#i should make the title 'the fragility scale' or something | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sareisnot · 11 months ago

Text

Lord Gwyn: The Perfect Anticlimax

"Dark Souls is a hard game"

To anyone who's even a little bit familiar with the franchise, this is an obnoxiously obvious statement. The game has held the title of THE "hard game" for so long, that not only has the statement "X is the Dark Souls of Y" become a cliche, but so has every subsequent mocking subversion of that comparison. To even acknowledge its obviousness, as I did, is territory so well-worn, that I'm at risk of falling through, into the hackneyed void. But it's still worth mentioning. It's a well-earned reputation. Not only is Dark Souls, on a purely technical level, difficult to beat, but its entire identity is based around its difficulty, if the name of the "Prepare to Die" edition is any indication. Its world is a punishing one, seeking to beat the player character down at every single opportunity, until they can't stand to move another step forward, lest they get thwacked by a swinging axe, skewered by a demon, swept off a cliff, or obliterated by a dragon with teeth where its torso should be. It's a game that crushes you down, intending to make very clear just how easy your character can die, and, importantly, just how unimportant your death will be. To these bosses, these titans, these near-gods, you are nothing but an annoyance. Many of these fights feel like climactic struggles against an ancient, near-unbeatable foe, who existed long before you were born, and has a pretty solid chance of existing after you've expired. When you enter the arena of Ornstein and Smough, the music swells, and the two knights flex the skills that they're going to use to kill you over and over again. Many of the game's bosses, try to tap into that sense of scale, of importance, of grandiosity, each of their respective battles feeling like they could easily be the final one.

Then, after a long struggle, you make it to the end.

The game's final boss is Gwyn, a towering figure who's been hinted at throughout the game, through dialogue and item descriptions. Even if you didn't pay much attention to the little pieces of lore that the game hands you, you're able to put together that he's a pretty important guy: the mighty Lord of Cinder. The buildup to his fight hints at an even larger presence than the other bosses. You travel beneath Firelink Shrine, your home base for most of the game, where you find a massive expanse of land, cold and dark, a mysterious coliseum-like structure looming in the distance, which is impossibly large, even so far away. As you get closer, ghosts of old knights appear to attack you. They are easily dispatched, but still a shock. The structure towers over you, emphasizing just how much space is needed to house this mythologically strong figure, and the power that he holds. You enter, and find…….a hollowed old man. He's slightly taller than you, dressed in robes, and wielding a flaming greatsword, but he's nowhere near the scale of other bosses. However, he rushes at you all the same. When you begin the duel, it feels different from the others. There is no dramatic, sweeping music. All you get is a somber piano, like something that would play during a funeral, rather than a climactic duel. It feels like Gwyn's theme is actively pitying him. Granted, it's appropriate for the fight. All Gwyn can do is swing is flaming blade, which you can avoid with ease. There's been some easier bosses, but at least they didn't feel like they WANTED to die. Besides, this isn't the fragile Moonlight Butterfly, or the starting Asylum Demon, this is the final boss! He should be challenging you! Putting all the skills you've learned to the test! He's a fucking King! Why isn't he stronger? Fighting Gwyn after you've fought everyone else feels like walking into the home of an old, dilapidated hoarder, and kicking him while he's down. If you've been practicing your parrying, its like doing the same, except with cleats. He just seems………tired. As pathetically destitute as you were at the start. He might as well just keel over when you walk in the door. You beat him, naturally, and then the game just kinda….ends. If you got the ending I did, you just exit the area, look at all the nice snake friends you just made, and then roll credits. For all the work you've put into getting here, and all the struggles you've had to overcome, it feels like a severe anticlimax, like the game is playing a prank on you.

But if you know anything about the setting of Dark Souls, you'd know that there's really no other way this could end.

"The world of Dark Souls is dying"

This is a phrase that, while not as oft repeated as the above, is also pretty common knowledge at this point. Lodran, the game's setting, is a desolate place, long past its glory years. Once a powerful kingdom, teeming with life and magic, it is now in ruin, every citizen either dead, hollowed, or left to survive amongst the numerous deadly creatures that now roam the land. Everyone who's still around at the start of the game is either destined for misery, or already there (Unless you're Andre. He seems to be doing pretty well, all things considered). Somewhere around the time Lordran has reached the end of its life cycle, is when the player character enters the story, albeit with a rather unenviable role. Your job is to essentially be the world's janitor, cleaning out the world's former main characters, most of whom are insane, and all of whom are well past their useful days (or, if you have the DLC, you get to see Artorias right as he passes this point). Unfortunately, most of them would like to keep being alive, so they're going to make that difficult for you, by turning you into red mist until you stop trying to kill them. Even the grandiose presentation some of them have can't entirely hide the fact that this is a rather sad state of affairs for everyone, especially for those who haven't really done anything wrong (I nearly cried at having to kill Sif, and I will never fight Priscilla). Fortunately, some of these bastards contributed to the world's current bleakness, so killing them provides at least a twinge of catharsis, albeit one that will certainly be gone by the time you move onto the next bastard. The goal of this whole clean-up process, is to prepare the world to either continue with the age of fire with you as the catalyst, hopefully without those brutes who were clogging the power vacuums, or plunge the world into a new age of darkness, now that it has been cleansed of its polluting influences.

The only mean to either of these ends, is to kill Gwyn, the Lord of Cinder, former ruler of Lordran, and one of the primary reasons that this world is such a goddamn mess. To sum up his actions without getting too deep into the lore's intricacies; Gwyn knew that his kingdom was destined to fall, due to the world's oncoming transition from the age of fire into the age of shadow. This transition was represented by the dwindling light of the first flame, the lifeblood of the kingdom. After utterly failing to rekindle it, Gwyn entered a final gambit to prolong the life of his empire, linking himself with the first flame, but burning himself, and many of his knights, away in the process. This left him as a hollow, doomed to languish in his kiln, until another unfortunate soul took his place, linking the flame to further prolong the changeover. In doing this, Gwyn went against the natural laws of his world, which didn't react well to having its transitionary cycle interrupted. The world fell into a sharp decline, becoming a desolate, unhappy place, festering with demons and monsters (many of whom were the result of the last time someone tried to rekindle the first flame), making life hell for anyone unlucky enough to still be around afterwards. Gwyn wanted to prolong the inevitable, prevent the death of his kingdom, and continue its prosperity, so he sacrificed everything. His realm has persisted, but in a state of undeath, having stuck around long past its natural expiration date, just like him. Gwyn's story can be properly summarized as what happens when someone is psychotically obsessed with preserving their power, even when that preservation only serves to make the world a substantially worse place. Gwyn, in his hollow state, is a symbol of Lordran's persistent deterioration.

None of this information is directly handed to the player. Some bits are alluded to through snippets of dialogue and item descriptions, and the opening cutscene depicts one of the major inciting events of the narrative, but for the most part, it's a sprawling, multi-phased story, that is dolled out non-linearly, and piecemeal.

Now, with that context, let's cast a new lens on that fight…

After delving underneath Firelink Shrine for the final time, you come upon a desolate landscape, the Kiln of the First Flame looming in the distance. It's clearly well past its glory days, looking decrepit and sad. It is home of the world's lifeblood, but in name only. Now, it holds the last remnant of an age long past. As you approach, the spirits of old knights come to attack you, but they aren't much of a challenge, being just shadows of their former selves. They're victims, really; their loyalty has bound them to a sorry task, but they're in the way, and they weren't really living much of a life anyway. When you get closer to the kiln, it feels impossibly large, but also cold, and surprisingly dark, for something that's supposed to house an eternal flame. When you can see more details, it becomes clear just how long it's been falling into ruin. It feels abandoned, but you know its not. After all, you're here to end the life of its only resident. You enter, and find…. Lord Gwyn, a king who destroyed himself and cast the world into ruin, just to hold on to a formerly prosperous time. Lord Gwyn, whose refusal to let the fire die is the reason why you had to struggle through this entire journey. Lord Gwyn, whose death will mark the end of a era, no matter what you do afterwards. He charges at you, barely even conscious anymore, having been locked in this tomb for unknowable amounts of time. But he can't really fight you, at least not well. His strength isn't nearly what it used to be, now that he's a hollow, tired and worn-down, just like you were at the start. He's a pitiable figure, and the music knows. That sorrowful piano fades in, almost like something that would play at a funeral. But this isn't a funeral. This is a mercy killing. Spiritually, Gwyn died a long time ago. You're just putting his body to rest. When he's finally dispatched, it feels like an anticlimax. But of course it is. Gwyn is the embodiment of the world you've spent so much time exploring. Lordran has been denied a proper climax for so long, because he extended the story long past where it should have ended. He's been waiting to be killed for ages now. It feels only right that Gwyn be an easy, anticlimactic boss, because how could such a destitute figure be anything else?

"Dark Souls is a hard game for a reason"

The above statement is a simplified summation of why Dark Souls is one of my favorite games that I’ve ever played. It's set in a dying, hostile world, that's been brought to ruin by the violation of its natural laws. Thus, the game is insistent on making the player struggle at every turn, to make them feel just as downtrodden as the world they explore. Lord Gwyn is a example of just how thoroughly holding onto power can corrupt someone, leaving them as a husk, the scraps of their former glory existing only the in the memory of the people who are still forced to cope with the consequences of their selfish actions. Thus, his boss fight is an intentionally easy anticlimax, to emphasize just how far he's fallen, to the point that he can't even put up a good point. It's the themes of his character, perfectly melding with the gameplay. It's a perfect encapsulation of the game's best quality, how the experience of playing the game, reflects the themes and tone of its story. The reasons why the fight with Gwyn is the perfect anticlimax, and why Dark Souls is a near-perfect game, are one and the same.

#video games #gaming #dark souls #dark souls 1 #fromsoftware #fromsoft games #Gwyn #game writing #game analysis #boss fight #videogame #game #long post

111 notes · View notes

nothingbutcries · 10 months ago

Text

I didn't intend to write; solitude with my thoughts was my craving. Yet, I know myself too well to be consumed by the labyrinth of my mind. I'm not merely sad; I'm devastated. How could fate deal me this blow again? Why must I endure this torment once more? Have I always fallen short? In what aspect do I lack? Self-esteem has been a stranger to me, never finding myself adorned with the belief of being pretty or beautiful. This recent event only deepens my despair.

How could you inflict this upon me? Trust was a hard-earned lesson for me, one that you callously discarded as though it hadn't taken me years to rebuild. Eight years—it took me eight years to mend myself, to cultivate love, trust, and a semblance of joy, to cease being my harshest critic... all seemingly in vain. I should have maintained my guard, should have realized that not even my husband could wound me. Titles mean naught when actions betray love. If he truly cherished me, he wouldn't have caused this hurt.

I thought I had found my soul's counterpart, a man who would never harm me. A man who would handle my heart with care, knowing it's a fragile glass, glued together from being shattered one time too many. Yet, I was a fool once again, believing in a mirage of love and safety.

I became aware of your actions when I suspected something during a nap while we were on a video call. I saw what you were looking at, and it deeply wounded me. I expressed my hurt, but you assured me it was nothing, refusing to admit to your actions. I chose to let it slide. We had spent so much time together, and on the day you departed for Thailand, you succumbed to it. I felt diminished as a woman, reduced to a mere object. Initially, I didn't want to make a fuss. We were still new, still navigating each other. Who was I to pass judgment? I loved you so intensely that I convinced myself it wasn't a serious issue.

I witnessed it again and again but remained silent. During the early stages of our relationship, I may have caught you twice, and just before our marriage, I saw it once more. Each time, I reassured myself, saying, "It's alright. It's alright. It's alright." I reasoned that perhaps you were stressed from the wedding planning—a planning process that was left almost entirely to me to manage.

After we married, I discovered it once more, this time with names attached. You thought you could hide it from me, but I've experienced betrayal far too often to miss the signs of deceit. I am your wife. You chose me. Why did you choose to hurt me?

We've only just embarked on our third month of marriage, yet it feels like an eternity has passed. I've felt the weight of expectations pressing down on me: the need to dress impeccably, to adhere to the rituals of prayer, to conceive, to adorn myself with gold trinkets daily, to spend every weekend engulfed in your family's multitude of events.

You ventured out with my family once, and it seemed as though you sought exclusion, a detachment from becoming part of my world. The scales of our relationship feel unbalanced. Although I dislike social outings, I've attempted to join you and your family, concealing my distaste to avoid offending them. Yet, you displayed your discontent openly to my family, withdrawing into silence and isolation. I felt the weight of your expectations bearing down on me.

Out of respect, I ceased painting my nails and abandoned the bleach that once streaked my hair. Did you notice? Did your family? I opted for more modest attire, hoping to align with your family's values. Did you notice? Did your family? My father acknowledged my shift towards more conservative dressing, contrasting it with my past, yet your family continued to criticize my wardrobe choices. Their words cut deep.

I'm not ready for parenthood, neither emotionally nor financially. I refuse to subject my child to a life of scarcity, devoid of enriching experiences. Each encounter with your parents brings renewed pressure for us to start a family. It pains me deeply. I never asked for gold, let alone to wear it daily. It makes little sense for me to bedeck myself in gold trinkets for work or social gatherings. I'm not one for excessive adornment. Your mother's accusation that I begged for these adornments stings. I did not.

I remained silent, not wanting to disrespect you or your family. I molded myself to fit your desires and needs, conforming to your family's expectations. Only to discover you lying to my face, concealing secrets, erasing evidence, indulging in pleasures with others.

Never before have I felt such disrespect. You were aware of my past, my triggers, my worries, my fears, my anxieties, my traumas. Yet, you chose to act as you did. It's a brutal slap across my face, a sting that pierces deep. The pain is so intense, I feel as though I could fall into an abyss. But I've done no wrong. I refuse to bring hurt to my parents, who have witnessed my transformation. I changed for you, out of reverence for you as my husband. And for what? You disrespected me. What was the purpose of those changes? Who were they for?

That night, I felt fragments of myself shatter and crumble like dust. I fought tirelessly to mend myself, to grow, to trust. I fell in love again, I entered marriage, and just like that, trust vanished. Eight years to rebuild myself once more? Perhaps even longer. You were my husband; you knew the weight of your actions, the toll they would take, and yet you proceeded regardless.

I struggle to articulate the profound sense of insult I feel as a woman. Was I not enough for you? Was that also a falsehood? You told me I was beautiful; was that deception too? You spoke of my worth, urging me to recognize it; was that yet another lie? What worth is it that you could squander $30 on a stranger, a whore, while I, your wife, am apparently worth less than that?

0 notes

plush-rabbit · 4 years ago

Text

A Ruined Otaku

Warnings: Dom, Degradation (light), Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: i wanna make Levi cry (also just one oro for him!! I forgot to add the second:(()

Leviathan is many things. The third born. The Avatar of Envy. An angel turned demon. A Grand Admiral. He can summon an old creature, scales embedded with everything lost to the sea and kill with a simple squeeze of his hand. He’s something old and powerful, a minimalist body to hold the power and horror that resides. Leviathan, is an old demon, scales and teeth, thirsty for blood and poisonous to the mind, and yet, with all the power and title that he carries, he still lays beneath you, legs spread and cock oozing with semen, a gag shoved in his mouth- a simple makeshift of your underwear that was stained with arousal- soaked with his own drool as tears form in his eyes like dew that forms under the bright moon of Devildom. His hands are clawed into the cheap fabric of the small bed- a futon, if he was to be more specific- the fabric ripped and stuffing fluffing out of the sheet.

“You’re drooling,” you muse, the heels of your shoes clicking against the tile of his room. “You know how expensive those were, right?” He can only nod his head, feeling a thick sliver of drool slip down his chin. “Here I am, wasting money on you, getting all dolled up, and there you go. Drooling over my underwear like some fucking creep.” Your voice raises into a lilt at the end, a cruel smile stretching against your lips, your eyes narrowing as the fat of your cheeks push upwards. “Who’s going to get me a new outfit? Hm? Are you?” He remains silent, sniffling through the fabric, cock jerking, the spiraled head dotted with pearly white semen that drips down onto the bottom of his stomach, the scales that adorn him are coated in a slimy substance, glistening and heavy, lubricated due to his nature, aching and ready to be put to use. He can only nod his head at your question, he doesn’t do more than that, nodding until his purple hair is ruffled. You’re not stronger than him- you could never beat him in an actual fight, but he is at your mercy right now and with a slight work of spell, he can feel the pressure of your nails against his tight. “Answer me, Levi.”

His words are muffled against the cloth. He’s heard you say his name plenty of times, but each and every time, it still stirs something within him. “Yes,” he says, the word muffled, a harsh “sh” sound at the end of the word and he wants you to pierce his skin; he’d give you his strength just to feel blood prick at his skin, to feel you have all the power and to put him at your mercy. He thinks with a bit more practice, you should be able to leave him bruises in the shape of your hands. He salivates at the thought of feeling an actual sensation coming from you and not from some type of toy.

His stomach aches, his erection almost painful, skin tingling and running over his body with pricks. He can’t seem to find his breath. He tries to peer at you, so desperate to call you by name and ask you to touch him just once more, to give pity to him.

“And how are you going to do that? You waste every single grimm that you earn on figures and anything else you can get your hands on.” His legs are spread and he can feel your knee against the inside of his thigh. “So reckless and horrible. You’re a pathetic excuse for a demon.” His chest aches and his hands tighten around the sheets. “Worrying about standing in line, having me do all your dirty work just so you can jerk off to plastic.” He moans against the fabric when your hand wraps around his cock; you don’t cover him entirely but it’s more than enough for him to at least derive some pleasure. “Is that what gets you off? Fisting your cock over plastic, thinking about how the new waifu-” he can hear the distaste in your voice and he’s pleading in his mind for you to just hurry and jerk him off- “would bend over and ask you to fuck them.” Your laugh is harsh, piercing into his fragile self-esteem and he’s whining, a high-pitched and pathetic noise that makes you glower at him. “What do you think of when you jerk off over plastic?”

He refuses to answer. He’s a yucky otaku, something gross and perverted, a title given to him only because he had fallen along with his brothers. He is powerful but weak, cracking under pressure and having to beg for things. It’s already mortifying enough that you know of his perverted secret, humiliating, knowing that you’re using it against him in such a private and intimate moment. But he couldn’t help himself- he couldn’t ask you to help him, he was too nervous, shaking at the thought of telling you that he was aroused and none of the videos or hentai were doing it for him. It was his fault- he’s the one that bought the scantily clad figure, an ahegao expression printed onto it that was soon painted white.

