#look uponst if you would like to | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dailyusuk · 6 years ago

Text

Masticate

America, America. he murmurs in his head, an incantation. God bless me, America. America, how did the world come to this?

Rated PG-13 for gore. Direct sequel to "Primal" in the Primalverse series of fanfics. Reader discretion advised.

What may the threads of steel wire which entwine themselves between strands of muscle and beads of sweat speak of the teeth which all of humanity (nation-kind) hold within themselves?

England chooses to ruminate on this as the acrid taste of blood fills his mouth. He chews, quiet.

The large corpse of some behemoth, perhaps a remnant of an ancient civilization long gone by (though he does not focus his mind uponst such sentimentalities) curves inwards in a caldera brimming with searing hot oil. England’s long hooves skitter across the crispy surface of the creature and abruptly stop as he desperately dips his (still human) hands into the soupy mixture and brings the liquid to his lips and-

The oil evaporates in a blast of steam, sending England’s hair flying about his face as he pauses to balefully inspect his bare hands (thirsty, so needy).

He is in need of water, that much is clear. Whatever monster he has found himself crawling across will not grant that much to him.

A sound. He jerks to a full stop, then slowly turns around to see China meet his gaze with eyes of ambergris.

China is a beautiful creature, fiery feathers fanned about his scaly serpentine skin, elegant long claws of lacquer, many arms extended in an approximation of nirvana. Every motion he makes towards England’s comparatively primitive form emanates light, blinding England with his iridescence.

“England,” China rasps, his voice echoing, male, female, child, adult, and neither overlapping as if five entities are speaking in disjointed unison. “I can see that you are not with your… companion.”

“I am not,” England confirms.

“Then,” China narrows his many eyes. “You are easy pickings.”

The sudden usage of the tongue of nations jerks something awake within England, and he launches himself at China, snarling and snapping with rage. China swiftly dodges and brutally locks England’s metal-framed head in a lock with his many arms of stone, heavy pearl jewelry clicking into place to lock England in a collar befitting a dog.

“I am far older than you,” China whispers. “Stronger, wiser, grander. Give up your companion’s location.”

Gears snap into place within England’s skull. China still clings to his humanity.

“I refuse,” he snarls back.

Were it not for the scent which filled England’s snout at the time, China would have cracked his head open with a vice grip, arms clicking into place to smash his brains out with the force of a thousand blades. As it were, the breaths of the great creature below chose to shift at that very moment, and the rush of sensation which comes with the aroma of budding roses and sandalwood pulls England’s skin away from his face to reveal layers and layers of tooth-lined flaps of flesh like the petals of a rose. His wings split into three and slash China’s arms into pieces, freeing England enough to allow him to bolt across the frothing surface of the lake of oil.

England’s sightless reality is snapped into focus once more when a familiar form tackles him, sending him crashing through the tenuously solid surface of the lake, furiously grappling his foe for purchase so as to not sink into the muds of forgetfulness. He snags long locks of hair and knows.

France.

England sinks his teeth into shaggy fur and twists, eliciting a muffled yowl from France and allowing him to push away from France’s thick feline form to break the surface of the lake and run, knowing that both France and China are not far behind.

He hits the edge of the oily lake and scrabbles at the smooth (skin-like) edges of the caldera, newly formed claws grappling for purchase. He gouges a foothold into the slope, pus bubbling out, and boosts his lanky steel body up the slope.

Slick, slash. He gouges one more foothold into the slope, and then another. France and China’s hot, laboured breaths are not far behind.

America, America. he murmurs in his head, an incantation. God bless me, America. His claws slip, slick with pus and blood, and his hind legs are snapped off by a pair of jaws. He thinks that there are more primal nations (Germany? Denmark? Portugal?) below him now, frenzied therian forms pursuing meat. How did the world come to this?

At the thought of his lover his body lets out a violent gasp, thrusting steel wings out behind his back, like dark corrugated fans. Blasts of cold wind (the sea winds over Dover) burst from his feathers like exhaust fired from a pipe, sending his pursuers tumbling down the slope and giving him the boost he needs to reach the crest of the slope, claws clicking against the edge, free-

England feels a deep presence in his chest, barbs peeling away the sheets of metal and flesh encasing his core. Iridescent blood trickles from the ragged edges of his chest wound where the scorpion spine impales and pins him to the caldera slope. His grip slackens, and then they are on him.

Suddenly, his body is everywhere and nowhere, reduced to nothing but spoils, juicy meat. Japan, France, Turkey, China, Germany, Portugal, Spain - they are all on him, glassy jewel eyes glowering back at him as they pull bits and chunks away from his body, devouring. He can see and sense them from all directions as if his remains have become an eye, tactile.

France greedily sucks down his bowels, finally taking his ground-up riches of land and sea. Spain and Portugal, twin feathered dragons, take an arm for each, crunching bits of English armor and arms between their serrated teeth. Turkey, in his horrible golden armoured scorpion form, picks apart England’s chest, inspecting every ivory rib (stolen maritime English riches) he pulls out before sucking it into his maw with the sound of shells cracking. Japan gracefully reaches between the porcelain plates of England’s face and delicately rips his lymph nodes out with his long ogre claws, taking shark teeth and glassy pearls into his fox snout and ripping them into gossamer ribbons. China, ever the beast, is the most savage of them all. His many arms tear into England’s long horse legs, ripping his stolen porcelain and gunpowder caskets out bone by bone and presenting them to his many heads like temple offerings in a unified, undulating line of sacrilege.

England would scream if not for his want of a mouth.

Overhead, the corpse of the moon glows with a red bisecting stripe of blood.

In his core England knows what happens next.

