#fragmentation paterns

[l0stglitch]

Hi I hope you're doing well! Anyways, how do you think the four boys (Dwayne, David, Marko, Paul) would react if we just ran away, like went to our friends house and refused to come back to the cave? Also what punishments do they give, like after we ran away and in general? Also sorry if my grammer is bad English isn't my first language, anyways have a good day/night!

Running away headcannons

Platonic Yandere lost boys x reader

Notes- Hey I’m doing great thanks! Your English is very good- I couldn’t tell you weren’t a native speaker :)

Warnings- Choking, Yandere behaviour, Confinement, Psychological abuse, Dehumanisation

• I think it’s safe to say all four of your fathers would be absolutely LIVID if you ran away.

• They genuinely don’t understand why you would even think to do something so senseless. After all, it was them who saved you from your biological family when you first moved to Santa Carla.

• Not only that, but you had also stolen Dwayne’s bike (his being the obvious choice, as you spent the most time on it).

• They discovered your absence a few hours after you had snuck out, but couldn’t go after you due to the burning rays of the July sun.

• Meanwhile, you had found yourself at Bethany’s house. She knew enough about your parents to gladly let you stay as long as you need, despite your warnings about how dangerous they are.

• Coming back to the boys, I think their individual reactions would vary. Dwayne would be more worried than pissed off. The thought of his baby girl being out there alone without their protection fills him with this hopeless dread. He’s not even mad about the bike because he’s so scared that you’ve crashed somewhere and are lying under a mangled pile of metal, injured and alone.

• Marko is also terrified for you. As I’ve said before, he’s in denial about you growing up, so he won’t even entertain the idea that you might be able to look after yourself. He’s not used to being afraid. Out of everyone in the pack it’s generally agreed that Marko is the most sadistic and violent when it comes to preying on humans. He thrives off of scaring people (you included) so the fact that you are scaring him makes him angry.

• He finds himself pacing the cave, eyes shining a brilliant yellow and fangs on display as he pictures the moment they find you. David eventually has to tell him to knock it off or he’ll tire himself out before nightfall.

• Speaking of David, I think that out of everyone he’d be the least panicky. That’s not to say he isn’t worried about you, but he understands you better than the others do. He knows that it takes careful planning to pull off a stunt like this, and you aren’t stupid enough to get yourself caught up in anything too dangerous.

• This stems from the fact that David’s obsession with you doesn’t come from a deep rooted paternal desire like it does for the others. Sure, he loves you as his daughter and feels a strong sense of pride that they were the ones to mould you into who you are today, but it’s more complicated than that.

• The more you grow, the more he sees himself and the others within you, but beneath all that is someone else. A small fragment of a broken child waiting to spiral into something else. That’s what intrigues him. That hidden part of you locked behind years of painful love and comforting abuse.

• Paul’s reaction is a lot simpler than David’s. He feels guilty that their previous argument with you has led to you doing something so drastic. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, he just doesn’t trust all the creepy men around that could hurt you.

• I don’t think he’d be on the verge of a complete meltdown like Dwayne and Marko, but he’d definitely be on edge, with a million different scenarios playing out through his head.

• Once the sun is finally down, it wouldn’t take them long to find you. You weren’t stupid enough to leave Dwayne’s bike right outside Bethany’s house, but it was still close enough for your fathers to track you down with relative ease.

• The only problem they faced was actually getting to you. Vampires have to be invited inside, and there was no way Bethany’s mother was going to let in a group of leather clad punks demanding to see their fifteen year old daughter.

• So naturally, they went to Max and begged asked him to politely introduce himself as your uncle and bring you home.

• Of course, with his charming nature Max had no problem getting invited into Bethany’s home.

• In all fairness, he didn’t lie. Sure, he had left out the part where Marko choked you until you were on the verge of passing out, but nothing he did say was untrue. It was more just a careful avoidance of certain details.

• You knew you were in deep shit when you came downstairs for dinner and saw your uncle sat at the table with a plate of lasagne of his own.

• It was an awkward dinner, well for you at least. Beth’s mum seemed pretty into Max, and he clearly loved the attention.

• Once the meal was over, Max announced that he would be taking you home, his tone stern- a subtle warning for you not to argue.

• So you didn’t argue. At least, not until you were out of Bethany’s house.

• As soon as her door clicked shut you bolted.

• It was a stupid idea really. Max’s car was parked right outside the driveway, so even if you did manage to get away from him, he’d easily be able to chase you down in the vehicle.

• It wasn’t Max who caught you though. In fact, he made little effort to chase you as you ran.

• That didn’t strike you as odd until the street you were sprinting down was suddenly lit by a harsh white light.

• For a moment you thought it was a car speeding towards you, but as your eyes adjusted it became clear that there were three beams of light, not two.

• Your fathers had been waiting round the corner for you and Max.

• You, being a stubborn teenager, didn’t stop running. You ignored the aggressive revving of their engines and legged it down the road.

• The gleaming headlights honed in on you, allowing no darkness to conceal your desperate escape.

• Their bikes almost seemed to leap forwards after you, as if they were an extension of your fathers, feeding from their obsessions.

• It only took a matter of seconds for them to catch up to you, even after you veered from the road and tried to make a break for the forest at the end of the street.

• They had you surrounded in an instant. David in front, Marko to your right and Dwayne and Paul sharing a bike to your left.

• Perhaps you would have found the sight amusing if it wasn’t for that look in their eyes.

• This must have been what it felt like to be a deer. Trapped under the gazes of four hungry wolves, with your only advantage being your primal fear of being dragged back to the cave- something that you knew would be your inevitable fate.

• Despite the futility of the situation, you still tried to break past them, spinning on your heel and dashing to the gap between Marko and David’s bikes.

• For a fleeting second you truly believed you had succeeded in getting past them, but then a hand snared in the neck of your top and yanked you back.

• The force of it pulled you to the ground, where you lay momentarily stunned, choking for air.

• David was quick the dismount his bike, crouching over where you lay on the sidewalk.

• There was nothing you could do except stare up at him, dazed as he pulled you to your feet and forced you onto the back of his bike.

• They didn’t speak to you on the ride back, only stopping once to pick up Dwayne’s discarded bike (after you’d been forced to hand over the keys).

• The only conversation was between Marko and Paul, who seemed almost giddy to return to the cave. You expected that from Marko, always the sadist, but Paul? That stung a little. You supposed he was just feeding off of his mate’s energy.

• David was clearly pissed off. You were surprised he hadn’t berated you yet, but it seemed as though he was waiting to get home for your punishment.

• As for Dwayne, you could tell he was deeply disappointed that you had even wanted to leave them, let alone actually do it.

• When it comes to punishments, David is usually in charge. He’s the leader of the pack and therefore creates the rules and enforces them the most out of everyone.

• The only exception being when Marko occasionally decides to make a new rule without telling any of the others so when you inevitably break it, he punishes you.

• There was a lot of debate between them about what the punishment for running away should be.

• Dwayne was more inclined to taking away certain privileges. No trips to the boardwalk, no choice in what you get to eat, no visiting Uncle Max and Thorn, etc.

• Marko would rather just break your legs. It solves the issue of you running away in the future and makes you completely dependent on them, solidifying how much you need your fathers to help you.

• In the end though, David gets the final call. He decided that if you don’t want to be around them then fine, but it won’t be in your terms.

• They left you chained up like a dog in a secluded part of the cave- far from where your fathers would be spending much of their time.

• You were left there for two months, only seeing David once a day when he brought you a bottle of water and a ham sandwich.

• Being treated like an animal slowly chips away at your sanity. David’s silent glare and the bland flavours of your basic meal are the only markers of the time spend in the darkness.

• The chain around your ankle feels heavier the longer you’re there. Your weight loss making you weaker by the day as you almost forget that Dwayne, Marko and Paul must be somewhere in the cave as well.

• You wondered if they thought about you as little as you thought about them.

• It felt like years before David finally brought a key along with your meagre meal.

• He watched silently as you ate your sandwich. You kept your gaze averted, staring at those cold leather boots as you chewed your way through the stale bread.

• “Not in the mood for talkin’ huh?”

• David twisted the keys around between his fingers. Your silence wasn’t much of a surprise to him, after all it had been a whole two months since you had spoken to him or your other fathers. He briefly wondered if you’d been talking to yourself to cope with the loneliness.

• How much damage could enough isolation do to a person?

• The chain unlocked with a small click, but you still made no effort to move.

• David sighed and cupped your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “You’re free now, punishment’s over. Cmon, the others have missed you.”

• You let him help you stand up- something you hadn’t done it a long time.

• David guided you back to the main area where Dwayne, Marko and Paul waited restlessly to see you again.

• Dwayne was the first to rush over to you, enveloping you in a big hug. You didn’t return it. It was hard to feel anything but the cold chill that still remained after those two long months.

• Your fathers were quick to wrap you in a thick blanket and curl up on the couch. Marko was practically spoon feeding you the bolognaise they had prepared earlier that day, but you hardly noticed.

• No one admitted it out loud, but it was clear that your isolation had scarred you a lot worse than a pair of broken legs from Marko would’ve.

• They were going to need to put in a lot of work to get you back.

Tag list- @bella-goths-wife @purple-lemon-8 @xjesterxjacksx @ursinaw @simplyreading96 @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic

(If anyone else wants to be added to the tag list then lmk!)