The bed creaks, the metal groaning under the weight of both of you, the front of the bed knocking against the wall and his face burns. He knows that whatever happens will be echoed through the house, that he’ll be forced to endure even more teasing and having to go back to you and beg for you to take care of him.

Your hands dance on his abdomen, fluttering hands that graze his sides and rest where a rib cage would be, curving over his breasts and the heel of your palm nudges against his pebbled nipples. He is still, breath hitched in his throat and eyes fluttering to a close. It’s the softest touch he’ll get from you right now, something so comforting that it sends the muscle in his chest beating harsh against the skin of his body. He wants something harsher, he wants to feel you grip on him and never let go, to be gasping for breath simply because you gave him what he wanted. He’d lie on the ground and bleed for you, choke against his own blood, grovel at your feet and kiss the ground you walk on if it meant that you would touch him in the way he wanted to be touched.

Your hands are curved against his chest, the pads of your fingertips pressed into him and he stares at amazement above you. His cock, a spiraled tip with bumps and ridges, the shaft is a soft curve is a heavy, dark color. It’s hard, the scales that etch onto him below the head are rigid and bumped, the arousal and state of mind that he is in makes him lose focus. He’s spilling, drenched in his own arousal. You sit bare on his thighs. He can smell your sex, aroused and leaking. He’d give up an entire season of anime if it meant he could see how pretty your cunt looked.

“You’re a filthy, fucking whore, Levi.” With every inch that you sink onto his cock, he screams against your underwear. “A quick and easy fuck.” You’re so warm and soft, the puffiness of your walls enveloping in a sweet hug. “You should be lucky that even a human would want to touch you.” You spit the words out and his sobs against the cloth, jaw twitching and tear tearing through the fabric. Your hands grip at his face, turning him towards you and he looks at you with heavy eyes filled with tears. “Tell me your perverted fantasies, Leviathan.” The fabric spills from his mouth, dragging across his skin, leaving his lower half of the face in a thin layer of his own drool. You sneer at him and yank your hand away from his face, shaking it beside you as if to flick off any of his own secretion.

Where could he even start? He’s breathless, shaking in his position, trembling bones as he raises his arms and covers his face with clammy hands. He can feel your gaze on him, his face burning and chest heaving with every intake of air, pressing his heels into his face. His body reacts, knees bending, trying to curl up in a ball, meeting your ack instead and he can hear the soft puff of air.

He peeks between slender fingers, staring up at you and he can only lay and watch as you tilt your head. You raise your brows at him expectantly, and there’s a falling pit in his stomach. “I-” his voice cracks and his neck burns- “I think of you,” he says in a rushed voice. “I think of how good your mouth feels, how you always leave me pleased and completely drained.” He yelps when fingers twist at his nipple, the skin blooming in red and back arching, hands leaving his face to grasp at the bed. “I- I think of you- It’s always you. How you let such a poor excuse of a demon touch you.” His voice is steadily growing louder, choking through the words and staring up at you. “I’m gross and I’m touching you, a filthy, yucky otaku-” with each word his voice grows louder until it’s booming against the walls, the glass of his aquarium shaking, making the poor fish swim around anxiously- “who thinks of fucking you when I jerk off.”

He’s pitiful. Messy, purple hair that sticks to his forehead with sweat, orange eyes tinted with blue shine under tears that have yet to be shed, few tear streaks wet at his face, falling down to the pillow under him, the dark gray pillowcase darkens under him. Your hand cradles his face and for the first time in the night, his chest feels light, he can breathe, staring at your parted lips and wanting to kiss them. He purses his lips and jerks his head towards your, eyes closing slowly- just one kiss, something so simple and innocent that he wants.

He’s pulled back with a soft click of your tongue, your head shaking in a denial that you give him. “Tsk, tsk.” Your hand is still gentle and it’s intoxicating to have you touch him. His cock warms your insides, pulsing and aching, his entire control kept in check in order to not disobey and let himself ravage your weaker body. There’s a horrible thought in his head as you lay limp in his arms as he pushes inside your body, kissing at your wet lips and meeting the dazed look in your eyes. “Only good boys get to kiss me.” Your lips are so close to his and your free hand rests on the curve of his breast. “Are you a good boy, Levi?” The tip of your nose grazes at his and he’s never been so weak in his entire life, never so full of want and hunger to force himself to move so he can kiss your lips.

“No,” he breathes out. His tongue peeks out, the soft, pink tip lapping at his lips. “I’m horrible.” He thinks he’d kill for just a simple kiss. “Make me a good boy, please.” He calls your name, he dares to utter the breath of his love in such a hopeless voice, wanting to reach above with curling hands.

He gasps when your lips are pressed against his- slipping past, slick with something sour, tongue slipping past and entering his mouth. If it were any other day, he’d slip his tongue in your mouth and have you choke, but for now, he remains unable to, completely at your will. He’s certain now- he really would kill for just a simple kiss from you.

It’s shameful and he won’t live it down for the next odd years, but the kiss is enough to send him over the edge. He keeps his lips pressed to yours, bruising almost as he pushes himself against you, cock twitching and a soft rut of his hips as he spills his seed inside of you. It’s a thick, heavy flow, filling you and his hands are moving, flat against your back and curing against the back of your head, pushing you closer to him. His mouth opens and he whines, salivating as you let out a stifled moan. Filthy and wet, his slick sliding out of you, coating his cock with semen, the scales that line around him are lost under him.

He’s delirious, humping you, his face dazed and eyes rolled to the back of his head, a heavy blush across his face as you let him do all the work. While endurance was never his strongest suit, he absolutely loses himself over you, his thrusts becoming sloppier- a lewd, wet shucking sound fills the room, your breasts bouncing and it’s humiliating at how riled he becomes. He pants like a bitch in heat, and he can hear just how pathetic he sounds, croaking and gasping for breath.

You’re slick, your walls molded around him, the soft walls that envelop him in a warm hug, make him twitch. He’s whining, chest vibrating against yours, his stiff nipples pressed against your soft chest. Every pull of your body makes him murmur a slurred version of your name, mind hazy as he continues to rut inside of you, feeling the burning heat in his lower stomach return, aching and tightening, having him kick out his legs as his body starts to grow rigid and antsy.

“Such a whore, Levi.” Your lips brush against the shell of his ear, lowering yourself on his cock, the base of it stretching your wet sex. The curve of his cock pushes against a spot, eliciting a strangled moan from you. You clench tighter around him, your plush walls squishing around him- silky and plush, against his cock. “Acting like you’ve never fucked a cunt before.” Your words low, lowering your head to kiss at his neck, wet spots that glisten against his skin.

“Not-” he’s interrupted by a moan, hands clawing against you, pressing you close to his flush body- “not as good as yours.” His hands release you and you immediately rise. Your smile is breathless and coy, chest rising and dropping as you stare down at him. Your eyes soften for just a moment, and his own hands come to pinch at his nipples, the soft tissue of his breast squished under his hands. He must look pitiful- a look akin to that of a hurt animal if your gaze on him is anything to go by. He knows how he must look. A flushed face tinted in a rosy red, eyes that shine with tears, lashes that catch the fallen drops and a tear-stained face, puffy, reddened lips that part with each gasp of air. He must look wretched.

Your hand curves around his cheek and he leans into your touch. “How sweet-” your smile returns into a more stretched version, teeth hidden behind your lips- “my dear Leviathan.” He wonders if you can hear the way that his heart beats. His mouth parts and there’s a sick perversion where he wants you to spit on him, to treat him like the disgusting pervert that he truly is. “Are you close?” Your nails drag along his skin and he can only nod, eyes flickering to where your skin slaps against his. “You know that you’re only allowed to because of me, correct?” Your eyes glint with something that he cannot place. “No matter what anyone says,” your voice lowers and it’s erotic to him, something like a drug that he’s never taken and makes him all more weak to you, “you’re nothing more than a living toy.” He jerks inside of you and his stomach begins to ache. “A pretty, little demon that I get to fuck.” He so desperately wants to touch you. “You’re nothing more than a filthy, yucky otaku.” His nails pierce into the skin of his breasts, blood dotting along him. Your eyes dart to his chest before returning to his eyes, lowering until the tip of your nose brushes against his. “Don’t ruin yourself Levi, save that for me.” Your lips meet his and he does as he is told.

His hands leave his chest and he pushes you onto him, spilling his seed into your cunt, feeling the way that your walls tighten and pulse, the heavy beating of your body and the heat that floods out. He’s moaning into you, muffled and drowning out your gasped version of his name that escapes your lips.

His cock is wet as he lays beside you. He’s curled against your side, a softening cock that sticks against your thigh, body curved so his head rests on your chest. He lays above you, eyes wet as you pet his hair. “You had such a lovely look on you, Levi.” He can feel your lips kiss at the crown of his head. “It made you look so handsome.” He lets out a weak cry, nodding as tears slip past his closed eyes, nuzzling closer to your chest as your hand lowers to soothe against his back. You shush him gently as he begins to rut against your thigh.

#obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me #obey me imagines #obey me levi x mc #obey me leviathan headcanons #leviathan x reader

225 notes · View notes

erricdraven · 4 years ago

Note

For the malec prompts, 7, t, 22 ? Feel free to change stuff if you prefer!

*so i used this to my advantage a bit so this can be read as a prequel-sequel to my previous fic the number of heartbeats between here and there. also it's a bit canon divergent because of the parameters of the request!* 7. deleted scene | t. secret relationship | 22. "i'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."

To: Alexander – 1:23am

Did you still want me to come over tonight? I know it’s later than we had planned but…been thinking about you 🥰

To: Magnus – 1:26am

Sorry I was in the shower but yeah please come if you still can!

To: Alexander – 1:27am

Pretty boy.

To: Alexander – 1:27am

Handsome.

To: Alexander – 1:27am

Angel.

To: Magnus – 1:28am

…yeah?

To: Alexander – 1:28am

I always want to see you. Do you want to see me?

To: Magnus – 1:28am

Yes definitely

To Alexander – 1:29am

Then I’ll be over quicker than you can say my name

Magnus made his way around the sprawling architecture of the New York Institute, looking for the wing of living quarters. The buttresses that framed the familiar third-story window would have made fair footholds for scaling the building, but there were better methods available to him. Twisting his index and middle fingers, he summoned a dense amalgamation of magic beneath his feet that expanded upwards. Fortunately, Alec had left the window unlatched and slightly ajar, allowing Magnus to slip through and land soundlessly in a crouch.

Just as he straightened up, the bathroom door opened and damp steam from the shower billowed out. Alec emerged, naked save for a towel wrapped around his waist, but when he caught sight of Magnus, an almost smug smile pulled at his lips. “Hey,” he greeted, striding over to kiss him softly, one hand gently cradling Magnus’ cheek while the other held the towel in place at his hipbone.

“Is this for me?” Magnus teased, running the soft outer part of his forefinger along the damp skin of Alec’s bare chest. “How thoughtful.”

Alec laughed boisterously, his ears faintly pink with a warm blush. “Sorry to disappoint you but that was just a happy accident. Patrol ran late and I had to deal with— Well, that doesn’t really matter.”

Clicking his tongue in disapproval, Magnus shook his head. “How can I be disappointed with this outcome, unintentional as it may be.” He skated his palms up to Alec’s upper back and reverently drew them down across the planes of muscle until he got down to the small of his back. His fingertips dug into the soft skin above his buttocks needfully, pressing just hard enough that his blunt nails would leave behind little crescents if one were to look hard enough. “I still come out victorious in this scenario, I think.”

>> READ ON AO3

The way that Alec smiled at him, tired and weary but endlessly soft, made Magnus feel like his heart were being squeezed just this side of painful. It was the most vulnerable he had ever seen him, and it was simply theirs to share.

“Hey, Magnus… Why did you agree to this, us, like this?” Alec gestured vaguely. His eyebrows drew tightly together in consternation, and Magnus fought the urge to kiss the skin between into relaxing. “Why are you willing to hide with me?”

It had been a few weeks since their conversation about an arranged marriage for the sake of preserving the Lightwood legacy and foothold in the New York Institute. Maybe it was some kind of desperation that had driven Magnus to be so cavalier about his willingness to accept the “don’t ask, don’t tell” mentality of shadowhunters. The thought of losing the first spark of hope in love that he had had in over a century was excruciating, and concealing it so meticulously was a high price, but he was paying it. In a way, though, keeping this fragile thing between them a secret, left to grow in discretion, felt a little like a relief. Whatever it may be with time, it was theirs alone.

At the silence, Alec licked his lips nervously and started to say something.

Instead, Magnus held up a finger to his mouth to quiet him anticipatorily. Through a roguish grin, he said, “I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else. I want to give that question the answer it deserves, but that’s a tremendous ask when you’re up against me like this.”

Alec rolled his eyes as if it were nothing more than a line, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed his self-satisfaction. And that was exactly what Magnus had intended. “All right, well then, look away.”

Magnus turned his back with exaggerated movements and crossed his arms over his chest with a smile. It was nice to have someone to be this way with again; it felt like liberation to have someone with whom he was free to be himself without the burden of titles and expectations. He was exposed when he stripped away the personas and facades that were like secondary skins. They were facets of himself that people expected him to have, but Alec never seemed to want him to be anything but Magnus. Not Magnus Bane, not High Warlock Bane, not Prince Regent of Edom.

“Are you decent?” Magnus teased after the sounds of fabric on skin had subsided.

In response, Alec came up behind him and leaned in just enough that his chest brushed Magnus’ back. “All done.”

Magnus shifted his weight to lean back into Alec lightly and reached back to thread his fingers into Alec’s still-damp hair. Softly scratching his nails through the soft strands made Alec hum contentedly. “We should sit so we can discuss your question.”

“Can we lay down?”

“Of course.”

They climbed on the bed over the sheets and comforter, and Alec immediately rolled over so Magnus could curl up behind him. He even lifted his arm away from his chest so Magnus could slide an arm over his hip bone and anchor his hand on his abdomen. This was something they had done once before—bearing their heart to anyone was hard for both of them, but this way made it a little easier.

Magnus took a slow breath, gathering his thoughts appropriately. “You’re a possibility, Alexander. A beautiful, liberating possibility that I’ve never had the fortune to come across in all my life.”

Ever melancholy, Alec replied, “How can you feel that way when I’m basically shoving you back in the closet with me, and asking you to sneak around and be ashamed of something that should be so simple. It makes me feel like a child to ask you to…stoop this low.”

“It was my choice, Alec. I chose to put myself in the position I’m in. And for the record,” Magnus added, pressing his lips to the back of Alec’s ear, “I’m glad that I did.”

Alec pressed back perceptibly closer to him, ducking his head to press into the crook of Magnus’ neck in a self-soothing gesture. “You’re not just saying that so that I feel less guilty, right? Because it doesn’t work if you don’t mean it.”

Many times throughout Magnus’ life he had been in the position of feeling at the disadvantage with the people he loved. He worried himself sick over whether he was being too clingy, too transparent, too vulnerable, and then he overcorrected and worried about being too aloof, too distant, and too unavailable. The cyclical questioning and self-doubt had ruined a lot of encounters before they even had the chance to become something concrete. Even now, there was a seed of doubt about what he was doing with Alec—maybe he was giving him too much credit, and maybe putting his own heart on the line was naïve.

“I don’t have the luxury of knowing what will come of this, Alexander,” he said carefully, “but I am certain that never giving it the chance would be something I would always regret. Will I always be content to be the soul of discretion in regards to you and what we may feel? Likely not. But you didn’t ask me for forever, and I’m not asking you either. I think both of us just needed the chance to be worth the risk of seeing it through to whatever end it might reach.”

Warm calloused fingers made their way down Magnus’ arm to lace between his own and squeeze gently. “I can live with that.”

Magnus chuckled and pressed a kiss to Alec’s hair. “I hope you can do more than that.”

“Mmm.” Alec yawned and rolled slightly, taking Magnus with him. “For now, though, I’m just going to sleep with it.”

“‘It’ being me?”

“By the angel,” Alec groaned, exasperated yet fighting a smile. “You talk too much sometimes.” Before Magnus could reply, he had captured his lips in a languorous kiss. Each one they shared felt like a discovery that Alec relished, unrehearsed and uncertain but wholehearted in the best way. The anticipation and enthusiasm of each new moment they shared was somehow so much better than any shared with Magnus’ most experienced ex-lovers.

Magnus pulled away just enough that their lips parted but their noses still touched. “I thought you wanted to sleep.”

“This is even better than my white noise machine. Having you here is…peaceful.”

“Aren’t you a romantic,” Magnus said dryly. But when Alec pulled him close again, he was helpless to resist.

>> PROMPT LIST

#malec #malec fic #sharona1x2 #cuubism #thatnerdemryn #shfanficnexus #sugarandspace #bytheangell #ask #anon #mywriting #shadowhunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #otp: we always seem to find our way back to each other

79 notes · View notes

damienthepious · 4 years ago

Text

[a small gentle shout] happee lizz kis tues

could stay right here

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Rilla, Sir Damien (but only asleep)

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Early Relationship, Sleep, Literal Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, (yes two in a row. SUE ME.), Kissing, Singing, Banter

Summary: He isn't used to sharing a bed, just yet.

Notes: this was. supposed to be like... six hundred words, maybe? (sigh). enjoyy????? I hope? I don't know why i'm suddenly obsessed with Early Relationship One-Shots, but!!! apparently I am??? Heck. Title from the song Cement and Sunshine by Morningsiders!

Arum jerks awake as the bed shifts, a flash of panic gripping his lungs and squeezing-

Attack, he thinks, and then, won't let anyone hurt them. How- who-

Amaryllis.

She makes some small noise, presses her hands against his collarbone on either side, firm and sturdy, and he manages to suck in a breath that does not feel so strangled.

"Sorry," she says, her voice a breathy whisper by his ear as her hands keep him anchored, her thumbs rubbing soothing arcs against his scales. "Sorry, sorry- didn't mean to-"

Arum remembers. Remembers Damien curled against his left arms. He remains an unbothered, unconscious weight as Arum becomes aware of him again, and he remembers Amaryllis waving them off to bed before returning to her pile of five or six books and her recorder, an unmoveable fountain of determination, remembers awkwardly managing to ask- to ask that she join them, when she at last reached a stopping point, remembers her small, fond, knowing smile-

"It- it's- it's alright," he manages in a hiss, lifting one of his hands to curl around her wrist. "I'm alright. I-"

She leans back in the dark, beginning to draw away, and the panic moves, squeezing his heart instead. He grips her wrist more tightly, still careful of his claws despite his muddled awareness.