He feels his savaged, bloodied husk of a torso hit the flat rim around the slope of the caldera, then feels America press his lips to his own, breathing life into him.

He opens his eyelids, and America is there by him, face intact and human. England lets out a rasping sob.

“America,” he gasps, too good to be true.

“Hush, babe,” America rumbles, the voice too deep yet reassuring. “Those beautiful legs of yours need some time to recuperate. R&R and all that.”

England ties a trembling tendril of muscle around America’s outstretched hand. The rows of shark teeth inside of his jaws are caked with old blood. Whether he died a moment or two thousand years ago, he does not know.

The frothing inside of the caldera belches a gaseous mixture of sulfur and molten flesh.

America leans down close to what remains of England’s ear, metal fingers tightening reassuringly around England’s rapidly reforming phalangeal bones. “I killed them all, you know,” he hisses lowly. “I ripped them apart at the damn seams until I found their humanity at their core. Then I would stitch them together again and reshape them with metal and clay until they begged for forgiveness and mercy underneath my hands. And then,” America mimics the motion of snapping a neck. “I would take them up on that offer.”

England hisses a breath through his copper throat. Truly, America is too good for him.

“They will come back, my dearest,” England murmurs back sweetly. “You cannot kill those bones which support the core of humanity, arrogant as you are.”

“Oh, I did,” America said nonchalantly. “In my form, nothing can escape my will.”

A thousand previous lifetimes scream in England’s skull. He recoils, pushing America away with his remaining strength.

“You did not,” he growls. Only now does he know the numbness of fear.

America smiles, distantly and yet so real. “Funny how the shape of God was, in fact, a white man made in our image? Perhaps that is why so many have failed to achieve my throne.”

For all of those visions which plagued England when he first saw metal plates straining at young America’s clothes, he did not anticipate America’s absolute power looking like this. He is ever the unassuming American everyman who England married in that controlled cage of domesticity, dressed in loose slacks and a partially unbuttoned shirt. Only his sleek metal hands and his unnaturally blue eyes betray his nature.

He smiles easily, and this time his pleasure is not faked.

“England,” he says, hand outstretched. “The love of my life. You always loved me when I called you that, right? In that American Dream of banal suburbia. When we were steeped in sin and freshly plunged into this hell we could not coexist, two lovers like us.” His speech is halted, grinding, as if he has not spoken a word in millenia. “Please. Come with me. You and I, we are perfect. As long as we are happy. We can reshape this world, rewrite it.” He wiggles his fingers at England, a familiar tic. “Come on.”

England stumbles, his legs of marble turning pink and steaming, morphing into fresh raw human legs (those legs which America ran his fingers along, reverent). He reaches his hand out, as he has always done.

And when their fingers touch, there is divine union.

#usuk #fanfic #fanfiction #blood tw #fridge horror #mod diurnal #primalverse

8 notes · View notes

mythicide · 7 years ago

Text

Story from the Trashbin #1 - Camelot, White Sunday

(¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯¯¯¯¯¯¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯) ( \I encourage the free share of my content!/ ) ( \ )Please share, use, & build upon my work( / ) ( ) ( My work can be supported ) ( ) ( / ) Via Patreon! ( \ ) ( / https://www.patreon.com/mythicide \ ) (_.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸_______.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸_)