[angel5ofp0rn]

♡last part♡

Young!Price -> ExHusband!Price x f!reader

(Young!Price flashback)

The pub was alive with the sounds of laughter and clinking pints as John sat with Simon, Kyle, and Johnny. John was halfway through his second beer when his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, seeing an unfamiliar number.

"Be right back." John muttered, picking up the phone. He stepped outside into the cool evening air, lighting a smoke and answering the call. "Yeah?"

"John, it's Nadia," a familiar voice replied, though it sounded different – tense, almost hesitant.

"Nadia…" John repeated, racking his brain for a face to match the name. He vaguely remembered a blonde woman from a few weeks ago, but the details were hazy. "Er…. everything alright?"

There was a pause on the other end before Nadia spoke again. "I... I need to talk to you. It's important."

John's heart skipped a beat, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. "Alright. What's up?"

"I’m pregnant and I’m keeping the baby, John. I just thought you should know." Nadia said, the words rushed out as if she couldn't bear to hold them back any longer.

John felt the world tilt on its axis. He leaned against the pub’s brick wall, trying to process what he'd just heard. "Pregnant?"

John rubbed his temples, trying to piece everything together. The night was coming back to him in fragments – a night out with the guys, mutual friends, a spontaneous hookup. "Nadia, right. You’re the one who had never—"

"Yeah, that’s right," Nadia replied, a hint of embarrassment in her voice when he remembered. "I’m not asking for anything from you. I just thought you should know."

John blew smoke away from the receiver, trying to calm his thoughts. "Nadia, listen... I want to do the right thing here, but I’m not sure what that is just yet.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Nadia sighed. "We should talk more about this...“

"Let me call you back tomorrow, and we can figure things out, yeah?”

They said their goodbyes and John ended the call, no longer interested in finishing his smoke. He stood there for a moment, staring at his cigar.

He walked back inside, the guys noticing the change in his demeanor immediately.

"Everything alright, cap’n?" Gaz asked.

John shook his head, taking his seat. "Not sure yet. Just found out I’m going to be a dad."

The table fell silent, the guys exchanging glances. Soap spoke up finally. "Are you sure you’re the father?”

"Yeah," John replied, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m sure.”

“How could you be, if the baby hasn’t been born yet?” Gaz chimed in. “You need to ask for a paternity test before you take claim of a random hook-up’s child.”

John shook his head sternly. “No, this woman… She’s… It’s mine.” John left it at that.

The guys accept that answer— or just didn’t want to end up angering Price.

Ghost, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward onto the table. "I think being a dad suites you, Price. Been fathering Gaz and Soap just fine.”

“Piss off,” John snorted.

•••

You hold John’s hand tightly, Shea on your hip as you all walk up the pavement to Nadia’s.

Your oldest and middle take off running ahead of you as soon as they see the familiar house, excited to spend the day with their big brother.

“Gonna cut my circulation off if you hold any tighter,” John murmurs.

A little embarrassed, you loosen your grib on your husband’s hand and mumble a “sorry.”

“What’s got you so anxious, hm?”

You just shrug. You don’t want to say it’s because you’re jealous of your husband’s ex-wife and the cheek kiss she gave him two days ago.

The kids let themselves into Nadia’s home as if it’s their own, making John call after them in his authoritative dad voice that you love hearing.

“Oh, they’re fine, Johnny.” Nadia waves him off as she appears in the door. “Let them have fun.”

Johnny?

You try to cover the autonomous sour expression on your face with a smile and accept the hug Nadia gives you.

“Nice to see you!” Nadia smiles warmly. “And this little chunky monkey. I just have to squeeze her.”

You don’t mind handing baby Shae off to Nadia to get some cuddles in; at least you know she won’t be trying to kiss your husband that way.

You and John head through the house and out to the backyard where the kids are playing. Your eyes watch the kids play, but your mind can’t stop thinking about whether or not you’ve missed any signs of Nadia still being interested in John, or vice versa.

Yeah, they’ve both told you that there’s no feelings between each other, but all exes say that, don’t they?

And you saw how happy John looked in their wedding photos… happier than you’ve ever seen him.

“Want a drink?” John asks, breaking your thoughts.

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to focus on the here and now. He heads inside, leaving you with your swirling thoughts.

As you watch John and Nadia through the kitchen window, you notice their relaxed smiles, the way they move around each other with practiced familiarity.

Jealousy prickles at your heart again, but before you can dwell too long on it you see a third figure enter the kitchen.

A woman with short, light hair steps in, wrapping Nadia up in a hug.

Nadia’s face lights up as they interact, and your curiosity gets the best of you— you step inside.

“Kate,” John smiles, giving the woman a hug with one arm, your beer in the other hand. “This is my wife,” He gestures to you. “Love, this is Kate Laswell, you’ve heard me talk about her before when we used to work together.”

You blink, stunned for a moment. You see the way Nadia is looking at Kate, and the arm Kate has wrapped around Nadia’s waist…

You feel a wave of relief wash over you.

Kate is Nadia’s girlfriend.

Of course.

Kate smiles warmly, shaking hands with you. “It’s nice to meet you. John’s told me a lot about you.”

•••

You all make it back outside, joining the children in the backyard; Nadia is down in the grass playing whatever game the kids have made up while Shae snuggles up to Kate as if she’s known her forever.

John wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close as he leans down to murmur into your ear. “Feeling better?”

“You fucking asshole,” You playfully shove John’s shoulder. “You could have just told me that Nadia was gay.”

John laughs, his eyes crinkling as they do when he genuinely smiles. “Maybe I liked seeing you jealous.”

<< prev

* tbh i just needed to end this series. sorry if the last chapter is assssss

[tylermileslockett]

Week 10: FINAL ART FRIDAY, Close-ups and Trivia

Art Piece: The Thread of Destiny

The art is complete! After guiding you through plans, sketches, and timelapses, we proudly present the final reveal—where imagination meets the mythic at Lockett Studio.

Here are five concise and surprising trivia facts about Theseus and the Minotaur: “The Thread of Destiny”

1. Dual Paternity Twist: Theseus’s parentage combines both divine and mortal realms—he is simultaneously the son of Poseidon, god of the sea, and King Aegeus, ruler of Athens, thanks to the ambiguous timing of his mother’s unions.

2. The Poisonous Plot: Before he was recognized as Aegeus’s son, Queen Medea tried to poison Theseus with a cup of wine, but his sword—a family heirloom—revealed his identity just in time.

3. Ariadne’s Betrayal Aftermath: Although Ariadne helped Theseus escape the Labyrinth by giving him a ball of thread, Theseus abandoned her at Naxos due to a divine dream from Dionysus, who claimed her as his bride.

4. Athenian Cultural Icon: Theseus not only defeated the Minotaur but also became a key figure in Athens’ rise, credited with uniting its fragmented regions into a cohesive city-state and fostering democracy.

5. Infamous Abduction Attempt: In a reckless pursuit of glory, Theseus kidnapped the young Helen of Sparta, intending to make her his wife, which triggered political tensions that would later play a role in the Trojan War.

✨ What do you think of this controversial Greek hero? Do you have your own interpretation of the story? Let us know in the comments—we’d love to hear your thoughts!

Check out our website (http://lockettstudio.co) and discord channel in the Linktree : https://linktr.ee/lockettstudio —we can't wait to hear what you think about our interactive art pieces and the narrations by the heroes.

[corrupte3d-mindz]

Cost of Fame

(37)Cillian Murphy x F! (23)Famous Reader

Summary: Cillian loves supporting his girlfriend during her live performances

Wordcount: 3.7k

Warnings: Part 1

super supportive! Cillian, slightly perverted! Cillian, Cillian being a great boyfriend, lovey dovey things, kissing, m! overstimulating; but he’s autisticly coded-headphones, younger reader; by like 14 years-so she’s 23

The hum of anticipation vibrated through the walls of the backstage area. Cillian stood just out of sight, leaning against a metal railing, the coolness of the steel pressing against his back a sharp contrast to the electric energy pulsating around him.

The stage lights cast long shadows, and the distant roar of the crowd filled the space, a muffled thunder that echoed in his chest. He adjusted the headphones over his ears, a necessary buffer against the overwhelming decibels that would soon erupt from the speakers. The anticipation was palpable, a living entity that coursed through his veins, making his heart pound with a rhythm that matched the distant beat of the bass drum. His fingers tapped against his thigh, an unconscious mimicry of the music that played only in his mind for now. He wore a simple outfit—black jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and a leather jacket that hung loosely from his shoulders. His hair, a tousled mess of dark curls, framed his face in a way that made him look both boyish and intensely focused. His eyes, the color of stormy seas, flicked towards the stage every few seconds, as if he could will her into view just by staring hard enough.

Cillian's thoughts drifted, despite his efforts to stay grounded in the present moment. He loved her so much that it hurt sometimes, a deep ache in his chest that he couldn't quite shake. She was out there, in the spotlight, her voice ready to pour out her soul in melodies and lyrics that were as much a part of her as her heartbeat. He felt a swell of pride, an almost paternal protectiveness mingled with the fierce passion of a lover. His heart swelled with every note, every syllable she would sing tonight. He was utterly and completely devoted, and utterly helpless in the face of her talent.