"Wait," he whispers, and the only reason he does not lean up to follow her is because he refuses to risk waking Damien beside him. "Don't- don't leave, I-"

She stills, and though he knows it is too dark for her vision she looks towards his voice, blinking against the black. She rests her weight on him again, her palms warm on his chest.

"I'm not leaving," she says, very gently. "It's alright, I promise. Let me just grab the blanket, that's all."

Arum has the sense that he should bristle at that, at her gentleness, her comforting tone, but his heart hasn't slowed yet, and his relief is too large to deny. He makes a noise, hopefully enough of an affirmative for her to interpret, and then he releases her wrist so she can lean back and gather the sheets from where he and Damien must have kicked them in their sleep.

She tugs them up over her shoulder and settles against his side with a small sigh, arranging the cloth to cover him as well, and then she leaves one hand over his heart, brushing slowly up and down.

He tries to slow himself down, to settle, to match his breaths to the motion of her hand, and after a few heartbeats it starts to come more easily.

"I'm sorry," Amaryllis says again, her voice a careful whisper. "I didn't mean to surprise you."

His chest rumbles quietly, a helpless almost-growl, and then he cautiously curls his arm around her, pulling her just the littlest bit closer. "I didn't mean to surprise you," he echoes, low and uncertain. "Jolting awake like that."

"You aren't used to this," she says. "It's okay."

"Used to-" he cuts off, frowning, trying to focus on not letting his rattling growl grow loud enough to wake Damien as well.

"This," she says, her palm pressing down on his scales. "This," she repeats, and then she presses her lips so, so gently to the scales at the crook of his neck.

Arum freezes for half a second, and then his body relaxes all at once, as if she has cast a spell over him with her kiss alone.

She isn't wrong, of course. It had been difficult enough for him to slip into slumber in the first place. Damien had positioned himself draped along Arum's side with a sigh and a kiss and Arum had laid utterly, exquisitely still until the poet drifted to unconsciousness, and then for what felt like rather a long time afterward. When sleep did find him, it must have been a rather fragile thing, considering how easily and violently it broke at Amaryllis' entrance.

"I... I suppose..."

"I mean, I get it. It took me a long time to get used to sharing a bed with Damien, actually," she says, her tone mild, and Arum blinks, glancing down at her musing expression.

"Why?" He frowns, unable to imagine a time- unable to imagine the pair of them at all separate, at all misaligned. They fit together so easily, without any apparent effort, enough so that at times he can hardly believe there was a time he did not know how intertwined they are.

"Because I was too used to sleeping on my own?" Her mouth curls, almost wry, as she traces nonsense shapes on his scales with the tip of her pointer finger. "I spent a long time alone in my hut, and even when I found people to fool around with I didn't usually spend the night. And I'm a really light sleeper in the first place, so it was a big change for me." She shifts slightly, readjusting the arc of his arms curled around her. "He rolled over onto me once, like, the third night we spent together, and I woke both of us up socking him in the nose."

Arum snorts, then holds his breath to keep from cackling a proper laugh. He gulps in a breath after a moment, feeling Amaryllis smiling against his shoulder, and he controls his voice carefully low as he responds. "A rather rude awakening for the poor knight, Amaryllis."

"I know," she rolls her eyes. "I felt awful about it, but- you know Damien. He apologized almost as many times as I did. Dummy."

Arum's heart does something unhelpful and twisting beneath the warmth of Amaryllis' palm, and he buries some rather embarrassing thoughts about the spun-sugar sweetness of their poet before he shakes his head.

"Completely absurd," he mumbles, and then, because he knows Amaryllis cannot see him do so, he tilts his head enough to press his snout gently to Damien's curls. Not quite a kiss by their human measures, but... he feels warmer, regardless, when Damien shifts almost imperceptibly closer at the contact.

"What I mean is..." she tilts her head, kissing his jaw this time. "It's alright. It's alright if it takes a while for you to adjust to things, or- or if you decide eventually that you'd rather not share a bed at all, for actually sleeping. That's fine too, that's an answer that's on the table."

"Don't be foolish," Arum grumbles, resisting the urge to tighten his grip. She's as close as she could possibly be, he reasons. The instinct to pull her closer regardless is nonsense. "I want- I would much rather-"

"I just want you to know that you don't have to do anything just because you feel like you should, that's all."

Arum presses his lips together, torn between gratefulness and indignation, and then he sighs. "I appreciate the... the effort towards clarity. It is not that I don't want the both of you here, beside me, though. I only... I cannot seem to... I am rather vividly aware of you. It is difficult to find rest, while my mind... lingers upon you."

"Ah," she breathes something like a laugh. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"I want you here," he says, trying to round off any ambiguity on that subject, and her breath flutters with another subtle laugh. "Clearly I managed sleep eventually. I'll do so again, I'm certain."

"Well," she says, her voice tilting breathier, richer, more warm with sleep, "if you're certain. Saints know I'm too tired to get antsy about it anyway."

With each moment, her weight settles more heavily against him, a more-than-welcome echo of the pressure of Damien's body on his other side, and he feels heavier as well as her breathing begins to slow. She'll drag him down into slumber with her, he thinks muzzily, and he can't suppress a subtle purr as her fingers continue to trace light, tingling lines on the scales above his heart.

"Just want you to be comfortable," she murmurs, and then she closes her eyes, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. "You don't get enough sleep. And yeah, yeah, I'm a hypocrite, before you even say anything."

He cuts off his retort before it begins, chuckling low, and he must truly be half asleep again already, because his next words come before he can think better of them, and he is halfway through his next murmuring sentence before he realizes that he is speaking.

"I can't understand how much you both... how..."

Amaryllis waits, drawing her fingers over his scales slowly, slowly, her eyes closed, but eventually when he fails to continue she makes a humming, questioning noise against his shoulder.

Arum swallows, shoring up his nerve since he has already begun to speak- he may as well say this now, while Damien sleeps soundly in his arms and Amaryllis cannot see whatever look is on his face.

"I cannot understand... how much trust you place in me. To... to sleep like this. It feels so... you are so vulnerable, Damien out of his armor, and you- it is so hard to- to understand- to reconcile that- that vulnerability and- to settle my own mind, while you both lie helpless and sleeping beside me. I want to pr- I can't- I cannot shake my awareness of your breathing, your heartbeats, and-"

Her hand stills above his heart; he wonders dizzily if she can feel the way it beats, faster with each passing word. He feels ridiculous- of course he does, he can hardly unravel his own thoughts while they still tangle, only half drawn into his waking mind, and he cannot even say if any of this coalesces into something that makes sense.

She turns in the darkness, unseeing, aiming her face towards his own, and then she trails her hand up from his chest, up his throat until she finds his jaw, the curve of his cheek, and then she turns his face towards her own. Ridiculous, he thinks fondly, since she still, obviously, cannot see him, but then she- she angles his head, presses a kiss against his mouth, and then she tilts both of their heads until their foreheads press together.

"You... you're saying you can't fall asleep because you're worried- you're worried about us? About- making sure we're safe."

"I don't-" Arum swallows roughly, nervously, his breath clicking at the base of his throat. "I don't know. I don't know what- what worries me, truly. I know- here in the Keep I know- obviously we are safe, but-"

Amaryllis kisses him again, gentle and warm in the dark, a tender press of lips against scales until his heart slows. She tips their foreheads together again, bites her lip, exhales a long sigh, and then she smiles so, so terribly softly with her palm caressing his cheek.

"And here I was worrying that you couldn't sleep because you weren't used to being so vulnerable," she whispers, and Arum resists the urge to flare his frill in embarrassment. "You- Saints. I- fuck, I could say so many different things right now, but I feel like every single one would embarrass you. I-"

Arum clamps his mouth shut, shrugs very gently with the shoulder beneath Amaryllis, and then he risks nuzzling forward again, gratified when she graces him with another kiss. "Save it for the morning, then," he murmurs. "You can embarrass me plenty when Damien is awake to make that precious wide-eyed expression about it."

Amaryllis shakes with silent laughter against him for a moment, kisses him one more time, and then resettles at his side with a warm, contented sigh.

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep again?" she whispers, her breath tickling at the crook of his neck. "I'd hate to think that I..."

"I'm certain that I'll manage, Amaryllis."

"I can... I could sing for you. If you want me to."

Arum glances towards her, a little surprised by the hesitant note in her voice, the hint of something like shyness. "You..." he pauses, swallows, thinks better of simply announcing how utterly enthralling he is by her voice in song. "That would not wake our little knight, you don't think?" he hedges instead.

"I can sing quietly," she complains, her lips drawing together into something like a pout, her nose wrinkling almost too adorably to stand. "And besides, our little knight sleeps like a fucking rock, anyway." She curls closer towards him, nuzzling her nose into his neck, beside his frill with a sleepy growl. "Do you want a lullaby or not?

"Well..." Arum trails off, taking a moment to force the breathlessness out of his own voice. "Well. If my choices while in bed with you are a song or a punch in the nose, I certainly won't complain about the former-"

She gasps, scowls in mock offense and swats at his side as he bites back the urge to chuckle, and then she settles her hand over his heart again, pressing down.

"Oh you just wait, you complete brat-"

"Are you going to sing or not, little doctor?"

"Hush," she growls, pressing her face into his neck. "Hush up and I will. Absolute brat."

Arum breathes another laugh, helpless against it, and then he settles, and after a moment her fingers start drumming a little pattern against his scales. With the rhythm of his heart, he realizes, and then a moment later she begins to sing, soft and husky and mostly breath, close against his neck.

He doesn't expect it to work, truly. She is so present, they both are, his awareness of their heat and their proximity such a vivid tether in his mind, impossible to ignore. Her song, her voice- everything about her is ethereal, stunning, gorgeous, of course, but he does not expect that even that could draw him down, pinned between their fragile resting bodies.

In the morning, though, he will not even remember the second verse.

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #amaryllis of exile #aaaaaaaaaaaaa

45 notes · View notes

yandere-daydreams · 5 years ago

Note

Can we get more of dragon bakugo??? Just him like trying to make them have a good best and taking care of them, after all the times they took care of him. Maybe Kirishima joins them after a while?????

I didn’t want to let Kirishima factor in just yet, but if I ever continue this further, I’ll consider it. Y’all know how I feel about that boy, but this is about Bakugo, at the moment.

Part One Here.

TW: Mentions of Captivity and (Minor) Physical Violence.

Your wrist was beginning to hurt.

Bakugo, or ‘Katsuki’, as he demanded you call him, hadn’t let go of you for more than an hour over the past three days. It was unnecessary. You were a hostage, but a willing one, so far from a home that was little more than ash and cinder, now. When he hunted, you didn’t try to run, and when he flew, you clung to his back for dear life, knowing a movement too sudden or a separation too complete would leave you plummeting to the Earth, with little hope of sprouting a pair of wings as substantial as Katsuki’s. He held you at night with an equal level of desperation, his nails never failing to embed themselves in your flesh whenever his eyes closed. The wounds were shallow, easily treatable, but it was enough to make you hesitant to trust him. Not that you’d do so easily if he treated you like the most fragile treasure in the world.

He tried to, of course. As he guided you over the rolling hills of valleys and open land, so different from the forests and crowded cities you’d grown up in, his hold on your forearm was loose, but the scales coating his palm irritated everything he touched, his talons occasionally scraping against your wrist and never failing to draw blood. He didn’t seem to notice, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a struggle, biting back your complaints as they came.

Instead, you broke the silence by stating the obvious. “If they come to recapture you, I won’t be able to stop them.”

Katsuki spared you a glance from the corner of his eye, his stride never faltering. “And I won’t need you to,” He assured, tugging you forward and letting you stumble to his side. “I don’t plan on being imprisoned again, not by humans foolish enough to release me. Nor do I have any intention to treat my mate as a bargaining chip.”

Mate. There was that word again. It’s meaning was foreign to you, but Katsuki used it with reckless abandon, treating the title like the most tender term of endearment he could vocalize. You grit your teeth, swallowing dryly before you spoke. “They did once. There’s nothing stopping another kingdom from locking you so deep underground, you won’t remember there’s a world outside to escape to. I… A human escort won’t change that.” You paused, attempting to gauge his expression. His eyes were narrowed in the unfiltered sunlight, intent and sharpened, as if he was searching for landmarks and signals you couldn’t see. Focused on anything but you. “If someone comes, and they will, your intentions won’t matter. You’ll be defeated, and my people will be avenged.”

That got Katsuki to pause, coming to a stop as he thought over your declaration. “Your people,” He scoffed, his distance turning to disregard in the blink of an eye. “Is that why you insist on agitating me? Because you’re upset the tyrants who sent you to tend to a beast had to suffer? Because they had their little castle and their pathetic home toppled over?” He grinned, a chuckle from deep in his throat slowly becoming a laugh, hearty and unabashed. You pulled away, a red haze lining your vision, and Katsuki let you, releasing you and watching as you stumbled backward. You barely had time to regain your composure before Katsuki saw fit to strip you of it, sweeping you off your feet and holding you to his chest, an arm tucked under your thighs to keep you balanced. He sighed, a strong hand cupping your cheek, keeping you pressed against his shoulder. “I should thank them, once I’m settled. They sent me such a diligent mate, it’d be a shame not to show my appreciation. Perhaps another siege--”

“I’m not your mate,” You spat, more to silence him than to establish your counterpoint. You shoved yourself away from him, he overpowered you with ease, forcing you flush against sculpted shoulders and skin that was much too warm. You wondered if he’d burn you, if you stayed against him for much longer. Knowing you couldn’t force your way out of his arms, you did the only thing you could. “I’m not your ‘mate’ and I’ll never be. You don’t have the right to do so much as say my name, let alone start whatever courting ritual you’ve forced me to be a part of. I’m following you because I don’t have another choice, I don’t--”

Katsuki silenced you with a jerk to your skull, his nails strapping against your scalp as he entangled his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to meet his eyes. There was a constant fire in those blood-red irises, but his resolution came before his wrath, any rage he could’ve felt numbed by his determination. “You took care of me,” He explained, such a delicate sentiment seeming wrong on his tongue. “You kept me fed, and housed, and you did so with much more care than you had to. I had caretakers, but you-” The flattened pad of his thumb pressed against your forehead, as if it would do anything to further his message. Instead, it only made you feel smaller, weaker, patronized by a predator who could rip out your throat in a moment. “You were the only one to care for me. You can’t say you didn’t want this.”

“I pitied you.” Katsuki cringed, his eyes narrowing into something between hurt and disappointment. You swallowed dryly, continuing before he could respond. “I pitied an old, imprisoned monster. There’s nothing more to it.”

Abruptly, you were dropped, allowed to fall to the dusty, hard ground before he took hold of your bicep, dragging you to your feet and carrying on with a steady pace, attempting to make up for lost time. “You’re lying to yourself. I should’ve known you would, it’s all humans are good for.” There was a slight incline, bringing you to the top of a hill you hadn’t noticed, not until you were at its crest. Katsuki pulled you to his side, allowing you to look out at what should’ve been little more than tall grass and empty fields. “Your place is at my side. You’ll come to see that. Anything else wouldn’t be fitting of my mate.”

You didn’t respond. You were too busy taking in the dip in the valley, the hollow ravine hidden by higher ground. Or, more importantly, the village inside off it, filled with tents and animals and people, all as tall as Katsuki and as inhuman, too. Some had horns, others tails, but all of them were beginning to gather around, gawking at the two of you with open mouths and rushing forward, Katuski making no move to call them off. No, no, for the first time since the beginning of your companionship, he was smiling, his hold on you tighter than ever.

But suddenly, the growing ache in your arm was no longer your biggest concern.

429 notes · View notes

shortpeople-probs · 4 years ago

Text

Not a meme but I’ve decided to try and devote more time to things I’m passionate about. One of the things I’ve been longing to pick back up but just haven’t is fic writing or writing in general. I started a new SessKag fic which is exciting because I’ve never done a multi-chapter fic that wasn’t a reader insert! If anyone has suggestions, I’d be more than happy to hear them since I am getting back into writing after a four year break

Title: The Other Side of the Bone Eater’s Well

Summary: Kagome was once weighed down by an important decision. Should she stay with her family in the feudal era or return to the one waiting for her on the other side of the well? It had taken her days to decide what to do, her heart tugging towards both sides painfully. It wasn't until after she had slung her legs over the edge and leapt into the well that she realized that the time spent mulling over right decision was pointless.

The choice was never hers to make.

Tags: Warrior AU, Slow Burn, this fic is a work in progress but it will have some heavy themes that readers may be uncomfortable with, obligatory I’m sorry for formatting issues, I’m on mobile

A section of Chapter 1: Dirt caked under fingernails that grew increasingly more fragile with every inch that Kagome scaled. Determination laced her face as long, skilled fingers instinctually scrambled to find purchase along the stone and muscular arms hefted her body up and away from the skeleton-littered ground. Her jaw tensed as she noticed the growing fatigue that pulled at her body in a way that she had not felt in years. She was deftly aware of the weight that her armor pushed against her, something that she had not noticed in a long time. Still, she climbed, gritting her teeth against the shock of her burning shoulders and arms.

Kagome noticed that the bangs which had been neatly bound began to grow and loosen from their tight hold. Her military-esque bun began to sag as her hair continued to grow at the same alarming pace that her strength seemed to drain. Unbeknownst to her, the deep scars that had been ground into the skin beneath her heavy armor began to fade alongside her waning strength. Her physical appearance was changing, morphing into something that was both uniquely her and horrifically not. She began to thin slightly, the hard edge of each muscle began to soften minutely and the recent injuries that both marred and defined her dulled until her skin was completely free of them, with the exception of those that she was gaining as she climbed.

The callouses that had decorated Kagome's hands and fingers seemed to vanish as well. Blood seeped from new wounds and Kagome had to stifle a gasp as her weakening body responded negatively to the harsh stone. A battle between needing to conceal her presence, to scale the Well with pristine stealth, and to curse the Well for whatever it had done to her played out for a brief moment before she coldly dismissed the latter from ever being an option. Survival made stealth a necessity, and if she were killed after six years because she couldn't handle a few scrapes then her training would have been for nothing. The lives of those she had held close, who believed in her to forge a new future and to protect those that would be left behind in the wake of their deaths, would have been lost for nothing. With one last push, Kagome dug the heel of her left foot into a small divot in the stone and lurched upwards until her fingers curled over the edge of the Well. With the utmost grace and poise, she launched herself over crumbling stone and into the lush but empty clearing.