Fallen leaves in hues of dull yellow and brown littered the roof of a tiny moss-eaten cottage in the deepest part of the Forest of the Five Kings. Empty sticks of maple and oak reached into the sky. An old woman picked at the ground in a small plowed glade with a concerned look on her face. “What’s wrong, mother?” Percival asked. Before she could answer, Percival asked, “Why do you make that face?” The mother sighed while the light-haired young man asked more questions about the potato crop, her knitted eyebrows, and a faint putrid smell that arose from the tilled earth. “It’s weird, why does the dirt smell like that?” “I wish you wouldn’t ask so many questions at once,” the mother said. “I asked fewer questions than last time,” Percival said. “You’ll have to hunt more this winter,” the old woman said. “Why not plant potatoes, too?” Percival asked. “Please,” the mother said, “stop questioning me.” A little girl with an empty basket approached him. “The land has been getting worse, bad,” she said, “we can’t grow crops, and this worries Mother.” “Dindraine, Ignore him,” the mother replied. “Yes mom,” said the girl. “Take whatever roots are left to the cellar.” “This is a bad fall harvest,” Didraine whispered. “Don’t worry, I’ll get enough meat to last the winter,” Percival said. The young man picked up a wooden spear and ran off before the old woman could stop him. He spotted the tracks of a hart, and followed them. He perched himself by the crooked stream. Overgrowth created perfect hunting blinds. As the hart came to the brook to drink, Percival raised his spear. A laugh in the forest caused the hart to jump, and dash away. Upstream, a knight with two squires in armor stopped to let their horses drink. Percival peeked through his hunting blind at the armored men on their burly steeds. The spangling metals mesmerized him, and questions captivated his mind. He snuck toward them. “Brother, it’s midday,” a squire said. “I don’t care, Bors, I’m horny now,” the other squire replied. The knight laughed. Their voices echoed inside their helms. Percival pondered over the knight’s shining ‘skin,’ their deep baritone voices, and the meaning of this new word, ‘horny.’ “The red knight can’t get far, and if you aim to get me naked you’d best do it while the sun’s warm,” the knight said. “Thanks, Gorne, I owe you one,” the squire said. “You owe me two, Lyon,” said Sir Gorne, “and you’ll need to be naked before you can pay up.” Bors chuckled. Lyon and Gorne loosened their surcoats, revealing the metal underneath. What are these creatures, thought Percival. Why would they get naked, thought Percival. As the men undressed, Percival thought, this shining stuff must be their true skin! What creatures have skin that shines? He thought back to stories of watchful guardians his mother had told them at bedtime to make him feel safe. Angels! I am bearing witness to angels! I mustn’t let them strip bare in ignorance of my presence! Percival burst from the blind. He waved one arm with spear erratically and used the other to shield his eyes. “Angels, angels wait!” he cried. Bors turned on Percival with a crossbow in hand. “The devil?” the knight exclaimed. “No, my angels, I beggeth thee, clothe thyselves,” Percival begged. “Drop that spear!” Bors yelled. Percival opened his hand and let the spear fall. Lyon used a lance to hook the spear and took it without dismounting. “Please, my angels, find it in thy hearts to forgive me for looking uponst thee while thee… gotteth naked!” “It’s alright son, you can look, we’re still in armor,” the knight said, “but for God’s sake, speak normal English.” “But, I thought that’s how all the angels speak?” Percival said. “We’re not angels, we’re knights,” Bors said. “What are knights?” Percival asked. “Well, I am a knight,” Sir Gorne said, “and these two are squires who will one day be knights.” Percival’s mouth opened, and asked every question his brain could think. Lyon sighed, fastened his surcoat, and readied himself to leave. “Do you have horns? Can I see your horns? Please? I heard that one say he was horny, are they like antlers?” “Nope, let’s go Bors,” Lyon said, “we have affairs to attend to.” “Wait, don’t take my spear,” Percival said. He reached for the weapon and the three knights turned on him, weapons drawn. “You think the red knight sent him to us to distract us?” Bors asked. “It’s a good assumption, but the boy may just be daft,” Lyon said. “You just don’t want to kill him because he’s pretty,” Bors teased. “You noticed that too, did you, brother?” Lyon replied. “It’s possible, he could be an enemy, or he could just be a boy, cloistered, ignorant of the world outside this forest,” Sir Gorne said. A shrill cry from the forest chilled the knight’s bones. Percival’s mother shot from the forest and threw herself at Sir Gorne’s feet. “Mercy, whatever my son has done, please, mercy!” she screamed. “I know this voice,” Sir Gorne said. Gorne dismounted his horse and stalked toward the woman. The knight lifted the woman’s chin. He shook within his armor and knelt upon recognition. “Drop arms!” Sir Gorne commanded. The young men lowered their weapons. Sir Gorne removed his helmet. His groomed red beard, long glossy red hair, and grey eyes revealed. ”M’Lady of Listenoise, I believed you dead,” apologized Gorne, “Yet you appear as lovely as the day we mourned you, even after over twenty years.” Percival questioned how the angel was able to take the skin of his own head off, and then asked why Sir Gorne treated his mother with such reverence. “Your mother is the widow of Sir Pellinore,” Sir Gorne said. Lyon and Bors dismounted their steeds, dropped to one knee, and removed their helms in reverence. The two tan men had waves of brown hair and brown eyes with dark eyebrows on identical daunting brows. The men were almost indistinguishable, save for the scar on Bors’ forehead and the dark stubble on Lyon’s face. “I am sorry for your sacrifice, m’lady,” Bors said. “Arthur’s knights looked everywhere for you,” Lyon said. “You knew my dad?” Percival interrupted. “Stop it!” his mother cried. “What?” “That!” she said, “Stop asking questions!” “But mom!” Percival whined. “He’s done no wrong; he’s simply inquisitive,” Sir Gorne said. The woman’s eyes widened, as if her worst nightmare manifested as the man before her. “You will not take him from me,” she hissed. “No, m’lady, I will not,” Sir Gorne said, “for you have already sacrificed too