He watched the crew bustling around, their movements a choreographed dance of cables and equipment. The stage manager called out instructions, her voice authoritative and clear above the din. Cillian caught snippets of conversation, fragments of technical jargon that made little sense to him but painted a picture of the precision and care that went into making a performance seamless. Cillian’s fingers brushed against the leather of his jacket, a small, grounding gesture. He thought about the first time he had heard her sing, the way her voice had cut through the noise of the world and settled deep within him. It was as if she had reached inside his chest and plucked at the strings of his heart, making it vibrate with a resonance that was entirely new and entirely hers. He had been captivated, drawn in by the power of her music and the softness of her presence.

The lights dimmed suddenly, signaling the imminent start of the show. Cillian felt a rush of adrenaline, a heady mix of excitement and nerves. He wished he could be out there with her, not in the spotlight but close enough to feel her energy, to be a part of the magic she created. He knew, though, that this was her moment, her space to command and he was content to support her from the shadows, the place where he felt most at home. He glanced at the setlist taped to the wall beside him, his eyes scanning the titles of the songs she would perform tonight. Each one held a story, a piece of her soul laid bare for the world to see. He knew them all by heart, had heard them in their rawest forms, in moments of quiet intimacy when she had shared her creative process with him. The thought of those private moments brought a soft smile to his lips, a small, secret joy that he cherished deeply.

The roar of the crowd grew louder, a wave of sound that washed over him even through the protection of his headphones. He could imagine her out there, the way she held the microphone with a confidence that belied her gentle nature, the way her eyes sparkled under the stage lights. She was a force of nature, a hurricane wrapped in a songbird’s body, and he loved her all the more for it. Cillian's mind wandered to the nights they had spent together, talking late into the night about everything and nothing. They would sit on the couch, her head on his shoulder, her fingers entwined with his, and the world outside would cease to exist. Those were the moments he lived for, the quiet, unassuming pockets of time where they could just be. He found himself longing for that simplicity now, even as he stood on the brink of one of her biggest performances yet.

He took a deep breath, the air backstage thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation. He knew she was ready, had seen the fire in her eyes as she had prepared, the way she had thrown herself into rehearsals with a single-minded determination. She was unstoppable, a powerhouse of talent and drive, and he was in awe of her. The first notes of the intro music began to play, a low hum that built slowly, teasing the audience with the promise of what was to come. Cillian felt his pulse quicken, his body attuned to the rhythm as if he were a part of the band himself. He could almost see her now, standing just behind the curtain, her heart pounding in time with his. He imagined the way she would step out onto the stage, her presence filling the space with a warmth and light that was uniquely hers. The crowd would go wild, their cheers a tidal wave of love and admiration that would crash over her, and she would soak it in, let it fuel her performance. He knew she thrived on that energy, drew strength from the connection she felt with her audience.

As the music swelled, Cillian found himself mouthing the words to the first song, a reflex born of countless hours spent listening to her practice. He could feel the emotion in every line, the way her voice would rise and fall, carrying the weight of her stories. He was transported, lost in the music even before the first note had been sung. The curtain rose, and there she was, bathed in the glow of the stage lights, her silhouette a perfect contrast against the darkness behind her. She was ethereal, a vision of grace and power, and Cillian felt his breath catch in his throat. He watched as she took her place, her movements fluid and confident, and he knew without a doubt that she was exactly where she was meant to be. Her voice rang out, clear and pure, cutting through the noise and reaching straight into his soul. Cillian closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him, feeling the emotion in every note. He could picture her perfectly, the way her face would light up with passion, the way her body moved in time with the music.

He opened his eyes and saw her smile, a small, knowing curve of her lips that was meant just for him. It was their secret communication, a way of saying "I see you, I feel you" even in the midst of the chaos. Cillian felt a surge of love, a deep, unshakable connection that bound them together no matter where they were. As the performance continued, Cillian found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions. He was proud, so incredibly proud of her, and he knew that this was only the beginning. She had a gift, a rare and precious talent that the world needed to hear, and he would be there every step of the way, supporting her, loving her, being her anchor in the storm.

He watched as she poured her heart into every song, her voice soaring and dipping, weaving a tapestry of sound that left the audience spellbound. He could see the impact she had on them, the way their faces lit up, the way they were drawn into her world. It was a powerful thing, to be able to touch people so deeply, and Cillian was humbled by it. When the final notes of the last song faded away, there was a moment of silence, a brief pause before the crowd erupted into applause. Cillian felt a rush of relief and joy, a sense of completion that was almost overwhelming. He watched as she took her bow, her face radiant with happiness, and he knew that this was only the beginning of her journey.

As she made her way offstage, their eyes met, and Cillian saw the love and gratitude shining in her gaze. He stepped forward, ready to envelop her in his arms, to hold her close and let her know how proud he was. She reached for him, and in that moment, the rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of them, together in their shared triumph.

"Y'were amazin' out there," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Absolutely amazin'." He said while taking off his headphones.

The stage lights had done little to hide the effort she had put into her performance. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, tracing paths down her temples and cheeks, glistening under the dim backstage lighting. Her hair, slightly damp, clung to her neck and forehead in tendrils that framed her face in a way that was both wild and mesmerizing. Cillian moved towards her with purpose, his steps measured but eager. His eyes, those a stormy blue, locked onto hers, and in that moment, everything else fell away. The noise, the bustle, the distant roar of the crowd—it all faded into a distant hum. All he could see was her, the woman he adored, looking at him with an exhaustion mingled with exhilaration.

Without a word, he reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheeks with a gentleness that belied the intensity of his emotions. Her skin was warm and damp under his touch, the sweat a testament to the energy and passion she had poured into her performance. He cupped her face, his hands steady and tender, his thumbs brushing away the stray droplets of sweat. Her eyes, bright and sparkling, searched his, and he could see the question there, the silent inquiry if she had done well. She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't give her the chance. Instead, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in a kiss that was as fierce as it was intimate. The world around them ceased to exist, reduced to the shared space between their bodies, the mingling of their breaths. His kiss was hungry yet gentle, a paradox of passion and tenderness. He tasted the salt of her sweat, mingled with the sweetness of her lips, and it only fueled the fire within him.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing them open, seeking entrance. She responded eagerly, her mouth parting to welcome him. Their tongues met, a slow, deliberate dance that spoke of familiarity and longing. He savored the feel of her, the way she tasted, the way she moved against him. Every stroke, every caress, was a reaffirmation of their connection, a silent promise that he was here, with her, for her. He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her waist, holding her against him. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, echoing his own, a syncopated rhythm that spoke of shared adrenaline and unspoken words. She melted into him, her body pliant and trusting, and he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he couldn't say into the movement of his lips and tongue. When they finally broke apart, both breathless and slightly dazed, he kept his forehead pressed against hers. Their breaths mingled, the air between them charged with the remnants of their kiss. He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or uncertainty, but all he saw was the same overwhelming love and gratitude that mirrored his own.

"Y'know," he said softly, his voice a husky whisper, "I don't care if you're sweaty or tired or anything else. To me, you're perfect, just like this."

She smiled, a soft, radiant smile that lit up her entire face. "Thank you, Cillian," she whispered, her voice just as thick with emotion as his. "I couldn't have done it without you."

He shook his head, his hands still cradling her face. "No, love, this was all you. You're amazin', and I'm so damn proud of you."

He kissed her again, a gentle, lingering kiss that was more about comfort and connection than passion. It was a promise, a reassurance that he was here, that he would always be here, no matter what. When they pulled apart, he finally let his hands fall, but he kept one arm around her waist, unwilling to break the physical connection completely.

“Cill, there’s a fan signing I’ve got to do,” she said, her voice a soft melody that he never tired of hearing. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm in a familiar, comforting gesture. “If you want to come you can, or you can stay in my trailer until I’m back.”

He nodded, considering her words. He understood the offer was made with his comfort in mind. The idea of facing the inevitable swarm of fans, the flash of cameras, the barrage of questions – it wasn’t appealing. Not tonight, when he simply wanted to be with her, to bask in the afterglow of her performance. But he also knew why she made the offer. She knew he hated not knowing where she was, not being by her side.

“Ah, I’ll come with ya,” he said, his Irish lilt soft but resolute. “Can’t have ya facin’ all that on your own, can I? Besides, I like watchin’ you with your fans. It’s good to see how much they love you.”

The crew greeted them with nods and smiles, used to seeing them together, a power couple in every sense. As they approached the fan signing area, the noise level rose, a cacophony of excitement that made his ears ring. He tightened his hand on her back, a subtle squeeze of reassurance, and she glanced up at him, her eyes full of gratitude. They stepped into the room together, and the fans erupted into cheers and applause. Cameras flashed, capturing their every move, but he focused solely on her, on the way she lit up under the adoration of her fans.

One fan, a young girl with wide eyes and trembling hands, approached the table. She looked at Cillian with a mix of awe and shyness, her voice barely a whisper as she asked for his autograph as well. He smiled, a warm, encouraging smile, and took the photo she offered, signing it with a flourish. “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “You’re both amazing.”