No one was there to greet Kagome as she rose from Bone Eater's Well but that did not mean that her arrival went unnoticed. She crouched low to the ground, brown eyes scouring the grass for any signs of life and taking note of the fact that there was grass at all. When she was satisfied that there was no human nearby, she sent out a probing quiver of reiki to look for the presence of youki. She nearly gave up until she found one small trace nearby. It was clear that the trace did not belong to a lesser youkai but rather, belonged to that of an extremely powerful one that knew how to nearly erase its presence to avoid detection. Narrowing her eyes, Kagome wrangled in the sense of unease that threatened to wash over her and she continued her search. Further out, in the direction that she knew Edo to be, Kagome found another small pulse of youki. While it was as weak as the small shred of youki she had just found, she knew that this trace did not belong to a powerful youkai. She rose fractionally once she discovered no other hints of youki, fingers dancing over where the hilt of her Tetsusaiga should be. Her fingers ran over nothing and the unnerve that she had felt by the presence of grass in the clearing and the existence of a powerful youkai grew tremendously. This concern was highlighted by the sound of two voices steadily heading in her direction. And the clearing was exactly that, it was nearly devoid of any trees and the amount of hiding places was limited to that of the bottom of the Well. Jumping down there would not only likely break her legs, but it would leave her cornered.

"Kagome?" Her thoughts stopped. She felt as though her brain short-circuited. The small voice was far away, but it wasn't far enough away that Kagome couldn't recognize the sound as it carried in the wind. Turning slightly, hand now resting on the hilt of a dagger, Kagome positioned herself to receive the owner. Standing there, what seemed like both miles and mere paces away, was Shippo. Behind him stood a young but mature human female, but in front of Kagome was her Shippo.

You can read the rest here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29210703/chapters/71722371

Notes: I have not written in a long time, not seriously. I'm sorry if you don't like my story. I've had this idea in my head since I discovered @youkaiyume’s warrior AU. In case, for whatever reason, I don't finish this story the premise and a vague outline will be included at the bottom to try and make this make a bit more sense. Just a note: I have not watched InuYasha in years. I plan on binge watching it at some point but the majority of my knowledge comes from reading fanfics or from looking up stuff. If something is wrong, please tell me so I can fix it.

Thanks for taking the time to read this ungodly long post

#i’m on a mega sesskag bender #sesskag #lord sesshomaru #sesshomaru #kagome #kagome higurashi #sesskag fic #sesskag fanfiction #otp #inuyasha #i’m so nervous #bad fic probably #but i’m trying

31 notes · View notes

philliamwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Ocean Eyes, Golden Mind

Fandom: All For The Game (Nora Sakavic)

Pairing: Neil/Andrew

Tags: #math nerd neil, #neil with glasses, #no exy

Summary: In which Neil hates his new prescribed glasses until they attract the interest of a certain Andrew Minyard.

Commissioner: Ziegenkind

Notes: Title taken from Billie Eilish’s ‘Ocean Eyes.’

Ocean Eyes, Golden Mind

Dude, it’s just a frat party. Who doesn’t go to frat parties?

The message flashes Neil’s screen white, its sender none other than his roommate Nicky who is supposed to study for an upcoming test in Public Policy in exactly nineteen hours. That’s what Neil writes him. Nicky’s reply comes instantly.

Those who study tend not to party. You know. Like you.

Neil leaves him on read. If he wants to party, he’ll lock himself inside his room, two bottles of Jack Daniel’s by his side while watching every existing compilation of cats attacking people on the small screen of his phone. He knows how to have a good time, alright. Not everyone has to set their scale like Nicky: More than once Neil has been the spectator of him coming back to the dormitory completely wasted, but still eager enough to get frozen waffles from the fridge. Being too drunk to put them in the toaster, he usually just climbs up to his top bunk and puts them between his thighs to eat them partially defrosted. It’s this fragile line between genius and stupidity that has Neil doubting if he should fill in a request for changing roommates or just live with the fact that Nicky Hemmick is one special kind of man.

So instead of spending his night curled into himself, wall against his back and eyes on every stranger distributing awful shots, Neil sits at the Math Tutoring Centre on the west side of the campus and gives group tutoring sessions.

Math comes to Neil like breathing. Like Bertrand Russel said, not only does Mathematics possess truth, but supreme beauty—a beauty cold and austere, like that of a sculpture. It is sublimely pure, and capable of a stern perfection such as only the greatest art can show. It is poetry—elegant and deep—of logical ideas to create harmony in a written line. Once he tried to explain that to Nicky over microwaved Mac n Cheese with Girls running in the background, clearly overestimating him, because Nicky only stared into space for a few seconds, and replied, “You really need to get laid, man.”

Reluctant at the beginning, Neil only agreed to join the Tutor Program because his math professor promised to throw in some extra cash. Something about raising the graduate numbers in order to get the board of education off his back. That’s where Neil’s jurisdiction of interest ends, but he has enjoyed it more than expected—the empty hallways, the harsh light of the ceiling lamps, the smell of chalk, the faint echoes of students still lingering in classrooms. There’s this magic about the Palmetto State University at night—a vulnerability that can only live once the sun sets behind the horizon. When else would he find a kid sleeping under a table in the library, or seniors breaking down in tears for exact 10 minutes before continuing their studies as if nothing has happened.

There’s another reason he’d rather spend his evening on campus, one Nicky doesn’t need to know because then Neil won’t hear the end of it. That reason being 5’0’’ tall chemistry prodigy Andrew Minyard, sitting in the last row of Neil’s math sessions each Friday. He only knows about him thanks to Nicky’s never-ending complaints, but that never really stopped him from throwing a few or more glances in Andrew’s direction. Just curiosity, of course.

So when he stands in front of the blackboard now, putting away his lesson papers which are full of numbers and equations—the kind that has enough letters to look like sentences—he feels dozens eyes burn holes in the back of his neck, and one pair belongs to Andrew. No one asks why he’s here, but everyone knows he doesn’t need to be.

In his one year of giving tutoring sessions, Neil has learnt that exactly three types of students exist: Students who are really good, certainly not in need of the extra lessons, but going anyway for some extra ego-buff and unnecessary brain-flexing. The second type is students who are okay, doing their tasks, following the lesson, not really attracting any attention safe for some crude jokes. The last type has Neil questioning his belief in the educational system of the whole state because he doesn’t understand how they are allowed inside the sacred halls of PSU.

Andrew is a special type on his own—the enigma that keeps Neil awake at two in the morning because he’s desperate to solve it, but without knowing where to start, he’s just running in circles. His fingers itch to solve an equation with multiple variables, to find the solution to a problem and get it off his mind.

He doubts it will be this easy with Andrew.

“Before we continue to look at scalar products in R- and C-vector spaces, we’ll consider bilinear and semi-bilinear forms in general, and link them to matrices for their representation to chosen bases.” Neil’s hand flies across the board, leaving letters and parenthesizes that look like bizarre drawings—art in its most complex form. Once he’s finished, he takes a step away, wipes the chalk on his fingers off on his jeans, and turns to his audience. “What happens to this equation with the semi-bilinear form σ?”

Two hands shoot up immediately. He ignores them; no need to feed their ego, and instead picks a freshman who’s been staring at his phone for the last ten minutes. Making way, Neil moves back to the student’s seats and leans against a desk.

Is it the farthest place away from the board? It is.

Is it the closest that will get him to Andrew? Might be so.

It certainly gives him a good look at what Andrew’s been doing since Neil started—and that is not solving a single task on the paper Neil has handed out at the beginning of the session. Andrew, apparently bored before it even started, has taken out a slip of paper with a sudoku puzzle on it and is solving it against his leg, completely linked out of the instruction.

Neil tries not to stare too much at Andrew’s bare arms, and instead looks back at the board.

“Does that look right?” the freshman—Rhys or Rheeze or something like that—asks, turning around.

Neil narrows his eyes and squints at the board. He can’t make out a single thing, and that’s bad, yes, but his feet betray him, staying rooted where they are instead of reducing the distance until he can distinguish σ from a.

“Where does the l come from,” he asks. Multiple heads snap in his direction.

“That’s a j, Josten,” someone says from the other side of the room.

Neil squints harder. “And the u?”

“A μ.”

“No, it’s a v,” a girl next to Neil says, and that’s when the everyone starts shouting about what’s on the board and what isn’t.

Neil bears it for a solid minute before he surrenders. He pulls a small case from his pocket, opens it. Puts his glasses on.

The whole room goes silent.

Neil checks the equation, nods. “Correct. Who’s next?”

Multiple people stir, one manages to get up, and walks straight into a table leg. Neil questions that ‘straight’, because only then the freshman guy stops staring at Neil and steers his attention to the equation on the blackboard.

It was a bad idea, and Neil still hates Allison for forcing him to go. She’d dragged him to the doctor last week to get his eyes tested, annoyed by his never-ending questions of ‘What’s written there?’ or ‘Is that a six or an eight?’.

“They’re my eyes,” Neil had said, arms crossed as he sat in the office and waited for his turn.

“And it’s me who has to see your ugly squinting face,” Allison had replied.

Two hours later Neil had finally his prescriptions but that didn’t mean he was free from Allison’s clutches. He would have been fine with some glasses from the dollar store, but she insisted that if he’s going to wear them more than once a day, he should get designer glasses—thin frames and a color that matches his copper hair. She suggested gold. Neil picked black. The look of disappointment on Allison’s face was something that deserved its own painting to commemorate it. But once they’d finally chosen the right pair, she’d given him the very same look most of the students are giving him now—a mix between slight awe and disbelief as if he’s grown a second head. Or owes them all a month’s worth of lunch money.

“Well,” had Allison said at least, turning away to pack up and go home. “Tigers have their stripes. I have my eyeliner.” She threw him another scrutinizing look over her shoulder. “You have your glasses.” If it was supposed to make him feel better, it didn’t work, and right now he regrets nothing more than allowing Allison to drag him around.

Neil’s eyes land on Andrew’s sudoku puzzle, now half-hidden under his papers, and he sees now that he isn’t even solving the thing, but simply coloring in the empty squares.

He takes a second too long and meets Andrew’s eyes staring back at him.

“Problem, Josten?” Andrew asks with a blank expression, tapping the end of his pen against his monochrome picture of black and white squares.

Neil wants to see how far he can push until he walks against a brick wall and breaks something. He returns his gaze to the board but feels Andrew’s eyes like a solid touch on the back of his neck.

After the session, the students hurry outside, still throwing curious glances over their shoulders at Neil and if he could merge with the back of his chair and disappear forever, that would be totally okay. It isn’t until a shadow looms above him that he looks up from his own homework and draws in a careful breath when Andrew towers above him.

Neil raises an eyebrow. “Problem, Minyard?”

Andrew’s face gives nothing away, and when he stretches out a hand, Neil doesn’t flinch. His glasses slip off easily, held between Andrew’s thumb and index finger.

“Nicky told me he’s trying to convince you to join him tomorrow,” Andrew says. Neil needs a second, because that is the most words he’s heard out of Andrew’s mouth.

“I have no reason to go,” Neil says, his eyes jumping up and down, from the equation that makes his sight blur to Andrew leaning his slender waist against the table.

“You have one now.” It’s barely neutral enough to not sound like a threat, but Neil stares at Andrew nonetheless, and when he puts Neil’s glasses on, Neil’s heart does a weird stutter. He’s still starring at Andrew when he leaves the room, and no, his eyes don’t stray, they stay on Andrew’s broad back, and if they dip lower it’s because of the light.

Once he’s alone, Neil takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Puts his head in his arms and counts to ten in French first, then again in German. His heart still does this weird thing, trying to bruise his ribs from the inside.

He gets his phone, texts Nicky he’ll go to the frat party tomorrow and puts it away, not interested in his roommate’s reply. There’s still the equation he needs to solve, but for the first time Neil’s heart isn’t really into math, and he is quite alright with it.

#philliamwrites #ao3 #fanfiction #aftg #andreil #andrew minyard #neil josten #all for the game #andrew x neil #neil x andrew #andrew/neil #neil/andrew

22 notes · View notes

rosecorcoranwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Censorship and Banning Books

As I mentioned in my last Rant Rave Review, as of last Monday, six books by Dr. Seuss are now officially out-of-print, and they are out of print due to supposedly racist, offensive, and/or stereotypical images. The company that owns the rights to these books is no longer publishing them and some websites are no longer selling them. People who do own the books, or who swooped into stores and bought them the day of the announcement, are now selling them for hundreds or thousands of dollars. So, what are we to make of all this?

Is Dr. Seuss Racist?

There are actually three questions here: is the man racist, are his books racist, and are those images racist? The answer to the first is, he kinda was, and then he got over it. During the war, he was openly against the Japanese, and in favor of the internment camps, then went to Japan during the occupation and realized, hey, maybe these are just people. Apparently, he wrote Horton Hears a Who in response to the US occupation and dedicated it to a Japanese friend. People can change, if you let them.

Okay, well, what about his books? This is an obvious "no". Race basically doesn't come up in Dr. Seuss stories, except "The Sneetches", which is actively against racism. Which, in some people's fevered imaginations, makes it racist. Yes, in some Olympic-level mental gymnastics, saying that whatever race you are isn't important, ie being against "racial essentialism" means that you are a racist. Such people think that the story doesn't address "structures of power" and "systemic oppression". This is true. It's instead a story about a sleazy businessman who goes in and preys on existing racial biases in order to make a buck, constantly telling people to think of their identities in terms of their outward appearance. You'd think the racial essentialists would appreciate the representation.

But I digress.

What about the images themselves? Are they racist? Not having seen all of them, I can't say for sure, but some are definitely cringy. Take the yellow skinned "Chinaman who eats with sticks" in And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street. Though one could argue that the entire book uses only five colors: yellow, red, blue, and touches of purple and green, this man is the only human whose skin is colored at all. Later editions of this book have actually changed the image and text:

Honestly, I think this is fine. The meter still scans, and the image isn't straight-up removed. I mean, we could maybe discuss whether it's okay to alter an author's work, but he was alive when at least one of these these changes was made, so I think he allowed it.

Next we have some from If I Ran the Zoo, like this one, of some Asian dudes who "all wear their eyes at a slant":

I think, in this case, the text is the problem, but not the picture. Though some describe this image as "exotified", I think it's more just exaggerated, as are most of Dr. Seuss's characters. He doesn't do things half way. Aside from that, the picture is kind of cute and silly; nothing in it is derogatory or mean to the helpers. The text on the other hand... oof. Yeah, I would say this is a true example of something "offensive". I could see changing that (as long as the meter still scans!).

And then there are the fellows holding the tufted mazurka:

That's pretty bad. So bad that as a child, I don't think I actually registered that those were supposed to be humans, but rather other Seussian creatures. It doesn't help, again, that in his color pallet, people that would ordinarily be brown are now black-black, not unlike the most racist images of yesteryear. But the fact that their lips are left uncolored, I think, is what gets me. It's a little too close to black-face for comfort. Again, I think it would be okay to alter the image: color in their lips, change the shading. I know some people quibble with their costume, but some peoples do wear little amounts of clothing, so I don't think thats the issue here.

I can't speak to the other books, because I haven't seen those pictures, but I would say, yeah, some of the images and phrasing are problematic. I don't think that means the books are racist. Seuss isn't saying the Asian helpers or the African mazurka wranglers are less than the white child running the zoo. He is exotifying them to some degree, but the degree to which that is being done can, I believe, be fixed with very minor alterations.

Should the Books Be Banned?

Again, I think there are a couple questions here: are these books being banned, and should they be banned?

In our increasingly-willing-to-cancel culture, people like to talk about the difference between government censorship vs. corporate censorship, which is a valid topic. But when it comes to huge corporations like Amazon banning books from their website for hate speech or Ebay halting the ability of vendors to sell certain titles on their platform, to say "it’s a private corporation, so it's not censorship" is disingenuous. Maybe it doesn't violate the First Amendment, but it is censorship. A single bookstore refusing to sell a book, a single library refusing to carry a book, is censorship.

A single company that owns the rights to a book refusing to sell it is 100% censorship. I'm personally offended by the idea of any book being out-of-print in the day and age of print-on-demand, but I'm especially sickened when companies pull this nonsense. This is similar to foreign companies who refuse to publish novels, games, and videos in English copyright striking fanlations; they are not losing money, so why do they care?

In the case of the Seuss estate, or whoever owns the rights, all that they are doing is denying poor people access to books. That's right, if you can shell out $786 for a children's book, you can read these delightful stories. What's that? You're a single mom who works two jobs? Well, sucks to be you.

What's really vile is that people are saying, "It's only six books. You still have the others." First off, this is admitting that those six books are now censored and unavailable. Secondly, this is a stupid argument. It's like saying, "Well, the Nazi's didn't burn every book in Germany. There were plenty of others." What if I wanted to read the ones that were burned?

And that brings us to the question of whether or not those books ought to be banned. Heck, should they even be altered? Some of you might have balked at my saying I was fine with the images being changed; isn't that censorship? I think that would take it's own blog post, but here I'll just say that I don't think the changes I discussed would really alter the content, message, or meaning of the work. That being said, I don't think you have to change the images either.

That is, I think it's okay to publish, purchase, own, and read problematic material. As many commentators have pointed out, no child is going to be made into a racist by reading these books or seeing these images. Any racist or even iffy overtones are going to go right over their heads unless parents point them out. If, in the one in a million chance, your child actually notices anything wrong with the images, like "why is his skin yellow?" or something, then you can have a conversation about how sometimes, back in the day, people drew some not-so-nice pictures of Asian people and thought their skin should be painted as yellow, but we don't do that anymore, but this book was written a long time ago, etc etc. If they ask about what a Chinaman is, say it's an old word for a Chinese person, but you should never say it, because it can hurt people's feelings. Talk to your children; it isn't hard.

Should Any Books Be Banned

If you've been paying attention to what's been happening in book land lately, you'll know that Dr. Seuss's books are not the first to be put on the chopping block. Last year, Abigail Shrier's book, Irreversible Damage: The Transgender Craze Seducing Our Daughters, was removed from Target due to requests of trans activists. It was returned after backlash. Now I think it might be banned again? Who can even keep up anymore. Similarly, When Harry Became Sally: Responding to the Transgender Moment, by Ryan T. Anderson, has now been removed from Amazon for being "hate speech".

