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italian-lit-tournament · 2 months ago

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Italian literature tournament - Third round.

Propaganda in support of the authors is accepted, you can write it both in the tag if reblog the poll (explaining maybe that is propaganda and you want to see posted) or in the comments. Every few days it will be recollected and posted here under the cut.

First, propaganda for Ludovico Ariosto, then for Guido Cavalcanti. The quantity of material will be colossal, so just scroll down for more.

For the Ludovico Ariosto stans:

by @larmegliamori

The opposing party has brought on the big guns, I see: us Ariosto girlies, gays and they must bare our teeth and ambitions.

So, here's my two cent on why you should vote Ludovico Ariosto!

Extreme relatability: Deeply entrenched into the politics of his time (as the firstborn of ten children, of which one was disabled and other five were women), but at the same time just wanting to stay home to live of his poetry? Dare I say iconic. Perfect representation of us literature kids.

He actually managed to marry his muse, Alessandra Benucci, and did it respectfully!

Working various jobs for patron(s) he didn't particularly like? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

Not to mention his most widely known work, the poem "Orlando Furioso" (The rage of Roland), has all the goos stuff us modern audiences would like! It features:

A wide, diverse cast, spanning from Ireland to India, stretching probably to the (by then) newly discovered Americas;

Fantasy elements: faeries, sorcerers, giants, orcs, the first modern iteration of the hippogryph and even a fantastical voyage to the Moon!

Citations and references galore: from Virgil to Ovid, from old chansons de geste to Boccaccio!

Proto-feminism and gender studies: Ariosto's female characters, although often very feminine, are actively involved in their story arcs. The poem also features two warrior women, Bradamante and Marfisa, the former of which is the protagonist of her own subplot. Said subplot heavily relies on gender, may it be appearances or not. And let's not forget the famous tirade at beginning of the fifth canto, where the author berates femicide! If you're willing to open your heart to his writing, Ludovico Ariosto reveals himself to be a compelling, layered, modern author, and yet there's a levity to his writing that works like a balm. Vote for Ludovico Ariosto (even if only for the memes)!

I'd also like to add that Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, in the 70s, got a theatrical AND television adaptation that was too campy for its own good.

It featured, amongst other things:

- 1500s inspired costuming (it sure was... A choice but I'm not complaining)

- Mechanic horses (that literally ran on rails) and hippogryph:

- Olympia of Holland, one of the most tragic characters in all the poem, as a vamp (slay):

(Posing with Orlando/Roland in on the left, with her lover Bireno on the right)

- Astolfo literally ENTERING INTO A HOLE TO GET TO THE MOON:

The television adaptation was partly shot in the famous Baths of Caracalla, in Rome. If you want to witness this masterpiece yourself, it's on YouTube! In two parts.

Remember to always stan Zio Ludo, and vote for him! ✨

Hello everyone! For today's Ariosto Propaganda Piece, I'd like to talk about the Satire.

Those seven pieces written in terzina dantesca (because our boy Ludo knew how to pick his role models) are an interesting insight about early 1500s society and Ariosto's character and private life. They all start from an actual event in his life and enlarge towards society as a whole, often with a critical eye towards it.

The first one, destined to his brother Alessandro and a friend, starts these absolutely iconic lines:

[Quick translation: Ruggiero, if you make me so ungrateful in the eyes of your descendants, and it bears me no advantage to have sung your worth and your mighty deeds, why should I stay here, since I don't know how to cut huns on a fork, nor how to hunt games with hawks or dogs?]

A bit of context: Ariosto's first patron, bishop Ippolito d'Este, had to move from Italy to Hungary and wanted all his court to follow him. Ariosto refused because of health and family matters, and he was threatened with the loss of all the benefits he had previously granted him. Note that Ariosto was basically a kind of personal secretary to Ippolito, carrying out different important missions for him, and even risked his life a couple times to carry them out. So it's understandable he feels disappointed at his patron's reaction... and that's why, in this more "private" writings, he complains with Ippolito's ancestor, the hero Ruggiero he had extensively wrote about in his main poem.

Honestly, a genius move. Not something you see often in poetry, is it? Another reason why you need to vote for this man ;)

For the Guido Cavalcanti stans:

Propaganda in favor of Guido Cavalcanti by @eresia-catara

May I add further propaganda for Guido: He's a noble, he disdains aristocrats, he was Florence's number one Server of Cunt, he was the city's faggot, he was heretical, he went on a random pilgrimage but interrupted it and managed to be buried in a church anyway, he had an archenemy who sent some men to murder him on said pilgrimage, he came back and tried to murder him back in plain daylight, he gave zero fucks about politics, he got exiled because he was considered a menace for the city. He SAW DANTE's poetical talent, encouraged it, shaped it, and through him the whole of italian literature. Think about it. Also they became besties until they evolved to a tormented psychosexual haunting dynamic (see break-up poem) where Dante himself actually exiled him. In the 13th century his poetry anticipates so many of the literary themes of the XXth century, going from fragmentation of the self (his is basically vivisection and dispersion of his parts), to dissociation from one's own mind and body, lack of identity, irony, desecration, his poetry is full of schizophrenic-like hallucinations, reading them is truly a trip, and yet his language is profoundly meoldic and sweet. And there's also gender-fuckery. and theater, of course, because his poems develop like a scene from a theater (adding layers to the dissociation). So really he has it all guys.

The thing is, Ariosto feels very contemporary but Guido is the og relativist and unreliable narrator. His poetry offers NO truth whatsoever you only have a sequence of schizophrenic hallucinations and what he describes only seems like it's real but who knows, the narrator is dead, how can he even speak or if he's alive he's not because he has dissociated himself from his body and is only coldly contemplating his own murder. He's not reliable because he has lost his reason, his soul has crubled into pieces and each piece has fled his body. Also he hears voices, and feels a sadistic presence in his mind in the form of a woman watching him die. This man was too ahead of his time, he was too dramatic, too eccentric, but also too acute and sensible, he must have looked deranged and we love him for it. and deserves to be voted!

Guido Cavalcanti propaganda by @girldante

GUIDO CAVALCANTI PROPAGANDA ABBIAMO:

LA DISSOCIAZIONE SCHIZOFRENICA:

IL COMICO, IL SIMPATICO BURLONE, IL MEMATORE ANTE LITTERAM:

IL MACABRO, IL GORE, I SINTOMI™

IL BREAKUP TOSSICO PASSIVO AGGRESSIVO CON DANTE

in conclusione

you can find my old propaganda here, but listen, while i do respect zio ludo's rizz, a vote for guido cavalcanti is a vote for gender roles reversal, death-life liminality, medieval atheism, antisocial freaks obsessed with philosphy who imagine their pens are talking to people about their owner's suffering (what is wrong with him), eye carving enjoyers (what the FUCK is wrong with him), sons who are sacrifical lambs, people who have long swinging necks like geese (allegedly???), and gay breakups involving dante alighieri. and also, well, I don't recall ariosto wearing a miku binder. twice.

in conclusion

Guido Cavalcanti propaganda by @apis-vergilii

Here’s my Guido propaganda: @girldante and @eresia-catara have already covered the poetry reasons, and I’m here to get metatextual about the whole thing.

Simply put, this is the Weird Niche Hellsite, and Guido is the Weird Niche Hellcandidate.

We live in an era of the cynical enshittification of the internet. In a sickened sea of dying social platforms, AI slop, and every last pixel being for sale, THIS is still the webbed site where a bunch of strangers can rediscover a lesser-known medieval poet in all his angsty, gothy glory, abandon all pretense of ironic detachment or mature indifference and go absolutely apeshit over his life and work, breathlessly and deliriously creating everything from exhaustively researched essays with footnotes, to anime fan art and inexplicable photoshops. This is the place where Goncharov happened. This is the place where we stole the president’s shoelaces. This is the place where a heretical medieval Tuscan stilnovista got himself a full-on Fandom, and we are all so much the better/worse for it.

So vote for the spirit of the old internet in all its dorky glory. Vote for the joy of learning things for fun and not for school. Vote for the bizarre Florentine emo goth. A vote for Guido Cavalcanti…is a vote for all of us.

if all else fails to convince you, well, i don't recall ariosto having an historical fantasy saga centered around him where he gains clairvoyance and gets increasingly more and more manipulated by the manifestation of his generational trauma. also he gets out of his body to have epic fights with spiritual creatures.

this should be a testimony to how his cuntserving echoed through time

Propaganda by @girldante and @eresia-catara that I guess should be read together:

well. seeing as we're on topic. Was Ariosto ever described as having

les bras d'Hercule avec des mains de nymphe by a 19th century french story? It is not made up guys, he served androgynous cunt so hard it didn't go unnoticed. Guido simply suggests fluidity.

Like. Arms like Hercules and hands like a nymph.

And Lorenzo il Magnifico also Fangirled over him in a letter to the Federico of Aragon

he (Lorenzo il Magnifico!!) was simply begging him to read his poems, and that's because they are absolutely eatable in all their irreverent, elegant, goth glory.

Finally, Boccaccio wrote about him in his Decameron (VI,9) and, truly, can you say no to him:

this little ballerina? look at how sad he looks!

would you look at that! Guido Cavalcanti propaganda is publicly sponsored by thee Lorenzo De' Medici himself!!!

as for the last bit, Boccaccio's novella from Decameron, where Guido calls out a bunch of idiots through a riddle that said idiots will take a bunch of time to understand and then proceeds to abandon them jumping over a grave, was cited by thee Italo Calvino in his Lezioni Americane as an example of his conception of lightness, as in the ability to lift oneself over the heaviness of the world.

In conclusion: Guido Cavalcanti is literally your fave's fave.

#Ludovico Ariosto #Guido Cavalcanti #IIT - third round

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lucky-bucky-boy · 2 years ago

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Restless Night

Pairing: MCU!Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: An impulsive phone call leads to a happy ending

Word Count: 1307

Warnings: Slight angst, smut, pet names, little to no (y/n), mentions of missions, lemme know if i missed anything

A/N: MCU!Peter - I do plan to write something for TASM!Peter in the future but this was just easier for my brain to set up the scene. I wanted to do something different and challenged myself to write something that was more dialogue-heavy than I’ve written in a while. Not my best work, but a little smutty smut bc why not

I do not own these characters. Do NOT repost my writing and/or fics anywhere without my written permission. Reblogs are welcomed and highly appreciated!

The soft sound of the television playing a forgotten movie almost drowned out the sound of the phone ringing, tucked under a pillow and muffled. The sweet cusp of sleep was only moments away, being dragged out by the vibrating as the first call ended and a second came through.

The near unconsciousness caused forethought to be left behind, grabbing the phone, answering the call, and putting it to your ear. A soft "hello?" was all you could muster.

"Hey, baby."

A tsunami of emotions flooded through your body, suddenly wide awake and hyper aware of everything that was going on; The television was nearing the end of the movie you had put on, your clock reading 1:32, the lights from the cars passing by casting various dancing shadows around your room.

"I've missed you, baby."

His voice was sweet, almost addictive and something you hadn't realized was a need buried deep inside you. You shuffled, forcing yourself up and sitting against the squishmallow he'd won for you on your first time, something you hadn't been able to get rid of.

"Hi, Peter," you voice was quiet, sleep still etched between the syllables. There was a beat of silence between the two of you, "Peter, why'd you call? It's been 10 months."

Peter let out a soft sigh, you could hear him shuffling around. "Missing you really bad tonight, love. M' on a mission," there was another sigh, "I almost got hurt, like really hurt. Thankfully Bucky was there. All I could think about was you."

"Peter!" You voice was now much louder, instantly filled with worry, "Don't go and get yourself ki-"

He cut you off, "I wasn't tryna get hurt, baby. We got ambushed. We had just went in there for me to copy some information onto a drive. Ended up being some rogue Hydra agents, a leg of them we didn't even know existed." Peter was rambling and he knew it, he was starting to think the reason he called was a bad one.

You sighed, body riddled with a million different emotions, "Pete, why'd you call me?"

"I miss you," his words had a slight whine to them, "I wanna touch you so badly, wanna hold you and kiss you."

If he was there you would have undoubtedly melted into him. The breakup was mutual, but difficult nonetheless. Between trying to focus on your career and all of the responsibilities Peter had, it was near impossible to maintain a relationship - there was no time for date nights or dinner, no time to sit and reminisce and talk about the future. For months, the only time spent together was sleeping in the same bed, which was almost always disrupted by some responsibility.

You two loved each other, loved each other more than yourselves most days. But it had become too taxing and tiring, the constant worrying, near lack of support because attention was needed elsewhere. So, after a long, tearful date night gone wrong, the two of you agreed to break up, maybe try again when there were less things counting on you both.

Peter regretted it immediately, but he had wanted to give you space, give you time to flourish and not worry about him. He'd asked M.J. and Ned all the time what you had been up to, he would check your Instagram and Snapchat to see the things you were posting and proud of. He did whatever he could to support you from afar.

But tonight, tonight he dared to be selfish, he needed to be selfish. Deep down he knew it was wrong, calling you up in the middle of the night because the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and all he wanted was to be with you.

"I miss you too, Pete." Your voice was soft again, it always was in moments like this. Where the intimacy lay just behind every fiber in your body.

He hummed, starting to get antsy as he continued to try to figure out how to say what he wanted. "Baby, can you do me a favor?"

"What is it, Pete?" You almost hated how quickly you answered, how eager you were.

"Touch yourself, sweetheart. I wanna hear you touch yourself."

The gasp that left you was audible. Peter was never incredibly bold, never the type to initiate unless you two were definitely alone. Even in those moments, it was always sweet and loving. But this, Peter calling in the middle of the night, a desperate whine to his words and an insane neediness that make his tone demanding.

“Baby, if you don’t want to, you can just hang up. I won’t be upset with you.” You could hear some ruffling and the sound of metal hitting the floor. “I just miss the pretty sounds you make, miss the way your face scrunches up, miss the feeling of your skin against mine.”

This wasn’t a command you were going to disobey. He was still rambling, your mind only half paying attention to the honey-like words he was saying. “Do you want me to use my hand or one of my toys?”

