly. Both of them enjoy wearing clothes."

And then the cover art is some absolute balls-to-the-wall Frank Frazetta kind of thing like this:

[blank468]

Alright let’s beat the dead horse to the ground so hard that it can travel to the center of the earth. I found a tweet from someone who tries to defends Bakugo’s resurrection and say how it and his death raised the stakes in the final arc. I’m not going to reveal who made the tweet just to protect their identity but if you’ve been on Twitter you’ll most likely know where this paragraph came from.

“Edgeshot knows he can’t come back from this. Edgeshot is sacrificing his life to save a kid’s life I want everyone to remember that there aren’t as many pro heroes left after the first war many of the pros retired because of the discourse that happened after the first war. Plus, we know edgeshot’s efforts were in vain now, because Edgeshot isn’t the one who revived him He helped hold him together, but he didn’t bring him back to life. By pure luck, Bakugo’s own sweat exploded and jump started his heart. This type of stuff is seen in Shonen all the time, so I don’t wanna hear any complaining about this one. (Jjba pt3 spoilers until ⭐️) Let’s not forget when Star Platinum stopped Jotaro’s heart so Dio couldn’t hear the beat ⭐️”

First of all, I could care very little if Edgeshot was one of the majority of heroes that retired after the events of the war arc. Edgeshot as a character is a nobody. I’ll be honest, I thought he was pretty cool when he showed up in Kamino and his quirk looked interesting. But just like a majority of characters with interesting concepts, Edgeshot falls back into the corner and is given barely anything to do and has had no meaningful impact and connection with anyone before the final arc even started. I don’t feel anything about him sacrificing himself for Bakugo because he has never been shown or established to have any sort of character for me to give a crap about. I don’t care if he and Best Jeanist were students together at UA. I don’t care if he���s going to end up as dental floss for the rest of his life. I certainly don’t give a crap that Bakugo is now feeling grateful to be brought back by some hack who he had barely knew.

Speaking of Bakugo, if all of this is really Horikoshi intended to happen in his story, then why not do the basic thing when writing any story is to make a plan. There clearly should have been a dynamic between Bakugo and Edgeshot for this moment to feel impactful than it does. Horikoshi really dropped the ball with having his favorite character join Deku and Todoroki in the work study with Bakugo. He can’t go through a single arc that Bakugo is in without getting him involved with crap he has no real contribution to. I said in a previous post that Wonder boy has no real purpose/contribution in the main story line. His involvement with things like Deku, OFA and other side plots doesn’t amount to anything other than mindless yelling, guilt tripping, and just him treating everything as damn a competition. An egregious example would be the Endeavor Agency arc. Him acting ad the third wheel along with Deku and Todoroki doesn’t do any thing but give us more annoying moments with him. It’s one of the reasons why I dislike the dynamic between these three. I could on about why their dynamic is the most annoying and stupidest crap I’ve seen but that’s for another story. So back to the Endeavor Agency arc, He acts incredibly aggressive and inappropriate when he’s with the Todoroki family. He’s only in that arc so he can have power progression.

If Horikoshi wanted me to care about his dynamic with Edgeshot, why couldn’t he just have Bakugo do the work study with him instead of making a third wheel just because he’s afraid that his fans will get upset. Bakugo taking up on a work study with Edgeshot would have given the story a chance to do things that would have improve the final arc than it does. Let’s list them.

1. It gives a chance for Bakugo to develop as a character on his own without it being related to Deku

2. It could have helped painted Bakugo in a better light by having him feel guilty about Best Jeanist and make him regretful for his shitty attitude towards him during his internship

3. It would have given the creator an excuse to establish Edgeshot as a character and his relationship with Best Jeanist.

4. Edgeshot would give Bakugo some words of advice about not getting hung up over your past mistakes and focus more on improving yourself.

5. Edgeshot would have stated that he doesn’t blame Bakugo for what happened in Kamino; especially towards Jeanist

Second of all, what exactly is in vain here exactly? The only thing that I can think of that is in vain is his ego. Edgeshot I would think would have been better established to be more than just a support hero if he can do medical treatment on a battlefield. He had knowledge of this ability all this time and he chose to randomly choose it on this one kid who he barely knew.

Third of all, just because you excuse something by saying it’s a Shonen and you should expect it to happen doesn’t automatically excuse bad writing. Most shonen not only establish the world so the audience can get familiar with but they alsocreate rules on how stuff work like power scales for example.