In the microcosm of the library world, I've had some people take issue with certain controversial books. When processing our new books, my part-timer picked up Irreversible Damage and asked, "Did someone request this?" as if we shouldn't have ordered it if they didn't. Both that book, and White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, by Robin DiAngelo, were face out in our new book area, since they were the newest books. The former was turned backwards or put spine out with the older books multiple time by patrons, the latter turned backwards once. During the election, I found books for and against Trump hidden behind other books.

My question for people who do this in the library, and for corporations who do essentially the same thing on a massive scale, is who exactly do you think you are helping? Do you think anyone's mind is going to be changed on Trump? Or transgenderism, or white fragility, just by reading a book?

If the answer is "no", then why bother banning or hiding them? If the answer is yes, then that means you think books have the power to change minds, but you want to deny that opportunity to people. Rather than debating ideas, or writing a better book, or showing people why they shouldn't think a certain way, people are increasingly trying to banish certain ideas entirely. How dare an author question X, Y, or Z idea? How dare people be allowed to have an opinion different from the one we say they should!

What's so frustrating about cancel culture and censorship is that people think they really are trying to do the right thing. What they don't realize is, the people they cancel also think they are doing the right thing.

Take Irreversible Damage: obviously, those that want it banned think that trans kids will be hurt by the ideas expressed in the book, that they will be denied hormones and surgeries and so forth. I'm sure Abigail Shrier believes that trans kids would be hurt by no one examining the idea of wether or not they should be given hormones and surgeries as minors. Both sides care about kids. Both sides are trying to figure out how to help people. If you think that Shrier is wrong and her book is dangerous, then write a more compelling argument explaining why she's wrong.

An example of the right way to go about this is with White Fragility, a book that some people see as problematic, if not racist against white people or black people or both. People have written books specifically refuting the ideas in the book. Others have compiled titles that handle race more tactfully and that can be read instead. And that's the thing; you can choose what to read. You can choose never to read a book deemed problematic, but you have no right to take that choice away from other people.

Where Do Libraries Fall Into All This?

That "right to read" is one of the pillars or librarianship. The reason libraries exist is so that all people, regardless of money, have equal access to books, movies, and other aspects of our shared culture. We librarians understand that books are important not just for education, but also entertainment and escape. Stories are how we as humans process ideas, and everyone has a right to expose themselves to ideas--even controversial or dangerous or flat out wrong ones. They have the right to examine different sides of an issue and form their own conclusions. To try and control what a person reads is to try and control what they think, and no government or corporation has that right.

Thus, libraries don't ban books, wether those books are literary classics, modern treatises on current events and ideologies, or silly picture books by Dr. Seuss.

So it was with some concern that I got an email saying that our county library district would be taking the six Seuss books in question out of circulation. The rationale was that, given that a single book was selling for hundreds or thousands of dollars, some sticky-fingered patrons might steal then from the shelves or "lose" them after checking them out.

Though this logic was sound, I still had misgivings, especially because of incidences of library censorship in the past. Yes, even libraries have not been immune to the scourge. During the Cold War, some libraries would keep books about communism behind the reference desk so that people would have to ask to read them in the library. Not only did this potentially help identify commies, it also discouraged people from reading the books.

Thus, when our new policy is to keep the Seuss books "at the desk" and only let them be read in the library, is that not censorship? Is this accidental censorship, or perhaps intended by the very cancel culturists who want all problematic books to be sent down the memory hole?

No, I don't think it is, because--despite what the very mob who’s in favor of all of this would have you believe--intention matters. Reasons matter. We are not trying to make the books harder to read; we're trying to keep the books from becoming impossible to read. By protecting the books from theft, we're ensuring that the poor as well as the rich can enjoy Dr. Seuss's stories. This, in my mind, is similar to chained up bibles: it looks bad, until you remember that books were rare and expensive, and illuminated manuscripts even more so. If someone steals a book, no one gets to read it, but if a book is under lock and key, some people still can.

Of course, everyone could, if companies would simply stop censoring books, if stores would stop banning them, and if well-intentioned but short-sighted activists would stop digitally burning them. But maybe that's too much to hope for at present. For now, we librarians will have the books safe and sound for when you want to read them. You have only to ask.

13 notes · View notes

letterboxd · 3 years ago

Photo

The Eyes of TIFF.

Programmers for the 46th Toronto International Film Festival chat about the degrees of intensity they look for in a festival film, and help us zoom in on the gems from TIFF’s 2021 program, by genre and region.

“Intensity can be achieved in so many different ways. I know it when I feel it. You feel it in your gut.” —Cameron Bailey

It’s almost business as usual for TIFF this year. In-person events and red carpets return, but a healthy virtual program is also available for Canadian-based folk unable to travel, as the Covid-19 pandemic continues its onslaught.

TIFF co-head and artistic director Cameron Bailey has been with the festival for just over half its life, and says while some of the technology has changed in that time—“you’re no longer sitting in front of a TV monitor with VHS tapes… or waiting for 35mm prints to be spooled up and projected for you”—the “basic process of falling in love with movies” has not.

It’s a challenge, Bailey says, to winnow down the films he falls in love with for the final TIFF lineup. And even then, it is an annual challenge for film lovers tight on time to narrow down their own selections. So, ahead of the fest, Bailey joined fellow TIFF programmers for a Twitter Spaces conversation with our editor in chief Gemma Gracewood, in order to help Letterboxd members make some watchlist decisions.

Joining Bailey were Thom Powers (TIFF Docs), Peter Kuplowsky (Midnight Madness), Robyn Citizen (senior programming manager), Diana Sanchez (Special Presentations, Spain, Latin America, Portugal and the Caribbean), Diana Cadavid (International Cinema) and Nataleah Hunter-Young (Africa, “the Middle East” and the Black Diaspora).

Edited highlights of the conversation follow, so have your watchlists close at hand.

‘The Eyes of Tammy Faye’, written by Abe Sylvia and directed by Michael Showalter.

Thank you all for joining me today. You watch a lot of films as you’re going through the selection process. How does one make itself stand out to you? Cameron Bailey: For every programmer it’s going to be something different. For me, it comes down to an intangible quality of intensity. That can be emotional intensity, it can be the intensity of formal elements, the cinematography, the performances, the writing. Some sense of concentrated emotion and momentum, where you get the sense that a filmmaker is trying to find a way to distill the essence of what they’re trying to do and communicate it to an audience through all of the tools that cinema provides. That doesn’t mean the movie has to be fast-paced or have a lot of dramatic jolts, as intensity can be achieved in so many different ways. I know it when I feel it. You feel it in your gut.

What would you say are some of the performances that have struck you the most this year? CB: Jessica Chastain is the lead in a film we’re premiering called The Eyes of Tammy Faye, directed by Michael Showalter. If you were watching TV in the ’80s and ’90s, you will remember Tammy Faye Bakker, and her husband, Jim Bakker, who were TV televangelists. You couldn’t miss Tammy, as she had these giant eyes and makeup with giant eyelashes, and this is essentially her story. It’s hard to know at first that it’s Jessica Chastain underneath all of that makeup, but she gives a performance that’s not just about the exterior. It’s about a woman who is shaped by a difficult upbringing, shaped by this incredibly deep need she has for affirmation, to be on TV, to be in front of the camera, and that guides her decisions into extremes. She’s fantastic in it.

Benedict Cumberbatch is back with two films. He is the lead in Jane Campion’s The Power of the Dog. It’s an understated, slow-burn performance in some ways, which he can do so well. He’s also in a film that’s on the opposite end of the dramatic spectrum, The Electrical Life of Louis Wain. It’s based on a real person, and when you watch the film you will be amazed that this person actually existed. Wain, in the early part of the twentieth century, was a prodigious painter who turned his talent towards painting thousands of cats. Cute cats, big eyed cats, fuzzy, adorable cats. He’s largely responsible for cats becoming as big as they are as domesticated pets. It��s a wild story.

I’m still recovering from watching The Power of the Dog’s trailer earlier today, and had to promise myself that I wouldn’t take up this entire time talking about Jane Campion’s obsession with hands. The Spencer trailer dropped as well, which has a lot of buzz around it. CB: Yes, Spencer is a remarkable portrait. Some of us remember Princess Diana, some of us have watched The Crown, and so have a very recent image, but this is a completely different performance that Kristen Stewart gives. She’s remarkable in it. I think everybody’s going to want to see this film.

‘Charlotte’, written by David Bezmozgis and Erik Rutherford, directed by Tahir Rana and Éric Warin.

Are there any other titles you’d like to get the buzz started for, Cameron? CB: On the animation side, I would say people should look out for a film called Charlotte, by Tahir Rana and Éric Warin. It’s a Canadian film telling a story based in World War II Europe about a woman in a Jewish family [exiled] in France during the occupation of France by the Nazis. She can feel what is coming. She decides to paint everything about her life, and her family’s life, trying to document what she feels is going to be very fragile, and what she might lose altogether.

As it turns out, before the end of the war she was taken away to a death camp by the Nazi regime, and she didn’t survive, but her paintings have survived and they were turned into a book, along with the story of her family. The animation is just gorgeous. I think that’s one that awards bodies are going to be paying attention to. It’s one of the best animated films I’ve seen in quite a while.

Thom, what are some of the documentary titles that you and the team think those awards bodies will have their eyes on? Thom Powers: A big one to pay attention to is The Rescue, by Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin, who won the Oscar for their last film, Free Solo. Their new film is looking at the Thai cave rescue [in 2018], when a group of young soccer players and their coach got trapped by monsoon floods in a cave. When we were watching the news, we were seeing the journalists reporting from outside the cave. What this film does is bring you inside that rescue using footage that’s never been seen before. Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin are masters at the documentary adventure genre, and also [at] bringing a real human side to the people involved, which they do again here.

I’ll also mention Becoming Cousteau, by Liz Garbus, and Julia, a film about Julia Child, directed by Julie Cohen and Betsy West, who made the Oscar-nominated documentary RBG a few years ago. So many of us during the pandemic had to rediscover ourselves in the kitchen, and Julia Child’s life was about making people feel more comfortable in the kitchen, which makes it a terrific film to watch at this time.

‘Saloum’, directed by Jean Luc Herbulot.

Peter, what’s a movie from this year’s Midnight Madness lineup you’d love to recommend? Peter Kuplowsky: We’ve got a lot of firsts at Midnight this year. We have Saloum, the first time a West African film has ever been in Midnight. We’ve also got Zalava, which is the first Iranian film to play in Midnight. Our opening film for Midnight Madness is Julia Ducournau’s Titane, which is playing at the Princess of Wales theater, and will be a spectacle to behold. When I’m looking for Midnight Madness, I like hearing the audience make certain noises in the room, whether that’s a gasp or screams or laughter. I feel that every note on the scale is going to be played during Titane by the audience.

Brilliant. Now, we’re going to bring in some audience questions. First up is Vincent, who says that one of their favorite films is Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face, and asks if there are any films in this year’s TIFF lineup you could recommend for a fan of that film? PK: I’ve really been encouraging people to check out the films I just mentioned, Zalava and Saloum, and I think Zalava especially would fit here, as it’s more of a horror-drama. It begins as something that is steeped in the supernatural, but as it escalates it becomes something of a pitch-black comedy while still maintaining a gravitas to it. I think it’s one of the most fascinating discoveries in the genre space this year.

CB: I’d also add Good Madam, by Jenna Bass, from South Africa. It is a chilling movie, with a bit of an Eyes Without a Face vibe. If you like that sort of approach to cinema, I think you’ll like that.

PK: Vengeance Is Mine, All Others Pay Cash just won the Golden Leopard at Locarno. With a title like that, this is a film that feels like it’s going to be sort of a strictly pulp crime film, but it’s so much more. It’s deeply romantic, incredibly eclectic, and beautifully shot on 16mm film. It feels like a film that was hidden away, shot in the late ’70s or early ’80s. It’s a throwback to 1980s Hong Kong action films, while also, I can’t stress this enough, being one of the most romantic films in the festival. You’ll fall in love with this relationship while it’s also working in fight sequences and magical realism.

Nataleah, what’s something you would recommend from your TIFF selections from Africa, “the Middle East” and the Black Diaspora? Nataleah Hunter-Young: One I’d highly recommend is Costa Brava, directed by Mounia Akl, from Lebanon. Even amidst what’s going on in Lebanon right now, the film offers a beautiful and engrossing portrait of a family that includes a grandmother who’s a non-actor, but has impeccable comedic timing (that travels through the subtitles if you don’t speak Arabic).

‘Snakehead’, written and directed by Evan Leong.

Robyn, what’s a movie that surprised you most during your selections this year? Robyn Citizen: I always recommend that people check out our Discovery section because that’s where we find new talent and nurture new voices. The film that really surprised me this year was Snakehead, by Evan Jackson Leong. Some people will know him from a documentary called Linsanity, and he did another documentary about evangelism in Korea. Snakehead has been a ten-year labor of love for him. He had to do a Kickstarter for the film, which is loosely based on the life of a woman named Sister Ping, who had a human trafficking ring that was the biggest trafficking ring for about 20 years.

The film tackles what’s going on now with vulnerable populations being trafficked into America, in particular Chinatown in the US, and the main character, played by Shuya Chang, has to fight to find her daughter. It’s an exciting film, and very moving. It’s extremely tightly edited, and it looks fantastic.

We’ve got our next question here from a member who says their favorite genre is science-fiction. While Dune is at the top of their watchlist, are there any other sci-fi selections you could recommend? PK: I would recommend After Blue (Dirty Paradise), which is a perverse science-fiction by Bertrand Mandico. It reminds me a lot of the French animated film Fantastic Planet. This one is about a planet which is inhospitable to men because of the way hair grows. The plot follows a young teenage girl who accidentally unleashes a notorious criminal that she and her hairdresser mother have to stalk through the alien landscape that is full of bizarre creatures and liquids and gases. I feel it’s kind of like the inverse of Dune, and an opportunity to explore a bizarre ecosystem.

NHY: I would totally insist that this member see Neptune Frost, from Saul Williams and Anisia Uzeyman. It’s a difficult film to put into words, but I’ve been summing it up by calling it an Afro-sonic sci-fi musical.

Whoa, that sounds like a whole new subgenre. NHY: That’s just the beginning. There’s a lot to experience in this film. It’s a cosmic romance that follows an intersex hacker and a coltan miner who make their way to this kind of dream space where they connect with others as they travel through these lush mountainous regions of Rwanda and Burundi. It’s a beautiful anti-narrative that is impeccably colored and totally consuming. It’s a must-see for anybody who loves cinema.

Diana, what would you say is the best debut feature that you’ve seen among this year’s international selections? Diana Cadavid: There are so many wonderful new talents, but I think I’ll go with an Argentinian filmmaker named Agustina San Martín. Her film, To Kill the Beast, is a co-production between Argentina, Brazil and Chile, and she worked for nine years to put this all together. She started working on it when she was 21, and we were actually having a conversation yesterday about her process, and how it’s a film that deals with the growth of a woman, and female desire. There’s this idea of the beast, something that’s either from inside or from outside forces, trying to control the human mind and body. It’s a very interesting film, gorgeously shot and very atmospheric.

‘Yuni’, written by Prima Rusdi and Kamila Andini, directed by Andini.

We’ve got another question here from David, who says their favorite films are humanistic dramas, citing Hirokazu Kore-eda as one of their favorite directors. Would anybody have any recommendations for David? CB: I can recommend at least one film, called Yuni, an Indonesian film from Kamila Andini. This is a naturalist drama about a high-school girl who is one of the top students in her class, and has a great group of friends. We slowly begin to see that her life is being constrained by one man after another, and then something happens at school, which begins to narrow her possibilities for her future. She’s trying to figure out things like sexuality and romance and what she wants to do with her future, and all of these obstacles keep getting placed in her path. It’s told in a very gentle way, but very incisive as well. Each scene really matters, taking you deeper inside this girl’s life.

RC: Our senior programmer Giovanna Fulvi programmed a film called Aloners, a South Korean film by Hong Sung-eun. This is her first feature, and it’s very much a film of our time. It is about a woman who works in the gig economy at a credit-card customer-service call center. It’s a very transient existence. She doesn’t talk to anybody, she eats by herself, she doesn’t really want to associate with the people in her apartment building. One day, one of her neighbors who has tried to talk to her many times passes away, and she has to re-interrogate the way that she’s been living her life, and figure out if it’s worth starting to form some human connections.

Next up is a question from Matt Neglia, from the Next Best Picture podcast. Matt says that he’s a massive fan of epics, whether they’re three hours long or just telling an expansive story with lots of world-building. Apart from Dune, are there any other films in the lineup that you would describe as epic? CB: While Joachim Trier’s The Worst Person in the World might not strike you on reading its synopsis as an epic, I think it actually is an emotional epic. It’s the story of a young woman who’s trying to figure out her life. Her romance with one boyfriend doesn’t quite fit the bill for her, and she begins this looking and exploring. Trier and his writer and lead actor do remarkable work, blowing open the idea of a person trying to define who they are at this turning point in their life. They make these stakes massive and they have all kinds of interesting, innovative, formal elements in [the film] as well. It’s incredibly cinematic. If you’ve seen Joachim Trier’s other films, this is kind of the conclusion of a trilogy that he’s made.

‘Listening to Kenny G’, directed by Penny Lane.

Next up, we have Sarah, who is looking for movies about music, and also some body horror. CB: We’ve got a number of great music docs this year. I have to mention Dionne Warwick, the queen of Twitter, who is the subject of Dionne Warwick: Don’t Make Me Over. It tells the story of this incredibly talented, determined and glamorous musician who broke so many barriers. She toured in the south during the Jim Crow era, making gains as a Black woman in the music industry and in the pop-music industry, not the so-called race-record or Black-music industry, which simply wasn’t done at the time. This documentary tells that story, and also shows her later work in the ’80s contributing to the fight against stigma and hysteria during the AIDS crisis.

PK: I’ll follow up Cameron by mentioning the Alanis Morissette film Jagged. We’ve also got a film about the great jazz pianist, Oscar Peterson, called Oscar Peterson: Black + White. Lastly, there’s a film about Kenny G, called Listening to Kenny G.

Diana Sanchez: For the body horror, I’d like to mention the debut film by Ruth Paxton, titled A Banquet. It’s about a young woman who insists her body is no longer her own, and is a service to a higher power. Her mother has no idea what to think. She stops eating, and her mother doesn’t know [whether] to believe her or not. I love Ruth Paxton’s work, the way she shoots the film, the way she shoots the food. It’s almost, as she refers to it, pornographic. It looks delicious and gross all at the same time.