many for our knighthood.” “Okay, seriously, what are you talking about?” Percival cried. “Stop it!” she wailed. “Yes, son, I need you to stop asking questions,” Sir Gorne said, “your mother and I must talk.” “But I wanna know, who you are, what mom sacrificed, and how do you take off your head-skins!” Percival asked. “Lyon, Bors, escort the boy to the back of the caravan,” Sir Gorne ordered, “we’ll escort m’lady and her son to safety.” “I won’t return to any castle,” she proclaimed. “Wherever you wish to go, we will take you, Majesty,” Bors said. “I am ‘majesty’ no longer,” she said. “You are the noblest of all women, still,” Lyon said, “and we would serve you to the death.” Sir Gorne walked at the head of the line and insisted the old woman ride his steed. They chatted in low tones while he led the steed in the direction she commanded. Bors lead the spare steeds in the middle. Lyon and Percival walked behind. Percival’s lips trembled. “So, you’re not angels. You’re King Arthur’s knights,” Percival said. Lyon nodded. “There’s an entire castle that belongs to me and mom, and I’ve never even seen a castle,” Percival said. Lyon nodded. “There are lots of castles, and lots of knights, and an entire war going on out there that I never knew about,” Percival said. Lyon nodded. “And I had a dad, and two brothers, and they were also knights, like you,” Percival said, “until the same red knight that you’re hunting right now murdered them all over twenty years ago.�� Lyon nodded. “And my mom kept this from me.” Lyon kept still. A long moment of awkward silence forced Lyon to avert his eyes and shrug. “You can tell she doesn’t want to lose you,” Lyon said. “Really,” Percival said, “all she does is tell me to stop asking questions, so it doesn’t really feel like I’m wanted at all, and I doubt she’d be upset if I just left.” Lyon stared at Percival. He admired the long dark eyelashes, the big clear sky blue eyes. He admired the young man’s collar, his distinct Adam’s apple that showed the world he was a grown man despite his naivety. He admired the supple, trembling lips. “Look, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous and anyone would miss you. I mean it. You really stand out,” Lyon said, “it’s just a pity you’re being so childish.” “See that little cottage through the thicket? That’s my home. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. I was always happy here. I never knew about castles, or knights, or that I should be a knight, and live in a castle. And for the first time in my life, I found out my own mother lied to me, and that she’s lied to me my whole life, so for the first time in my life, I don’t want to go home. What’s so childish about that?” Lyon stopped and took Percival’s chin in his gloved hand. Percival’s eyelashes fluttered. The warm soft leather on his chin melted him. The memory of Lyon’s firm, soothing grip provided Percival an everlasting mental sanctuary. Lyon tilted the younger man’s face up to his and stared at his lips. “Your lips are trembling,” Lyon said, “you pout like a kid, whine like a kid, ask incessant questions like a kid.” “Well I’m not a kid,” Percival said, indignant. “Yeah, so how old are you?” Lyon asked. “I was born on a White Sunday twenty years ago,” Percival said. Lyon released his chin with the swiftness of dropping a hot plate. He grimaced. “Damn it,” Lyon cursed Bors laughed. “What?” “Nothing,” Lyon said, “not a damn thing.” “No seriously, what?” Gorne slowed the horses, interested to hear what caused his squires’ outburst. “You were born the exact same day as, well, never mind,” Lyon said. “Oh come on,” Percival said, “you guys are gonna leave me in the middle of nowhere, with my lying mother, so the least you could do is be straight with me.” “Fine. I’m in love with someone at Camelot, and I can’t consummate my love until White Sunday,” Lyon said. “Is that when the maiden comes of age?” Bors teased. “You know damn well it is,” Lyon shouted, “And would you believe this kid has the exact same birthday?” “I’m still not a kid,” Percival protested. “We’re here,” Bors interrupted. The horses stopped. Sir Gorne assisted the old lady off his steed. “I’ll do my best to convince him to stay home,” he said. “I appreciate it,” she replied, “I hope you haven’t awakened his knightly spirit.” “Oh, you have,” Percival interjected. Lyon and Bors groaned and rubbed their faces with the same motion. Sir Gorne waved to Bors, and knelt before Percival. Bors fetched Percival’s spear, as well as another, fine steel-headed spear. “Listen, Percival,” Sir Gorne began, “within you is the lineage of a most excellent knight.” “So let’s go,” Percival said through clenched teeth. Bors brought the two spears to his knight’s side. He looked at the old woman and made a pained face. She choked back tears. Percival swallowed. Gorne presented the spears to Percival. “This spear belonged to your brother, Sir Aglovale, who entrusted it to me. It is yours, by right. The Red Knight is still out there somewhere. He’ll want a place to overwinter. We’ll hunt him down, but should he return to overwinter here, you need to defend your family.” “Why would the Red Knight kill us? Why’d he kill my dad?” Percival asked. The knight shushed him. “Some men answer to angels, and some to demons,” he said, “I couldn’t explain it even if I wanted, just be prepared to take his life if he comes.” “This isn’t his fight!” she shouted. “You mentioned your bad crops,” Gorne said, “the land grows bad. The land and the king are one. Bad men raid food in bad lands. If the Red Knight finds you, he’ll take all. At best, you and your children will starve to death over winter.” “I’ve no problem with killing him,” Percival said. “Good,” Lyon said with an enthusiastic nod, “He really needs killing.” “Don’t underestimate him,” Gorne told Lyon. “Remember, brother, this kid’s father is the only knight who defeated King Arthur himself in combat. Pellinore was so strong, that even the king, wielding Excalibur, could not bring him down.” “My dad fought a king?” "Your dad fought the king,” Bors corrected. “Percival, your dad and King Arthur were friends, but Pellinore whipped the shit out of Arthur. Nobody does that. And nobody just kills a man that can whip King Arthur except the most dangerous of monsters.” “Knights say your brothers were amazing fighters, also,” Bors said, “I can imagine a man killing one of them, but not both.” “So let’s go get him,” Percival