He nodded, a soft, “Thank you,” escaping his lips. He watched as the girl moved away, clutching her signed photo like a treasure. He glanced at her, seeing the pride in her eyes as she watched him. They were in this together, sharing the highs and the lows, supporting each other through it all. The signing went on for what felt like hours, but he didn’t mind. He watched her with a sense of awe, her energy seemingly endless as she engaged with each fan. He admired the way she handled the crowd, her patience and kindness shining through. He saw the way the fans responded to her, their faces lighting up with joy and excitement. It was clear how much she meant to them, and he felt a swell of pride knowing she was his.

Finally, the last fan left, and the room quieted. She turned to him, exhaustion and satisfaction mingling in her eyes. “Ready to head back?” she asked, her voice soft.

He nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they made their way back to her trailer. The walk was quiet, the night air cool and refreshing after the heat of the signing room. They didn’t need to speak, the silence comfortable and familiar. He could feel her leaning into him, her body relaxing against his. He admired the way she moved, the grace and confidence that seemed to come so naturally to her. She caught his gaze and smiled, a soft, intimate smile that made his heart ache with love.

“Thanks for comin’ with me, Cill,” she said, her voice gentle. “It means a lot.”

“Always,” he replied, his voice a low murmur. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

The trailer was a haven of calm, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that had filled the concert hall only hours before. The dim lighting created a warm, intimate atmosphere, casting gentle shadows that danced across the walls. Outside, the night was quiet, the distant hum of city life a soothing backdrop to their solitude. Cillian and she were entwined on the small couch, their bodies fitting together with the ease of long familiarity. The air was thick with the lingering scent of her performance – a heady mix of perfume, sweat, and adrenaline. Cillian nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. He inhaled deeply, savoring the unique blend of her fading perfume and the remnants of her exertion. It was a scent he had come to associate with her, a comforting reminder of her presence. He pressed a gentle kiss to her neck, feeling the soft pulse of her heartbeat under his lips. "You still smell nice, love," he murmured, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.

She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her body and into his. "You always say that," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement and affection. She shifted slightly, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes were soft, the fatigue from her performance mingling with the contentment of the moment. He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "That's because it's always true," he said, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a familiar melody. He traced a finger down her arm, marveling at the softness of her skin. She was still in her stage clothes, even after doing the fan signing. the fabric crinkled and slightly damp from her exertions, but to him, she looked perfect.

Cillian gently trailed his lips down her neck, planting soft, lingering kisses along her warm skin. He could feel the gentle thrum of her pulse beneath his lips, a steady, comforting rhythm that matched the beat of his own heart. Her skin was smooth and slightly damp, a testament to the energy and effort she had poured into her performance just hours before. He savored the taste of her, the saltiness mingling with the faint floral notes of her fading perfume. As his kisses reached her collarbone, she sighed softly, a sound that sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He paused, his lips hovering just above her skin, and smiled against her collarbone. "I like that voice of yours, darling," he murmured, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a warm embrace. The endearment rolled off his tongue with ease, a term of affection that had become second nature between them.

She responded with a soft, breathy laugh, the sound vibrating through her body and into his. "You always know how to make me feel special, Cill," she said, her voice a gentle caress. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his with a look of pure adoration. In the dim light, her eyes sparkled, a mix of fatigue and contentment that made his heart swell with love.

He continued his exploration, his lips trailing a path down to her shoulder. Each kiss was a tender declaration, a silent promise of his unwavering devotion. He loved these quiet moments, the intimacy of their closeness, the way they could communicate without words. His hands roamed over her body, tracing the contours of her curves through the fabric of her stage clothes. To him, she was a work of art, every inch of her a testament to her strength and beauty. She shifted slightly, arching her back to give him better access. He took the opportunity to kiss a particularly sensitive spot just above her shoulder blade, eliciting another soft moan from her lips. The sound was music to his ears, a symphony of pleasure that resonated deep within him. He could feel her body responding to his touch, the subtle shift of her hips, the way her fingers tightened their grip on his arm.

"You know," she whispered, her voice husky with desire, "you're pretty good at this."

He chuckled softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Well, I've had a bit of practice," he teased, his lips curving into a playful smile. "But it's easy when I've got such a beautiful muse."

She laughed again, a soft, melodic sound that filled the small space with warmth. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Murphy," she said, her tone light and teasing.

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, I know," he replied, his voice a low purr. He shifted slightly, his body pressing more firmly against hers. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It was moments like this that he cherished, the quiet intimacy that came from truly knowing and loving someone. As he continued to pepper her skin with kisses, his mind wandered back to her performance. He had watched her from backstage, his heart swelling with pride as she commanded the stage. She had been a vision of confidence and grace, her voice soaring through the hall with a power that left the audience spellbound. He admired her dedication, her passion, and he felt a deep sense of gratitude that she had chosen to share her life with him.

Author’s Notes:

It’s like a better version of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce, who the fuck am I kidding? This is so much better!!

[kaurwreck]

OH YOUR VERLAINE AND RIMBAUD POSTS AND THE TENDENCY OF ASAGIRI TO FLIP FLOP THE MENTOR/MENTEE OR ADMIRED AND HOW RIMBAUD WAS THE YOUNGER ONE BUT IN BSD VERLAINE WAS SOCIALIZED BY RIMBAUD

With Rimbaud and Verlaine, it's worth remembering that bsd!Rimbaud is Verlaine. His skill is Illuminations, but he gave Black #12 his birth name, Paul Verlaine. bsd!Verlaine was not originally named Rimbaud, but his youth, passions, and duality are Rimbaudian, while bsd!Rimbaud's more coddling temperament, at times paternal and at times impassioned, and last sentiments for bsd!Verlaine, are seemingly references to irlVerlaine's poetry about irl!Rimbaud. (Such as Watercolors: Green, an English translation of which I shared in a separate post.)

Notably, Verlaine published Illuminations on Rimbaud's behalf and influenced the content and arrangement that was published. His legacy is often related more to his relationship with and publication of Rimbaud than his own poetry, according to the journal articles I've been reading. bsd!Verlaine's Brutalization incantation also comes from Arthur Rimbaud's Les Sœurs De Charité.

But the bsd iterations of Rimbaud and Verlaine aren't wholly distinct either, each carrying fragments of the other, sometimes blurring together. That, too, is a homage to the philosophies of the irl!poets. For example, Rimbaud, at times, writes from Verlaine's perspective in Une Saison en Enfer.

Rimbaud's poetry is also marked for its dialogic perspective-shifting, and he wrote through and lived within a philosophy of ambiguity, duality, and self dissection (at least during his youth):

irl!Verlaine, too, had a dual personality at times:

So, I don't think Asagiri flip/flopped Rimbaud and Verlaine's roles; I think he's commentating on, illustrating, and interpreting where their poetry, legacies, and passions became thoroughly entangled, as filtered and processed through bsd's themes. I think Asagiri enjoys plucking tragedy from reality and asking, "What would it have taken for them to have found reason and purpose absent any?"

That said, I also don't think Asagiri is ever really inversing mentor/mentee roles, even in regard to Akutagawa and Dazai. irl!Akutagawa was not irl!Dazai's mentor, he was a profound influence who lived and wrote just prior to the era of modern Japanese literature in which Osamu Dazai made in his name. I think Asagiri is commenting on (i) where they were deeply alike in mind and heart, which is why Dazai found solace and reflections of himself in Akutagawa, and (ii) on the stylistic dexterity Dazai could have lent to Akutagawa had he been in the position to do so, specifically regarding the way Dazai intepreted the I-novel genre through perversions of the truth as a means for expressing sincerity and gut-wrenchingly raw autobiographical candor without flaying himself apart the way Akutagawa seemed to when bullied into confessional literature by the cultural zeitgeist.

(Akutagawa was criticized for his sharp brilliance since the era was consumed with confessional literature, in comparison to which Akutagawa's stylistic precision seemed to many distant and aloof. Parasocialism is older than Christ, and BookTok is a descendent, not the progenitor, of corrosively vapid takes.)

The choices in bsd are playful but sincere inquiries into + conversations with the works, legacies, emotional turmoils, and overwhelming humanity of the referenced authors. But, while I think there's immense profundity in call and response, especially across eras, literary cultures, and artistic mediums, I also think Asagiri is more consumed by revelations than reflections.

I'm also not so sure whether we can call Rimbaud socialized by any contemporary connotation of the word—

[domesantis]

Keith and his Fanny Packs and Boots to bed

disclaimer: first post, extremely new to tumblr. but of course my first post HAD to be voltron-related, and it's about keith and his fanny packs and boots. (A stupid, small analysis)

in S1 E2, in the first minute we see Allura doing an unannounced drill (albeit dramatically) to evaluate the readiness, vigilance and speed of the newly recruited pilots. Other than Shiro, he seems to have the best mastery of these traits as he launches across the room to grab his jacket (Wow. His first instinct. Gotta dive into that sooner or later) then get out one second later.

Many people have pointed out the sheer absurdity and comedy of Keith wearing his fanny packs and boots to bed. How uncomfortable can that be? At conclusion, this scene was boiled down to just a trivial animation mistake and I also think that's all it is. But, out of fun, I want to look deeper into this "mistake" (Although many people have already probably concluded my upcoming analysis and I'm just late to the bandwagon.)

His fanny packs and boots are the solid testament to his life.