I’d also like to flip to comedy quickly to mention Official Competition. The film stars Penélope Cruz, Antonio Banderas and Oscar Martínez. Cruz plays a filmmaker who puts together a well-known theater actor and a well-known box-office glamor guy, played by Banderas. The film speaks to the tension between high art and more popular art, testing those boundaries. It’s incredibly funny.

We’d love to squeeze a few more films out of everyone for our watchlists. Could you each recommend one film and try to sell it in ten words or less? CB: Let me try. Sundown, by Michel Franco. Tim Roth falls apart beautifully in Mexico.

TP: I’m going to go with the Mexican documentary, Comala. Filmmaker Gian Cassini explores the legacy of his father, who was a Tijuana hitman.

PK: I’ll go with Saloum, which is basically From Dusk Till Dawn in West Africa.

RC: I’m going to say The Wheel, a movie by Steve Pink. If you like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, this is like that with a younger couple in a much more humane, intimate key.

DS: I’ll say I’m Your Man, a sci-fi where Maren Eggert dates a robotic Dan Stevens.

PK: I know Diana has been recommending a film called OUT OF SYNC, about an artist who begins to experience the sound of the world going out of sync. She starts hearing sounds from the past because people and things are out of sync with their surroundings.

NHY: I’ll go with The Gravedigger’s Wife, directed by Khadar Ahmed. It showcases the horn of Africa unlike you’ve ever seen it on screen.

Finally, for Cameron: with fall coming, what is the best TIFF 2021 movie to watch under a blanket, either because it’s cozy or because you’re terrified, or both? CB: Great question, which gives me a chance to talk about Earwig, the new film by Lucile Hadžihalilović. If you’ve seen Innocence or Evolution, her two most recent films, you’re prepared in terms of tone, but you’ve not even seen Lucille make a film quite like this. It’s eerie, disturbing, hypnotic, mesmerizing. You can’t stop watching, but you’re always afraid that something awful and horrifying is about to happen… and maybe it might.

‘Night Raiders’, written and directed by Danis Goulet.

To bring it all back home, what would you say is the Canadian film of 2021? CB: It’s always hard to say, but I think in a year where we have Danis Goulet’s feature Night Raiders, that’s got to be the one. Danis has made some exceptional short films over the last few years that people might know. Her feature takes on the horrific, devastating story of residential schools and children torn from Indigenous families and put in institutions where the goal was to erase their Indigenous identity. She takes that terrible, real history that we’re grappling with right now in Canada, and turns it into a piece of speculative fiction, a kind of propulsive thriller.

By turning it into fiction rather than reality she can use all of the tools of cinema to tell a terrific story that’s exciting and has high stakes, but also has this deep resonance of a truth that we are, I hope, coming to terms with in this country.

The Toronto International Film Festival runs from September 9 to 18. This conversation has been edited for length and clarity. Follow TIFF on Letterboxd, and follow our Festiville HQ for regular festival updates.

3 notes · View notes

bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years ago

Text

Azula Week 2020: Day 6 - A Measure Of Strength

Prompt: Training Pair: Azutara Song: Disturbed - The Light

Summary: Azula loses an arm and Katara helps her through the recovery process.

It happens in a flash of red. At first she isn’t sure of what has just happened, it doesn’t quite register and when it does, it almost as feels as though it hasn’t happened to her, but to someone else entirely. But then the pain settles in. It radiates from her where her left arm should be and spreads out to encompass her entire being. “Zuzu?” She utters softly.

His face is twisted in shock and horror and perhaps rage.

“You missed her, dumbass!” Declares a voice from a distance.

Neither she nor Zuko react. She is in capable, already feeling plenty dizzy and weak. And he, taken too aback to manage.

“Nah, ya ass, I go’d her.”

“Not in the right spot.” Declares the first voice. She hears the snap of a bow string and the whistle as something just misses Zuko’s ear and another spot of agony blossoms in her middle. Tears slip down her cheeks as she stares at her brother. Her remaining hand more or less absently goes to cover the spot that the arrow juts through. She feels blood gush between her fingers. Her hand is slick with it. “Zuzu, I…” She falters. Her mind is going. There is so much blood, it is emptying from her body faster than she can comprehend.

“You ain’t get ‘er neither.” Remarks the second assassin. She thinks that the only thing worse than a hate driven aggressor is a hate driven aggressor who lacks a brain.

He finally acts, in one sweep he catches her weak body and shoots a good burst of fire. She wishes that he would have paid more attention to her when she’d tried to teach him to bend lightning. He takes the first man, the smarter of the two, down regardless. At least he has paid attention to her lesson to take the hardest opponent down first.

She isn’t sure how the rest of the battle goes because her head gives one final dizzying tilt and her body goes limp.

.oOo.

She is numb when she wakes, her senses dulled and mercifully muted. Briefly she thinks that she shouldn’t be alive. She feels along her belly until her fingers find the bandages. The spot radiates a sort of warmth can only a terrible wound can. But that burning sensation is much worse at her shoulder. She knows what she isn’t going to find when she brings her hand to it. Her lower lip trembles.

“You’re finally awake!” Zuko exclaims, eyes wide with relief. “The doctors were telling me that they weren’t sure if you would. But you’re awake. I told them that you would be, you always were lucky.”

Azula swallows, “lucky!?” She snaps, the shrill, franticness in her tone saves her from sounding argumentative. She just sounds...scared? Terrified. The hand she holds to the remaining stump of her arm shakes.

Zuko gently pulls her hand back. “You shouldn’t touch it, it’s still fresh.”

Fresh enough for it to hurt like hell, but not enough for the bandages to be bloodied.

“I…” She sputters, “how am I supposed to bend like this?”

“You’re not!” He says too quickly. “You’re supposed to rest now and when you’re healed you can figure out how to work around this. You always do…”

“I need two arms to bend lightning…” she says softly.

“You need to lay back down and rest.” Zuko replies. “Katara is going to be here to heal you…”

She approaches as he mentions her. “She’s awake?”

“Just woke up.” Zuko answers. And then to Azula he says, “I’m going to bring you something to eat.” Azula isn’t hungry but she lets him leave.

“Hold still, okay.” Katara instructs.

Azula doesn’t plan on going anywhere. Katara lifts Azula’s shirt and tenderly peels the bandages away. The water is cool against Azula’s tummy as it alleviates some of the pain. The waterbender holds her hand there for a few moments more before pulling the water away and replacing the bandages. Azula tugs her own shirt down.

“It’ll be easier if you take it off. Don’t worry, they gave you a sleeveless undershirt.”

Azula sits up and lifts the shirt over her head, but it catches, awkwardly tangling her within her own clothing. Katara pulls it the rest of the way over her head. The princess’ stomach and mood plummet. She can’t even take her own shirt off without help. And suddenly she begins to hate herself. What good is she if she is going to need help to do the most basic things? She balls her fists into the blankets.

Katara creates a sleeve of water on her shoulder, as far as she can tell anyhow. She averts her eyes, not yet willing to see the damage yet. She gnaws on her own cheek, she knows that she shouldn’t wait. It’ll be better to get it over with so that she can get used to it sooner. Azula takes a deep breath and shifts her gaze to her missing arm. Her lip quivers again and tears burn in her eyes. She should have waited for the waterbender to leave.

Said waterbender puts the water away. She seems to hesitate before wiping the tears from Azula’s eyes. But it is a pointless effort as more come to take their place. More and more until her whole body is wracked with sobs.

Katara takes her in her arms and rubs soothing circles over her back. “Careful, you’re going to hurt…”

Azula is well aware, her stomach is already aching again. She lets Katara lay her back and bring the water to her belly again, driving away the dull pain that she’d coaxed back.

“It’s going to be fine, Azula. You’re going to be fine.”

It must be in the waterbender’s nature to be a nurturer because they certainly weren’t on particularly good terms before the assassination attempt. No one was on good terms with her. No one but Zuko, and their relationship had still been so delicate.

“I don’t feel fine.” She mutters. She is very certain that she won’t be. She knows for certain that things will never be the same and that her new normal is going to be much worse than what she’d had before.

“Maybe you don’t right now, but you will.” She presses. “Zuko tells me that things usually work out for you.”

This only dims her mood further. “They don’t. They haven’t, not since the Agni Kai.” She thinks that she had lost her luck alongside her mind, dignity, and aspirations that day.

“Well then you’re due for some good luck soon.” Katara tries.

The waterbender visits again the next day and the day after that. It is now part of her routine, sometimes Zuko or Sokka come with her, most of the time she is alone. Azula yearns to leave her bedrest, but both the doctors and Katara advise against it.

Katara is caring with her, more than anyone has ever been and it makes Azula feel embarrassingly weepy and emotional all over again. She thinks that this might be the first time anyone has invested so much time into her well being. Maybe that is why it was so easy for Azula to grow attached.

.oOo.

She is allowed to leave the hospital bed a few days later, but activity is restricted. Azula itches to get back to training, itching to find a work around to her handicap. Though each of her choice training rooms are guarded; she can throw around all of the titles she wants, they override her for her own wellbeing.

Each rejection has her increasingly more frustrated. Her frustration carries her onto the bench in the palace garden. She sits, uncharacteristically hunched, her arm hanging limp in front of her, lips pursed in a full pout.

“I take it, they wouldn’t let you into your training room again?” Katara finds a seat next to her. Azula crosses her remaining arm over her chest, her frown deepens. “I can’t even convey the extent of my dissatisfaction correctly.”

Katara laughs, “trust me, you’re conveying it just fine.”

Azula almost cracks a smile, but her mood is too dim.

“Here…” Katara mutters. She pushes Azula’s sleeve up and the princess feels a familiar controlled current. Her wound is rather decently healed, but it still feels kind of have the soothing of a good healing session. She feels some of the tension leave her. “Feel better?”

“Somewhat.” Azula replies. “I’d feel better knowing that I’m not useless…”

“Then you can start feeling better now.” Katara assures. She gives Azula’s hand a small squeeze.

“I mean that I’d feel better knowing that I can still bend like I used to.” Her stomach sinks further, she knows that she won’t be able to, not exactly.

Katara cautiously takes the firebender into a hug and pats her back.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile.” Azula mutters. She is dreadfully tired of people treating her as though she will break at the slightest touch.

“We just don’t want to hurt you.”

She doesn’t know how to tell her that it hurts infinitely worse to feel so vulnerable. To be treated like she is weaker. “You won’t.” She states simply.

.oOo.

Azula is starting to grow accustomed to being short an arm. Reflexes to use the arm she no longer has are becoming frequent; she forgets that she has lost it less. Climbing is no easy feat, and it won’t be until she strengthens her core and her right arm enough to compensate.

With a tired huff, she lets go of the rungs of the ladder and pushes herself up with her feet, gripping the next rung up before she can drop to the floor. Weeks back, Zuko had the ladder made specifically to cater to her training needs. Its entire purpose is to train her to scale buildings and cliffsides again.

If nothing else, she has a rather impressive grip. She reaches the top of the ladder and lets herself drop.

“You finally made it to the top.” Katara notes with a smile.

“It took much longer than it should have.” Azula scowls.

Katara rolls her eyes and ruffles the firebender’s hair. “You’re always so grumpy. I got something for you.” She fishes around in her bag and pulls out a sleeveless shirt.

“You know that I don’t wear sleeveless in public anymore…”

“I know that you’ve never let insecurities stop you from doing anything before.” Katara shoves the shirt into her arm. “Why shouldn’t you wear a sleeveless shirt?”

“Because nobody wants to see this.” Azula motions to the stump.

“I don’t mind seeing it.” Katara shrugs. “Toph likes it too.”

“Because she is spared the grotesque details.”

“Because she finally has someone else sort of like her. Someone who is still...badass despite a handicap.”

“If I wear the sleeveless shirt tonight, will you promise to never timidly say ‘badass’ again?”

“I guess, that that’s a fair deal.” Katara agrees, though Azula thinks that she has offered herself the short end of the deal. “Have you started working with lightning again?”

Azula swallows and nods, this time she is the meek one. “I need two arms.”

Katara frowns and purses her lips. “Or… you need to redirect the flow. Redirecting lightning borrows waterbending techniques....”

“That also require two arms…”

“That’s the thing about water, when it’s path is blocked it usually just changes it’s flow.”

“Or it gets blocked and has nowhere to go.”

“And then it bursts through with more power than before.” She points out. “Even if it takes a while.” She pauses. “Have you tried bending lightning using a waterbending technique?”

Azula nods, “believe it or not, I’ve tried earth too.”

“I’ve heard of benders who could bend with their minds. If anyone could learn to do that, it’s you. You’ve already trained your mind so well in other areas.” Katara holds her hand at Azula’s temple. “Why not try to direct your flow of lightning using your mind?”

“I suppose that I can give it a try.”

Azula stands up, for now she will focus on her firebending. At least that is going decently enough.

“You’re going to look beautiful tonight.” She pecks Azula on the cheek. A cheek that is now faintly pink. She still has to get used to receiving so much affection. Somehow she thinks that that will be harder than getting used to having one arm.

“You are distracting me from my training.”

Katara rolls her eyes. “Your training is distracting you from me.” She flashes a mischievous smile. “Come on, let me train with you, don’t you think it’d be useful to have some combat training.”

Azula considers, “yes, quite.” Though there is a part of her that hesitates. The last thing that her ego needs is for her to get her ass completely kicked.

“Remember when we were in the caverns of Lake Laogai and I had you trapped in those water tentacles?”

Azula’s face colors again.

“Maybe you can make a fire version of that and use that as an arm in battle.” She suggests, “I can show you how to do it.”

“You wrap the water around your arm.” Azula reminds flatly. “Right…” Katara trails off. “Well why don’t we just have a little dual like I first suggested?”

“Sure, just don’t completely destroy me.” Azula mutters.

Katara wraps her arms around the princess. “We’re not trying to see who the better bender is, we’re just trying to get you used to fighting again.” She reminds. “I think it’ll be much easier for you to figure out how to approach attacks if you experience them.” She pauses. “Actually, the whole point of this will be to try new methods. Only one of us is going to attack, the other sticks to defense. And then tomorrow, we’ll switch.”

“Right, yes.” Azula agrees. “I suppose that does make much more sense than starting with a dual.” She silently adds that it makes more sense to begin with defense as well. “And when you aren’t around I can work on trying to bend with my mind.”

“I was actually planning on sticking around for that. Combustion Man made all kinds of great faces while doing it.” Katara laughs. “Sort of like the one you’re making now.”

Azula, with nothing else to chuck save for fire, tosses the shirt at Katara who quickly sets it aside. “Alright, so I’ll come at you with a water whip.”

“With two.” Azula insists. “I can easily block one.”

Katara lets the water slide down her arms. “Two it is. Ready?”

“Don’t baby me either.” Azula requests. “If I get hit, I get hit. I should have blocked it.”

Katara’s expression softened. “I’m not going to hurt you on purpose. I know that you guys can be brutal here, but you don’t have to be. I won’t go easy on you, but I’m not going to throw you around either.”

“Just throw some water at me already.” Azula grumbles.

Without warning, Katara obeys. Azula is pleased that her reflexes remain, she ducks down and evaporates the stream with a steady flow of fire. Katara comes at her with the second water arm. Other reflexes are still intact, she goes to throw up her left arm to defend. In battle she would have taken a good slash to the face. She grits her teeth and fights to keep tears of frustration at bay. “Go again.” She requests through gritted teeth.

Katara looks on in concern, but ultimately decides that, for the sake of the princess’ ego, to oblige. She comes just as quickly, but Azula knows what is coming this time. For it, fending the faux attack off has no satisfaction. Not until she notices the third and fourth water arms. This time Azula springs up and cuts through the twin streams with a kick of fire. She has only enough time to land before the water begins to rise again.

She sends a good portion of her chi to the soles of her feet and heats the water beneath them until it turns into nothing but mist. Mist that rises rather thickly. She realizes that she no has the element of surprise on her side. Briefly she thinks of taking the offensive role, but a sense of honor takes precedence. “I’d be able to attack you very easily right now.” She lets Katara know.

“She, we’ve only just begun and you’ve already found a new approach to combat.” She can hear the bragging, ‘I told you so’, but the excitement in her voice takes the edge off of it. “I figured that you would.”

Azula drops into a roll as Katara sends the next water tentacle in her direction. From the floor, she gives it another fiery kick. She thinks that the move is more reminiscent of Zuko’s bending style than her own. She blasts herself up right with her arm and propels herself forward and under the next water arm, with the agility that is all her own. The water arms pursue her until she reaches the west wall. She runs up it and somersaults over the streams, raining fire over them. They evaporate in another cloud of mist. She lands next to Katara.

“I don’t think that I have to go easy on you.” The waterbender remarks. “It seems to me, like you’re just as good at this as before.”

“I still can’t…”

Katara rolls her eyes. “Lightningbend? You’re really fixated on that, aren’t you?”

“It’s what sets me apart, everyone can firebend, it takes true mastery to lightningbend.”

Katara quirks a brow. “Really, you think that it’s your lightning that sets you apart? Zuko is learning to lightningbend. If anything it’s--I don’t know--your blue fire that sets you apart.”

Azula holds a small flame in her palm and watches it flick and dance. Katara cups her hand under Azula’s. “You’re the only one who can do that.”

“I suppose.”

“But do you know what really made you such a strong combatant?”

“What?”

Katara taps the side of her head. “Your mind, Azula.” She pauses. “You’re really clever and you think fast. That’s what always made you so effective. You didn’t lose that Agni Kai because you were less powerful, you lost it because you weren’t all there.”

Azula lets the fire die down.

“You didn’t need your bending during the eclipse.” Katara continues. “Because you had a plan and you’re good at improvising when you don’t.” She squeezes Azula’s hand. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you won’t be able to bend like you used to for a while. But you don’t need to because you can think like you used to.”

Azula swallows, this time her eyes well with a different sort of emotion. She isn’t quite sure what it is, but it is moving enough for her to have to wipe her eye with the back of her hand. “I guess that I hadn’t considered…” She trails off.

“Well, now you know.” Katara sits herself down in Azula’s lap and Azula wraps her arm around the waterbender’s torso. “So you can give yourself a break.”

Azula stares at her palm as Katara nuzzles her head in the crook of her neck. “I’d still like to bend lightning again, though.”

“You will.” Katara assures. “Until then, you’ll just have to get creative when kicking ass.”