He paused for a moment and you could practically hear the smile spread across his lips. “Use your hand, sweetheart. Run you hands across your body like I would.”

You could hear the moment Peter wrapped his hand around himself, a small groan leaving his lips. You listened to him, it being nearly impossible not to. "Wish you were here, Petey," the words slipped out of you as your fingers danced across your skin, sending goosebumps in their wake.

Your eyes were pinched shut, listening to every whimper and sigh the came through your phone, doing your best to pretend your own touch was his. "Me too, God, me too. Miss kissing your skin, hearing your little gasps when I nip."

"Peter," you couldn't help but whimper, forgoing anymore teasing and quickly giving your clit the much needed attention. It never took long with Peter for you to become needy and impatient, let alone when it had been almost a year since you heard the noises he was making, "I'm not gonna last long, want you so badly," your words were gasped out between soft moans, instant pleasure radiating from your core already making your body warm.

"Me neither, baby," there was a low groan that slipped from him, strangled as he attempted to hold himself together. With every sound you made, he nearly felt like he was in a dream. But he knew this was real, his subconscious hyper aware of the thin walls in the shitty hotel he was holed up in for the night and the super soldier who undoubtedly could hear him.

A endless stream of "fuck"s, gasps, moans, and whimpers flooded through each phone. It only took a few more minutes before the coil burst and the warmth of your high shook through your body, thighs quaking and chest heaving. Peter followed suit, a breathy moan of your name as he spilled into his hand and all over his abdomen.

There was a lingering silence as the other of you recovered, both taking in what has just happened while relishing in the aftermath. Peter broke the silence first, "Need to get m'self cleaned up," he mumbled. There was another beat of silence from him, "I do really miss you."

You hummed your agreement, shifting yourself into a more comfortable position. "I do really wish you were here."

He huffed out a small laugh, a sound that was laced with relief and contentedness. "I'll be home tomorrow at 4. I still got my key, I'll bring dinner, and we can talk. How does that sound?"

Now it was your turn to laugh, excitement filling every nerve in your body. "It sounds like a date."

#smut #peter parker #peter parker smut #mcu!peter parker #mcu!peter x reader #peter parker x reader #peter smut #mcu!peter smut #spiderman x reader #spiderman smut #peter parker one shot

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guiltyasdave · 1 year ago

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takes one to know one

another extra from the dress series universe, but can be read as a stand-alone!

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

word count: ~3.3k

summary: “Not a sound,” a deep voice snarls into your ear. A familiar voice. You turn your head ever so slightly to make out his face over your shoulder, your wide gaze meeting his, the brown eyes that you know so well almost black as he drinks you in. You whimper against his palm and he smirks.

warnings/tags: explicit smut (18+ only!), consensual non-consent (it’s not explicitly mentioned but they have a safeword), Dave breaks into reader’s place and chases her, dom/sub dynamics, dom!Dave, sub!reader, degradation kink, knife play, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected p in v (reader is on birth control), rough sex, slapping, spitting, choking, established relationship, hints of fluff because i can’t help myself, able-bodied reader, Dave pulls her hair, as always: let me know if i missed anything please <3

i want to make it very clear that cnc has been discussed between the both of them before and that reader is consenting throughout the entire scene that i’ve written here. still, check the tags and if this kind of content upsets you, please don’t read it 🤍

a/n: I’m still struggling with the plot for the main series, but I was horny aaaaand that’s really all I can say for myself. Because I know of several people who have written or want to write about some variation of the ✨knife riding✨, let’s not open up some kind of plagiarism discourse about this, please <3 I got my inspiration from this post and I know others have too, and honestly, I’d read a thousand fics about that shit because it’s fucking hot, so to anyone who wants to write it: PLEASE DO IT

dividers by @/saradika-graphics <3

find my full masterlist here!

You’re sat on your couch, headphones over your ears, typing away on your laptop when a large hand wraps over your mouth, trapping the surprised scream that’s fighting its way up your throat. The headphones are roughly pulled away as you’re frozen in shock, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Not a sound,” a deep voice snarls into your ear. A familiar voice. You turn your head ever so slightly to make out his face over your shoulder, your wide gaze meeting his, the brown eyes that you know so well almost black as he drinks you in. You whimper against his palm and he smirks.

You hadn’t expected him for another few days and you sure as hell hadn’t expected this, but a twisted sensation of anxious excitement is thrumming through your veins.

Your eyes flit over his figure, taking in his dark clothes, more casual than you’re used to and a black cap that you’ve never seen on him before that accentuates his hard jawline and his dark eyes. A buzzing desire shoots through you before you can stop it. He quirks an eyebrow, seemingly amused by the reactions replaying on your face.

You take another breath, your brain running a mile a minute, clocking his hold on you that’s strong but not as strong as it could be and the door in your back that leads out of your apartment. Before you can overthink it, you twist out of his grasp, driving your elbow into his side sharply. His surprised and slightly pained intake of breath barely registers with you as you bolt for the door, your bare feet hitting your hardwood floor. You throw the door open and fly down the stairs as quick as your feet carry you, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

You’ve never played the scenario like this before, but the thought of him chasing after you, his dark figure hunting you down, and the things that he might do to you once he’s caught you, have you breathless with excitement.

You step out onto your street, which is thankfully almost empty in the early evening hours, and take off to one side without thinking. You don’t dare to turn around to check if you’re being followed before you dart into a small alley between two townhouses and press yourself against the wall, praying that he didn’t see and will pass you without noticing.

Your breath is coming in short pants and your gaze is glued to the street while you’re staying hidden in the shadows, determined not to miss him when he -hopefully- passes your hiding spot.

It feels like several minutes tick by, and while you can’t really be sure in your current nervous state, you start feeling anxious. You begin to creep towards the opening between the houses when a hand covers your face for the second time this night, the other hand wrapping around your wrist in an iron grip.

“Boo,” Dave whispers into your ear from behind you, making you jump, his body crowding you in as he spins you around to face him.

“Thought you could run away from me?” he smirks, his hand moving away from your mouth to possessively wrap around your neck. “Let’s get you back home, doll.”

He keeps a tight hold on your slightly trembling body, much tighter than before, and the adrenaline is slowly being replaced by more nervous excitement as he leads you back to your place, up the stairs until you’re standing in front of the door. He pulls the keys out and opens up, shoving you inside before he slams the door shut behind the both of you.

He holds your weary gaze while he locks the door, then he’s on you, pushing you against the wall, his hands clawing at your body, sliding under your shirt and tearing at the waistband of your leggings.

“P-please,” you whimper, pushing weakly at his hands.

“No,” he growls, capturing both of your wrists and holding them above your head while he glares down at you.

“You thought that was funny, huh?” He motions with his head towards the door, his voice an angry snarl. “Thought you were smart, that you could trick me?”

“N-no, please, I-” You shake your head, your voice thick with tears that are brimming in your eyes. He gathers both of your wrists in one hand, the other hand roughly slapping your cheek and causing your head to fly to the side.

“Shut up,” he spits, “I don’t want to hear another word from you, is that clear?”

Traces of real fear are coursing through your veins, but this is exactly how you wanted it to be, exactly how you had asked to be treated. Despite the fear, you feel wetness gathering between your thighs, and desire blooming in your whole body.

“Please,” you try again, not sure what you’re even begging for, just playing into the feeling of being completely at his mercy that you enjoy so much.

His hand hits your cheek again, twice in quick succession this time, and a whimpering moan escapes your mouth. “Not another word,” Dave repeats, his cold eyes boring into yours. He reaches for his belt and raises his hand a moment later, holding a knife that looks concerningly big, especially with how close it is to your face. He presses the blade against your throat and you freeze, your heartbeat loud in your ears and your eyes wide, your entire focus on him.

“Not another word, or you’ll regret it. Is that clear?” he asks again, his voice low and drenched in coldness. You manage the tiniest nod, scared to move against the blade that you can still feel on the delicate skin beneath your jaw.

“Good,” he grins, slotting his knee between your thighs and it takes everything in you not to grind down onto him. He removes the knife from your throat and presses his mouth onto your skin instead, his hands sliding under your shirt and groping at your tits while he sucks and bites on your neck with a roughness that is surely going to leave your skin sore for days. He kneads your breasts and pinches your nipples, sending jolts of equally pain and pleasure through your body. Your head is leaning back against the wall, your eyes pinched shut and high pitched whimpers falling from your lips.

He stops abruptly and gathers your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks between his thumb and his fingers. “Stop complaining,” he snarls, “you think I can’t feel the way you’re soaking my pants right here?” His other hand cups your mound over your leggings, fingers digging into the drenched fabric and you can’t stop your moan, nor the way your hips buck to chase his touch when he pulls it away again.

“Desperate little slut, so fucking easy, just waiting around for someone to come and fuck you, weren’t you?” You try shaking your head and he tightens his hold on your face. “Don’t lie, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a cold whisper, “you love being treated like this. Love being put in your place. I think you should thank me.”

You give another small shake of your head and he lets go of your face to wrap his hand around your throat instead. His hold there tightens slowly and your eyes grow wider as he arches an eyebrow at you. You start feeling dizzy and your hand flies to his wrist, tugging desperately, but he just chuckles, squeezing your throat tighter. Desire burns between your legs as you’re gasping for breath, finally giving up on the defiance, like you both knew you would.

“Thank you,” you force out, almost choking on the words, and Dave grins triumphantly, loosening his grip on your throat.

“See,” he coos, leaning closer until you can feel his breath on your face, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He grabs your neck again and maneuvers you into your bedroom, where he orders you to strip, to show me what I came here for, doll, while he leans against your doorframe, watching your trembling form with a smirk in his face. You do as he says, pulling your shirt over your head and your leggings down your legs until you’re standing in front of him in nothing but your panties.

His eyes flit over your body, lingering on your breasts with an expression of hunger on his face, until they stop at your underwear. “Those too. Unless you’d rather have me cut them off?” The knife is back in his hand and he’s twirling it mindlessly. Your gaze follows the motion for a second, mesmerized by the casual ease with which he’s handling the weapon, until you remember his threat and hastily strip out of the panties, leaving yourself completely bare while he’s still fully dressed.

He stalks towards you, crowding you in and his fingers wander between your legs, swirling through the wetness at your entrance and making you gasp when he flicks your clit. “I knew it,” he grins smugly, “you’re so fucking wet for me. Like it or not, sweetheart, you love being treated like this. Best to just accept it.” He leans in to bite at your neck again, still playing with your clit while his other hand splays over your ass, causing you to flinch when the knife’s blade makes contact with your skin there. You’re helplessly turned on, so many sensations all over your body that you can barely process and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking about it, just wanting him to give you more, to make you feel good the way you know he can.

“Good girl, there she is,” he whispers into your ear. Then he pulls back, stepping around you and throwing your naked body down onto the bed, looming over you, the knife still clutched in his hand. He straddles your thighs, smirks at you and pecks your lips, then he pulls back and drives the knife into the mattress beside you in one fluid motion, tearing through the material until only the handle is visible, sticking out of your bed.

A small scream had escaped your throat at the sudden motion and another slap lands on your face. “There,” he grins, the amusement clear on his face. “You so desperately want to have your cunt filled - use this.” Your stare flickers between him and the knife a couple of times, understanding slowly growing inside your mind.

“Y-you want me to ride? …T-this?”

Dave pets your cheek almost affectionately, then nods towards the handle. “Exactly. And you better get on with it, you don’t want to test my patience, do you?” You gulp and shake your head, wearily eyeing the intimidatingly large piece of black material that’s sticking out of your mattress. Dave clicks his tongue impatiently and you scramble to your knees, positioning yourself until you’re hovering over the knife.

Your insides are burning with the humiliation that he’s putting you through, but there’s also a twisted sense of excitement bubbling inside of you, knowing that no one but him would push you like this, which is why no one like him makes you feel like this. Your slick is dripping down your legs and you know that he can see it, with the way he’s watching you closely as you’re still hovering, anxiously biting your lip.

You look up at his face and despite the cold and cruel mask that he’s been wearing all evening, you can still see the fire in his eyes, making you feel warm, telling you that ultimately, despite everything, you’re safe with him and he wants you to enjoy yourself, will push you to enjoy yourself if necessary. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t take you out of the scene, but his voice is still clear in your head, speaking words that you’ve heard a hundred times. For me, sweetheart. I know you can.

You take a deep breath, your brows furrowing in concentration, and start sinking down. It’s an awkward angle at first and you need to adjust your position, but then the knife’s handle is pressing against your entrance. You gaze up at Dave again, whose eyes are trained on your pussy, watching eagerly as you sink down further. It feels strange, not unlike a toy, you think, but the shape isn’t exactly right and with a toy you wouldn’t be worried about cutting yourself with a wrong move. Your walls stretch around the foreign item and you gasp at the sensation, the feeling of finally being filled up giving you the sweet pleasure that you had been craving.

You begin moving your hips over the handle without further instruction from Dave, sliding up and down in careful motions, still aware of the sharp blade that’s currently buried in your bed, but sparks of pleasure are traveling up your spine nonetheless.

Dave reaches out to tweak your nipples again and you arch your back towards his touch, causing him to laugh. “That’s right, slut, fuck yourself on my knife. You’d do anything as long as that greedy pussy gets filled up, wouldn’t you?” You nod mindlessly, chasing your pleasure, the whole situation sending your arousal into overdrive.

Standing beside you, Dave finally pulls his dark sweater over his head, then opens his belt buckle. You eagerly drink in the sight of him, his broad chest and shoulders, his strong arms and his softer stomach, the smatter of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Please,” you whisper, once again not certain what you’re even asking for, but you want more, more of him.

“Open your mouth,” Dave demands, leaning down to your level when you obey eagerly. He spits into your mouth, his saliva pooling on your tongue, the degrading but weirdly intimate motion making you moan desperately. “Keep it open,” he mutters as he pushes down his pants and underwear in one motion, your eyes flying to his cock before you can help yourself. He glides his hand along his length slowly, watching you while you’re still riding his knife, your combined saliva pooling in your open mouth and the desperate longing clear on your face.