In later seasons, we find out that Keith has been practically raising himself throughout his childhood. He had an absent, dead (secretly alive) mother and also a completely dead father. In an optimistic sense, at least his father passed when Keith was 10 (?) years old, having a fragment of paternal love and care despite it being abruptly cut off. Oddly enough, orphanages aren't a thing in his time.

As if being stripped of parental love wasn't cruel enough, he also faced ostracization and bullying throughout his entire childhood without any adult to stand up for him whatsoever. Until around he was 16-17, Shiro saw his potential and eventually developed into his implied father figure. Then Shiro disappeared after a year, leaving him all alone once again.

So, during the timeframes before and after he met Shiro, he was left all alone to fend for himself. He lives in an almost dilapidated, shabby shack in the middle of a desert, naturally leaving security unattended and nonexistent.

Of course, for a child/teenager, this predicament alone would transpire paranoia especially when you're in the middle of nowhere with the imminent anxiety of wild beasts/animals without any nearby protection.

Onto my main point now.

Keith is a teenager that was left to fend for himself all alone. Not only does he have no parents, but also he lives in the middle of nowhere and faces extreme ostracization and bullying. His school is an extremely emotionally and physically unsafe environment for him, and so is his shack. Consequently, he makes it a priority to always keep his guard up everywhere at any time. He isn't familiar with the notion of a "safe space". (Perhaps he only literally experiences that concept when he forms a deep connection with a bunch of other teenagers in outer space. Now that's a safe space. LOL)

His only resort and closest alternative to a "safe space"? His dagger, fanny pack, and boots.

Boots, to immediately escape the grasp of an intruder/emergency;

His fanny pack, presumably with all his survival essentials in it, in case of any emergency;

And his dagger, to defend himself.

All of which are stationed on him.

When you've spent the majority of your life alone with absolutely nobody to depend on, vigilance and paranoia creeps itself onto your daily routine. Most likely, Keith feels naked and vulnerable without them, because these three are his fundamental objects of safety.

So, he learnt readiness, vigilance, and speed not by training, but through cruelty. Of course, even with the reassurance of sleeping in a high-security advanced spaceship, old habits die hard. He'd rather sleep through discomfort rather than face danger.

Last Comments

this would be so good for a klance hurt/comfort fic. just lance slowly easing keith into introducing the possibility of safety and vulnerability coexisting together instead of having to choose between the two. i GOTTA write something like this soon

keith needs a hug bro

[zwy01]

Kaelestis Doodles!!!

My OC Kaelestis Blerster, son and only child of Karias Blerster. His other parent is Rael Kertia (soul fragment donor). For more info on his bio check out my pinned post!

1. Doodle dump of changes in Kaelestis’ appearance as he grows up. As a small child his hair was basically kind of like Rael’s, except even messier. Karias didn’t really do anything about his son’s hair because he thought his fluffy baby was cute that way haha. And it’s true! Though as soon as Kaelestis became aware of his own appearance he started taking care of it by combing it to the sides of his head. In general kiddie Kaelestis had a round face and this feature stays with him well into adulthood. Karias’ features kick in fairly late, when Kaelestis is much, much older. Far future Kaelestis still has that same frowny expression though. He reminds people of his uncle Razark and paternal grandfather Krasis. Kaelestis isn’t trying to frown but that’s just what his face looks like when relaxed. Dammit, he’s trying his hardest, but people just keep asking him what’s wrong. Nothing really, he’s quite content actually. Orrr maybe he could be concerned about something, who knows. Hopefully he’s not worrying about Karias doing something over the top for the nth time.

2. Karias with his tiny son! While there are some… perhaps problematic things in their father-son relationship, Kaelestis’ early childhood was a very good one and arguably the best time he’s shared with his father. Which leads to the thing I want to discuss next, and that is what’s exactly going on between the two of them, and the details of what their dynamic is like.

In general, Karias and Kaelestis have a pretty decent father-son relationship. If you asked, everyone would basically tell you that oh, they have a great relationship. And that is a correct observation, because it is true. For the most part, at least. There’s nothing abnormal or strange, and they don’t have conflicts with each other. There are even affectionate moments here and there too, though there’s more to it than what people generally see.

Remember when I said that Kaelestis is more like a parent to Karias than the other way around like it’s supposed to be? That’s actually a very long story, and it goes all the way back to Kaelestis’ early childhood, to when he was a toddler, so roughly a 20 year old ish. You see, Kaelestis was a very, very well-behaved child. So well-behaved, it’s actually quite unbelievable when you think about it in hindsight. Even the other now elegant and sophisticated nextgen nobles had to be disciplined and educated to some extent to correct rowdy, weird, and sometimes unacceptable behavior. Which was basically all of them, even the super nice ones like Asa, Alethea, and Cordelia. Except for Kaelestis. He was the only exception. People were actually kind of envious of Karias, and to them he very much won the lottery with his kid. Not to mention Kaelestis is Karias and Rael’s kid… people intially expected him to be some sort of mixture between the two of his parents, but worse. Turns out, they were totally wrong. Kiddie Kaelestis was as sweet as you could get with any child. He was honest, patient, kind, and generous. He always waited for his turn to speak, always politely and correctly addressed everyone accordingly (except for that one time when Karias convinced him with the lie that Lord Raskreia is his auntie and he actually called her that lol), and never caused mischief. It’s not that he had superior self-control; those things simply just never crossed his mind. It wasn’t in his nature to do anything out of line. People kept praising Karias for his superb parenting and everyone dreaming of having a kid like Kaelestis. He’s the best you can ever get, right? And as a parent, of course you’d want to support your kid. So Karias tells a young Kaelestis how much he loves him, he’s his baby son. Sometimes Karias would also throw in a comment about how well-behaved he is, and that he’s proud of him. Of course kiddie Kaelestis would be very happy to hear that. It’s praise from none other than the Blerster Clan Leader, his dear father who he loves and respects more than anyone else in this world! That’s where everything started, and you could say it’s for the worse. Kaelestis, who holds his father in such high regard, would take this praise as a very serious thing and more or less it got engraved in his mind. You know when you were a small kid and someone said something that could be trivial but you remembered it forever and it basically impacted the trajectory some aspect of your life? Basically that. And so Kaelestis began to take pride in the fact that he was so well-behaved, and continuing to do that would make his father as proud as ever. Before this, he wasn’t even aware of the fact that he was the “perfect” child, he simply was. Now that this became a new addition to his knowledge, of course he’s going to act on it. But to Karias, Kaelestis was still a small child (toddler equivalent) so Karias isn’t going to take it too seriously anyway. He still showered his baby with affection and always gave him attention. And Kaelestis very much enjoyed every moment of it.

Fast forward to the time when Kaelestis was the equivalent of a 8-12 year old human. You know when kids are very young the parents always treat them like baby and when they get a bit older and have thoughts of their own the parents start to really have fun with their kids? That’s what happens next. Karias doesn’t need to watch Kaelestis all the time anymore, hovering over his son and worrying about him getting himself into some sort of danger. He could let him run free for a bit. Let him be on his own, and do his own thing. Karias still spends time with his son and is affectionate with him, in a different way. Because Kaelestis now takes pride in being so well-behaved, he actually makes a conscious effort to be even more well-behaved. He’s become obsessed with the idea, more or less. Be the perfect son, don’t ever cause trouble, make Father proud because he doesn’t need to worry about me, and then Father can attend to his duties as Clan Leader with high efficiency. This was what Kaelestis knew at the time, and it truly was out of good will, as he’s being considerate of others. But what young Kaelestis didn’t know was that this also meant that he’s sacrificing his own well-being and need for closeness to his father. And Karias wasn’t even aware of this, he just thought that this is just what his kid is like, being nice as usual and that, and he can focus more on clan duties. And so Kaelestis never got the extra recognition that he yearned for, and even worse his father now spends less time with him. He got what he wanted, didn’t he? For his father to be the best Clan Leader ever? But something doesn’t feel so right, and Kaelestis starts to doubt his own decision. Even worse, Kaelestis doesn’t do anything to fix the situation, he just goes with the flow because he started this himself. His Clan Leader never asked of him for any of this. But now that it’s done, there’s no choice but to endure the consequences and move on, right? For now, he’ll continue to be the best son for his father. Because he loves him. It’ll do. This won’t go on forever, right? At least Kaelestis had thought so, though this optimism would soon be replaced with even more regret and exhaustion.