“We had a deal.” Azula nudges her lightly in the ribs.

“Put your new shirt on.” She pecks Azula’s nose. “And let's get ready for our dinner party.”

#Azula #Katara #Azutara #azula week 2020 #Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula Week #Fanfiction

59 notes · View notes

loveafterthefact · 4 years ago

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 31: Reunion Part 1

Lance and Allura get a moment alone.

First Previous Next

The royal family stands on the landing pad, watching a dark-metaled ship settle on one of the numbered spaces. It's freezing, breath rising in white plumes on every exhalation. Lance is practically vibrating in place, not only cold, but also eager to see Allura and Romelle again, excited to goof off with Lotor. Next to him, Keith almost suppresses a soft sound in the back of his throat. Shiro’s on this ship.

Lance settles a hand on the small of Keith’s back. Keith’s tail wraps snugly around his ankle. He’s grateful he has someone to support him. Sure, he has Coran and Adam, but Keith’s of a whole different caliber. The Galra has been by his side the entire movement, working with him and Adam to alter legislation to be enacted upon the first thaw. Even while fighting to learn legal jargon until their eyes bleed, Lance has been able to count on his spouse to stick with him. It’s a very nice feeling.

Shiro steps out first, dressed in fine armor, the swooping sigil of the Imperial Guard on his chest, cloak trailing the white tile beneath his feet. Keith’s tail tightens, and Lance slips his hand around his waist, thumb slipping beneath his vest to draw comforting circles into his side.

The captain places a fist over his breast, taking a knee in front of Alfor and Coran. Behind him, Lance hears Adam’s feet shuffle as Shiro’s gray eyes dart their way momentarily. The kings nod, and Alfor tells Shiro to rise. Shiro does as he’s told, gestures to the ramp of the ship, rattles off names and titles, and finally, after a small eternity, Allura, Lotor, and Romelle descend the ramp.

Standing between her husband and lover, Allura is hand-in-hand with Lotor, her arm around Romelle’s waist. The waif-like blonde leans into her slightly. She’s still fragile, Lance can tell, but it seems like there’s more of her now than last time he saw her.

Allura is beaming, practically alight. Lance smiles; she’s as happy to be home as he is to see her. Next to him, Keith jolts, eyes widening momentarily. Lance wonders vaguely what it’s about, but doesn’t have much time to think on it before it’s time for formalities.

“Welcome, Prince Lotor,” Alfor says, holding out his arm in greeting.

Lotor clasps it just below the elbow in traditional greeting. “Thank you for having us. I was surprised and flattered when I received Crown Prince Lancel’s invitation.” Lance smiles, bows his head graciously. Lotor responds in turn as he greets him and Coran.

“Nonsense.” Alfor waves a hand, pretending it was his idea all along. “We are family now, after all.” Lance can feel Keith rolling his eyes, imagines his ears falling back with the motion. He bites his lip to keep from laughing. He assumes his imagination is in fact reality when Keith elbows him in the side. He bites harder. “Now, where are my girls?”

“Hello, Father.” Allura hands Romelle off to Lotor, who keeps a gentle hand between her shoulders. She throws her arms around her fathers. “Hi, Dad. I missed you both. Good to see you, Adam. My brother running you ragged?”

“Into the ground, your Majesty.” Adam smiles, bowing deeply.

“I expect nothing less. Hi!” Allura throws her arms around Lance. Lance squeezes back, basking in his sister’s warmth.

“Hey. I missed you. It’s not home without you here.”

“I know. I missed you too.” Allura squeezes him tight. Lance can feel Keith watching, eyes never leaving Allura. After a long moment, Allura gives Keith a hug too, kisses his cheek. Lance sees him whisper something in her ear, sees a wide grin break over her face.

“Now then!” Coran chirps, exceptionally chipper when facing an evening with his entire family in the same room. Coran is the glue that holds them together. “Shall we continue this inside before we all freeze to death?”

Lance glances to Keith and Shiro, who had stepped away for a greeting over their own, rubbing their cheeks together. There’s a particular smile Keith has, one that he saves just for his family. Lance can’t help but feel the slightest bit jealous. He’s not part of Keith’s family.

That's not his part to play.

He turns to his fathers. “Yes, please.”

It’s not his place to be Keith’s family. That’s not his job.

Instead of dwelling on his ruined concept of family and community, Lance throws an arm over his sister’s shoulders. He wants to say hi to Romelle, but knows she needs to settle before she can handle very much.

Allura tugs on his sleeve. “Have you got a minute?”

Lance turns back to his spouse. “Will you be alright for a bit?”

“Yes.” Keith nods. He’s got a new spring in his step. “I’ll be fine. But it’s time for lunch…”

“We’ll catch up. We only need a few minutes,” Allura promises, smiling at her brother-in-law. She pulls Lance into a spare sitting room off the main hall. The moment the door is closed, Lance throws his arms around his sister again. “I missed you. I miss you both,” he says.

“We missed you, too. Romelle talks about you sometimes these days. She talks more in general. Yesterday, she asked if we could go look at the moons.”

“That’s great! Will she be okay with just Lotor?”

Allura draws back, hands slipping down to his. “Of course. They’ve grown much closer.”

“Romantically?”

“Not quite, but definitely loving. Our arrangement is working better than we expected.” Allura’s smiling so brightly. Lance is so happy to see her happy. He remembers her fear when the conditions of the alliance were placed before them. Truthfully, Allura had so much more to lose. If not for Lotor’s understanding, she would have lost Romelle. “There’s something I must tell you.”

Lance frowns, immediately thinking of war rooms and assassins. “Is everything okay? Are you alright? Are you in danger?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. But… And understand I haven’t even told our fathers… I am pregnant.”

Lance blinks, mouth agape. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously?” Lance sniffles, eyes watering, so delighted for his sister. Allura will make a wonderful mother.

“Yes, Lance. Seriously.” Allura beams, body vibrating from whatever multiple emotions are coursing through her veins. Lance tethers their quintessence together, lets their excitement blend, swirl in the space between them.

“Oh, Ancients! Allura!” Lance throws his arms around his sister again, holds her close. Allura laughs into his chest, squeezing him tight. Lance knows he’s crying, but he can’t help it. He loves his sister, loves Romelle, and, in an increasingly familial way, loves Lotor.

It’s his nature to love, his primal instinct. He was born with this, with blue scales painting his body.

“I told Lotor you’d cry,” Allura laughs.

“Shut up! My kids are gonna be cuter than yours, so we'll see who's laughing then!”

“I told him you’d say that, too. Before you ask, he’s delighted.”

“Good. It’s hard to get a read on him.”

“Oh, goodness, yes. For our first few phoebs, I had to be connected to him to get even an idea of how he was feeling.” Allura draws back, ever the responsible one. “We should go. I need to eat, and we both need to change.”

“Lotor wearing his armor?”

Allura rolls her eyes, ushers her brother out of the room. “I swear he lives in it. I blame his father. Heathens, the both of them.”

“Hm. I buy that. You'd think Honerva would have taught them better...”

“Say, how are things going with Keith?”

“It’s, uh.” Lance blushes beneath his scales. “It’s going. He’s doing well and, uh. It’s…”

Allura snickers. “I see. Well, I’m excited to witness how well it’s going tonight.”

The blush deepens beneath his scales as he glares at his sister. He relents after only a few seconds. “Well, if you’re going to watch, will you make sure to tell him he’s doing a good job?”

“Of course, but why the request?”

“Just… He seems to have a lot of anxieties. I think he fears himself to be inadequate.”

“Well, he’s not ideal, to be sure. But he is cute if nothing else-”

“He’s talented and smart. Calling him cute is so…”

“Inadequate?” Allura supplies, smirk unrelenting.

Lance rolls his eyes, tempted to start shoving and messing around like the old days. But things are different now. They’re grown, and the days of messing around are over. They’re both married, Allura is pregnant, and they must behave as befits their-

Allura shoves him into the wall with a smirk. Maybe some things can stay the same.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

12 notes · View notes

btsandvmin · 5 years ago

Note

Do you think the songs lie and stigma are related ? If we read the lyrics translation wow it seems like that to me like they have so many similarities! it seems like jimin is talking about him being hurt by someone and stigma is about v talking about someone he's hurting but he's hurt too at the same time. They both wrote their own song. Also it could be about their sexuality. Jimin said on the vlive comeback show it's about conflicts dues to lies and temptation and pt1

pt2 v didn't said what he was about but the title and the lyrics are quite something. Also in that period they were very close he could be about jimin cheering up v because of his lost but something else too at the same time. Can you do a analysis about those songs and what you think of if you want and have the time?

I mean I suspect they could be connected in some form, especially since so many of their other songs seem to be. And as you say the lyrics seem to match and almost be responses to each other even. The two songs were one of the first things I noticed in regards to Vmin that went beyond just shipping them and finding them cute. Both of them also seemed quite private when talking about the songs and I definitely think there is a lot hidden underneath the lyrics they haven’t explained. It’s just difficult to know what, even if we can speculate.

Maybe you’ve missed it, but I have actually written about Stigma and Lie two times before. In my very first (and quite outdated) song analysis Vmin - The Sun, the Moon & The whole universe back in 2017 I talked about the songs briefly. Both how they could possibly match and also how they seemed to fit with possibly being about the struggle of being LGBT+. This was way before we learned about the Jungian theories that BTS are using and even their concept of Fake Love and Love Yourself. Both themes also fit well for Stigma and Lie and the songs could be interpreted as how the boys felt showing their personas were like lying.

Then I talked about it again later and more properly in my post Vmin - Scenery, Promise and song connections. In it I go through all Vmin songs up until Scenery and Promise and how they could possibly show several types of connections between Vmin’s songs. Spoiler, but there are a lot!

Even back in 2017 I felt it was possible that Vmin’s songs were about each other in different ways. And since then it just seems to get more and more likely for every song they make. Especially for Tae, and this time for “Friends” I was even able to predict a few of the themes in the song because they love to use them so much.

But while we have a lot now, we did not back then, and I am still not sure Lie and Stigma are related. But here is a little piece about Lie and Stigma specifically from my first post about it:

First, there is “Lie” in which Jimin begs for someone to save him.

Whatever it takes, save me, meSave the me who’s being punished

Then there is Stigma, which has possibly matching lyrics. Where Taehyung speaks of another person being punished in his stead, or because of him.

Deeper, it’s just the heart that hurts every day(You) who was punished in my stead,You who were only delicate and fragile

There is also this line:

Even if (I try to) hide it, or conceal it, it can’t be erased.

Which of course also matches Jimin being caught in a lie, as they both have to pretend and hide what they really feel. Here they both hate the situation they are in, and Taehyung goes as far as to apologize for it. He also mentions being called a sinner. Both of the songs can easily be seen as reflecting the hardships of not being straight. Especially considering that Taehyung’s song is called “Stigma”.

So yes, even then I saw it as a possibility and of course I still do now, even more so now becuse it’s not just two songs anymore.

Because then it just kept on coming, and when Singularity and Serendipity seemed to match I also wrote Taehyung and Jimin - Yin and Yang which focused on their portrayals in the HER and TEAR albums.

And of course with Scenary and Promise I kind of made a more updated full version where I went through all their songs and other relevant connections between Vmin’s song up until then.

After that because the connections have (in my opinion) gotten bigger and more obvious I have added on posts about Winter Bear and Friends specifically as well. So you can probably tell that song analysis is basically one of the things I have written the most about on this blog, and for good reason. There are a lot of interesting things to find about Vmin in regards to their songs.

I am considering making an updated version with the main points for all the songs, but maybe long posts isn’t that good? I’m feeling people don’t like it when there is too much text... So maybe it’s better if I make one analysis per song? But then people kind of miss the scale of it all, because to me it’s the amount of connections between all songs that makes them being on purpose more likely.

I could also go into analysing BTS songs and concepts in general because a lot of them fit together with stuff from Vmin’s songs as well, like the theme of temptation. For example with Jimin basically showing the “Fall of man” as he sings about “smooth like a snake” in Lie and has been shown giving in to temptation and eating the apple of knowledge in both the short film for Lie as well as in Blood Sweat and Tears Japanese version.

Yoongi literally tries to protect and blind Jimin to shield him from temptation, but Jimin is stuck and tied to the door through which Tae went, which indicates Tae could be a form of temptation in the form of the fallen angel or Icarus wings.

We even have a small hint that the temptation could be the love of a man, as seen in Jin kissing the statue that represents Tae. But of course these things aren’t limited to only Vmin.

Anyways, this is getting out of hand.... So I’ll stop here.

There are many speculations I could make and maybe I should do a post specifically about Lie and Stigma, but for now since there are so many topics to cover I’ll probably focus on other things first.

I hope you enjoyed reading and sorry for not making more of an analysis now even though it is an interesting topic. I am saving your second ask to remind myself I didn’t answer all of it... Sorry!

Thanks for the ask! And if any of you are curious about my analysis you can always check out my BTSandVMIN: Masterpost to see if there is something that sounds interesting.

#vmin #taehyung #jimin #vmin analysis #bts song analysis #jimin lie #taehyung stigma #bts lie #bts stigma #my post #btsandvmin #Btsandvmin ask #Btsandvmin answer #Blood Sweat and Tears #vmin blood sweat and tears

43 notes · View notes

damienthepious · 5 years ago

Text

needed some catharsis. mind them tags.

Wait For Yours To Interlock

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Injury, Bedside Vigils, Injured!Damien, (im deep in my feelings. my friends said this was catharsis so it's fine. it's fine)

Summary: Rilla once said that she knew, someday, she would probably need to bury Damien with a talon through his heart. On rare occasion, that lurking future brushes too close for comfort.

Notes: I said i wouldn't get something out this week because. Reasons. And i wouldn't have for sure if it weren't for tumblr user @shorter-than-her-tbr-pile and tumblr user @pinkpuffballdude . Thank you thank you thank you, i love you both so much! Title from the song Don't Give Up On Me by Andy Grammer.

It takes a long time for Arum to convince Amaryllis to go to bed.

Of course it does.

It's impossible for her not to feel like this is her responsibility, but there is nothing more she can do at the moment. There is nothing more either of them can do, at the moment, and she has been awake for days. It takes a long time, and a lot of convincing, and an argument that would have been a screaming match if it weren't for-

(He will not wake, even if they scream. It would be far too painful to prove this fact, to shout above him and-)

But Arum manages, eventually. So now, Amaryllis is asleep, and Arum…

Arum leans against the wall, and stares at the cot in her exam room.

He stares, and for quite a long time, nothing changes.

"Foolish little honeysuckle," he hisses.

There is no answer, of course.

"Always so careless with yourself. Thoughtless. What did you think would happen? What did you think would happen, Damien, if you continued to throw yourself at-"

He straightens from the wall, and begins to pace, stalking back and forth. He cannot continue to stare at the bed, but his eyes keep drawing back to the stillness of the form there. His mind demands the reminder: he is still breathing.

He is still breathing.

"How dare you," Arum mutters, and he did not intend to say those words, but- "How dare you. How dare you do this to Amaryllis. Can you not see how she worries for you? Can you not see how much effort she expends? Patching up every injury, every cut, every broken bone? Every foolish little-" he clenches his teeth hard, hisses through them, tries again. "Has she not done enough already? Has she not wasted enough bandages on you, because you cannot keep your foolish self safe? How dare you do this to her-"

Arum feels that he should be shouting. His voice is, instead, coming in a hoarse, whispered sort of scream. It feels like it scrapes up his windpipe as it goes, but-

He cannot seem to control the words. Perhaps this is how Damien feels, under more ordinary circumstances.

Arum continues to pace. Damien continues to lie perfectly still.

He still breathes. He still breathes. Arum can still hear his heart, can still hear it beating, even if it sounds- not quite right. There is something off about the rhythm, something off about the pace, perhaps. It does not sound as it usually does when Damien sleeps.

But Damien still breathes.

("All we can do is- wait," Rilla says, her voice cracking down the middle. "All we can do is wait, now.")

"How dare you make her worry like this," he growls, and then he pauses for a long, long time, holding his breath without meaning to.

Damien. Still, and quiet. It is unnatural.

"How dare you do this," he repeats, his voice growing weaker with the repetition, and he pretends not to notice the tightness in his throat, the way he chokes as he continues, "I do not see you speaking your heart now, honeysuckle-"

He has to stop, digging the claws of his toes into the wood of the floor, his posture hunching as he hisses a breath through his teeth. His limbs tremble with the tension of how tightly he is holding himself still, his teeth clenched so hard that his jaw hurts.

After a long pause, during which Damien neither moves nor speaks nor stirs, Arum gives a strange breath of laughter.

"How… how does she do this, Damien?" he keens, helpless, and then he takes a hesitant step closer to the bed. "How does she endure, watching you careen from one danger to the next?" Another slow step, and Damien still does not wake. "How does she- I… I cannot bear it. I cannot bear this. How am I meant t-to-"

He chokes another strange laugh, takes another small step. "I did not need to fear such hurt as this when… when it was only myself and my Keep. Death would only be death, then, honeysuckle. My own would be survived by my Keep, and if I failed my Keep enough that it fell, I would fall with it. Now- now-" He searches for the words, creeps closer, flicks his tongue and scents the sterile blank smell of this room, obscuring the more familiar scent of Damien's skin, the more unwelcome scent of the blood.

"Now… there is so much more at stake. I cannot bear the thought of yourself and Amaryllis being torn from me, but- what can I do against it? Your knighthood, her work, the war- my own very nature. I cannot… I cannot protect you, I cannot do anything but endure the terror of your loss and- and I do not know how. I do not know how to bear it. It would be- it would be easier if I cared not at all for you, little human. If I could see you so waylaid and feel- nothing."

Another step. Arum looms over the bed, and he feels so large and so out of place, even here in Amaryllis' hut where he knows himself welcome. He looks down at Sir Damien, and he feels so much that he fears it will crack his ribs open to escape the too-small vessel of his body.

"I was not meant to care for any but myself and my Keep," he says, his voice very small. "It would be so much easier if I could return to that feeling. If I could go home to my Keep, if I could bury my affection in the greenhouse and forget this pain, forget this terror. It would be so much easier, Damien," he keens. "But-"

Damien breathes.

"I cannot forget. I cannot excise you from my heart. And- and I wouldn't dare, even if I could."

Damien breathes, perfectly still.