said. “No,” Gorne said, “a real knight would stay and protect his family.” “Hunting the Red Knight would protect my family, wouldn’t it?” Percival asked. “A real knight would do as his mother says and not question this!” his mother said. The knights all nodded in agreement. “You just don’t want me to go with you,” Percival said. Once more, the knights all nodded in agreement. Percival deflated. “Worry about hunting deer, rabbit, and whatever keeps your family fed,” Gorne said. Gorne made the sign of the cross over Percival. The men helped each other mount their steeds. The old woman grabbed Percival, ready to hold him if he attempted to run. “Will you at least come back to visit after winter?” Percival asked. Gorne looked at Bors and Lyon. Lyon’s eyebrows raised, his chin shimmied up and down to indicate his enthusiasm for the young man. Bors shrugged. “We’ll return after winter to ensure your mother’s wellbeing,” Gorne said. Lyon looked at Percival with a glimmer in his eye and smirked. Percival liked the smirk. He liked the glimmer. He touched his chin and remembered the feel of the soft warm leather and the gloved hand that lifted his face during the worst revelations of his entire sheltered life. “Farewell,” the old woman said. “Farewell,” the men said. The men rode away. Percival stepped forward. His mother held him. With wilted shoulders, he watched them ride away. “Farewell,” he said. The knights traveled to an overhang where the brook met a shallow creek. They set up a fire hours before dusk. Bors readied a hot meal while the others laughed and shared stories of their sexual exploits. The men shed their armor and laid furs near the campfire “Oh, and brother, you, the whole time, were dressed like the women?” Bors said between gasps of laughter. “You better believe it, Bors, you and me both made fantastic looking women when we were that age,” Lyon said. “I only did it one time,” Bors said. “One time for two years straight,” Lyon said. “Yes, but I didn’t know, then,” Bors said. “Curious about it?” said Sir Gorne. “Only about one thing,” Bors said. “What thing would that be?” Lyon asked with a smirk. “You’re in girl clothes, you see people fucking, you obviously get excited,” Bors said. “Yeah, you do,” Lyon admitted. “But in a girl’s garments, where does all the cock meat go once you’re at full mast?” Bors said. “Up against the belly, popping out the top of the under linens,” Lyon said, “Ladies undies are quite a bit more snug than ours.” Gorne chuckled, and rummaged through a saddlebag. He pulled out a finely crafted miniature waterskin, made from the bladder of a rabbit. “I suspect our banter has finally turned you two on,” Bors said. “It appears so,” Lyon said, “So tell me, Sir, which part of it finally got to you?” “Partly the image of your hard cocks against your bellies in ladies’ undies, and the part where you said they were more snug,” Gorne said. He undid his pants and withdrew his cock. Both squires stopped to stare. Gorne squeezed a drop from the tiny waterskin onto his thumb. He caressed his thumb along the shaft, wetting the frenulum with the slick liquid. He drew circles around the head with a smile. “I like that word, ‘snug,’” Gorne said, “and I like it when you say ‘more snug,’ only I thought less of underwear, and more of men’s asses. I prefer them. They’re snugger than women’s oysters.” “I’m like Arthur,” Lyon admitted, “I like it all, I’ll take it all, whenever I can get it, for as long as I can get it.” “Someday you’ll take so much that your brother can’t find a drop,” Gorne warned. Gorne and Lyon both turned their eyes to Bors. Bors blushed. He stroked himself through the fabric of his trousers. “I did take a vow of celibacy,” Bors said. “And did that vow not include beating yourself off every time my lovers get naked with me?” Lyon asked. “Nothing a few Hail Marys won’t rectify,” Bors said, “but mind your own business or I’ll remind your naked lover that you owe him three.” “Three?” Lyon said. “Considering I’m now obligated to travel back here after winter so you can flirt with that tedious twink, yes you owe me a third,” Gorne said, “so you’re not taking it this time, you’re giving it.” “But you know I prefer it up the bottom,” Lyon complained. “Oh, but you like it all, you’ll take it all,” Bors said. “About this ‘minding your own business’ thing,” Lyon said, “why don’t you?” Gorne reached out and ran his hand hard through Lyon’s wavy brown hair. He coaxed Lyon’s face towards his own. “Be nice; invite your brother to join us,” Gorne said, “for my sake if not his.” “Oh, you dirty old codpiece,” Lyon said. Lyon pushed Gorne into the flame-warmed furs. Lyon gripped the hand Gorne used to tug his cock with both fists. Lyon straddled his knight, bent his knees, and pinned the man’s legs under him. Lyon pressed his lips down and sought the older man’s mouth. He found the lips with a kiss and claimed them. He pulled and squeezed Gorne’s masturbating hand into a rhythm. He thrust his hips to grind the bulge in his pants against Gorne’s balls to tease him with hard and eager cock. Gorne sighed into the kiss. “Is this what you want,” Lyon said with a thrust, “you want me to slide this in your ass?” “Mmm-hmmm,” Gorne groaned in the affirmative. “Take over the handiwork,” Lyon commanded. Lyon released the man’s hand. Lyon undid his trousers, pulled out his cock, and slipped his shaft against Gorne’s. He laced his fingers around Gorne’s and encouraged the man to take both shafts in his lubricated palm. Gorne did so. Lyon thrust into his palm. Slick cocks slipped against each other. Lyon purred at the sensation. He caressed Gorne’s chest and clawed at the tunic. “So what’s this stuff you’re rubbing on our cocks, my knight?” Lyon asked. “A bit of magic Merlin gave me,” Gorne said, “he said it keeps knights safe from sinner’s pox if used every time we sin,” “And you’re letting my brother rub himself without it?” Lyon asked. Gorne looked at Bors. Bors’ hand had disappeared into his trousers. Gorne watched the hump of fabric swivel. Bors’ hips popped upward every dozen or so strokes. “Squire, help me remove my tunic,” Gorne commanded Bors. Bors squatted beside his knight’s head on the furs and untied the knots that kept the tunic in place. He lifted Gorne’s shoulders and slid away the tunic. Bors’ strong hands supported Gorne’s shoulders as he lowered his naked back onto the fire-warmed furs. Lyon stripped his own shirt, and