Fast forward to Kaelestis’ teen years, so the human equivalent of a 13-19 year old ish. Kaelestis’ hobbies are expanding, and his talent is truly blooming. He had discovered his love for the arts… painting, sculpture, anything really. This was his purpose in life, and his skills were really impressive. Karias is of course overjoyed and thrilled to learn that his son is so talented and that he has found his passion. And so Karias gets Kaelestis all the materials he could possibly find both inside and outside of Lukedonia, and Kaelestis is very touched by his father’s gestures. He has all this stuff with work with now! It was a real moment of joy for him, and yet another memory for him to remember forever , which would later also become tinted with melancholy. Now that Kaelestis actually has time to spend on projects, he is indirectly pushing his father away even more. Whenever Karias would drop by to check on his son and ask him how he’s doing, Kaelestis would always answer that he’s doing well, and Karias doesn’t need to worry about him, because he has art, and that’s all he needs to be happy. Which was a lie, because he actually longed for time with his father. He misses his early childhood where the two of them would spend time together everyday, all day. But he needs to not be a distraction to his father’s schedule, because he’s well-behaved right? He could hold in his feelings of yearning… right? So Karias never learns of his son’s true feelings. Because he never tells him. Which just hurts Kaelestis even more because now he’s actually reinforcing Karias’ belief that his son is all good and that his role as father isn’t one that is needed too much, because he’s a good boy who can entertain himself in peace. And that’s when they start to see each other less and less. They still have dinner together and talk about the day sometimes, but the frequency is nothing like before anymore. Not even close. Kaelestis is hurting himself, and he can’t bring himself to admit to his father that he needs him. No, no, there’s no way he can be an inconvenience to his father. Of course Karias would never think of his son in that way, ever. But Kaelestis’ tendencies to overthink and internalize things drives him to this conclusion. And this doesn’t change much even after Kaelestis becomes a young adult. And so, even to this day, whenever Kaelestis picks up a paintbrush or a chisel, he’d always be reminded of the fact that he (partially) traded away his father’s bond with himself for this. Perhaps this melancholy doesn’t sting Kaelestis as much as it did at first, but it will always be a thorn in his heart, a mild, reoccurring pain.

Kaelestis’ feelings of responsibility over his father carries over to different aspects too. You see, Karias’ personality is drastically different from Kaelestis’. That’s literally just how he is. He’s flamboyant and always going over the top, sometimes he’d say or do something inappropriate by noble standards and get yelled at by Rozaria and Gejutel… etc etc. The usual drill. Kaelestis feels like he needs to keep Karias in check to make sure he’s not being an inconvenience to others. He’s Karias’ son, and it is his duty to make sure Father doesn’t do something so out of line again. And this involves reminding his father of “ahem, Clan Leader, please don’t do that” to reprimanding him if he comedically wails about how he’s not allowed to have fun and his son is just sooooo not fun either. To be honest, Karias has always been like this since the start but Kaelestis just never took it seriously until he got older, because he didn’t think it was a problem. Now that his sense of responsibility is ever so strong, of course he’d be concerned with Karias’ self-representation out there. To Kaelestis, Karias’ image is heavily tied with the entire clan’s image. Karias just thinks his son is hilarious. Which does not amuse Kaelestis because he essentially still needs to parent his parent and being laughed at in the face isn’t exactly helpful either. Kaelestis’ duties includes apologizing to others when Karias does something weird, warning others about what might come, reminding Karias about what and what not to say at meetings, etc etc. You could say that Kaelestis thinks this is exhausting, because it really is. But to him, maybe this is some other form of bonding, to fill that void in his childhood. In a way, this is spending time with his father whom he misses dearly. But still. Kaelestis yearns for Karias to interact with him like they did in his childhood. Just gentle affection and attention from his father. He wants to be a small child again, because he had never been able to smile out of true happiness for a very long time now. He wishes he’d never taken being well-behaved so seriously, because that one phrase of praise led to everything that causes him sadness in the present day. In a way, he misses Karias. Karias was never out of reach, as the two of them live in the same manor and they’re often together on duties and errands. Mentally and emotionally? That’s the complicated part. Kaelestis is there, and not there in the same time. To Karias he’s still his precious son and everything is totally normal. But to Kaelestis there is this gap between them that will never close, and it’s entirely his own fault so he can’t complain. Perhaps if Kaelestis didn’t see clearing a misunderstanding as such a heavy burden, he would’ve done it. Just admit to Father that you were unhappy all along. Just do it. He thinks about it often, but ends up failing every single time. Just can’t bring himself to say it. And so this eats him from the inside out, causing him to be in a constant state of burnout. The kid he was never able to be, and the peace of mind he will never get. The ever so gracious maturity and sophisticated energy that he emits and perceived by others, is a curse to him. The burden does not end there. When he’s with his friends, the others automatically assume that he’ll be the chaperone and take responsibility for anything that happens. Even their joke nickname for him is “dad” because he’s so much like one, right? This puts even more pressure on him, and he has to constantly be on lookout in case any of them does something stupid. Hearing them tell the others “Kaelestis didn’t stop me, so I did it anyway” doesn’t exactly help either. He’s getting blamed for something they decided to do? He never signed up for this, but he doesn’t want to make things complicated, so he keeps it inside and… boom. Stress and more stress. It’s always, always there. He still enjoys being in the presence of his friends but sometimes the burden overrides the joy and in the end, everyone had a good time, except for himself.

One of his deepest unspoken desires is for someone to come hold him, and tell him he can stop and put down everything and just cry. Come and rescue him, and help him out of this cage that he put himself in. To this day, he awaits for someone to burst down that wall he spent his entire life maintaining. Someone. Anyone.

Aaaand this is about it for now! I’d love to talk more about my precious Kaekae in the future so I might do that when I have the opportunity again!

(+ this is why Kaelestis falls for Izar! Unlike virtually all of the others, Izar doesn’t cause much trouble. He’s mostly obsessed with doing research in his own lab and rarely leaves it. Sometimes there’d be an explosion, but that’s pretty much it. Nothing dramatic or extra involved. Izar is also very chill in general and would take care of Kaelestis when he’s a visiting his lab as a “guest” : offering him snacks and drinks, showing him his figure collection and letting him play with them, showering him in plushies to hug, putting a blanket over him after he’s fallen asleep from listening to him reading research papers… all those small but heartwarming things that make Kaelestis feel being taken care of. Izar isn’t even aware of the fact that these simple gestures mean so, so much to Kaelestis and that this dude is in love with him… how lovely! +for more info in Izar feel free to once again check out my pinned post+ special Izar post from before!)

((again sleep deprived so excuse me for any typos haha hopefully it all makes sense! See you again in the future!!))

[scuderlia]

I don’t know the sainz lore pls share the sainz lore

i keep getting asked about this, so here's ONE PIECE of sainz lore:

In 1995, Antonio Sainz Rebollo (Carlos' paternal grandfather) was put on trial for the death a man named Samuel Chiabuto, who attempted to steal his wife's purse. During the confrontation, a bullet fragment from a shot fired by Sainz ricocheted and hit Chiabuto, fatally wounding him.

Antonio was ultimately sentenced to six months and one day in prison for his role Samuel's death, with the primary question during the trial being whether or not his actions were in legitimate self-defense, or instead represented "reckless imprudence resulting in death." The prosecutor argued that "defending a purse could not be equated with defending a life," emphasizing the severity of the outcome.

The case remains relatively significant in legal discussions concerning self-defense and use of force in regard to human life.

(quotes from articles on the incident below—please note that the full publications are paywalled and that these are automated translations from the original Spanish text)

The prosecutor in the 'Sainz case' says that the theft of a purse cannot be compared to a life by Elsa Fernández-Santosel for EL PAÍS Madrid (June 1995)

Self-defense or reckless recklessness resulting in death? The trial against the businessman and consul general of Bolivia Antonio Sainz Rebollo, father of the former world champion Carlos Sainz, was heard yesterday for sentencing. Forensic evidence confirmed the indications: that Samuel Chiabuto, a 27-year-old Nigerian who tried to steal Sainz's wife's purse, was killed by the ricocheted bullet fragment. According to the prosecutor, there can be no talk of self-defense when what is on the table is a purse versus a life. Sainz repeated yesterday that that night has marked his life. "I only defended my wife. When I was little, I was taught that women are sacred," he added.

Six months for Carlos Sainz's father due to the death of a shooter by Begoña Aguirre for EL PAÍS Madrid (July 1995)

Businessman and honorary consul of Bolivia, Antonio Sain Rebollo, 69, father of former world champion Carlos Sainz, has been sentenced to six months and one day in prison for the death of 27-year-old Nigerian immigrant Samuel Chiabuto. Chiabuto was shot dead by him after snatching his wife's purse. The head of the 26th Criminal Court, Eva Isabel Gallardo Martín, considers Sainz guilty of a crime of reckless recklessness resulting in death. The popular action, exercised by Sos Racismo and the Association for Human Rights, requested a sentence of four years and two months. The prosecutor asked for a one-year sentence.

Antonio Sainz was carrying a gun because of a death threat from a mafia by Jan Martinez Ahrens for EL PAÍS Madrid (December 1995)

The acquittal of Antonio Sainz Rebollo, 69, consul of Bolivia and father of two-time world rally champion Carlos Sainz, yesterday unleashed the "indignation" of SOS Racismo, personified as an accusation in the process. This association described as "resounding contempt for life" the decision of the Madrid Court to revoke the sentence that condemned Sainz for the death, on February 5, 1994, of a Nigerian shooter after a shot that ricocheted off a terrace. That night, Sainz was carrying the gun because of the death threats made against him by a mafia of counterfeiters whom he had denounced.

[beastsovrevelation]

I had another Good Omens fanfiction dream this morning.

Basically, Crowley was due to give birth. You might ask, Pestilence, what's with you and Crowley being pregnant?.. The answer is, I don't know, and neither does my therapist.

So, Crowley's due to give birth, he's scared and in pain. Beelzebub shows up, along with a few other demons (I guess I'll look through the Key of Solomon, I remember a few have to do with healing). She told him they'll support him. I have a feeling, the dream adhered to my idea that Crowley and Beelzebub are siblings (in spite Beelzebub looking like she does in S2, so Indian).