Where in this story has it been established that Bakugo’s quirk can jump start damaged organs with the touch a tiny explosion? And how does that tiny explosion not do any damage to an organ that was or not have been stitched yet?

So basically what I’m saying is that Bakugo’s quirk somehow being able to jump start his heart was an asspull. And no, saying that you have spoken to a real doctor to get knowledge on the science of heart surgery doesn’t excuse your bad writing. It was already bad enough that a nobody character came in and turned into the world’s greatest surgeon incredibly late in the story, but the very thought that Wonder Boy’s quirk was able to jumpstart his heart without it damaging him is not only ridiculous but it ruins the stakes for this story. Why as a reader would I feel worried for a character if I know they’re going to be fine? Imagine if there’s a sequel to MHA and Bakugo as a Pro hero gets pummeled by a villain and his limbs were broken to the point where shouldn’t move. Would Horikoshi have Bakugo’s quirk somehow instantly heal his wombs and he’ll get back up like nothing just happen? How many fake out deaths is the creator’s pet going to have in this story? The amount of times characters have walked out of situations that should have killed them is not only laughable but proves why the story has no real stakes.

[the-real-sasuke-uchiha]

How come you don't like Naruto but you like Itachi??? Itachi literally murdered the clan and ruined Sasuke's life and is the biggest konoha bootlicker????

Hi there, anon.

I don’t know if it is exactly “dislike” what I feel for Naruto. I think it is more like disappointment. I don’t want to bore you, since this has been stated so many times before by people way more eloquent than me. But, in summary, Naruto had the opportunity to meet many victims of the Shinobi system and Konoha in particular, and he merely dismissed them with what turned out to be empty promises in the end. I can’t stand his “friendship will solve everything” approach. Or his strategy of talking people into giving up their very legitimate rage just in exchange of his happy words, while justice is never served and nothing really changes in the end.

I can’t stand that he just expects people to endure, give up and trust him. I don’t hold it against him if he was naïve during his youth, if he couldn’t understand Sasuke’s legit wrath towards Konoha or if he failed to identify his heroes as the genocidal criminals that they were in reality. But I expected more (well, something) from the adult man that became Hokage. You know, it is fine if a child dreams about becoming ninja ruler to gain popularity, but an adult should have deeper goals.

I don’t think Naruto and Itachi are in the same dimension to be fairly compared. You don’t hold a random person to the same standards as a figure of authority. Let alone a powerless child and an adult with political power. You will never see me defending what Itachi did. Yes, he murdered his family, there is no denying that, there is no way we can pretend his decisions were right. He was a 13 year-old child, brainwashed, groomed, burdened with too many responsibilities, traumatized by war and trained only on violence, convinced he could trust nobody. He did not decide to kill his family on a whim, he was threatened with the death of his baby brother. And yes, with a sane mind, from a situation of safety, we might think of other choices he should have followed. Of course. But this was not the case for him.

He was a proud disciple of the will of fire. There is no doubt about that. Still, he was ready to betray Konoha and let hell break lose if something were to happen to his brother. Still, he never idolized the kage or any of Konoha’s leaders the way Naruto did. He was not trying to be popular or gain any position of power or privilege from his actions. In his distorted, disturbed mind, all he wanted to do was to save his brother, to save people, to avoid more violence. Yes, it makes no sense to execute a genocide to avoid casualties. Still, that was, canonically, the way he reasoned. He was used by Konoha and he never got any personal benefit for what he did. It is very different, you know, defending an ideology because it benefits you in your position of privilege, and defending an ideology because you were brainwashed into doing so to facilitate your own oppression. The first one is a perpetrator and the second one is a victim. And I can’t see Itachi as anything other than a victim from the Shinobi system and Konoha. A victim of the people whose paintings are hanging from Naruto’s Hokage office, by the way… How can I blame the child that was coerced into doing the dirty job by the government, instead of the government that ordered him to do so and benefited from it?

What Itachi did was deranged and cruel, and he did that instigated by the government of Konoha. Since this is so obviously monstrous and horrifying, how come this was not acknowledged by dear ball-of-sunshine Hokage, like, ever? How come this was all swept under the rug, how come the enabler of the massacre is still respected and glorified?

I hope this answered your question, anon. Thank you for reaching out and have a nice evening, day, or whatever it is at your end. Take care!