stripped away Gorne’s brown buckskin pants. Gorne looked up at his twin squires with lawless lust. His hand found the little waterskin, squeezed a drop of the slick watery substance into his palm. He looked up at Bors and hooked a finger into the beltline of Bors’ trousers. He hesitated to open his squire’s pants. He looked into Bors’ eyes, admired the scar on his brow. “I want to expose you,” Gorne said. “Please do.” Gorne yanked the front of the trousers down, and Bors’ solid cock fell forward towards Gorne’s face. Bors’ mouth opened, eyes flickered closed. Gorne worked the lubrication all over the shaft, licked his lips, and pecked the head with a diminutive kiss. Bors whimpered, blushed, and took control of his cock. “Any more than that, and it will take more than a few hail marys to absolve me,” Bors said. “Any less than that, and I’d feel rude,” Gorne replied. Lyon took Gorne’s wrist and returned his hand to work their coupled shafts. Bors’ cock was concrete. Lyon’s cock was firm, but the skin remained pliable. Gorne knew Lyon could be as solid as Bors. Gorne’s dry hand returned to Lyon’s scalp to tease his hair. “Go down,” Gorne said. Lyon pulled his cock away from Gorne’s grasp and nipped his chest. The stubble on Lyon’s jaw prickled the Gorne’s skin. He shivered. Lyon took hold of the cock, opened his mouth wide, pressed the slick underside of his tongue against the head, and stuffed the head inside, folding his tongue back onto itself. He wrapped his lips around the shaft, just under the head, and sucked. Gorne growled and clawed Lyon’s scalp. Bors began to pant and whimper. He covered himself back with the trousers. Lyon’s oral experiments kept Gorne too busy to notice. Bors sounded desperate. Lyon unglued his lips from Gorne’s cock with a popping suction noise. “Would you like to get down on this, brother?” Lyon asked. Gorne’s cock throbbed and dribbled precum at the thought of both twins joining forces to tend his climax. “Yes,” Bors said. “Come do it,” Lyon dared. Bors went down on his hands and knees and hovered over Gorne’s hips. “You’re really gonna do it this time,” Lyon said with shock. Lyon squeezed a drop of precum from his knight and held the cock out towards Bors’ mouth. Bors licked his lips and rolled the head into his mouth. Lyon released the shaft, careful not to touch his brother. Gorne moaned. “Okay, I don’t know what the hell got into you, but keep doing that,” Lyon said. “Fuck yes, keep doing that,” Gorne echoed. Lyon grabbed the waterskin. He coated his fingers with the slick water. A few strokes under his knight’s balls with his thumb drew his knight’s attention back to him. Bors swirled his tongue around the head while Lyon worked a lubricated finger into his knight’s ass. Gorne began to buck and groan as the finger inched inside him. Gorne looked back and forth between the two twins. “Fuck me, fuck me, please boys, fuck me,” Gorne said. “Uh, Bors?” Lyon asked. Bors came up for air. “Go ahead,” he said. Bors went back down. Gorne grabbed Lyon’s hips to draw his cock closer. “You need some of what got into your brother,” Gorne whispered. “Hell, I don’t know what got into my brother,” Lyon said. Gorne smirked and said, “he’s thinking about White Sunday.” At the mention of White Sunday, Bors breath caught. He sucked too deep, and choked. He came off the cock coughing. Lyon startled, and glared at his brother, prepped to thrash him if he courted either of his targeted ‘damsels’ upon White Sunday. “I’m not!” Bors said. “Oh, you know you are,” Gorne teased. “I know when my twin lies to me,” Lyon said. “I’d never,” Bors stuttered, “the young men are attractive, but…” “Brother,” Lyon interrupted, “let’s show Gorne what we’ll do to those two when we get our hands on them.” Bors smiled in silent conspiracy with his twin. “Yes, let’s do,�� Bors said, “it’s the least we can do since he’ll never get to play with us after that day.” “Hey wait one minute,” Gorne protested, “you can’t exclude me come White Sunday!” “You can be a spectator,” Bors offered. Gorne blinked at Bors, dazed. Lyon laughed. All three men were riled with jealousy and ready to tear into each other. Lyon raised Gorne’s spread legs and rubbed his hard cock against the wet ass. Gorne scrambled to adjust. Bors slurped down Gorne’s exposed cock, then grabbed Gorne’s wrist and brought their hands to the bulge in his trousers. “We’re not gonna leave you out, my Knight,” Lyon said, “he’s just getting you back for teasing us. So, how deep do you like my cock?” Gorne caressed the hump in Bors’ pants while Bors wrote in runic with his tongue. Against the throbbing head, he spelled out, letter by letter, “hail Mary, full of grace.” Gorne whimpered for more, and told his squires he wanted the whole cock inside him, deep as it could dive. Lyon pressed himself against the entrance. The hole gave way, allowing half an inch of cock inside before Gorne flinched. Gorne clenched his teeth, and Lyon eased the pressure. The cock pressed inside at a steady pace. Impatient Gorne pressed his ass against Lyon, grunted, and shimmied. The added force sped the cock’s intrusion. Lyon hissed and thrust and groaned. Gorne slipped his hand into Bors’ trousers to stroke his cock. A mouthful of cock muffled Bors’ moans. The twins were engrossed in their fantasies of White Sunday. Gorne stared down the pair of dark brown eyes that looked up at him from his suckled cock, then stared up at the writhing, tan body of the twin. Gorne stared until his body tensed and orgasm blinded him. He howled. Bors grimaced at the taste. Bors cleared his throat. Lyon bucked deep and hard and cried out. His body locked against Gorne’s. He strained. Gorne felt Lyon’s cock jerk and spasm inside him. He reached up with both hands and rubbed Lyon’s scalp. Lyon’s tense body went limp. He pressed his head into Gorne’s hands like a loyal pet that craves its ears rubbed. He rolled his head around, and Gorne kneaded every inch of his scalp. Lyon pulled out and collapsed beside Gorne. Gorne reached for the unfinished squire. He looked reluctant. “What’s wrong, brother?” Lyon asked. “You didn’t warn me that it would be bitter… and hot,” Bors said with a scowl. Lyon snickered. Gorne apologized and motioned for his squire to join them in a cuddle. Bors joined them. Gorne fidgeted with his squire’s pants. “This could have been more fun with five men,” Gorne mentioned, “because I could see you already having your pants