He steps closer and taps the head of his cock on your tongue, eliciting another moan from you when you feel the familiar weight. “Yeah, need all your holes stuffed, one just isn’t enough, huh?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and thrusts into your mouth, holding your head steady as he presses his cock into your mouth until he’s nudging at your throat. You try your hardest not to gag and shudder in his grasp, tears spilling from your eyes and mixing with the spit that’s drooling out of your mouth.

He pulls back a little, letting you suck on him instead while you try to keep up your rhythm on the knife’s handle. “So good,” he groans, his hand curled in your hair, “taking me so fucking good.” He starts fucking your mouth again in quick thrusts and tweaks your nipples until you moan around him, the vibration causing his grip in your hair to tighten. “Think you can come like this?” he pants, “does riding my fucking knife while I’m fucking your throat turn you on that much?”

You nod as best as you can, pleadingly looking up at him. “Dirty fucking slut,” he snarls, landing another slap on your cheek that has you clenching almost painfully around the knife. “Go on then, touch yourself.” Your hand flies to your clit at his words, rubbing at the tight bundle of nerves and shuddering at the pleasure that’s thrumming through your veins. You come almost embarrassingly quick, the different forms of stimulation flooding your senses until you’re writhing on your knees, moaning around the cock in your throat as waves of pleasure roll through your body.

You faintly register Dave getting on the bed behind you and his hands on your shoulders. He pulls you off of the handle roughly and you fall back against his chest, still on your knees, barely keeping yourself upright. “Good fucking girl,” he coos into your ear as he pulls you into his body, his large hands pressing into your flesh. “You’re a quick learner. No need to get hurt when you’re obedient like this, see?” Then he pushes your head back down until you’re at eye level with the handle, still drenched in the wetness that your pussy has left behind. “Open up,” his cold voice demands from above you, underlining the order with a sharp slap to your ass when you don’t react quick enough. “Clean up your mess, make it all nice and shiny while I fuck this dirty little cunt.”

You feel a new wave of wetness between your legs at his words and obediently close your lips around the tip of the handle, moaning at the taste of yourself. “Just like that,” you hear Dave from behind you before his hand is in your hair again, pushing you down further. His other hand’s fingers are digging into your hip as he’s lining himself up and thrusting into you in one rough motion. Your scream at the sudden stretch gets muffled in your mouth and you hear his faint chuckle before he starts moving, setting a brutal pace right from the beginning that has you writhing, your hips stuttering with the force of his thrusts.

“That’s it, good girl, take it just like that,” Dave pants, his voice wrecked, “good fucking girl.” Getting praised while being in this degrading situation has your head spinning. You hear the wet squelch every time his cock presses inside of you, the smack of his flesh against his, the touch of his hands feeling so rough but so right on your body.

Dave is groaning behind you, sliding into you in hard thrusts that make your eyes roll back into your head and moving against your g-spot again and again. You feel yourself tightening up around him, more wetness seeping out of you until you can’t take it anymore. You tip over the edge, your whole body tensing up, shudders running through you as stars explode across your vision and your pussy clenches around his cock rhythmically.

You hear him swear behind you, his hips stilling and his hands pulling your body back against his chest, his cock pulsing deep inside of you and painting your walls with his release.

“So fucking good,” he murmurs and presses a gentle kiss against the soft skin under your ear. You nod, your mind still dazed but a tired smile growing on your face.

He gently pulls out of you and moves your body up the bed until your head is resting on the pillows. He cleans you up, peppering your entire face with kisses, muttering praises against your skin, replacing his demanding hands with soft, featherlight touches.

You watch with wide eyes as he carefully pulls the knife back out of your now ruined mattress and puts it down on your nightstand. The handle is still glistening with the remnants of your spit. Dave catches your eye and grins in that cocky way of his that almost makes you want him between your legs again immediately.

“Don’t worry. I’ll buy you a new one.” You smirk and stretch your arms out towards him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him down into a kiss, his lips softly moving against yours, the dominating persona all but blown away.

“You better,” you murmur against his mouth and his responding chuckle makes you smile.

if you liked this fic, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment, you’d really make me suuuuper happy! 🤍

#janas fics #the dress series #dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader #dave york fanfiction #dave york smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedrostories #the equalizer 2

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mediocretosubpar-soup · 8 months ago

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@jiangchengsjawline @whumpbby on a related note to this post, jc badgered by the world to stabilize ymj with an heir gets a magic baby!lotus and thinks, i don't want anyone else in my house. so, he conducts the energies for the magic baby!lotus via sandu and suibian. and never mentions this to anyone ever.

---

JL: who's the other parent?

JC (thinking of wwx calling him SLJ and addressing him like a stranger): he's dead.

---wwx finds out about the kid---

WWX: so tell your uncle wei, who is the brave woman who endured jc's noxious personality long enough to produce a baby.

JL (at least, 5 Jin disciples hiding behind him): this is a night hunt!

around them the forest is peaceful and very still, not even a cricket dares to chirp.

WWX (blithely): and what a great job you did all the ghosts have fled from the might of the jin sect. so let's catch up! who's the unluckiest lady of the jianghu?

the jin sect disciples huddle closer to JL.

JL (rising to his full height and pulling JGY's best customer service smile onto his face): if you are so interested in the business of yunmeng jiang sect, i'll be delighted to escort you there.

wwx, the coward, folds like a wet blanket. in the privacy of his own head, JL sneers at him. how dare wwx demand jiujiu's secrets when he's not even willing to face the man.

--- three months and a few days after the magic lotus has ripened into a human child ---

wwx crawls into lotus pier. the wards around the child's chambers are impressive. still wwx could break them, jc has never beaten him, after all. but if jc trusted him with the child, he would have invited him, wouldn't he have? (the invitation said lan sect + spouses, jc doesn't know wwx has been banned from joining the lans in a diplomatic function) wwx isn't going to disrespect jc's boundaries more than he already has, just a little, it's fine jiang cheng will never know. wwx places his gifts among all the other ostentatious presents from sect leaders far and wide.

when the baby learns to crawl and grab, she picks out a silly bamboo flute carved with all kinds of nasty lake critters, its tassel boring, mud colored thread. JL balks, how did such a shoddy thing find its way into the presents for the heir of lotus pier? until, he sees JC smile.

#jc: i also should get to make decisions without consulting concerned parties #i don't do kid fic ideas #but jc pulling a lana kane is compelling #who clocks onto the kid's similarity to wwx?#who dares to voice it out loud?#jiang cheng #mdzs #wei wuxian #jin ling #i'm not even into kid fic #my personal headcanons veer widely away from this

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gremlinmodetweeker · 1 month ago

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The Axe - Chapter 3 (Part 1)

Okay so I've done a lot of art recently, but as I've mentioned to some other people I want on a vacation for my anniversary so I'm back, I'm refreshed, and I was able to sit down and write the next part of The Axe. This fic is always super fun and interesting. I know medieval fantasy is always a turn off for me, so I don't expect many people to enjoy it, but I do think the world building in here is pretty impressive. Let me know what you think!

If you don't want to wait for the whole fic to be published over the next couple of days, check out my KoFi HERE

By the way, the whole fic is 24 pages size 10 Times New Roman. Full fic is about 11.3k. This is a long thing.

TW: mention of alcohol, public execution, gore description of corpse, religious figures

Wordcount: 6k

Art from This Post

Story Below the Cut

Behind The Dew You Sing To Me

You’d never been keen on execution wakes before, but today was different. Today, you wanted to see if you could learn more about the great hooded man with that glinting, silver axe. A part of you was afraid to so much as offer to help your uncle, but another part of you was too excited to stop yourself.

“You want to come to a hanging?” your uncle stared at you in bewilderment, “a hanging? Have you lost your gourd?”

“Uncle, I know what I want,” you sighed again, “I want to come with you. You only just got out of bed, you need someone to help you there.”

“I don’t need that much help,” your uncle snorted, “I’ll be just fine. You can stay back and do some work here. Buns need to be made for Halaxwake.

“But you need rest, uncle,” you chastised him again, “you have to rest just a little bit, right? Auntie would never forgive you if you got sick all over again.”

“She wouldn’t, nor would she forgive me if I came home empty-handed!” your uncle chuckled before glancing at you with a mischievous look in his eye, “why, you’re so eager to go I might think you’re looking to meet someone there!”

Your face flushed a violent crimson as you spluttered and coughed.

Your uncle hummed, “You really do like to get yourself into all the worst situations, dear. If I didn’t know better, I might even say you were looking to see a certain shrouded man! Maybe even, dare I say it, a certain mysterious hangman?”

You shamefully turned away as your uncle laughed.

“You think you’re so slick, don’t you!” your uncle’s grin was woven into his words, “I’d bet you really thought I didn’t know any better!” he calmed his laughter momentarily to heave the last load of loaves into the wagon. He took a moment to lean against the side and cross his arms over each other, shoulders back as he stood tall in the crisp air. You glanced back to see him admiring you with his wise grey eyes, “Come with me. If you’re anything like me or your father, I wouldn’t be able to stop you, anyways.”

Your blush hid behind your wide grin as you walked over to stand beside your uncle. He hoisted the wagon up and looked at you, casting you a wry wink before pushing the wagon forth along the dusky dirt road.

Your uncle pushed the wagon along the road, his eyes straight ahead as he hummed a gentle off-pitch lullaby under his breath, one you’d heard your auntie sing to your cousins. You walked beside him, admiring the wild poppernickins as they grew in bundles of little white and pastel orange-pink blooms along the fence posts on either side of the road. Occasionally, the flowers were overtaken by winds of orange-brown twineweed that snaked up the wooden posts and curling along the fencing. It interwove onto itself, making intricate patterns formed in the ivy under wilted papery white flowers. You figured that soon the farmers would be collecting the pollen for the Hanndoal’s-Turn harvest. You smiled at the thought, memories smelling of bright fruit coated in syrups and the taste of old brew ghosting through your mind.

“You think Ernest’ll have another batch of wink ready for this harvest?” your uncle interrupted your thoughts.

You turned to look at your uncle and blinked, “Wink? Um, I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I hope so,” your uncle smiled, “I think Ernest’s wink always tastes the best, but don’t tell Leonard I said that.”

“I don’t think he can bring his head out of his ass long enough to hear you,” you snorted.

Your uncle laughed and shook his head, “Your mother said much the same, back when she was around. She never liked the Buscher clan, really.”

“Why’s that?” you asked.

Your uncle kicked a stone out from underfoot, “She thought they were all pompous pricks. Thought they knew everything there was to know about gourds and squashes and the like, but they were all the sourest things you ever did chew on.”

You laughed, “That sounds like my mother alright! She knew what she was talking about.”

Your uncle shook his head, “Oh if you think they’re sour now then you should’ve been around for the older Buscher. That old tyrant grew gourds sour enough to pinch your lips clean off. Horrible things, really.”

“And here I thought Leonard was the worst farmer in the village,” you hummed.

“Leonard’s a right gem compared to his father,” your uncle said, “his father was a right good-for-nothing. You couldn’t talk to him for longer than a vigil before he’d go off about how we were bound to be under the rule of elves if we didn’t prepare for ‘the rise up’ or whatever he called it.”

“The elves?” you rolled your eyes, “I’ll admit, I might say he was right if I didn’t know better.”

“But you do,” your uncle pointed out, “we all know the elves won’t ever try to take over the continent. They’re the best warriors you ever did see, sure, but they’re not that bright. And anyways, they ain’t as evil as he made ‘em out to be, but you already know that yourself. Elves are all just a bunch of bastards with egos big enough to blot out Brak-Hah’s-Eye. And anyways,” your uncle smirked, “they still don’t know how to make any sort of good drink. They need us for a good party.”

You laughed and nodded along. If nothing else, you supposed humans had that going for them. You weren’t called ‘The Joyful Children’ for nothing.

You walked along beside the cart as it squeaked and jostled over the stones littered across the dirt road. It seemed to whine over each and every pebble it overcame as it was pushed closer and closer to where the bodies swung in the breeze. Just the thought of the place had chills crawling up your spine. How anyone was able to endure living in that forest of corpses was beyond you. But then again, most of The Axe’s life was a mystery to you. You’d never even seen the man’s face before.

The Axe was a man hidden in a shroud darker than the one he wore upon his face. He was a strange, curious thing made up of flesh, stolen bones and misplaced teeth. He was walking death through a field of corpse flowers. He was the peace made between a dying man and his maker. He was hatred and rage and bloodshed held within a porcelain vase. All of him was drenched in criminal blood, and yet his eyes were blue as a newborn’s.

This strange man had taken a place in your life unlike any other. No man stood with you when you kneaded the bread for the next wake, but he watched over your shoulder and asked about the herbs and spices you tossed into your mixes. He walked with you when you went to church, an invisible shadow by your side at all times. These past two god watches, when you went to church, you would look down at the stone tiles and wonder if The Axe sat below, a doomed man listening to the words of something floating ever beyond his grasp. Innocent eyes trained on the glowing light coming from beyond an iron grate. You wished you could sit beside him.

Your uncle trod along beside you, blithely ignorant to any of your personal quandaries. He bullishly pushed the cart forward, ignoring its groans of protest. His stone-grey eyes were trained ahead, never wandering from their final destination.

“Uncle,” you asked quietly.

“Yes dear?” your uncle replied with a curious lilt to his tone.

“Do you think that The Axe is a bad man?”

Your uncle hummed slowly. He adjusted his grip on the wooden handles of the cart as sweat bloomed up on his rosey forehead. He took a moment to stop and wipe his hairy forearm over his face, then shook himself clear and picked up the handles again.

As he began to push the cart again, he said, “I think he comes from a cursed line.”

“But is he cursed?” you asked.

Your uncle chuffed, “Oh he’s cursed alright. Cursed by a little girl.”

You screwed your brows tightly together, “Cursed by a little girl?”

Your uncle nodded solemnly.

“Cursed by a little girl,” he confirmed, “I heard it happened when he was sixteen, right after his father went out into the woods and offed himself. I can’t remember the details, but the basic idea of the story is that an execution went south and the man’s daughter cursed The Axe. What the curse is? I don’t know, and don’t you go and listen to anyone who says they do. Nobody does,” your uncle gave an affirmative nod, “but he’s cursed for sure. He sees the witch, the apothecary and Father Kim to treat whatever it is, but I’m betting that as long as that hood’s on his face, he’s a marked man.”