[polish-art-tournament]

round 3, poll 2

Stańczyk:

painted in 1862

i generally dislike matejko but stańczyk is so iconic that i've grown to like it

long story short Stańczyk was a court jester for the last kings of the Jagiellonian dynasty in Poland in 16th century. he was also politically savvy and known for his accurate satirical comments on the country's past and present political situation.

in the painting he has just read the letter announcing some significant war losses (the fall of Smolensk); he is somber, but in the background, behind the curtain, the royals having fun at a ball and remain ignorant of the news

it's one of Matejko's early paintings; he was just 24 when he finished it

it's also an autoportrait since Matejko gave Stańczyk his own face

Żydówka z pomarańczami:

painted in 1881

looted during ww2 and recovered after almost 80 years!

portraits of elder people are always so good

there is something very pleasing about the blue-orange colour combination

instead of a live model Gierymski probably used this photo as a reference - the woman really is recognizable!

see more of their works! Matejko, Gierymski

[almondmilktargaryen]

A Son for a Son (A Debt Paid)

Summary: Jaehaerys is dead. Aemond is to blame. But how can a parent grieve for a child no one knew was his?

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Helaena Targaryen (kinda)

Category: General, angst, fucking sad

Content warnings: Spoilers for HotD season 2/Fire & Blood, mentions of Targcest, a dead kid

Word count: 1.5k

Also on my Ao3

All that illuminated Aemond’s room was the fire. The handmaidens must have lit it before everything happened. Not a single one was in sight now, nor a guard. They were with everyone else. Handmaidens were likely assigned to clean up the blood, take away the boy’s body, and attend to the king and queen’s every need at this grievous hour. Their mother and grandsire likely coordinated patrols and assembled the guards.

Thank the gods for all that. Thank the gods that Aemond chose to train so young. Because unless his dreadful uncle crashes through his chambers on Caraxes and ends this war before it truly starts, he does not require support. No. More than anything, he requires solitude. He has not even bothered washing the blood off his face. It was nothing compared to the amount on his hands, his awful role in all of this. His mother tried cleaning him up, reaching for his cheek with a handkerchief, but he pushed it away. “Helaena,” was all he said before she left him alone. 

He was by her bed then, on the floor, back against the frame and the feather-filled mattress. Helaena’s room was a powder blue with silver accents throughout; an unintentional ode to her beloved Dreamfyre. The spattering of blood stood out against the cotton and velvet materials, making it easy for Aemond to trace the one slice from start to finish. That was all he saw, actually.

He hadn’t had the heart to tell Helaena about Storm’s End, not wanting to worry her about the idea of a war and her children’s safety. He had an earful (and a harsh slap) from his mother when he finally caved upon his return but hoped to forget about it when in Helaena’s chambers. There, they would sit for hours, sometimes in complete silence, and let the children discover the smallest aspects of the world within the four walls of that room. When Aemond was with them, it was the safest place they could be.

Two days later, his world shattered like the legend of a second moon crashing into the sun, unleashing dragons upon the world. Except the sun for him was the smell of sewer rats that filled the bedroom rather than faint perfumes, two filthy men with blades to Jaehaerys and Maelor. 

“A son for a son,” they said.

Before he could even think to reach for either of the boys, he leaped for Helaena, urging her to cover her ears as he pulled her away, keeping her from witnessing the inevitable.

He witnessed it, the slice. He heard it. It was quick, yes. Jaehaerys did not have the chance to even scream before it was done. And Aemond still cannot decide if that is good or bad. He finds his heart broken regardless, merely pieces and tendrils hanging in his rib cage. The blood was now dry, but he could feel the spray on his face like it was still happening; warm, and from a boy with so much spirit. He felt it over and over as he thought of him. A soul so delicate for a Targaryen boy, he never thought it was possible. He was still holding his dragon toy when Aemond walked in, painted black and gold. Aegon had it made for him. Jaehaerys expressed his desire to have a dragon that resembled his toy, even though he had already formed a bond with Shrykos. Goldfyre, he called it, following his parents’ bonded dragons. And, of course, there was blood on that too.