off and finishing off with another beautiful blonde man. That would be amazing to watch.” Bors flushed, halted Gorne and requested that they snuggle until he finished. Enveloped in burly arms, Bors closed his eyes and beat himself off. His moans were music to Gorne’s ears. “I love watching your face when you do that,” Gorne said, “tell me what you’re thinking of him doing with you?” Bors opened his eyes and looked into Gorne’s grey irises. He rolled his head to the side and nuzzled his noze into the silky red hair, and whispered into Gorne’s ear. “I was thinking about you, actually,” Bors whispered, “I just can’t bring myself to look at you when I do it, it’s too much to bear.” The sun set on the three. Lyon fell asleep with his arm along Gorne’s waist. Gorne insisted that Bors be mouth to mouth with him when he climaxed. Bors rolled to face Gorne. They kissed underneath the evening’s first stars, and Bors spilled between them. They were spent and exhausted, and slept mouth to mouth. Meanwhile, Percival sulked in the corner of the little glade. He held his brother’s spear. He ran his fingers along the edge, rolled the shaft in his palm, and admired the weapon in peace. His mother and sister fidgeted, unsure what to do without his questions. “Percival, I love you,” said his mother, “if I lost you, I would die of a broken heart.” Percival stood and left. “Brother, don’t go,” his sister asked. “I need to hunt,” he excused. He walked through the forest, back to the brook. A flutter of crimson escaped his eye. He searched the trees for a woodpecker, or perhaps some other red bird. He saw the flutter of red again. The hair on the back of his neck stood erect. Concealed behind barren branches, A bit of red fabric, a pennant atop the Red Knight’s lance fluttered in the setting sunlight. The knight was otherwise masked by thick brush. Percival snuck away. He went straight home. He looked over his shoulder where the blood red pennant fluttered. He took his sister from the glade and hid her in the loft with his mother. He closed the door and guarded it with his spear. The warhorse hurtled through the line of trees into the plowed glade. Its hooves kicked up the tilled dirt. The sinister knight wore blood red armor. His thunderous steed halted. His heavy steel boots mashed into the soil, and tore the earth where he walked. He spied the root cellar, drew his crooked sword, and descended. He reemerged with four huge sacks of roots and grain. He flung them over the back of the warhorse. He approached the front of the house. He paused when he saw the signature tracks of Gorne’s regiment. The red knight looked to the front door. Percival peeked out at him. Percival’s knuckles showed white around his brother’s spear. The Red Knight turned his back to the cottage. He mounted his warhorse and spurred it to follow the tracks. Percival gasped. “He’s gone?” his sister asked from the loft. “He is,” Percival said. “He took all the food,” she said, as he started out the door. “Don’t leave!” his mother whispered. “He’s hunting my only friends,” Percival said. “That’s no business of yours,” his mother said. “Yes it is,” his sister interrupted, “the red knight brings blood magic, and it rots our land.” Percival wanted to ask, but he refused to speak. In the few silent hours since the knights departure, Percival realized that he could learn all he wanted by leaving a long, uncomfortable silence in place of his questions. His sister soon broke the silence. “The Red Knight stole a chalice from the king,” she said, “It looks like a cup, but it isn’t. It’s an angelic artifact for blood magic. The Lady of the Lake told me the chalice is hers and she needs it back because it holds the magic that ties the health of the King to the health of the Land. When the red knight wounds the land, the king suffers.” “You can’t know all that,” said the old woman. “The Lady of the Lake chose me because a chalice showed her that I die a virgin. Her sister’s chalice shows her that my mitochondrial DNA does not appear in its database. I don’t know what it means, but she says database means book, and that when the time is right, the angels will take you with them if your name is not in their book of bad people, and my name isn’t in it. That’s all they want me to tell you. But I know you’re fixated, and I’m happy for you, even if they don’t want me to say so,” said Didraine. “You have always been one weird, crazy, weird-crazy sister,” Percival said. “I know you won’t come back,” she said, “so goodbye.” “I’ll be back with his head,” Percival said. He chased the knight into the sunset. The cottage rang with the cries of the broken hearted old woman as dusk fell. The warhorse crashed through the forest. Percival chased the sound. The warhorse’s thunderous run turned to a trot at dusk. Twilight turned into night, and the trot turned to a slow walk. The orange harvest moon gave little light for a walk. Percival smelled smoke and heard the gurgle of rushing water. He saw a flicker of campfire light in the distance. The warhorse stopped. Percival froze. He heard the red knight dismount, heard him fidget with his trappings and armor. The red knight crept toward the firelight. His minimized armor made no clatter. Percival heard him draw his sword. He realized the knights camped too close to the creek to hear either of them coming while they slept. Percival reached the camp first. He saw the three naked knights nestled together for each other’s warmth. He did not want them to know he witnessed their nudity. Percival hid, and tossed rocks at the sleeping knights. The knights batted at the rocks in their sleep, but would not be roused. Blood red leather and metal emerged from the darkness behind the tree line. The red knight crept toward the naked bodies with drawn sword. In his moment of bravery, Percival leapt from the shadows, and knocked the crooked sword into the fire with the butt of his brother’s fine spear. The commotion roused the sleeping knights, who jerked awake just in time to witness the Red Knight’s execution at Percival’s hand. The Red Knight wheeled to see what struck him. Percival speared the Red Knight’s hip. Metal rings burst as the steel blade bit through the mail. The Red Knight felt staggering pain as the spear cleaved his hip and tore through his bowels. The red knight screeched. The spear shaft protruded from a bloody hole in his red mail. He fell to the furs, unable to stand. Lyon