You shivered at the thought.

“I’m sad to hear it,” you said quietly.

“Well, that’s life when you’re a killer-for-hire,” your uncle chuffed, “you need to be prepared for those sorts of things. And,” he paused briefly to glance at you, “if you really wanted to get close to a man like that, you’d have to be ready for those sorts of curses being turned on you.”

You glanced away from the cart to look at more of the tangleweed fencing.

“I know,” you admitted, “but… I can’t help it.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” your uncle sighed, “I know I can’t stop you. If I were a nobleman, maybe I could marry you off to some prince from another land. As it is,” your uncle shrugged, “all I can do is warn you. I’d tell you to stop, but I’m not your father, am I?”

You grimaced, “No, but you’re a better father than mine.”

“You’re speaking of my brother-in-law, you know,” your uncle huffed, “but,” he adjusted his grip, “you’re right. My sister’s husband wasn’t exactly the best sort of man. I always thought he was a bit immature, but what he did when your mom died? I still can’t fathom it.”

You nodded and admitted, “I sometimes wonder what it would’ve been like if he stayed.”

“You’d be a farmer’s daughter,” your uncle said, “so if you prefer the fields to the ovens, maybe it would’ve been better if he stayed.”

“I like the ovens well enough,” you chuckled, “I’d rather Auntie in my ear than getting my legs cut off by a scythe.”

“You heard old Martin got it good last turning-time, did you?” your uncles winced.

“Old Hutch told me it was a nasty wound,” you nodded, “he had to send him to The Axe for further treatment.”

“At least with The Axe around he can mend some of the worst wounds we get,” your uncle mused before a scowl dawned his face, “mind you, he only knows to heal as many wounds as he gives out.”

The thought of The Axe’s words from your last visit rang through your ears.

“I don’t think he likes hurting anyone though,” you said.

Your uncle shrugged, “Doesn’t matter if he likes it or not, he’s a torturer and an executioner by trade. That’s enough for me to make up my mind.”

“But can he really be anything else?” you asked as you stepped around a particularly large stone.

Your uncle shook his head, “As I said, he comes from a cursed line. His blood is tainted by generation on generation of curse. I’d be surprised if he can even sow another line if he tried with you.”

“Don’t be so crass,” you huffed.

“What?” your uncle chuckled, “it’s not like he’s got much to give any son of his. An old axe and a sorry story? I don’t think I’d want to be born to that, if you ask me.

“And anyways, would you want to give birth to any son of his?” your uncle asked you.

You thought for a moment. The thought of being a mother was always there; it was expected of you since birth. You were raised to be a mother much like any other young girl in the village. You were given dolls to care for and stories to lull your newborn to bed before you’d reached your third cycle. Being a mother and a homesteader was just what being a woman in the village meant. That was life. You’d never really paid too much thought to it. If anything, you didn’t even know if you’d ever take a husband. Sure, one day it would happen, but you never put much thought into it. Already most girls your age were married off with a troop of children around their hips. You were a bit of an outlier by now. But, the thought of having a husband and child comforted you at the very least. One day, soon enough, it would happen.

But you hadn’t thought of having children with The Axe. By the spirit realms, you hardly even knew what his face looked like! For all you knew, he was the ugliest man you’d ever lay your eyes on in your life. He could have a rotting face, for all you knew. And yet… The thought of a child with him didn’t sound half bad. It was a thought you’d have to play around with more after you’d gotten to know him better.

“You’re thinking of it now, aren’t you?” your uncle groaned, “by Halax, I shouldn’t have even said his name. I shouldn’t be talking about him with you at all!”

You rolled your eyes at that, “Well, you want to warn me, don’t you?”

“I’ve warned you plenty!” your uncle scoffed, “I keep telling you he’s bad news but you won’t have any of it!”

“I’m having some of it,” you retorted, “just not all of it.”

“Well go on and have some more because I’ve got plenty to give!” your uncle shook his head, “I mean, look, I can’t change your mind. Go and talk to Father Kim if you’re really interested in that man. Father Kim seems to know him best, at least. And if a holy man thinks that it’s a good idea, who am I to judge?”

“So you give me your blessing?” you asked hopefully.

Your uncle sighed, “Not now.”

“But maybe soon?” you prodded.

“Maybe,” your uncle conceded, “but not anytime soon. I still don’t even know the man.”

“But haven’t you given him his rations for years?” you asked quizzically.

“I have,” your uncle explained, “but he isn’t much of a talker. He’s a bit spooky, actually. He’s so quiet I might think he was a louse.”

Your thoughts drifted to when you ate sweet buns together in the forest again.

“I think he just needs some encouragement to talk,” you offered.

“You’ve chatted to him plenty, have you?” your uncle grumbled.

You flushed, “I’ve spoken to him in passing.”

“In passing,” your uncle drawled.

“In passing!” you bristled up.

“Calm yourself, you prickly little poke bear,” your uncle laughed, “you’re acting like a schoolgirl here!”

“I am not!” you huffed.

“You keep telling yourself that,” your uncle smiled knowingly, “you’re only digging a deeper hole for here.”

“I-” you cut yourself off, “I don’t need to hear any of this. I’m better than this.”

“Are you now?” your uncle cackled, “look, your father isn’t here. Somebody has to act the part while he’s gone.”

“And that person has to be you?” you grumbled.

Your uncle gestured to the wide open fields around you, “Who else do you see?”

You bit your tongue harshly. He had you there.

Your uncle laughed as he carted the wagon along the trail, happily poking fun at your ‘schoolgirl crush’ and your youth as he made his way along the old road. You, for your part, flushed up to your poor mortified ears and stayed that way for the rest of the journey. Your uncle took endless delight as he moved the cart along. With a sigh, you accepted fate and walked behind your uncle.

Your uncle only calmed his laughter once you broke through the forest. The cart caught on tangled weeds as you travelled down the lonesome road to the old hanging stone. The trees were thick enough to cast a haunting shade over the two of you. In woods like these, a highwayman could be hidden behind any tree. Suddenly, you were terribly glad to have your teasing uncle by your side. Even if he was an older man, he still had a good bread knife tied to his belt. You had your own little dagger, but your uncle was a seasoned man with a quick draw. It wasn’t much, but anything was better than giving in to whatever the highwaymen demanded.

Your uncle huffed and puffed as he pushed the wagon along the overgrown road. You only knew to follow the path because the trees had been artificially cleared generations before you, leaving a winding trail that snaked erratically through the woods. Evidently, the wood cutters had only cut through the easiest trees, unable to move the monoliths that stood along the edges of the waxing and waning road. In some parts, the wagon only just barely squeezed through the gaps in the trees. You wondered how any of the large carriages were able to make their way through the trees when they already pressed down on you, crushing you like insects under their wild thumb.

Ferns and flowers peeked from behind the old woods to wave in the passing wind. You watched Brak-Hah’s-Eye blink in and out above between the tall pines as you walked along. As you drew further and further into the woods, you felt the chill of shadows creeping up along the back of your neck.

You were blinded when you broke into the bright opening of the Criahlin’s stone. The black slate shone, polished of blood and grime to prepare for the coming day. Around the edge of the circle, stalls had been set up to welcome in any visitor in need of a sweetlin or a swintlin. Someone had set up a stall to shine shoes, another gave out bags of grain for cart beetles. You couldn’t help but be amazed by how so many were able to come and capitalize on the death of a criminal.

Already, a group of townsfolk had gathered around a large loch tree on the far edge of the clearing. Beside it, a long ladder had been placed, leading up to a long twineweed rope. You followed the rope up, up and up to a thick and heavy tree bough. It looked as thick as a man, but it had been cut off after a couple of lengths to prevent the tree from covering up the entire clearing. You had to wonder how often someone had to go up and trim it back to keep it from taking up the whole space.

By the bottom of the tree, Judge Holten sat on one of the large roots that jutted up from the loamy earth. Beside him, Father Kim looked out over the crowd, lips pressed into a thin line. His dark eyes darted side to side as he took in the familiar faces of his congregation. You wondered what he thought of you all.

In the stall nearest to you, you could see Nikto sitting and watching the crowd with an amused look in his eyes. By his side, bottles of eggs, vegetables and even meats were put on display with delicate care. He glanced over your way and waved at you and your uncle.

“Ah, friends!” he called out, “come take the stall beside me!”

Your uncle waved back and brought the cart as close as he could. When he stopped the cart by Nikto’s stall, the old northern man rose to his feet to help you and your uncle set up your display.

You worked quickly with the extra set of hands. A few times Nikto stopped to help your uncle set up his display in a more appealing way. You laughed at the sight, but thanked him nonetheless. Halax knew that your uncle needed the help.

“No no no,” Nikto grumbled as he took the spider buns from your uncle, “put these on the middle shelf. They’re cute and sweet, so people will see them better if you put them there. And put the smallest buns on top! Trust me on this, old man.”

Your uncle followed the other man’s words, albeit a bit begrudgingly. But who were you to argue with Nikto? All his displays were immaculate. Even the products themselves were made so perfectly that you couldn’t stop salivating at the sight of them.

“How do you know how to make everything look so nice?” you wondered as you followed his guidance.

“Secret tips from my mother back home,” Nikto’s eyes crinkled behind his wooden mask, “mother always knows best, you know?”

You faltered briefly before flashing a wide smile, “Well, I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Nikto shook his head, “Mothers never leave their children, Criah doesn’t work that way. We always have our families with us.”

You smiled softly, “You think so?”

Nikto laughed heartily, “I know so! Mother never left. She’s always here,” Nikto thumped his chest before he leaned in conspiratorially, “and that’s how I know your uncle can’t set up a stall to save his life!”

You groaned but couldn’t hold back a laugh. Nikto was an odd man, but at least he was always a fun person to share company with. You shook your head and turned back to your stall.

“Well, it looks like we’re about ready to start selling,” you said as you admired the hard work.

“Can you manage the till?” your uncle asked.

“Are you offering to do the calling?” you replied.

Your uncle nodded and pointed over to the other stalls, “It looks like we don’t have much competition today.”

You glanced over at Nikto.

“My goods are meant to be brought home,” he shrugged, “not eaten here. Yours are better for the show.”

Right, the show. That was certainly one way of putting it.

“I can handle the crowds,” you told your uncle.

“Right then,” your uncle nodded, “I’ll head out and get to hawking.”

You watched your uncle walk out in the crowd, puff up his chest and call out in a big, booming voice. On que, a few customers eagerly turned and looked around before finding your stall and rushing forth. You didn’t understand how anybody was able to eat during these events, but evidently you were the odd one out.

Before long the line had formed and you were up on your feet exchanging coins for sweet and savoury buns. To your delight, a few customers immediately left your line to go over to Nikto’s stall to pick up some jars of his pickled goods. Nikto was never quite as popular, but having the top-selling stall beside him evidently did something for his numbers. A part of you wondered if he’d thought about this when inviting you over, but another part couldn’t care less. You were shopkeepers just the same as he was; you had to do whatever it took to make a good living in a small town.

As the townsfolk came and left your stall, you did your best to focus on them rather than on the absence of the most prominent figure at the event. Wherever you looked, The Axe was notably absent. Of course you already knew where he was. He was probably bringing the poor victim to the gallows at that very moment. You knew the ritual well enough by now.

The executioner would go to the prison and then pick out the culprit. Then, the culprit would be carted to the outskirts of the forest, at which point The Axe and his victim would be dropped off and The Axe’s assistant would drive the cart back to the Axe’s home. Then, the Axe and his assistant would both make their way to the hanging site. Of course, the assistant would arrive first, and then the Axe would come through the clearing. Then, once they’d both arrived, the event would begin. That’s how it always was, it was how it always would be. A part of you wondered if there was another way. The thought of letting a murderer go free seemed unthinkable, but did they have to die themselves? You didn’t know. Somebody with more time on their hands might have been able to think over the problem more thoroughly, but as it was you only felt opposed to the executions, but weren’t able to think of any other good solution.

You watched the crowds slowly grow in number as they bumbled around your stall. The bread and buns were flying off the shelves at this point. Muffins were devoured before your very eyes. The throng of people was generating an electric buzz in the air, crackling with the winds through the trees. Judge Holten looked out over the crowd with a disdainful eye, Father Kim behind him with a more sympathetic expression. Even from here, you could see him shivering in the cool air. With how his hands had withered away, you figured they were probably more sensitive than ever.

Whispers rippled through the crowds. As with any gathering, you heard stories from all around the village. Some talked about the local drunk’s latest antics at the tavern. Another rumour was about what an old woman was doing with her pets in the shed out back. Someone mentioned that the butcher was getting a bit steep with his prices. Another said the nuns were getting frustrated with the lack of provisions provided to the church as of late. All these stories curled around the air with a whimsical twirl. The stories ranged from the banal to the completely bizarre in nature. The ones about the old woman and her pets stood out as a particularly egregious one.

You chuckled at the latest tidbit of gossip being thrown your way. You waved the man off with a big toothy grin and turned to help the next customer. To your surprise, it was none other than Salvatrice.

“Salv!” you beamed as you packed her usual order, “I didn’t think you were back yet!”

Salv played with an arrowhead between her fingers as she said, “Well, the raptor was pretty easy to track. It was too big to hide from me for long.”

“So, a successful hunt?” you asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Salv nodded, “a good hunt.”

“Great! So you’ll be selling it soon?” you queried.

“Once Tor breaks it down,” Salv frowned, “but he’s getting pricey these days.”

“So I heard,” you mentioned as you served a different customer.

“He’s asking for nearly a quarter of my wage now,” Salv grumbled, “I can’t keep up with that! Hunters don’t make that much, you know?”

“You’ve let me know a few times before,” you replied easily.

“Now he’s going around asking for a hundred stones. I can’t afford that! Nobody can!” Salv clenched her fist around the arrowhead.

“I’m sure the prices will go down,” you assured her, “Tor can’t keep charging those sorts of prices for long. The people in this village just can’t afford that.”