Crowley had to change to his snake form, because while his human form was male (so he couldn't give birth without surgery, which was too dangerous), his snake form was female. The demons put him in a whelping box (genius idea). Crowley gave birth to either 4 or 6 baby snakes (apparently, they're called snakelets). It was a live birth, which, fun fact, some snakes do give (i think boa constrictors, and snake Crowley kind of looks like one, aside from the colouring). The baby snakes then morphed to human form. I don't think Crowley nearly died, but he lost a lot of blood, and got extremely exhausted. No, it probably wasn't realistic to how snakes actually give birth.

(They were far larger, though)

Oh, and at some point, Aziraphale found out, but someone (possibly Beelzebub) forbade him from coming, because an angel's presence would distress the babies, and they wouldn't take human form. They could also die.

No, I don't think Aziraphale was the "father". The babies were demons, while, according to my headcanons, when an angel procreates with a demon, the baby's an angel, as it's the original form (though, they do retain some demonic features). Maybe, Crowley mated with an actual snake, or something... It would be very Greek and Norse god of him, but what the Heaven, dude... I guess, Beelzebub could act as the litter's she-father, once the two had reconciled. Which, is a word I use for maternal figures who, traditionally, would be considered more paternal. You know, kind of emotionally detached, more provider than carer, often absent, that sort of deal.

This is incoherent, but I only remember fragments. I guess, I will put it down in my notes for the future. I already did. (I'm kind of tempted to write the birth scene, I like writing birth scenes, they're brutal).

Don't you just have a love/hate relationship with when you are already swamped with WIPs, but the Fanfiction Gods send you another vision?..

Also, don't you just hate it when you give birth to a litter of snakelets, with the help of your coworkers, and your estranged sister.

What the Hell do you even name that many damn whelps...

[prismaiden]

headcanon . I have tended to be vague with Anri’s origins, as a reflection of her own experience. Her earliest years are shrouded in trauma, and her later years with undeath, leaving many of her memories fragmented and unreliable. It’s also true that part of her doesn’t want to guess, doesn’t want to know. It does not help her.

For transparency: I believe she was born to Rosaria. Her paternity is unprovable, but the truth is grim – Aldrich himself was her sire. This information may never be pertinent to her story, as the focus remains her quest, her resilience and her enduring kindness.

Ultimately, Anri cares less about her roots, and more about her end.

[deadtothefuture]

"The theory of ungendered being occupies a decisive place in Afro-pessimism. The elements which make up this theory are law, language, kinship, value, naming, and chattel slavery. Now, through this diversity of terms, we quickly discover what the ambivalence of ungendered being consists in: a mothering performed by a no-longer-woman, but also a paternity that has no name. The ungendered is the image in which property represents kinship, and, better still, reifies its value. At the same time, the no-longer-woman is the image in which the product of the womb (as a commodity) or racial-species activity appears to define the epoch of modernity. The product is the property of a great winnowing, is representative of a legal subtraction, the belonging of the no-longer-woman and who is fathered by the man-without-paternity. The product of the slave womb, without any paternal metaphor, is a symbol fragmented by mastery and law. In so many countless ways, such offspring is contrary to both common sense and human nature, for it reproduces descent as monstration and chaos. The ungendered is severed from generation, and yet reproduces itself as the cut that severs; but every child it brings into the world seems to it stillborn, symbolically dead, and yet alive in its death.

[...]

The slave has no symbolic name and is merely the effect, in thought and culture as such, of a subtraction that diverts life from its telos or path in descent, kinship, and reproduction. The ongoing uncertainty—that blackness has no symbolic name—becomes the science of racist culture. Whence the certainty: blackness is a life that cannot make promises, cannot give its consent, or keep its word, and cannot show that it is not without sense (for all depend on the symbolic pact of sexuation with the signifier). Finally, the ungendered cannot then know who or what it is. Only a knowledge of whiteness can secure itself as symbolic property, blackness is thus forced to think of itself as a techne without knowledge, because it can only identify itself with reproduction as a method and surrender itself to relations of terroristic production. Knowledge is productive life against the unreproducible life, the life which cuts blackness from life, but only because whiteness is presupposed to be the most valued reproducible life, for it alone is knowledge.

[...]

So how can the ungendered be represented in black critical theory; as a void, as a less than nothing? Or something else again, queerness or radical feminism? But the ungendered is no more to be found among object choices than among sexual difference: everywhere there is the ungendered, there is no sexual relation. The ungendered subject is the end of gender itself, species activity, sexual culture, and its movement."

– David Marriott, Lacan Noir: Lacan and Afropessimism

[oflorien]

IF THEY HAD A KID... accepting lómion & celebrían ft. @ondothlim

NAME:   ANÓRIEN  ;  sunlending,  sunlit  lands.  GENDER:  cis  male GENERAL  APPEARANCE:  his  frame  is  imposing,  as  is  his  father's,  nearing  seven  feet.  his  face  holds  a  gentle  aura  attributed  to  his  mother.  his  curly  hair  is  dark  but  beneath  the  sun's  embrace  is  a  glow  of  silver  in  the  hue.  outside  the  realm  of  battle,  his  dark  eyes  hold  a  depth  of  immeasurable  benevolence  that  may  put  to  rest  his  father's  fears  of  familiar  curses.  PERSONALITY:  gentle,  amiable,  and  spirited  in  his  ability  to  bring  much  light  and  joy  to  those  in  his  vicinity.  he  has  a  wit  kept  sharper  than  his  blade,  an  infectious  smile  that  for  his  namesake  lends  sun  to  dreary  moods.  steadfast,  stoic  within  his  duty  and  takes  his  craft  and  training  very  seriously.  he  is  slow  to  anger  but  no  less  caustic  once  the  brink  has  been  reached.  loyal  if  not  to  a  detriment,  calm  within  the  eye  of  any  storm.  intelligent  and  well-studied  but  once  the  danger  is  eminent,  he  is  a  deadly  warrior  that  will  eventually  walk  with  much  renown  behind  his  name.  SPECIAL  TALENTS:  anórien  is  a  poet.  such  as  it  seems,  his  mother's  gift  for  song  had  turned  to  that  of  a  way  with  words;  he  keeps  a  litany  of  little  books  with  his  musings  and  poetry.  his  horses  have  always  been  of  wild  stock,  the  bond  between  every  stead  he's  ever  had  runs  deep.  as  to  be  expected  with  the  former  notion;  animals  and  children  feel  a  sense  of  ease  around  anórien,  he  often  has  some  little  cousin  or  child  from  lothlórien  hanging  off  him  or  following  him  around.  above  all,  anórien  is  a  highly  skilled  warrior,  double-wielding  swords  of  the  galadhrim. WHO  THEY  LIKE  BETTER:  he  would  never  choose  favourites  but  like  his  father,  feels  the  inclination  to  protect  his  mother.  WHO  THEY  TAKE  AFTER  MORE:  arguably  so,  he  has  fragments  of  both  his  mother  and  father  but  seems  to  be  more  a  combination  of  his  paternal  grandmother  and  maternal  grandfather.  PERSONAL  HEADCANON:  by  the  time  the  war  of  the  ring  is  upon  the  third  age,  anórien  is  a  well-seasoned,  highly  skilled  and  accomplished  commander  within  the  galadhrim  and  will  lead  several  of  those  beneath  his  command  and  become  a  catalyst  in  the  victory  against  sauron  and  demise  of  mordor.  FACE  CLAIM:  harry  gilby

[chounaifu]

Since it's Sunday and the topic of the this day is always centered around dating, sexuality/gender preferences, etc., here's some thoughts about this guy:

Dating/getting romantically involved with Proton is a really complicated process. There's definitely an allure and curiosity that comes with him because of his status in the underground, and his unique, attractive features. It's understandable why people are drawn to Proton.

Keeping him as healthy company requires understanding that he is mentally ill and physically disabled.

There are a lot of things that he can and cannot do, depending on the day and whether or not his Fragmentation Syndrome is flaring up. Physical touch and activity can be extremely painful for him on low functioning days. He needs to be able to trust that his partner is going to be patient and help him.

Mentally, Proton has many traits of AuADHD, and has experienced a lot of physical and mental trauma related to racism, prejudice, food insecurity, poverty, violence and assault. His coping mechanisms aren't exactly the healthiest. He's prone to lashing out and getting defensive, both verbally and physically, if he feels as though he is unsafe, or someone is getting combative.

Anybody who Proton would consider a partner, needs to understand these things, and be willing to create safe and comfortable boundaries for both parties in order to have a fulfilling relationship with the guy.

In terms of where he lands on the gender/sexuality spectrum? It's something that Proton is still unpacking. He grew up with a lot of toxic and misogynistic beliefs that he has had to unlearn. Someone on the outside looking in would probably classify Proton as pansexual, but he hasn't come to that conclusion yet. He just uses the word 'queer'. He's attracted to people with queer lifestyles. Gender expression is also complicated to him; unlearning gender roles and stereotypes for clothing, behavior and appearance is an ongoing task. Interestingly enough, he has had an easier time expressing himself since his accident. Something about a near-death experiences forced him to live a little more authentically. He uses He/Him pronouns, but, They/Them would probably apply to him in the future once he feels more secure in being "different," so to speak.