"Honeysuckle… honeysuckle… wake up. Please." He swallows roughly, and Damien's slack face mocks the waver in his voice. "I know you cannot hear me. This is- mere foolishness, I know. I know… I am not helping. I am not… blessed with Amaryllis' talents. There is nothing I can do for you, not now, and my words- my own words pale beside yours. I would cut my tongue out to hear you speak them now, honeysuckle. To hear you speak at all, I would- please. Please."

His legs shake. His hands twitch with the deep desire to touch his poet. Before his limbs can betray him entirely, Arum relents, and sinks to kneel by the bedside.

"Foolishness," he says again, gazing up into Damien's beautiful, terribly still face. He reaches out, but he does not touch Damien's skin. He wishes so badly to brush the curls from Damien's brow, but his position feels so precarious. Damien looks so fragile. Arum does not feel his own touch would be safe.

"Honeysuckle, wake up. Honeysuckle, come back. Please… please, don't-" he sucks in a breath. "Don't do this to her. She has expended so much effort, so much worry and care in patching your sorry hide together. Wake up. Just wake up."

Damien does not answer. Arum knew he wouldn't. His insides still feel curdled with the hurt of it.

"Don't do this to her," he repeats, his voice lower. "Don't do this to- don't do this to us, honeysuckle, please don't-"

("And if he wakes up-"

"If?"

"W-when, I meant when, Arum, don't-")

Arum shakes his head, pulls his hands back to press to his own chest, holding in the throbbing of his heart, his pain.

"The Universe prefers- the Universe desires a good story. An interesting story, at the least," he mutters, clenching his claws against his own scales. "I- I know- this world is better with you alive. All is brighter, more vibrant for your presence. Surely the Universe knows…"

He inhales, forcing himself steady, and he makes himself sway closer. Makes himself lift his hand out again.

"I… I don't know what I would do if we lost you," he whispers, and then he clenches his teeth. "I- I refuse to- to contemplate it. That is not how your story ends, honeysuckle. Not here. Not yet. We don't lose you like this. I refuse."

Damien does not wake. Arum did not expect him to. He scowls, fierce, and settles his palm down over the back of Damien's hand at last.

"I love you, Damien. I love you, and I will stay as long as I need to. I will be here when you wake. That is how this story goes."

Damien wakes bleary and confused, but the morning light calls to him as it always does, pouring honey-soft through the warm curtains, birdsong and the distant, early bells from the Gate of Tranquility pouring in with it.

All of it pouring in, through the open windows of Rilla's examination room. Why… why would he be…

Damien remembers.

The pain comes a moment after the memory: a vicious sharpness in his ribs, the muddy thudding ache in his head resolving to something he can understand, the wobbly, shaky sense of disconnection from his limbs.

… Disconnection from most of his limbs. There is a pressure on his left hand, vaguely warm, familiar, pleasant. He can feel that sensation perfectly well.

It takes a rather frustrating level of effort to tip his head to the side enough to see the source of the pressure. He blinks, bleary, against that warm morning light, and when his vision resolves he sees Arum.

The monster is half-draped on the bed, his snout buried in the sheets, two arms clinging loosely to the cot, one hanging down out of sight over the edge, and the fourth hand curled, careful and delicate, around the back of Damien's hand.

Damien can piece together the vague shape of what occurred in his unconsciousness well enough. The lizard looks exhausted even in sleep, and he looks anything but comfortable, half-supported by the cot, twisted vaguely sideways with his shoulder against the bedside table. He must not have meant to fall asleep. Damien feels his mouth curl despite the fogginess in his head, because the idea of it, this attempted vigil succumbing to the drain of sleep-

Damien loves this monster with a brightness that still shocks him. He wants to turn his hand, to press his palm to Arum's, but- well. Just at the moment, he can barely manage to twitch his thumb. He blinks a bit more of the light from his eyes, looking more closely at his lily instead.

There's a blanket draped over Arum's shoulders, as well. A familiar blanket, one that usually finds its home on Rilla's bed, and Damien can imagine as well how the cloth must have ended up settled there. He exhales, something that would be a laugh if he had just an ounce more breath to give, and he hears a scuffing noise across the room.

"Damien," Rilla says, her voice thick and exhausted and raw. "You're awake-"

Damien manages to tilt his head enough to see her as she stands, as she darts to the side of the cot opposite from Arum to touch his face, to check his pupils, and he cannot help but smile at her touch.

"Hello, my flower," he whispers, and his own voice is cracked and dry, and as she moves his head so gently and checks him over, he contemplates her words again in his somewhat muddied mind. "Was… was there concern, then, that I would not?"

Rilla does not answer, does not meet his eye, but her jaw tightens, her brow dips, and Damien's heart pulses with sympathy, with guilt.

"I'm-"

"Don't you apologize, Damien," she says in a firm murmur, angling his head so she can inspect the wound he can feel near his temple. "You're a knight," she says simply, and then she shrugs. "We both know it comes with the territory."

Damien closes his eyes and purses his lips, and he thinks briefly of the ream of now-crumpled paper from the one letter he cannot seem to write. "Hm," he manages. "I suppose that is… I suppose."

"Just- relax and let me do my job."

Damien does as she says, pretending for a moment that he is blessed with Rilla's touch for a less worrying reason as she inspects his injuries more fully.

"I expect that the blanket upon our lily was your doing, my love," he says eventually, quietly, and Rilla snorts a low laugh.

"Yeah, well. He wanted me to sleep, but he was still gonna worry himself sick all night in here with you. I just- waited until he stopped talking. I knew he was exhausted too."

"You- you slept in here as well?"

"Slept is a strong word," she hedges, shrugging.

"Rilla," Damien says, but his voice is too weak to carry the gentle chiding he wants it to.

"You sure as hell wouldn't sleep if you didn't know if I was gonna-" she cuts herself off, pressing her lips together tight, and then she gives a wobbly sort of smile. "I couldn't, okay? I just- couldn't."

"Oh," Damien whispers. "Oh, love-"

"You sound like you spent a week in a desert," Rilla mutters, rubbing one eye absently. "Hush." She reaches a hand out again, this time only to brush his hair away from his forehead. "I'm gonna go get you some water, okay? Don't- just don't. Don't move, don't talk, don't do anything stupid, yeah?"

Damien ducks his head, entirely unable to bury his gentle smile. "I wouldn't dream of it, my love."

"Hush," she says again, firmly, and then she puts her hand very carefully on his shoulder, leans down, and presses a light kiss to his hair. "I'll be right back."

Damien sighs, still smiling, and his eyelids are too heavy to hold open as he hears Rilla tiptoe from the room.

When that noise fades, he is left only with what woke him in the first place. Sunlight, soft through his eyelids, and birdsong and distant bells, and-

Much closer by, the slow sleeping breath of Lord Arum.

Damien opens his eyes again, tipping his head to see his monster again, and Damien's muscles twitch with yearning to pull Arum up, to gather him closer, to embrace him on this too-small bed. He huffs out a breath, his lip curling wryly at his own current limitations, and then he focuses on his hand instead. Surely that cannot be too difficult to manage.

It takes far more effort than it should. Damien has fought battles more difficult than the simple turning of his hand (more difficult- but very few that mattered to him more). The weakness of his body can be overcome. He has done so countless times before.

He is patient, though his arm aches with even this simple motion. He is patient, and like a key in a very old lock, his hand turns, and he exhales a sigh when he can at last press his palm up into Arum's. He curls his fingers, slow, and he squeezes with what strength remains.

Violet eyes slit open in the golden morning light, and Arum blinks, staring at their joined hands for a breathless moment.

Then the breath shakes out of him, and he looks up.

"Honeysuckle," Arum whispers, and there is more relief in his voice than the word can hold. "I knew- I knew you wouldn't-"

He reaches out, and draws his claws down Damien's cheek as gentle as falling petals.

Damien feels the smile on his face like an entire garden in bloom, and Arum's violet eyes are so bright, so wide, as safe as home.

"Good morning, my love," he whispers, and when Arum's breath hitches, Damien squeezes his hand again. "Thank you for watching over me."

#the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #angstttttt #(with a happy ending)

31 notes · View notes

uraharasandals · 4 years ago

Text

Loneliness / Hunger Games AU

Another Hunger Games au that no one asked for! I was tired of reading the books on my reading list so I tried something...more relaxing and got into the amazing world-building again. With that cheery thought, let’s have some more behind the scenes!

Title: Loneliness

Word count: 2325

Dazai, Mori (other side relationships)

Character study

Weak. Fragile. Worthless. That was what Dazai have been hearing his whole life, growing up around the other kids in District 2. The other kids were all sturdily built, each of them made up of pure courage, bravery, grim determination and muscle. The other kids could run ten miles without sweating, and still scale the training wall with ease. The other kids could handle basically every weapon without fumbling or letting the sword fall out of their hands.

Dazai could do none of these things.

He stopped caring early on, however, mainly because he had other things to worry about. For one, the other children at the orphanage he was at. The staff there told him that his parents were dead, which was why he ended up there. Somehow, his version of the truth was never sugarcoated. He thinks the staff there understood that he could bear the truth, and the truth was given to him. More like shoved; he didn’t have a choice to accept or not.

At any rate, because of his skinny frame that couldn’t be filled out no matter how hard he tried, Dazai was small, even for his age. Which resulted in a boatload of bullying from the older kids, kids his same age, even younger kids, because at the orphanage there never seemed to be enough, despite it being District 2.

District 2. They were taught that it was one of the Capitol’s favourites, and one of the most-fed. It was also the district of peacekeepers, the white-uniformed blank-faced guards that stood at virtually every corner he could see. Everyone aspired to be like them. Not Dazai.

Everyone also aspired to be a victor in the Hunger Games, and everyone who was someone (which was basically everyone except Dazai) signed up for training. Dazai didn’t bother to, not only because he had no interest in the Games entirely, but also he knew that the moment his name was called, someone more brutal, more bloodthirsty than him would take his place. No one in their right mind would let him go to the Hunger Games.

That is, no one in their right mind until he was eight. For some reason, that was when he got tired of being kicked around and bullied. Dazai soon found that he had a way with words. With manipulating others, and talking his way into anything and everything. His brain became sharper, and it was as if the world’s opportunities opened themselves to him. He was still scrawny and thin, but for once, he stood with confidence.

The constant manipulation came with a pleasant surprise, too. Rumours spread and soon people started steering clear of him. That was perfectly fine with Dazai; he wanted no company and didn’t bother with any. The staff let him keep the pet snake that somehow followed his commands, and thus he lived peacefully like that. (People called him ‘The Devil’s Child, but what did it matter? He even liked the ring of it)

Fourteen. Two years into the Hunger Games circuit and he started to get bored of just manipulating ordinary people. Dazai started stealing things. Well, not stealing per se, but talking people into giving him things. Mostly women, because he had seen in the mirror that he had a distinct sort of charm. Not conventional, but still charming. With his stature, he could even play the part of a pitiful child. So he talked the rich into giving him things. A jewel here, a ring there. Not much. Mostly he got bored with it and pawned it off, throwing in an excuse to avoid suspicion. He never got into trouble with anyone or anything either, and was beginning to think into making this into a living when he was approached one day.

Where did you learn to manipulate people like that? At first, Mori was just a friendly face. Dazai even bought into his lies, and started manipulating him. He quickly realised the man was more than that though, and somehow Mori was interested in taking him under as a disciple. What he did for a living, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was Mori socialising with important people and doing important things. Dazai also soon realised the gravity of what he was negotiating on a daily basis; the stakes were higher, meaning that more charm was laid on thick. He started to burrow deeper into the job, deeper into the underground network, and deeper into the lies. He also started enjoying it more, because when these people started losing, they fall deeper.

Dazai soon learnt a word for this; ‘sadistic’.

At any rate, it soon vanished into reality when his name was called at the Hunger Games drawing when he was seventeen. Seventeen. Just one more year and it would all be over. But no. Just when he turned seventeen, he had to be carted off to the Capitol and fight to the death for the entertainment of other people. The mere thought of it made him boiling with anger, for the first time in his life.

He held out as long as he could though, until he realised no one would volunteer for him. Dazai, the person who long ago already graduated from being ‘The Devil’s Child’ to probably personifying the devil himself. Dazai, having lurked in the underground connections so long even the light could not purify him. Dazai, Dazai, Dazai. Everyone in the seventeens crowd probably wished him dead from their loathing and their disgust, and he honestly wasn’t surprised. Another name was drawn and a lovely girl with two braids, though obviously one of the best trained of Two’s, hopped onto the stage and the crowd cheered. Dazai shook her hand and could only think of ways to corrupt her as he stared into her eyes.

They were soon on the train and lo and behold, Mori appeared, along with an unrecognizable woman. Dazai gave him a wan smile, which was mistaken for what passed for friendliness for him by the other two and their escort. He knew that Mori knew better though. After all, he was the only one present who knew his underground personality.

The days before the Games then flash by in a blur. Time with his prep time. Dazai was already naturally handsome and one of the assistants, a woman with blond curls dangling above the floor, poked his cheek good-naturedly and commented on his looks. His stylist gushed over how lucky he was to have a camera ready tribute on his hands, and he handled the fabric draping and costume testing with ease.

Mealtimes. Dazai was a natural speaker and commented, gushed, questioned and reacted with appropriate timing and impeccable style. He won over their escort, the female mentor, and even, he suspected, his fellow tribute. The girls were trained for direct confrontation, strength, battle. They weren’t equipped to handle such flattery or the male attention. Dazai had the girl falling at his feet in no time.

He also had the Capitol audience falling at his feet in no time, too. During his time with Caesar Flickerman, he played off his image as a charming young man who was shunned because of his naturally slim frame and background. Sympathy rose from the crowd, and he could see the rich women dabbing at their eyes with lace. Dazai managed to slip in a puppy look here and there, and he could practically see the sponsors lining up, just for him.

The only problem was his strength, as always. At Mori’s instruction, he tried out every weapon at the Centre, and found out he apparently excelled at throwing and aiming things. A side glance found his fellow Careers showing off around the other malnourished tributes, and he secretly added in some hunting skills, as well as trapping skills. A show of throwing knives got him a decent eight in the Gamemakers’ eyes; he suspected some of it came from his interview.

And of course, he was laying down the charm thick as usual. Dazai befriended everyone and accessed them, before accepting only one tribute for an ally - a tall eighteen year old called Oda Sakunosuke from District Four, who luckily was also part of the Career Gang. Thank god. Otherwise he would arose suspicion.

All too soon he had to take part in the Games. The morning of the Games Dazai felt anxiety clutch at his chest, and nearly lost his confident demeanor in front of the hovercraft personnel. He reminded himself that Mori had won through his wits, and not his strength, though doubt clouded his mind and would have continued if not for the note slipped to him via his stylist. At that, his lips curled up. As always, Mori thought of everything.

Killing turned out to be surprisingly easy. As long as you dismiss the fact that you were slaughtering live humans it came so much easier. And besides, Dazai was rear guard. He didn’t have to do much except take down the enemy from a distance, and it was easy as long as his opponent didn’t have a long-distance weapon at hand.

It soon became clear to the rest of the gang that Dazai had brains, and for some incredibly foolish reason they trusted him enough to come up with strategies for gameplay, not thinking that he might even betray them. Once again, his scrawny frame and charm became his assets.

Soon his allies started dropping dead, but subtly. He made sure they die when they were out hunting in small groups. Having assessed his fellow tributes, he knew which one of them were strong enough, and turned his allies on them. The battleground thinned quickly.

One element he hadn’t counted on affecting him, however, was Oda Sakunosuke. Initially he deemed him the only trustworthy one in the arena, but the more they spent time together the more he found himself dreading losing him. Dazai wasn’t sure what to do with this knowledge. He hadn’t exactly promised to win, but he was desperate enough to live (or at least die by his own methods) that he managed to keep himself alive. Should he allow Oda Sakunosuke to live instead of him?

The answer came on the fourth day, and it forced his hand. Having let his guard down, he hadn’t realised the arrow until it was too late. Flicking a knife at the direction and successfully hearing the cannon, he immediately rushed back to Oda’s side, blaming himself for not learning healing before, but it was no good. Well, at least he didn’t die by his hand. Dazai found himself, for the first time, ashamed of his thoughts and constant self-preservation.

Something else began to set in after Oda’s death too, a feeling he wasn’t familiar with until he realised, on the sixth day, what it was after killing another tribute. Loneliness. Desire for company, which was strange, because he had always been a loner. Staring down at the braids in the pool of blood, he silently, for the first time, bid his fellow tribute goodbye.

Twenty-two down, one to go. At this point, the audience was surely at the edge of their seats. Dazai hadn’t thought of the audience since day one and the melancholy after Oda died made him neglect nearly everything else except basic needs, but afterwards he realised the reward he got for charming the audience. A new set of knives after he pinned the Six tribute to a tree resembling crucifixion. Medicine for the mild burns over his hands after tricking a tribute into eating nightlock. Really, his list was endless.

His last tribute died unexpectedly though, and frankly, somewhat disappointingly. Dazai had perched himself on the Cornucopia as an easy target (and close to the lake too, for insurance) and he watched as the wild dogs chased the burly One male tribute down, before they leaped on top of him. The sounds stuck to him ever since, and Dazai thought honestly that no amount of time would erase the trauma.

The trumpet blew, he was patched up with no more burn scars on his hands, and soon he was waxing poetic about Mori and how much he owed him and all of that bullshit in front of a live audience, but not before holding in tears watching Oda Sakunosuke’s death replayed on a screen in front of him.

The part about Mori was true, in a way he did owe him. After experiencing the Games himself though, he started doubting whether the man was entirely sane with his methods, and began steering clear of him, though still being in the same industry. Dazai had navigated those waters before, and he continued doing so with ease, thinking he could continue with that lifestyle.

Before realising it was futile, of course. Despite his continuous charm and lies, there was a gnawing at his chest that was confirmed when one of the girls told him there was no heart left behind his words. But what else could he do? No companion would accept him, besides his fellow victors, and most of them were too old anyways (not that he minded sleeping with someone older but for a friend, perhaps the same age was a good start. At least, that was what he heard), or too wary of him. Apparently, even the gossip spread fast in the Victor’s Circle.

That was, until the mess of a Seven tribute was deposited into the Victor’s Circle during his first year of mentoring. The moment Dazai saw his bright orange curls, he knew Nakahara Chuuya would be worth the trouble.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #dazai #bsd dazai #Dazai Osamu #HUNGER GAMES AU #mori #Mori Ougai #bsd mori #relationship study #Character Study #what is this ending

8 notes · View notes