“Maybe, or maybe they’ll keep paying them because there’s nobody else,” Salv clenched her jaw tight.

“Well, I hope not,” you scrunched up your face, “I don’t want to think what people would do. The last cycle was bad enough as is.”

“I think it’s because of the last cycle that he’s charging these prices,” Salv shook her head, “he realised he can get away with it.”

“But those were desperate times,” you pointed out.

“And all the businesses took advantage of how vulnerable we all were,” Salv leveled a glare at you, “they learned from our weakness.”

You shook your head free of her thoughts, “No, I’m sure there’s a good reason. Tor isn’t a bad man. He’s not like that.”

“You say that,” Salv spat bitterly, “but I’m not so sure. I think he’s a blorgron.”

You glared at the dark haired hunter fiercely, “Don’t say that! We’re all just trying to recover after the flooding and droughts.”

“At the expense of the people!” Salv retorted.

You cringed and held up your hands meekly, “I don’t know. It’s not my place to say.”

Salv stared you down with coal-black eyes. Hot burning coals burned through your clothes to your very soul. Hatred, fury, injustice, it all flickered through her eyes before she settled on one final emotion: defeat.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she sighed, “you’re a vendor just like Tor. But,” she gave you a resigned half-smile, “you keep your prices affordable at least.”

“We try to,” you handed out another loaf of bread, “Uncle always wants to raise them up, but Auntie won’t let him.”

“She’s a damn good woman then,” Salv determined.

“She’s sometimes a good woman,” you grumbled, “she’s a slave driver if you ask me.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not asking you,” Salv gruntled.

“I suppose so,” you said. You turned to say more to her when the crowd broke out into a roar.

Salv smirked as she took a bite of the beetle meat bun, “Looks like the show’s started.”

Salv slunk into the obscurity of the crowd as you peered over the edge of your stall. You couldn’t help but stare as The Axe came into view, easily a head and shoulders above everyone else at the clearing. His hood fluttered around his clavicle with the wind as he strode forth. He looked around the clearing with blank eyes before they fell upon you. Immediately, they lit up with bright recognition, and just as they did, the light went out and he was back to the blank mask of before. You were the only person in the entire crowd to notice how he stumbled slightly when he moved past you to the Criahlin’s stone.

Once they got to the stage, the prisoner was finally revealed to you. A wiry man with a thin, pinched face. His eyes burned dark with a silent rage, furious and clawing inside him like a ravenous beast.

Judge Holten watched The Axe guide the man to the center of the stone, then down into a kneeling position. You winced sympathetically.

“Karl Hoffman,” Judge Holten pulled out his thick book of laws and perched it on his bulging stomach, “thirty-eight cycles, father of eight cycle Klara Hoffman and ten cycle Mathilde Hoffman. Husband of thirty–two cycle Martha Hoffman. Employed as a fishmonger, but was found out to have joined the Raptor’s Claws to steal a living as a highwayman.

“Karl Hoffman is accused of three charges of manslaughter, the assault and battery of two different women, battery of six different men, and accused of stealing over twenty thousand faces. For these charges he has been sentenced to death by choking,” Judge Holten smirked as he shut his book and tucked it under his corpulent arm and turned to face Karl, “you are a damned man, but I will be giving you one last chance at redemption. Do you take Halax as your lord above, in this life and beyond, forevermore?”

Karl turned his thin neck to glare down at Father Kim. You watched as Father Kim stood tall against the withering stare, unmoving in the face of evil. Karl pulled his head back, then spat directly into the priest’s face.

Karl turned back to look at Judge Holten’s reddening face and gave him a twisted grin with a mouth full of crooked teeth, “No sir, I don’t think I do.”

His whispering voice sent chills up your spine. The display itself was unthinkable. How anyone could revoke the name of Halax, especially in their dying moments, was beyond you. You stared, gobsmacked as Judge Holten awkwardly shifted his robes over his protruding belly and waddled side to side. Judge Holten glanced over to Father Kim, who had carefully used his coarse brown robe to wipe his face clean, marring the markings he’d painted onto his face that morning.

You glanced between the men as Judge Holten looked to Father Kim, he himself shaken by the flagrant display of utter disinterest in any form of honor or redemption for himself or his family. You trembled slightly as you waited for anything to happen.

Father Kim stepped forward and presented a bowl of black ink to Karl. The man tried to move out of the way, but The Axe clamped onto the back of his neck and kneeled into his legs. Father Kim gave the executioner a long, thankful look and then went on with his work. He gently placed his forefingers into the ink, then gently pressed them onto the man’s forehead. With a shudder of his shoulders, he painted a large eye on his forehead, then two slashes crossed over it. Father Kim rose back to his feet and steeped back with a mournful shake of his head. The Axe stepped back to hover by his side.

You watched as Judge Holten turned back to the crowd with a shaky breath. He looked up, his watery red-rimmed eyes glanced around before finally settling back on the crowd.

“Karl Hoffman has declared to the court that he does not wish to be reunited with Halax in the next realm. As such, he is declared lost, and Martha, Mathilde and Klara Hoffman are hereby stripped of their citizenship and declared lost as well,” even the horrible Judge Holten trembled like a leaf before he straightened up and turned to the hooded man by the back of the stage, “my Axe, if you’d please.”

The Axe stepped forward from the back of the stage to take the back of Karl Hoffman’s neck into his hand. He screamed bloody murder and thrashed against the giant man’s grip, kicking and spitting like a wild animal. The Axe tried desperately to give him one last chance of dignity by letting him walk up the ladder himself, but Karl immediately tried to dart into the woods. Within a couple of steps, The Axe had his hand back on the back of his neck and gripped it tight as he dragged the man back to the ladder. With one hand on the ladder and one on his victim’s neck, The Axe slowly crawled up the ladder while Karl dangled limply at his side. He tried to kick the ladder over but Father Kim was quick to stabilize the two. Karl screamed until his voice broke when The Axe rose to the top and finally looped a noose around Karl’s neck. With nothing left to do, The Axe slowly lowered Karl and left him to suffocate.

Karl kicked and gripped at the noose around his neck, lifting himself just barely to scream profanities at the gathered crowd. He spluttered and spat before he turned to his wife and cursed her and his children like nothing you’d ever heard before. Meanwhile, his wife watched him with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Her rudy hair waved in the coming breeze as she watched her husband use his last moments not to declare his love to her, not to apologise for his actions, but to spew hatred the likes of which nobody there had ever seen. Even from here you could see her struggle to keep her wailing children at her side. Their littlest daughter stared up at her father with big black eyes, so much like her father’s but filled with sadness and love instead of hatred and fire. You could only imagine her asking her mother what it meant to be lost, what it meant now that their father was gone.

Karl Hoffman continued to kick and spit, but his grip grew weak and he slowly slumped into the noose. At that point, you turned away and focussed on packing up the rest of the bread. Some things were better left unseen.

Glossary

1. Halaxwake: The first day of the week/God-Watch

2. Poppernickens: A species of flower characterized by tiny five-petal flowers that grow in bunches along a tall stalk. Large round leaves shoot out along the bottoms of the stalks. The flower seeds can be ground to get a floral spice used in cooking. Leaves can be used as salves for burns.

3. Twineweed: A long vine once considered a pest plant, but is now used to weave fence posts together to create natural fences. The large white flowers are toxic to most animals, but the pollen has a pleasant smell that some people use as perfume.

4. Wink: An alcoholic beverage made from fermented fruits. Farmers often collect any fruit that spoils or grows poorly and use it to make wink for the end of the year. Each batch has its own individual taste. Usually, years with plenty of rain make the best wink.

5. Vigil: A minute in their time, a bit over a minute in our time. Used as an expression for a short amount of time.

6. Elves: A warlike species known for being the best hunter/warriors on the continent. Their brutal culture is widely feared by others. Many believe that if elves were more intelligent, they would have organised to take over the continent and wipe out all other species. As it is, they are known for their brawn more than their brain, and thankfully they are too curious and entertained by other cultures to attempt genocide. They find all other species weak, but amusing enough to take as slaves for their own entertainment.

7. Brak-Hah’s-Eye: The sun, the center of their solar system

8. Corpse Flowers: A group of species of flowers that grow near decay. They are often seen as cursed flowers, and use of them is heavily prohibited by most laws. However, they are known to be excellent pain killers and excellent disinfectants. Have a notably bitter, sour taste. Look somewhat like snowbells or lady’s slippers.

9. Turning-Time: Season

10. Poke Bear: A tiny species of bear covered in spines. The animal will occasionally roll into a ball and charge downhill at its prey. Other times, it uses its long spined tail to defend against larger predators.

11. Sweetlin: A round, sweet fruit, much like an apple but larger and more filling.

12. Swintlin: A very sour fruit covered in a thick, black skin. Very citrusy and used in both sweet and savoury cooking and baking.

13. Loch Tree: A type of coniferous tree that grows in the northern Mormonian forests. Grows to eighteen meters in height with long branches spiralling around to form a canopy below. The pine needles are hard, and often used as sewing needles to make clothes. The sap can be used for glue. The wood is notably difficult to work with because it is so hard, and it has a strong smell that lingers for years to come. Makes poor firewood because the sap forms large pockets in the wood, and when heated up explodes.

14. Stone: Slang for a face. A face can be broken into one hundred fragments, which refers to cents. Every face is composed of one hundred fragments. Slang for a face is a stone, slang for a fragment is a pebble. Used as currency.

15. Blorgron: A large, fat and unintelligent lizard with a broad head and a stumpy jaw. Equivalent to a pig, but a simple herd animal. Known for being simple minded and territorial over food. Often considered to be symbols of gluttony.

16. Declared Lost: When an individual is legally declared lost, they lose their rights as a citizen in their nation. They are considered lost from the light of any god, and as such are considered lesser citizens. They cannot vote, cannot marry nor divorce, cannot receive medical treatment or any form of charity from the community. Many fall into complete poverty as others refuse to be associated in any way, lest they be dragged down with the lost ones. To be declared lost is the greatest social punishment a court can give out. Many will leave to go into exile because of the shame of being lost.

Part 2

Part Three

Konig Dump

Alternate Universes

Full Fic on KoFi Here

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agentlizardofowca · 4 months ago

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Cant remember if ive asked yet. If i havent, id love ur take on: 'Well, someone's cranky today.'

-MoA

'Well, someone's cranky today.' + 42 A kiss out of pride @mammalsofaction

(OWCA files AU, post canon)

"This is high school all over again," Heinz pointed out awkwardly. He was right.

Agent P and Agent O sat in the first two- in a row of plastic chairs in the hallway. The door beside them did not lead to the principal's office but to HR's meeting room.

Perry shouldn't be surprised they ended up here. He'd known he would regret it the moment he started throwing trainees (And Heinz Doofenshmirtz) across the office. Nobody got hurt, the trainees learned a valuable lesson about using staplers and laminators for self-defence, and nobody seemed mad initially.

Then Rebecca from HR entered the room. She'd held a grudge against the two of them since that night they'd all played darts together. And she was a very sore loser.

So here they were, sitting side by side like two naughty teenagers.

"Dr Doofenshmirtz?" The door to the meeting room had opened, and a woman that Perry hadn't met before looked at them with a wide smile.

Heinz rose from his chair awkwardly and gave her a limp handshake before she herded him into the meeting room. He glanced at Perry one last time, but there was nothing he could do to help.

Perry spent the next ten minutes glaring at anyone who dared to glance his way.

When the door eventually opened again, Heinz was allowed to leave with another handshake. He was smiling, and for a moment Perry was optimistic.

"Thank you for your time, Heinz. Autism can create difficult situations in a work environment, but if we all take the time to sit down and discuss, I am sure we can craft a set of guidelines that can make things easier for everyone." The smiley woman turned to Perry. "Mr Fletcher, it's your turn."

Perry sighed and stepped up.

"I'll see you in the cafeteria," Heinz said to Perry, he placed one hand on his shoulder and then left. It would be useless for Heinz to wait by the door, but Perry was still a bit disappointed.

"My name is Kenzi," The smiling HR representative said politely as they sat down together. "Let's talk about you."

Kenzi did not know sign language, so Perry had to quickly resort to using his phone for assistance. As he was figuring that out, Kenzi explained that she and Heinz had a lovely conversation.

Perry frowned a little, they were on a first-name basis already?

"Your partner is a bit of a comedian, isn't he?" She asked. "He's very good at telling stories. What a charming guy."

Perry swallowed down the bitter taste of jealousy. So, Heinz charmed his way through the conversation with HR. That was smart. That was good.

His eyes must've betrayed his simmering anger as he announced that he was ready to begin.

That conversation fucking sucked. Perry thought to himself as he finally emerged from the meeting room. Not only was Kenzi impatient with him and barely gave him the time to answer. She also seemed to blame him for other people's behaviour. (If it had just been Heinz, he would've had to agree. But Perry barely even knew some of the agents that woman had mentioned.)

She had ordered him to be more gentle with the trainees. As if the enemy would be gentle with them when they come face to face with a real crisis situation. "Learning environment" is nice and all, but a loaded pistol is dangerous, and if someone messes around with one, Perry is not going to allow such behaviour. Stern and strict is good sometimes.

Kenzi apparently disagreed. She'd tried to manipulate Perry into changing his tune. Luckily for her, she managed to bite her tongue before she finished saying "Use your words" but she had come too close to elegantly catch her mistake.

By the time she allowed Perry to leave -almost thirty minutes later- he was so cross with her that he had to breathe carefully when they shook hands because his instinct was to crush her fingers.

"And Perry?" Kenzi said in lieu of a goodbye as she held the door open for him. "Try to smile once in a while, okay?" Her unnaturally wide grin was back as if to demonstrate.

Perry's fist was so tight his knuckles cracked.

Her eyes flashed to Perry's hands for a second, and he recognized the emotion in her eyes as fear.

In a desperate attempt to save face, Agent P smiled tightly, nodded and left as quickly as he could.

***

Perry stormed into the cafeteria, sat next to Heinz, and slumped into the table.

"That took a lot longer than I expected," Heinz noted and he awkwardly pushed the cup of coffee he had grabbed for Perry towards him. At this point it was lukewarm at best.