In terms of building for the future? He's very unlikely to want to start a family. He's actually unable to reproduce because of Fragmentation Syndrome, for starters, but he already has a difficult enough time taking care of himself to begin with. And he doesn't take to children at all. Sure, he interacts with younger characters from time to time, but, he has no paternal drive. He's also unlikely to pursue potential partners if they have their own children already.

All in all, it takes work with Proton, like it does with anybody else. But there's some specifics that needed to be invested in for someone to achieve a long-term dynamic with the guy.

HOOK UPS THOUGH? That's easy. Just don't expect him to call you back unless he really liked you.

[amphoterrible]

I started my House re-watch, want a preview of the first three episodes of season 1???

Season One (or: I don’t remember Wilson looking like such a baby the first time I saw this how old is Robert Sean Leonard in season one? THIRTY-FIVE?? FUCK)

In “Pilot” (or “Everybody Lies” if you’re feeling frisky) there’s not much going on in Vicodin Land. Our acetaminophen dose ranges from 1500-2250 mg. Boring.

“Paternity,” again, acetaminophen 1000-1500 mg.

Oh, “Occam’s Razor.” Dosage of acetaminophen is 1500-2250 mg, but this is our first medication tangent. Colchicine toxicity! Did you know the FDA told drug companies to stop manufacturing unapproved injectable colchicine in 2008?(1) Because I didn’t! There is no antidote for colchicine toxicity, it’s all supportive treatment. When I was re-watching this episode, I actually thought they confused colchicine for digoxin which I thought was weird because I feel like digoxin is so well known. But it turns out there is experimental colchicine-specific antibodies, but they’re not commercially available.(2) How did you get them, House? How did you get them so quickly?? Literally there is one published case report where they used Fab fragments for colchicine toxicity and it was published in 1995.(3) One patient! Nine years before this episode aired!

References

The Rheumatologist. FDA enforcement against injectable colchicine. https://www.the-rheumatologist.org/article/fda-enforcement-against-injectable-colchicine/. Accessed January 8, 2024.

Schier JG. Colchicine, podophyllin and the vinca alkaloids. In: Nelson LS, Howland M, Lewin NA, Smith SW, Goldfrank LR, Hoffman RS, eds. Goldfrank’s Toxicologic Emergencies, 11e. McGraw-Hill; 2019:537-547.

Baud FJ, et al. Treatment of severe colchicine overdose with colchicine-specific fab fragments. N Engl J Med. 1995;332:642-645.

[britishsass]

what are some of your favorite headcanons in your fav fandoms?

Oooh, okay, lots of thoughts here... Gonna have to go game-by-game.

Portal

Most cores were once humans, but the transfer was incomplete or well-done unlike Caroline's. They're more... Fragments. Test subjects to figure out how to do it, which is why characters like Space Core and Fact Core are so focused on only one thing.

Doug is not Chell's biological father, but her adopted father. This has no bearing on plot or his choices. (I also like seeing him being a very paternal person to the rest of the lab, as he's one of the older folks IMO.)

My personal headcanons about the family trees around Aperture are very messy (Though it does include Fact and Wheatley being siblings when they were alive), but I definitely like thinking that a lot of the cores did know each other beforehand, and at least some people noticed some disappearances before Aperture shut down.

The headcanon I hold onto most, though? Cave Johnson and Doug Rattmann started Aperture together, before Doug left due to everything about Cave. He still came back because few people would offer him a job, but I really like thinking that, because I like to think about platonic relationships going wrong. (Thanks to my own issues, mostly.)

Psychonauts

I get really protective about my headcanons about Fred, but none are coming to mind rn.

Bob Zanotto is transmasc. Lucy, Compton, and Ford are all bisexual. Cassie, Helmut, Bob, and Otto are gay. This has been Psychic Seven Sexuality Headcanons.

Lucy and Bob were best friends before the Deluge. No one can tell me otherwise.

A Hat in Time

As my most recent hyperfixation, I have a ton, but I'll just include some of the big ones.

Conductor had a brother, known as Walter. Said brother is from the beta version of Battle of the Birds, and died in the Subcon freezing, as also happened to other brothers in the beta.

Conductor has a lot of connections that he honestly shouldn't. He's seen in every level of the game except for Alpine Skyline as far as I can tell! This man knows everyone.

This planet is also known as Bad Pun Planet because every name I come up with has a punny meaning. (This is a joke. I can't resist it. I love puns so much.)

Mafia Boss is a theatre geek. (Just look at that boss fight.)

Grooves is, IMO, the winner of the award in-game. On the other hand, I will write Conductor winning whenever the plot requires it.

[justforbooks]

Reading some of these stories gives the feeling of wearing unfamiliar bifocals, needing to angle the head awkwardly so as to bring the fields of vision into alignment. Alice Munro starts with stories that are embroiderings of her family's history, then follows them with more personal pieces, where details are freely changed, but faith is kept with a core of memoir.

The historical background of the Laidlaws, Munro's forebears, is even more erratic in its alternation of fullness and blanks than might be expected. Writer James Hogg was a relative, so that when James Laidlaw, having emigrated from Scotland to Canada with several of his grown children, wrote to one who had stayed behind, the letter was printed in full in Blackwood's Magazine, to the great annoyance of the man who wrote it. A number of relatives kept journals and, late in life, Munro's father, Rob, wrote not only fragments of memoir but a novel.

The past needs interpreting even when it is documented. What Spartan arrangement, exactly, was Rob Laidlaw referring to so drily with the sentence: 'We never washed any dishes and had a new plate every meal?' They didn't have as much as a table.

'When you write about real people,' Munro remarks, 'you are always up against contradictions.' I'm not sure that's the problem: fiction thrives on contradictions. Life, though, is amateurish in its shaping. More fates fizzle than explode. People make false starts and die arbitrary deaths. Munro's filling of the gaps is lovely in itself, but keeps bumping up against the implacability of the record.

Her psychology is rich even when the lives described are bare. The severity of conditions in Canada was a good fit with the religious expectations of the immigrants. As Munro puts it, they 'constructed a life for themselves that was monastic without any visitations of grace or moments of transcendence'. Four sisters can live in a house without a mirror between them (their brothers have one for shaving), relying on each other to confirm that they're adequately turned out.

In one passage, Munro refers to the 'glacial geography' of Canada and the existence of maps that show how the Ice Ages shaped the landscape. She is undertaking something similar on the level of culture, charting the remains and the permanent scouring effects of the retreating glacier known as Presbyterianism.

The stories in the second half of The View From Castle Rock revolve around a version of Munro herself. She has freely altered other characters, who joined the Salvation Army or 'revealed that they had once lived in Chicago. One of them got himself electrocuted and another fired off a gun in a barn full of horses'. The benefit of this constrained freedom is clear from the first such story, 'Fathers'. Munro has never been afraid to tamper with the formula of the well-made. Here, she interrupts what seems an urgent narrative, about a girl raging against her violent father, with a much more low-key reminiscence of having supper with the parents of a school acquaintance. The real story is the beginnings of Munro's character as a writer, in her search for the common element in the relationships she sees and the one she experiences with her father.

The pattern recurs in 'The Ticket': 'I had three marriages to study, up close, in this early part of my life.' Her parents weren't well matched but made a go of things as a couple and in a business in the hard days after the war, when the mother became an effective saleswoman for silver fox scarfs and capes made from animals that the father bred. Then her health broke down with Parkinson's disease.

Munro's paternal grandparents were a more complicated case, her grandmother being an Anglican tomboy who turned herself into a silent farmer's Presbyterian housewife, with a thoroughness not really borne of conviction: 'Not to have anybody say that she regretted a decision that she had made, or wanted anything that she couldn't have.'

The anomalies were Munro's Great Aunt Charlie and Uncle Leo. Everyone could see they were 'fond of each other'. 'I believe now,' Munro writes, 'that there was harmony, a flow of satisfaction between them, brightening the air around so that even a self-centred child could be aware of it.'

Not everybody agrees with Philip Roth that a family is doomed when a writer is born into it, but even without a conscious settling of accounts, family members can be lacerated by the passing of a powerful pen. It's not that Munro's judgments are harsh - they're not - and her verdict on her younger self is far from indulgent. But the rules of engagement with reality seem to change from story to story.

In one, when she accompanies her father to hospital and is asked his age, she answers: '52', missing the mark by two decades. What she has given is 'the age of a man I am in love with'. There are no further details given, but the artificially offhand phrase has an odd resonance. 'A' man, not 'the' man? It is as if she is reserving the right to be in love with others, at the same time or another. In the stories nearer the present, she has a husband, who isn't described or named, though a flow of satisfaction is implied.

These are minor distractions of focus, but there is a shock for the reader in the story 'Home'. A stepmother called Irlma, owner of a flatulent old dog, a stout and hilarious person with a confrontational side, which is put down to Irish ancestry and having been born on a train.

A stepmother! You've been keeping that awfully quiet. Again, it's not that the rendering of the relationship is anything but exquisite, particularly the thought that her father seems a little strained in the company of his daughter and second wife, 'as if it took some energy explaining and defending us, one to the other'. And perhaps the character has been transformed or made up out of whole cloth. It seems most likely, though, that death has closed one mouth and made possible the unsealing of another.

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