Then, Aemond ran for his balcony, gripping the ledge like a dragon’s claws embedded into the top of a castle. But instead of flaunting such fearsome grace, his knees shook as he vomited into the bushes meters below. The boy’s head rolled around on the floor, like a ball made of stone. And Aemond is quick on his feet. He is known for being quick on his feet, for his reputation with the blade, and he has the scar to prove his determination. But when one of those vile men grabbed Jaehaerys—his head—upon their escape, all Aemond could think was that he was about to rip his son’s hair right out of his scalp.

He had such gorgeous hair. Icy white, as though the moon touched it. And curls from the Hightowers proved to prevail for another generation. He had lilac eyes. A true Targaryen. Well, they were more of a violet shade. They were Helaena’s eyes. He almost cried when he discovered that, just three days after he was born. The maesters were concerned with his eleven fingers and twelve toes, but Helaena had to hold Aemond back when he insisted he was perfect the way he was. That was all he saw, his perfect boy.

He lost his perfect boy because he let his confidence morph into arrogance. He was too stupid to see it before it was too late, before Vhagar writhed against his will, against his attempts at High Valyrian commands. Arrax’s ultimate sign of life screeched out from him before his remains, wings, tail, and all returned to the storm clouds. But Lucerys, that bastard, was nowhere to be found amongst the falling carnage. He did not look at Vhagar the entire ride home. Blood trailed from her mouth, and that was all he could bear to see.

Helaena screeched too when she opened her eyes. Somehow she was louder than the young dragon, and she squirmed from Aemond’s hold like she was trapped in Vhagar’s jaws herself. Blood pooled on the floor, staining his sister's dress as she held him, her headless son. It seeped between her fingers. She screamed so hard, so loud, Aemond was convinced her lungs were on the verge of explosion, ripping themselves apart with her soul. Their mother burst in, then their grandsire and guards, but not Aegon. Aemond would not even expect him to drop everything for his Maelor, let alone for the ones that are not even his.

In the midst of it all, Jaehaera hid under the bed. When he told her it was safe, all she said was, “Are you bleeding, Uncle Aemond?” Her lilac eyes, pale ones like his, still flickered in the dark.

“No, my sweet, I’m fine. The evil men are gone.”

“Mummy’s crying.”

“I know. Don’t come out yet, alright? Let grandmother and grandpapa handle some things first. I need you to be calm.” And he waited there, his back to the bed like a dog on guard, like a father protecting his daughter. His only child now. His hand crept under the bed until he felt hers. He remembered when she was just a baby, how her hand could only wrap around a single finger. That baby was still warm, maybe (hopefully) still a little innocent, but she was here. Her hand in his proved she was still here. It was when Alicent fell to her knees by Aemond, checking him for wounds, that he was forced to let her go.

Discovering Aemond on the balcony, Alicent took a kneeling position once more. She did not drop like she did just minutes (or maybe hours) ago. She still had a handkerchief in her hand, clean and ready. Aemond leaned in and let her wipe, using her spit like every mother does for help. She rubbed harshly. Aemond did not care. He barely felt it. When she was done, her arms slacked like she carried Jaehaerys’ body out to the maesters herself.

“She will never forgive me for this, mother,” Aemond says. “When she finds out this is my doing, she will never forgive me.”

Alicent swallowed, her lips disappearing for a moment. “We have guards on patrol, one every three meters. One should be coming to your room in a—”

“I do not need a guard.”

“This is not the time for arguments, Aemond.”

His grief started hardening. Every bone in his body that he would have broken in exchange for Jaehaerys’ life was ready to annihilate anyone who dared to step or fly onto the Red Keep’s grounds. It was a similar feeling to when his father commanded him to look up at his king, his eye freshly sliced and sewn.

“Put me on patrol.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mother, I have to—”

“You’ve made enough stupid mistakes in one week, haven’t you?” The moment she said it aloud, Aemond knew she regretted it. He saw it in her eyes, a moment of clarity washing over them, turning glassy like when she watched a maester sew him up almost ten years ago. Where the anger grew in him, it dissolved in her. She held his hand then as if she closed around it a little tighter, she would take away her son’s pain.

She held his hand again here, a thumb rubbing back and forth over his knuckles. “We cannot risk losing two family members in one night. You need to grieve for your son.”

The air escaping Aemond’s lungs was involuntary, like the squeeze of a dying breath. His head knocked against the barrier as he looked up at the moon. His mother wiped under his eye. He had not even felt the tears. His face was heated. The anger, the shame, the endless guilt, all boiled inside him like the dragon’s blood he was not sure he wanted anymore. He crumbles into his mother’s open arms. And she held him tight all the same.