Perry groaned vaguely.

"So it didn't go well?" Doof asked, and he slouched lower in an attempt to catch Perry's gaze.

There wasn't much of a reply.

"Well I thought she was kinda nice. I explained that sometimes the kids get a bit rowdy, and then I talked about Vanessa. And Kenzi was such a good listener. She just kinda concluded that it wasn't my fault."

Perry struggled himself into a more proper sitting position and rubbed his face. Extra caffeine would only make his mood worse.

"She gave me her number in case I ever needed help handling a delicate situation."

Heinz hadn't even finished speaking when Perry's fist came down on the table with so much force that his coffee spilt over the rim of its paper cup. He turned to Heinz and glared.

"What? You don't think I need HR's help to behave, do you? I'm pretty sure I can figure it out on my own. I've gotten pretty good at reading other people's emotions. For example, you are annoyed right now."

As if to make a point, Heinz booped Perry's nose.

「I never want to see her again.」

"Pffft," Heinz snorted. "She's not that bad. Someone's just a bit cranky today. Have some coffee. You should try smiling some more, that'll lighten your mo-"

Perry rose from his chair and took Heinz up with him.

Mechanical long fingers scrambled at the cuff of Perry's sleeve. "You're choking me, Perry." Heinz managed to gasp despite the tight grip Perry had around his neck.

Perry dropped his partner back into his chair like a sack of bricks and stormed off.

It took Heinz approximately 25 minutes to find Perry on the bench behind the parking lot.

He cleared his throat and Perry glared at him, sighed deeply, and patted the seat next to him.

"Next time you get mad at me in there, try something else." Heinz huffed as he sat. "HR tried to get me to confess to you being a bastard."

Perry shrugged one shoulder.

"If they ever ask, grabbing each other by the neck is a thing we do."

Perry turned his head and looked at Heinz with a look of disbelief.

"What? You think I'm going to send you back in there after they managed to piss you off that badly? You may be a bastard, but I'm not that mean."

「You lied?」

"Of course I did! I learned from the best, you know." And Heinz elbowed Perry in a faux playful, but actually kinda painful way.

Finally, Perry cracked a smile, and he elbowed back just slightly harder.

"Ah, oof! Now apologise and tell me how well I did." Heinz said as he rubbed where he'd been elbowed in the ribs.

Perry wasn't in the mood for conversation, I hadn't gone well for him today. Instead, he wrapped his arm around his companion and after a moment he kissed him.

Heinz hummed as they kissed, and when they finally parted he smiled smugly. "Don't worry Perry, it won't take long before HR hates us both."

#thanks Choice! I combined both of your prompts into one #because that made sense for an ending #I hope you like it #my drabbles #phineas and ferb #perry the playtpus #human perry the platypus #heinz doofenshmirtz

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massyworld · 5 months ago

Text

hanzashiro rambles

thinking about hanzawa and tashiro again and their pingpong-esque relationship, how tashiro will say the craziest things to him (that no one else will dare to say) and hanzawa just hits him back with the same attack formation. they're both always on the offensive just like in pingpong and i love that about them, they both just hit each other with stuff and keep going with it. equals of their own right, like kghr. tashiro trying to bridge that gap between them and beat him at pingpong until hanzawa's...gone now, graduated. did the gap then disappear?

thinking about hirano laughing uproariously at just kagi eating his cookie so eagerly "Hahaha, I s-see!" and hanzawa killing himself laughing at just tashiro's favourite subject being gym "PFFFT…PFFT-ppppfft…I-I see…" there's something there too

hanzawa's roommate's name rhyming with tashiro is funny to me too like, im sure it's nothing, but consider if it's not

hanzawa staring daggers down at a head-bowed tashiro in the pizza extra as a seated kuresawa stares hard at tashiro....flashing forward to the guidebook extra where tashiro talks about the post-sempai loneliness as kuresawa pushes his white lensed glasses up in his classic i-know-something-secret style... i'm sorry, that extra honestly deserves its own separate ramble but jeez the hanzashiro is so so so heavy, the chapter starting with a hanzawa who transitions into tashiro-esque whiny (lovingly) and then curiously after, opens up into tashiro's viewpoint, also lamenting not being yelled at anymore, he must lowkey enjoy that on some level... not even to mention the exact same wide eyed look shared at them both on separate pages, in separate directions, one realizing his attachment while the other realizes his separation

and since im rambling in every direction i also just remembered miyano mentioning in his grad voice msg that hanzawa had brought up his own love life with him????????????? and it sounded like he barely said much because miyano remained VERY INTERESTED to hear more. insanity. csf leaking everywhere. wdym he talked to you about his love life. no one else.

lastly. about guidebook extra tashiro: "It's gonna be just a little lonely...when the sempai are gone." so yknow how rn in kghr, Hirano is starting off where kagi was in like vol1 chp 1(?) with his romantic development, like when Hirano was in the stands at kagi's bball game and kagi found him and smiled super wide, and then the same thing but reverse happened in chp 24, showing his romantic development is literally starting from the very beginning like when kagi's did and took the time to fully blossom (that was all @burrythebusy 's bigbrain) WELL HEAR ME OUT BUT this is tashiro's ground zero. him and hanzawa were both shown, closeup might I add, to be starting to miss everyone/everything too, very interesting that those two characters in specific were shown closer-up by sensei. I think the end of highschool is ground zero for them, for their connection growing further and sensei beginning to write/show more about them and their development. gap is gone baybeee

#hanzawa to tashiro #hanzashiro #my posts #i just have one question #SENSEI WHAT ARE YOU COOKING #also also also #tashiro using his softest voice to say hanzawa's name in his grad voice msg...........#still thinking about the hanzawa zendaya laughing tag i saw someone wrote like..lemme try my hardest to refrain from comparing tomdaya to e #zendaya the more incharge ish person and tom the sillier one #it FITS #but then obvs you have all the hanzashiro weirdness that is its own thing #ramble masterpost

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deathbxnny · 10 months ago

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Alright! After debating which characters i want to use for this idea, i chose Lyney! So can i request Lyney x reader where he and reader does a ballroom dance under the moonlight. The Merry Go Round of Life ost is honestly a perfect song for a ballroom dance so i have to request a ballroom dance! Also this ask is kinda similar to your Furina post, but..

Let me explain:

So the reader is Lyney’s crush and Lyney is also the reader’s crush. Their love for each other is mutual but both of them have yet to confess. The reader is wating for Lyney to be the one to confess while Lyney… Lyney plans to never confess to them. Despite really wanting to, he can’t. He won’t because if he does that would mean getting the reader involved in the Fatui which he vehemently does not want to happen. So he trapped the both of them in this dance of Will They or Wont They because while he doesnt want to be actual lovers for their safety, this dance will at least let him believe an illusion that they are one. He knows the reader will get tired of this dance but that’s fine with him. He will enjoy every second of this dance until the reader eventually finds a new dancing partner lover.

But until then, he will let himself believe this illusion as it lets him forget all his problems and be in love for once.

(I should probably mention that i have yet to play Fontaine so idk how accurate Lyney is in this request but even if he does date someone, i still think he wouldnt be too keen on having his S/O involved in his Fatui business. Am i right on that assumption?)

- Flower Anon 🌸

I love your brain, Flower Anon! This is such an interesting idea, but I might change it up a little, so I hope you like it anyways and I thank you for your request!<33

(Part two)

Content: Heavy angst?, Mutual pinning but no confession, hurt/kind of no comfort, ballroom dancing, hints of depression, Lyney is a bit of a liar, sfw Reader has no metioned pronouns!! ((Not fully proofread))

《No happy endings. (Lyney x Gn!Reader)》

In a way, Lyney always knew his love for you would backfire eventually.

Whether it was due to his own actions or his family's "business," he knew this couldn't ever turn out the way he wanted to. That eventually, he'd have to pull away from you for good. But he was selfish for way too long, perhaps even in denial. He ignorantly thought he could manage his many lies with the same ease he balanced his magic tricks on stage. And yet, it all came to a head the day "Father" told them of their important mission.

A mission he knew would end in nothing but heartbreak and loneliness.

He ofcourse tried to prolonge his doom for as long as he could, mainly because he just couldn't let go of you. He didn't want to, and it was so painfully obvious to everyone around him. It didn't help that he knew that you loved him back, too. Neither of you ever dared to confess, however, something he was thankful for until now. It made things a little easier, or at least it did, until you one day visited him at one of his street shows with a letter in hand, inviting him to a grand ball in the theater.

You were glowing under the bright sun, your smile wide enough to make him breathless. Lynette gave him a glance, an unreadable one he still understood anyway. After their last meeting with their "Father", she had bluntly asked him what he was going to do with you now. This wasn't the first time she had asked him this either. But everytime she did, his words would dry out in his mouth and he'd be left there speechless, unable to come up with a solution.

The issue was clear as day, however. It's either he confessed to you or he didn't. For a while, he entertained the idea of doing so, just so he can finally hold you the way he so desperately wanted to. But Lynette wasn't letting him dream anymore. If he confessed, then he'd have to lie to you about everything. And it was inevitable that eventually, one day, you'd find out about their real identities. Would you stay then? Freminet quietly shaking his head at his older brothers question was enough to make him finally wake up to the reality of the situation.

No, ofcourse you wouldn't stay, because he had deceived you for so many years. Perhaps you'd be able to look past the Fatui aspect, but not the lies.

He hadn't been the same since and everyone noticed. Even you, who was so desperate to cheer him up from the unknown issue that was clouding his mind. Always so ready to help him through everything, despite not knowing you were the cause of his plight. And he regrettably loved that about you the most.

"You... want to go to the ball with me? Ah... I-" "-Please? I've been wanting to go with you for a while, and I'm sure it will do us some good to catch a break." You said quickly, afraid of his rejection when you haven't even tasted the beginning of it yet. The blonde man bit his lip, his eyes meeting Lynette's for help, who simply looked away stubbornly. She had warned him of this. At this point, she wondered who's feelings she was really trying to save. Her twin brothers or her dear friends? She didn't know and hoped it would all just come to a quick, painful end.

Lyney sighed softly, unable to ever say no to you in the end, as he forced a smile to grace his lips. "Why ofcourse then! Let's make the night count!" He said in his usual grandiose tone, his heart fluttering as you gave him an excited giggle and hugged him, quickly taking your leave with a gleeful thanks. The twins watched you round a corner, the young man deflating with every step you took.

He pressed a hand against his face the moment you disappeared, his breath a little uneven and shaky. His smile wobbled until it finally dropped entirely. Even smiling had become too exhausting to do. Lynette simply stared before she shook her head and crossed her arms tightly. Someone had to be the responsible one here, and as much as it hurt her... she had to be the one to push him over the edge. "You'll end it after the ball. You have to." She whispered to him, leaning in close enough to notice the teary, near empty gaze glinting in his eyes.

He always loved too hard.

"I... ofcourse I will. You're right." He muttered in a near daze as he gathered up his cards off the floor from a previous performance. He looked so small, all his pride and grandiose having been shattered the moment he realised that his life and free will never belonged to him to begin with.

---

The days flew past him afterwards and by the time the night of the ball arrived, it was like he had woken up from a bad fever dream. He stood in the now crowded theater room, dazed and dressed in a lavish suit he only barely remembered to have put on with his siblings' help. He had attempted to stall having to come here, but his "father's" dark glare from the door way made it clear that she wasn't going to entertain his "distraction" being around him anymore either.

Fountaine's whole existence stood on the line, so how dare he hesitate? How dare he care about being heartbroken, when people are going to die?

His hazy mind nearly didn't recognize your radiating form when you approached him in absolute glee. Your hands took his gloved one's, tightly grasping them, as you spoke of your happiness to be here with him. You had dragged him outside onto one of the massive balconies, the moonlight mirrored in your beautiful eyes, and for a moment, everything around him disappeared. He could hear your words slow down, the panic kicking in full force when he realised what you were attempting to do, his mouth moving faster than his heart could stop it.

"Lyney, what I want to say is that I lov-" "-Let's dance. Let us please dance." He whispered breathlessly, his head spinning as he grasped onto your hip and took your hand into his. He couldn't process the hurt in your eyes, the way you pressed your lips together, tried mentally reasoning with yourself that he hadn't indeed just bluntly rejected you.

But he was quicker, the music filtering outside from the grand ballroom and mingling with the warm night air, as Lyney waltzed with you to it's melody. His mind was racing with so many thoughts and possibilities, his brain and heart tearing at his soul into opposite directions. He was hesitating. Despite knowing exactly what he had to do, the words just couldn't spill out yet. He gave himself time until the end of the song, his face flushing with a misplaced sense of excitement for being so close to you at last.

Yet you knew something was off about him. Perhaps it was the way he danced so clumsily. Perhaps it was the growing anxiety in his eyes that couldn't look into yours, and maybe it was the way his breath was so painfully labored, as though something was weighing down on his heart, suffocating him. Whatever it was, it made you slowly become frustrated.

Years of showing your affection to the magician seemed to have been brushed off and forgotten in that moment. And you weren't foolish enough to believe that he didn't feel the same for you. So what was he waiting for? What was holding him back? You couldn't understand, and so, when he spun you out, his hand only weakly keeping you from getting away from him, you finally uttered the words that burned on your tongue.

"Why are you hesitating?"

He looked at you for the first time since the waltz began, his eyes widening with unshed tears as he gulped, his throat so painfully dry. The melody was about to end, the orchestra leading up to it with suspense, somehow fitting for what he was about to do. He was happy that, despite everything, he was able to delude himself into thinking you two can be one, even for a single night. So perhaps his only regret was to not have been born in the right time and world for you.

"Because I can't love you. Not in this life. But I promise that nothing will stop me in the next."

The music came to an end, the wild and near deafening roar of the crowd in the ballroom filling this sobering silence between you two. It was his best performance, his best final magic trick, in which he'd make his own heart vanish. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your hand, unable to look at your shocked and tear-filled expression.

Lyney had made peace with himself and the situation in that moment, even when you wordlessly pulled away from him and quickly ran past him. He stood under the moonlight, still bowed, his hand reaching for nothing until he summoned his hat from thin air and elegantly put it on his slicked back hair. The blonde turned to look behind him as he did so, only barely seeing you vanish in the thick crowd as you wiped away your tears.

And somehow, he had it in him to smile, not out of amusement of what he had done to you, but rather at the realisation that he truly always did belong to a puppet show in a way.

What a shame that the script had no happy ending from the start.

Alrighttt... I hope this was okay for you, Flower Anon! And sorry for taking so long, exam season is not for the weak...

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact x reader #genshin lyney #genshin lyney x reader #lyney x reader #lyney #lyney x you #lyney x y/n

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pudding-parade · 1 year ago

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So this is bizarre...

For context: A couple months ago, this person was upset because they'd been misgendered by simmers in various comments and such around the internets. I wrote a very polite and sympathetic comment on their post about it, trying to be helpful, in which I basically said, "Being misgendered sucks, but given that Sims fandom seems to be majority-female, it's not surprising that people would innocently make an assumption, given that not everyone looks at profiles before they comment on something, blah blah." (I don't remember exactly what I said and can't look because they deleted the comment, but that is the gist.) And then I ran a poll to see if my impression that Sims fandom is majority-female was correct because I was curious. (And it is majority-female by a wide margin, at least according to my unscientific and not-at-all-statistically-significant poll. LOL )

Apparently this person was mightily offended by my claim that Sims fandom is majority-female and even more offended that I dared to take a poll, because then I got a whole entire shitload of xenophobic and misogynistic nonsense from the person, in both multiple mentions (that I couldn't reply to) and private messages, which is yet another reason (of many) why I now pretty much ignore the latter because I don't need that nonsense in my face. They'd also blocked me from commenting on their posts and, as I said, deleted the first comment I made to them. Which is fine. Anyone's free to block someone else in any way for whatever reason, and they're free to block/moderate comments as they see fit. I had no intention of commenting on their posts in the future, so it didn't matter.

But then today, many weeks later, out of nowhere, not having said a word to or about this person since the initial...thing...I get notifications about these mentions:

So I guess the first flood of nonsense wasn't enough? I don't know if this will be it or if this is just the start of another flood or if there will be another gap in time and then another thing. All I know is that I apparently live rent-free in the mind of this one person on the other side of the planet, which is fucking hilarious. This is the best laugh I've had in a while, seriously. Which probably says something about the lack of WTFery in my life at the moment.

PS: If you know who this person is - and I suspect that many of you will, from things some of you have shared -- please please please do NOT go and say stuff to them. I mean that very sincerely. Not only would it accomplish nothing, but that's not what this is about at all. This is all about the WTF kind of lulz.

Anyway, I'mma go build something now, I think.

#please do not reblog #non sims #but simblr related #i wouldn't call it drama #more like #a dose of wtf

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sasquapossum · 4 months ago

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I've been part of a big discussion elsewhere about Rings of Power and the liberties they've taken with Tolkien's canon. As part of that, I posted this timeline (SA = Second Age, TA = Third Age).

To be clear, I don't particularly care about the timeline itself. I have never been one of those to say that nobody can change canon at all. In fact, I haven't seen anyone take that position. Here are some things that are fine with me, and AFAICT with most other hard-core Tolkien fans.

I welcome changes that improve representation of women (Arwen, Tauriel, Galadriel) or Black people (Arondir), gay people, whatever. Tolkien was a man of his time, but also a decent man. I believe that, had he lived longer, he might well have approved such changes or even made them himself.

I also don't mind if characters are omitted (Glorfindel and especially Tom Bombadil) or added (Adar) or given new names/identities (Halbrand, The Stranger) in ways that don't significantly affect the history of Middle Earth as already known.

I don't even mind some kinds of timeline changes. Should Elendil have been alive at the same time as Celebrimbor? Well, no, but it doesn't really matter.

What I do mind is changes that harm the narrative - either Tolkien's or their own or too often both. Some events have a cause-and-effect relationship, so reordering them leads to a nonsensical result. Some characters have thematically important natures, so putting them in situations contrary to that nature is also nonsensical. It's particularly crazy to be bringing in Third Age elements when the Second Age is already far too big and busy for a single series (what I consider to be RoP's "original sin" from which most others flow). Here are some more examples.

It doesn't make sense for Gandalf or Saruman to be in Middle Earth before the events that caused the Valar to send them (Sauron's Third Age rise in opposition to Arnor and Gondor).

Ditto for barrow wights in this time period (hinted at in teasers for episodes I haven't seen myself yet). The wights were canonically princes of Cardolan, reanimated and/or possessed by the Witch King of Angmar. Cardolan didn't even exist until the Third Age, and even in RoP's own timeline the Witch King doesn't (can't) exist yet, so again this makes no sense.

Portraying the Fall of Numenor before the creation of the rings is not only gratuitous (just an excuse for some CGI) but it's also going to make it very difficult to tell the full story - which BTW includes Sauron as a prisoner - later even in RoP's own timeline. I'd like to see that story, so that's a loss.

Having Tom Bombadil tutor Gandalf (also hinted at in spoilers) changes both characters into something else entirely. Gandalf was already thousands of years old and should need no such tutoring; his amnesia was already an unnecessary creation within RoP. Tom, to the extent that he's anything more than a last vestige of the Hobbit writing style, is an enigma intentionally placing himself above and beyond such worldly concerns. He is almost the anti-Istari so having him help one is just silly.

By making these changes, and many more, the RoP folks have made a muddled mess. It's the same mistake David Lynch made in his 1984 version of Dune, which was widely and rightly panned for ham-fistedly trying to cram much into too small a space. Amazon's changes not only do a disservice to Tolkien's canon, but they're degrading their own as well.

Another thing that infuriates me about this is the hypocrisy of the Tolkien estate. For decades, Christopher (Rot In Piss) and his successors have ruthlessly quashed any retelling of stories in Tolkien's world. I used to play LotR Online, which suffered under this yoke for years. I'm aware of multiple fanfic authors who were legally threatened for having dared to mention one thing in that canon. Then the estate turns around and approves a project that puts the entire history of Middle Earth in a blender? No, I do not accept such double standards. This is all a huge money grab, pure and simple.

I know that other people would draw the lines differently than I do. They would accept things that I don't, and vice versa. That's all fine. Live and let live, as I always say. I'm watching and enjoying the series, just as I have enjoyed others (e.g. Wheel of Time) that are inspired by Tolkien but not set in his world. But I also think I should be allowed to notice and have my own opinions about those things too. Apparently the RoP stans disagree. Literally all of the gatekeeping and all of the vitriol in these discussions have come from that direction. Even the worst Tolkien purists I've ever met accept that he had his flaws as a writer, and that adaptation to a new medium in a new time means some changes. They're not the problem; it's the people who think RoP takes precedence over Tolkien's own vision who are the problem.

#rings of power #lord of the rings #tolkien #long post

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anxious-witch · 1 year ago

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The color between my lines

Summary: The story of the Bojan and Kris is pretty simple. They liked each other, they dated, they broke up. Almost broke up a band over it, too. Really the fact that they are such good friends now is a miracle in itself.

Kris has kept a careful balance ever since. Letting his feelings get the best of him already got him hurt once. He will not do it again. Except, when Jere enters the equation and Bojan seems to be interested in the Finn, can Kris truly let him go? Or will he risk their friendship in an attempt to try again?

Pairings: Bojan Cvjetićanin/Kris Guštin

Warnings: mentions of bullying, an unnamed character getting his arm broken, homophobia, mentions of past bullying Kris experienced

Notes:

On AO3

Okay, so first and foremost, a big thank you to @occhi-verdi-come-il-mare for beta reading this and helping me iron some details, and to @reserved-fruit for letting me expand on one of the prompts she got, I am really thankful to you both <3

Second of all, I know this chapter is a bit short, I was getting into bokris dynamics for the first time and I wanted to give a bit of the backstory first. I hope I did them justice. This fic will probably have 2-3 chapters if I don't get carried away. So yeah, enjoy

Kris’ life, for the most part, was a carefully constructed set of rules. Like a sketchbook full of drawings. You were meant to color it, but there were specific colors you should use and you needed to color in between the lines.

Simple.

Or, it was, before Bojan slowly but surely pushed his way in his life.

Coloring his life over any and all lines, like he couldn't see them at all and breathing to life the colors Kris couldn't have even imagined.

It was a slow but inevitable dance they played, exchanging jabs towards each other. A push and pull, forever circling each other.

“That song doesn't have distortions.” Turned into “I still think you are annoying, but sure, we can hang out after school.” Then, “Please don't faint when you meet my dad.”

“I don't think I ever would have picked up a guitar if it wasn't for you.”

Was it truly a surprise for them to end up together?

“I don't think I ever felt this way about anyone,” Bojan said to him, his eyes wide and honest.

They were at the park, in the middle of the night, sitting on a blanket Kris sneakily took from the far end of the closet. He didn't like sneaking out at night, but only this late did they dare to be this close outside.

Besides, it was summer. It was warm and they had no obligations outside of band practices. Kris thought that for once, he could relax a bit and let himself be a bit more laid back.

Bojan passed his hand through Kris’ short hair and Kris pretended it didn't make him shiver.

“Because you had so many experiences with dating in the first seventeen years of your life?”

Bojan lightly slapped his arm.

“I had a girlfriend before!”

Kris snorted.

“Right. The one you dated for…what? Two weeks?”

“Three!”

“My mistake.”

Bojan pushed him on his back as Kris laughed and kissed him. It was a sure way to quickly end most of their arguments.

And even those were far and few in those first few months of their relationship.

Months were passing quickly, though and as summer melted into autumn and then the beginning of winter, things started to change.

It was on a particularly cold night, after a gig they did that they found themselves in Kris’ house. His parents knew about it by this point, and having expressed their approval, allowed Bojan to come over when he liked.

This was how they ended up lying in Kris’ bed, the post gig adrenaline slowly dying down. Bojan was always hit with the low especially hard afterwards, so Kris made sure he didn't leave him alone after.

“Don't you sometimes wish we could just…go away?” Bojan whispered in the dark.

Kris circled his arms around his waist, pulling him closer to his chest.

“Go where?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”

Kris felt his heart squeeze painfully at the bitterness in Bojan's voice. He gently turned him so he'd face him.

“What are you saying? Why do you want to leave? I never heard you talk like this before.”

Bojan's eyes were piercing, even in the darkness of Kris’ bedroom.

“I just…don't you wish we could just hold hands in public? Kiss? Just, be ourselves?”

Kris carefully considered his words, his hand automatically intertwining with Bojan's.

“I mean, yes. But we have the time. It's not now or never. We are barely eighteen.”

Bojan huffed, turning his head away. Kris gently turned it back to him.

“Where is all this coming from?”

Bojan shrugged, but Kris could feel there was something deeper than that. So he waited.

“There is a guy from the same year as me, but in a different class. Someone broke his arm during recess today.”

Kris felt the chill sink into his bones despite being in a warm bedroom.

“Oh my God. What happened? Did they do it…on purpose?”

There was slight hesitation before Bojan nodded. Then, all at once, it clicked for Kris.”

“They did it because he is gay.”

It wasn’t a question, but Bojan nodded again. Oh Bojan, Kris thought.

“Are you…” Kris trailed off, unsure what the right word was. Scared? Angry?

“...okay?”

Bojan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m peachy, but I am not the one with a broken arm, am I?”

“Bojči…”

“Don’t.”

They fell silent, but the tension stayed, hanging heavily in the air. Too heavy for Kris’ childhood bedroom, too heavy than anything that hung between them before.

Kris thought of middle school where people called him a girl and a fag until he cut him hair. How he could have easily been the one to get his arm broken in slightly different circumstances. Yet, what could he say to all that? They couldn’t exactly just pack up and move away on a whim, could they?

Besides, they wouldn’t be in high school forever. For Bojan it was only a few months left, while for Kris, it was one more year. College would be different, they just had to bid their time until then.

There were so many things Kris could say, but Bojan looked so small and exhausted, Kris didn't want to push. When he was angry or felt something was unfair, he could be quite stubborn. Pressing the issue could only result in more argument.

“Alright, maybe we should just go to sleep and talk about this some other time, yeah?”

Bojan looked up at him for a moment, his dark eyes piercing. Kris let him, unsure what he was looking for, exactly. Then, after a moment Bojan simply nodded and wrapped around Kris tighter, as if he was trying to melt into him. Kris chuckled and pressed a kiss into his hair.

“Goodnight Bojči.”

“Goodnight Krisko.”

It didn't get better.

Ever since that night, Bojan kept pushing the issue. Saying how, if they stay, they'll cave under the pressure, get stuffed into a mold and then it'll be too late.

Kris didn't understand. They were still themselves and while certainly, the situation wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t dire either. They were only eighteen. Where would they go? And how?

Bojan didn't seem to have a definitive answer to that, so they stopped arguing. But Kris could tell it didn't leave his mind. Then, things got worse.

Bojan began pulling away. There was no other way of describing it. Not just pulling away from Kris, but from the band, too. Kris wasn't sure what shifted, but ever since Bojan got a new music teacher, he seemed to have completely shifted his worldview.

He kept missing practice and saying he just didn't have a clear idea on the new song they started working on.

Their dates became fewer too, although it did seem Bojan put more effort into maintaining their relationship than he did in maintaining the band.

Kris did wonder why he looked so tired all the time, though. What was he doing?

He came knocking at his front door one day after class and Bojan's mom greeted him. He saw a surprise flash over her face.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Cvjetićanin.”

“Kris, you know you can call me Snežana. But also Bojan isn't home yet.”

Kris made a split second decision to lie and find out what had been happening with Bojan lately. So he smiled, hoping he came off as sheepish and earnest at the same time.

“I actually wanted to come a bit earlier and surprise him, since he had been so busy lately…”

Snežana's face turned understanding.

“Yeah, of course. Come in. You can wait in his room if you'd like. Do you want anything to drink?”

After a bit of small talk with Snežana, Kris found himself in Bojan's room. It was somehow even more of a mess than usual.

What drew Kris in was a stack of papers neatly put on the table. Or well, as neatly as one could expect from Bojan.