“My son.” He finally sobbed. “They killed my son!”

[adarkrainbow]

The art of Perrault (2)

Continuing from this post, there is another segment of the article which is absolutely delightful: the one about the "Fairy tale salon" of Jean Veber

Because Perrault didn't just inspire paintings and drawings - furniture too!

In the beginning of the 20th century, Jean Veber (a student of both Alexandre Cabanel and Robert Delaunay) was doing a lot of fairy-themed expositions, and when he was asked by Rosemonde Gérard (the wife of Edmond Rostand) to create her "boudoir" at their Arnaga villa (Cambo, Pays Basque), he chose "fairy tales" as his theme. He notably composed there beautiful wall paintings that attracted the attention of both Léon Bérard (under-secretary of state of the Beaux-Arts) and Gustave Geffroy, the administrator of the Gobelins Manufacture.

(Here is a Sleeping Beauty mural):

In 1912, Gustave Geffroy paid Veber to create an entire salon themed after Charles Perrault's fairy tales - tapestries and various sitting-furnitures. The plans for the salon were originally ambitious, but it was restricted due to limited money - else we would have had five tapestries and thirteen furnitures, including a bed, and many more "chairs" of various models (chaise, fauteuil, bergères). Instead, the "Contes de fées" salon gathers three tapestries, four armchairs, four regular chairs, a sofa, and a fireplace screen - now all preserved in the Mobilier national collection. (The two additional tapestries would have been Puss in Boots and Donkey Skin)

(Here's the Puss in Boots armchair)

(And the Bluebeard sofa)

After the newspapers mediatized madame Rostand's boudoir in the beginning of the 1910s, the Gobelins immediately asked Veber painted preparations of the Sleeping Beauty and Little Thumbling tapestries. In the 1914 he was commissioned the drawings for the various chairs by the Beauvais manufactury - specialized in chair tapestry. The project was interrupted by the First World war, but it began agan in 1919, year where the drawing for the Bluebeard sofa was made. The project got faster by the 1920s, thanks to the collaboration of the cabinet-maker Paul Follot. The entirety of the furniture was delivered by the end of 1922, after the Little Thumbling and Sleeping Beauties tapestries had been completed (1919-1920). The Cinderella tapestry (prepared by 1919) and the Beauty and the Beast screen won't be woven until 1923 and 1926.

(Sleeping Beauty silk-and-wool weavework)

The aesthetic of Veber's paintings evoke the paintings that cover the walls of the Arnaga villa: frize disposition and very colorful.

(Preparation work for the Cinderella tapestry)

These creations appeared half-a-century after Gustave Doré's illustrations, and in many ways oppose them. Here we have a sentimental, idealized, almost childish view of Perrault's story. Everything is light-hearted and funny, and the terror of the tales is removed - even the most frightening characters are merely grotesque. This is due to how, in this era, fairytales had been massively shared and spread as children literature, as well as to the nature of Veber's commission: indeed, the creation of a salon requires a peaceful and comforting ambiance, where someone can rest. He can't possibly put Doré images in there. After the First World War, this literary theme allows one to find back a sort of lightness - the tapestries of Beauvais being in harmony with the walnut-wood furniture, all golden and in curvy shapes.

(Beauty and the Beast fireplace screen)

Far from doing a "composition monotony", Veber makes sure each of the tapestries has been conceived in a different way, to offer a large palette of movement and dynamics. For Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella he chose specific moments of the tale. In the first, we have the prince charming rushing to the side of his beloved, in the middle of a thick vegetation filled with asleep characters. In the second, we see Cinderella fleeing the ball, her rushing carriage preventing the prince from stopping her. However, for Little Thumbling several key moments of the tale are presented side-by-side, so that in one glance the whole story is offered in a condensed version.

(Little Thumbling silk-and-wool weavework)

The "Contes de fées" salon of Veber is another example of the universality of Perrault, which can extend further beyond the world of the page, and into the decoration of walls and furnitures. The originality of this project seduced people at the time, and the Beauvais manufecture immediately demanded a new work from the artist: an "Animals in the forest" project for which he created four chairs, three armchairs and a screen. Delivered in 1925, this set can be considered a continuation of his "Fairy tales" salon.

(Armchair of the Foxes)