When he picked one up, he found they were song lyrics. Not the song lyrics of the new song Kris had been begging Bojan to work on, though. No.

This was-this wasn't even the kind of song that suited the band. And the notes on it confirmed Kris’ suspicion.

It was a solo song.

Kris slowly sat on the bed, the paper still in his hands. He stared blankly, his brain trying to catch up to what he was seeing.

There was only white static in his head, his heart drumming in his ears. Then, the doors opened and Bojan was standing in the doorway.

Kris felt as if time slowed down. He looked up at him. Saw as Bojan's expression flickered between surprised, to fond. Then, his eyes slowly focused on the paper Kris was holding. His face paled.

“Kris, I-”

“Are you leaving the band?”

Bojan closed his mouth, then opened it, then closed it again. The pressure in Kris’ head grew, static turning into white-hot rage.

“Are you leaving the fucking band?!”

Bojan flinched back, his foot hitting the door behind him. Kris breathed in through his teeth.

“I don't know yet. But-probably.”

Kris closed his eyes. Tried to breathe through his anger and something awfully close to heartbreak.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Kris’ hand trembled as he dragged them through his own hair, nails scratching over the scalp, attempting to ground himself with the pain.

“Humor me.”

“Statistically, solo singers are more likely to make it in the industry.”

He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. His breaths came out as labored. He couldn't bring himself to look at Bojan at all.

“So that's what this is about? You want so badly to get away from here, you are willing to leave all of us behind?”

“No!”

Kris finally opened his eyes to see Bojan walking towards him and kneeling down to take Kris’ hands in his own.

“You-you could come with me. If it all works out as it should.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. Bojan's voice sounded so small, as if pleading him to understand. Kris did understand. But understanding wasn't enough.

“How would that even work? We both agreed we'd have plan B. How do you think this will work with college? Besides, if we are not doing this as a band, how would I even go with you?”

Bojan didn't say anything, which was an answer in itself.

“Is this what your new music teacher told you? Is he pushing you to-”

“He is not pushing me to do anything! I want to do this!”

The black line, crudely drawn across all the other line and colors, cutting it in half.

“Well then,” Kris said, his voice coming out strangely calm, almost frosty, “I suppose there is nothing more to say.”

He saw the exact moment his words hit Bojan, his eyes widening and his face paling even further.

“Wait. Are you breaking up with me?”

Kris felt as if he was in some sort of trance, all his fiery rage turning to ice. He pulled his hands from Bojan's grasp.

“I guess I am.”

He stood up and Bojan did as well, grabbing on to his arms. Kris tried to shake him off, but Bojan held firm.

“No, wait-please listen to me!”

“What is there to listen to? You want to leave? Fine! There is nothing holding you back now!”

Kris began walking towards the door, but then Bojan grabbed him again and pinned him to the door. Kris exhaled shakily and then he was being kissed.

Bojan had never kissed him like this before. So desperate and full of despair. Kris kissed him back and cupped Bojan's face, finding it wet with tears.

By the time he pulled away, they were both breathless.

“Stay,” Bojan whispered, his hot breath ghosting over his lips.

“Only if you do.”

Bojan's face twisted up in pain.

“I can't, Kris I have to try. If I don't try, I'll always wonder what would have happened if I tried. I'm sorry.”

Kris’ ice shield broke and tears slid down his cheeks too.

“I'm sorry, too,” he said and pushed him away.

This time, Bojan didn't try to stop him. Kris walked past the kitchen and living room, hearing Snežana humming to the radio, blissfully unaware.

For the first time, Kris didn't say goodbye to her when he left.

He got out on the street and simply walked. Winter sunset painted the sky in beautiful orange and yellow colors, but Kris felt completely devoid of color.

Like a coloring book with pages torn out and discarded, all the colors uneven and ugly. For the first time he saw them all, but they held no beauty and no warmth.

He swore he would never, ever let Bojan break his heart again. He would never even talk about him ever again.

He was done.

#bokris #joker out #my writing #I really hope this shows up in the tag lmao #the color between my lines

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experimentalmadness · 1 year ago

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Break the Cage

Synopsis: Tav is confronted after letting Astarion ascend and letting herself be turned into a spawn. Astarion is, of course, there to intervene. But there is far more to her choices than meets the eye.

Hurt/Comfort, mentions of serious past abuse, angst with a fluffy ending. Soft(er) Ascended Astarion,

A/N: I swear I'll post these all in a multi-chapter collection on AO3 soon, but in the meantime you can find more of my Astarion/Eidel fic here

***

“You’ve let this go too far, Eidel!” Jaheira’s voice was full of that insufferable righteous anger Astarion had had quite enough of.

He lingered behind the door to their chambers in the Elfsong, peering through the slight crack as he watched the older druid pacing like a panther. Meanwhile his newly made consort held up her hands placatingly. “Please stop shouting.”

“It was bad enough you let him execute seven thousand souls, but you let him make you his spawn?” Jaheira continued, “What were you thinking?”

“It was my choice,” Eidel’s soft voice carried no hint of doubt.

“Choice is something you will never have the luxury of again.”

“Jaheira, please, I’m still me. Nothing’s changed.”

Astarion watched as his consort tried to reach out to the elf only for Jaheira to take a disgusted step back. “The druid I had come to know would never have allowed so many to die for such a selfish decision.”

“I never said it was easy.” A mournful tone crept into Eidel’s voice. “I will spend my eternity balancing those scales…how can I make you understand?”

“You cannot.”

Eidel sighed. “Very well, but…you will stay, won’t you? Our goals are still the same. We need all the help we can get to stop the Absolute.”

“I stay for the sake of this city and its people, of course,” Jaheria said. “But you have let yourself become an abomination.”

Astarion saw Eidel stiffen, her eyes going wide. “Don’t call me that. Please.”

“Why? Do you suddenly dislike the truth? You are a druid, Eidel, a creature of life and nature and you allowed yourself to be severed from the natural cycle of life and death. I never took you for a fool until today.”

“Is it foolish to want safety?” Eidel asked, her voice whisper-quiet. “For him? For me?”

“Enjoy your safety in the little cage he will put you in.”

“I’ve spent my whole life in a cage!” A screaming rage the likes of which Astarion had never heard from Eidel before burst out of her. Even Jaheira seemed taken aback by the sudden onslaught. “All my life, Jaheira! I know what captivity is. I’m free. And no one can take it from me. Ever. How dare you! How dare you!”

Her body was not built for anger. She shook and dissolved into tears. Astarion decided his curiosity was fully sated and he walked into the room. “I’ll thank you not to distress my consort further,” he said, coming to stand next to Eidel.

Jaheira seemed torn between guilt and anger. She looked as if she wanted to reach for his sobbing Eidel out of an abundance of remorse, but he slung an arm over Eidel’s shoulders, drawing her into a comforting embrace. He spared the older elf a small smile of satisfaction. Jaheria’s impotent glare was oh so rewarding.

“Eidel,” Jaheria sighed. “I did not mean to…there are other paths to take, child.”

“I think you’ve done quite enough,” Astarion gestured towards the door. “Off you go.”

Jaheira laughed without humor. “You cannot order me about, my lord.” Her voice dripped with disdain.

“Whoever said anything about ordering? You’re going to leave of your own volition because I need a moment alone with my consort. And you are upsetting her.”

“I…would like you to leave now, Jaheira,” Eidel drew herself away from Astarion, eyes shining and wet. “Please.”

“I see you for what you are, Astarion,” Jaheria said as she turned on her heel to leave. “Even if she does not.”

The door slammed shut behind her. “Well. What a thoroughly unpleasant woman,” Astarion rolled his eyes. “Don’t you worry, sweet thing, I’ll keep a watchful eye on her where you are concerned.”

Eidel had stopped crying, but her hands were still balled into trembling fists and he could feel her sorrow and rage pouring off of her. The tadpole allowed for him to sense her emotions, but now he could feel them as if they were his own. The bond he’d forged with her was new, and unknown. Maybe it held some magic he had not yet accounted for. Astarion frowned, not particularly enjoying tasting Eidel’s emotions at present.

“I am not an abomination,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“Of course not,” Astarion assured. “You are perfect.”

“You won’t put me in a cage.”

He smiled. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t need reassurance to believe what she felt in her bones. But he gave her one anyway. “Unless you consider the Gate and all of Faerun to be one?” He hardly had to worry about her leaving his side. He could feel how terribly badly she wanted to always be with him. Her freedom, and his, aligned perfectly. And for such natural, darling, obedience he’d give her everything.

She inhaled deeply, and her trembling ceased. “I wish I could make her understand. I wish I could make them all understand,” she lamented.

“We don’t need their understanding,” he soothed, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We are far above needing their approval. We have each other.”

A smile flickered at his words, but did not stay. Eidel’s eyes were still downcast. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“Darling,” Astarion laughed, “you should have done a lot more than that.”

“I just wanted to keep you safe. To keep us safe.”

He was losing her to something dark he couldn’t identify. “Eidel. Whatever did you mean when you told Jaheira you were kept in a cage?” He’d heard her mention her life before this little adventure only on the rarest of occasions. He knew about the cage, about the fact that she had fled from somewhere before the nautiloid had found her. But the rest was an utter mystery.

“I…I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ah, that old song. How many times had he heard it? How many times had he let it simply slide away. “I find that puts us on rather uneven footing, wouldn’t you agree? You know all there is to know about me. All my dirty little secrets. I’ve shared everything with you. And yet you hide your past from me?”

“Astarion it’s…it’s not a nice story.”

“Oh and mine was such a fairy tale?”

Eidel had that look she often had when they touched upon her life. Prey hiding from the predator. He could smell her fear, a sickly curdled scent that wrinkled his nose. Eidel paced, walking a small five step by five step square from the hearth to the group’s chest and back again. “That’s about it,” she said, standing in the middle of the invisible square. “The size of my world for as long as I can remember.”

It was barely enough room to lay down in comfortably, even for one as slight as she. “It was always dark. I was always cold, hungry. I was a child and then not. There were figures always passing me in the dark but they never spoke to me. I would reach for them. I would scream at them. I learned to talk from the rats and spiders that would creep into my cage. When they would touch me they cut at me with sharp knives. Spoke in incantations. Shouted at me in frustration. They took parts of me with them every time. My horns first,” she reached up under her bushy ashen black hair to the flattened stumps that hid under. “Then my wings,” her hand went next to over her shoulders, reaching for the empty limbs that no longer existed. “Then my tail.” She touched her lower back, swishing her hips as if she still expected a muscle that no longer existed to move in response.

“I had no thoughts for a long time. Not until the animals taught me my first words. Then I thought. This was the whole of the world. But the rats would tell me of the sun. Of the trees. The spiders told me of the soft places in forests. And I learned a new word: freedom. And I learned to want things. They taught me how to change my form and then I escaped. A spider crawling through the dark cracks of the earth until I found what lay outside my underground world. And there I was. And it was bright and beautiful and…lonely. I don’t know why I was kept in that cage, in the dark. I don’t know why they hurt me. And the more I think about that time the more I feel as if I’m back there. I will never go back. So that’s it. You know as much as I do now. Please never ask me again.”

Astarion didn’t know what to say. There was anger simmering beneath the surface, but there was more. Understanding. Empathy. Emotions that twisted inside of him, vile and pathetic. She reminded him of his own degrading past, standing in her invisible cage like that. He wanted to look away. “You have a deal,” he said, “I never want to hear anything so unpleasant from your lips ever again. Now, come with me.”

He held out his hand and she was all too eager to take it. She was cold to the touch, a fact Astarion was still getting used to. He missed the gentle warmth she often radiated, but it was more than the chill of death on her skin. She looked dead. Her eyes were a blank, and her awkward bird-like legs shuffled alongside him like a thrall. An intolerable sight. He led her out of the rooms and up to the Elfsong’s roof where the afternoon sun was blazing bright.

“Here we are,” he announced with a small flourish of his hand. “A far more fitting setting than those dreary rooms below.”

But Eidel only blinked. He felt her mental exhaustion, felt the weariness in his own bones. “Eidel,” he touched her cheek. “Enough of this. You were not made to be kept in the dark.”

“Why was I made?” she asked softly, haunted by specters of her past.

“Oh, I don’t know, darling, hardly anyone knows those things,” he scoffed. “But I know that I made you for the sun. For the world to lay itself at your feet.” He turned her wrist over to kiss the twin bite scars he had placed there less than two nights ago. “I made you to be adored.”

He grinned as the light slowly returned to her eyes at his words. “You belong here,” he gestured around the open air. “So let’s have no more talk of such dreadful things.”

“No,” Eidel said before she brought herself against him. Astarion wrapped his arms about her out of reflex. “I belong here.”

He chuckled, “You sweet sweet thing.”

“This life? Freedom? It means nothing without you,” her words were deathly serious. None of her usual joyful, naive charm. “That was what I was trying to make Jaheira understand. Maybe she is right, in a way, maybe I am an abomination… I don’t know.”

“I can tell you definitively you are not, darling.”

“But, Astarion, I’d have sacrificed more than seven thousand souls for you. To protect you. To give you the world. I love you and it scares me. I cannot lose you.”

“And you never will,” he said, full of false gaiety. He tried on a laugh, but pulled her tighter still. Her words reached down into him, tearing something loose. He was the Vampire Ascendant, untouchable, invulnerable, but not against her. It was horrible to feel so keenly, disgusting to hold this fluttering bird and find her heart as valuable as his own. “We are bonded, you and I, for eternity.”

She still tasted of sorrow when he kissed her. “Eidel,” a gentle, teasing chastisement was on his tongue, but that wriggling, ugly vulnerability crept in when his guard was down. “I love you,” he said instead, surprising himself. It was not followed by a desire, a question, nor a command. He only wanted her to hear him say it.

Her smile was as warm as the sun, a shining gem he had all to himself. She let out a small, joyful laugh that sounded like her truest self again. “Perhaps that is what we were made for, after all.”

#Astarion #Ascended Astarion #Eidel #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #if they're both obsessed with the other is it a red flag?#not evil not controlling but a secret third thing #that gross couple that won't stop making out in public

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