reared up and tore the helm from the knight’s squealing head. Lyon grabbed the crooked sword from the flame, oblivious to the blistering of his hand. He bored the searing blade into the Red Knight’s exposed face and roared, naked in the firelight. The sword sliced into the Red Knight’s cheek, cracked the bone, and pierced the brain. Flesh sizzled against the blade. The red knight’s body froze. When certain of the red knight’s last breath, Lyon released the blade and shook his hand furiously to cool the burn. Bors fetched a pot of cold water from the creek. Percival’s porcelain face glowed in the light of the flame. Gorne observed that Percival’s eyes fixated, not upon the corpse of the man he just killed, but upon the naked and blood-flecked body of his sinewy squire. Gorne slipped into his buckskin pants and examined the body while Bors treated Lyon’s singed palm. “Get Lyon dressed,” Gorne commanded quietly. “Yes sir,” Bors whispered. “Percival, come here,” Gorne barked, “and explain why you spied on us.” The young man’s glow grew brighter with every step he took towards the fire. “He was going to kill you in your sleep,” Percival said. Percival glanced at Lyon. Gorne nudged Percival and pointed to the corpse. “He removed his faulds to sneak up on us,” Gorne said, “faulds cover the hips but they’re noisy. Your spear would not have touched him if he’d worn them.” “He’d have worn them if he intended to fight like a real man,” Lyon said, “so don’t feel guilty.” “I don’t feel guilty,” Percival said. “Don’t you?” Gorne asked. “Defending the helpless is a noble reason to kill,” Lyon said. Percival’s eyes were once again fixated on Lyon. They were all aware of his stare. Percival flushed. Lyon jerked his trousers closed and addressed Gorne. “Besides, I delivered the final blow, so Percival’s innocent,” Lyon said. Gorne directed their attention to the spear. He worked the mail lose, grunted, and extracted the spear from the corpse. Coagulating blood coated a foot of the spear’s tip. Gorne presented the spear to the others. “I know you’re not trying to tell me that this wouldn’t have killed the man,” Gorne said. Bors made the sign of the cross. “Thank God, brother,” he said, “your deathblow was an act of mercy.” “It’s mercy you’d be knighted for when we return to Camelot,” said Gorne, “but Arthur will want to meet the man credited with the death of the monster that murdered his best friend.” The three of them looked at Percival. Bors’ face whitened. Percival jumped, ecstatic to hear he would visit Camelot. “We’ll all get kicked off the round table,” Bors said, “maybe we deserve it.” “What do you mean?” Percival asked. “When you tell them what we were doing before the Red Knight attacked, we’ll never hear the end of it,” Lyon said. “It’s stupid to punish you for sleeping,” Percival said, “and I’m not a kid!” Bors, Gorne, and Lyon exchanged glances. “How much did you see?” Lyon asked. “Well, I saw you and him naked, so I hid,” Percival said, “I didn’t want you to know I saw you naked.” “How long were you watching us? What else did you see?” Lyon asked. Percival explained everything. “I’m sorry I misjudged you,” Gorne said, “I thought you had disobeyed your mother, followed us to the camp, and spied on us all evening.” “No, I only chased the Red Knight and found you sleeping,” Percival said. The men heaved a collective sigh of relief. “We should get him and his fall harvest back to his mother before she worries herself to death,” Bors said. “You’ll just try to leave me there,” Percival accused. “No, we’re required to take you to Camelot, now,” Gorne said, “because you did our job for us, plus you’re of noble blood.” Lyon smiled and groaned at the stars all at once. “Brother?” Bors asked, “Do you so dread the young man’s questions? I thought you’d be excited to have Percival with us!” “I am, truly,” Lyon said, “it’s just my hand hurts.” Bors lifted his eyebrows at his brother and cocked his lips, certain that Lyon lied about his enthusiasm. “You never admit to pain,” Bors muttered. “Percival,” Gorne interrupted, “I’ll train you to become a Knight, on the condition that you think before you ask questions, and by that, I mean don’t ask so many questions.” Percival agreed, and vowed to himself in silence to never ask questions again. Percival took Lyon’s hand and examined it, rather than ask how bad it burned. Lyon’s rough face softened at the touch. “What, hey,” Lyon said, “no really, it’s not that bad.” “Don’t touch,” Bors ordered, “Percival, go fetch some cold water.” Percival left with the pot. “Why’d you send him away?” Lyon asked. “You know damn well why,” Gorne interjected, “As long as he’s with us, you boys gotta cool your cocks.” Lyon rubbed his own face with vigor. “This is no goddamned fair,” Lyon groaned into his palm. “Hey, fuck you,” Gorne said, “this sucks for me the worst!” “How can it suck for you worse than me?” Lyon asked. “’Cause I’d planned to fuck the everloving hell out of you every night from now to White Sunday,” Gorne whispered, “don’t lie, I’ll never see either of you again after that little deadline, with you boys busy chasing twinks!” “You never know, Sir Gorne,” Bors said, “My brother still owes you two.” “Two what?” asked the innocent voice behind them. “Nothing,” they all said. “Oh, of course, if I ask, you don’t tell me, if I don’t ask, you never shut up,” Percival said, “here, let me.” Bors took the pot out of Percival’s hands and poured the water on the ground. Percival bit his lip, refused to let himself ask. “I could’ve used that water,” said Lyon. “Let it burn, brother,” said Bors, “now help me dig a hole.” Bors and Lyon buried the red knight’s body while the others slept. Gorne woke at sunrise and fetched the warhorse. Bors awoke to a light in his eyes. The sun glinted off something on the warhorse. Bors dug into a compartment on the saddle, and found a golden chalice. He recognized it as a chalice stolen from King Arthur’s own throne and alerted Gorne. “Arthur’s ceremonial chalice,” said Gorne. Percival awoke, remembered his sister’s words, and grabbed the chalice. The moment the cup touched Percival’s hand, a disembodied voice spoke. “Y-chromosomal DNA not recognized. Issuing emergency protocols.” “Who said that?” Bors asked. The creek swelled. Lyon awoke. The shape of a feminine body rose from the surface of the water. “The Lady of the Lake!” Lyon said. Lyon and Bors ran to the creek. Gorne stared. “My sister mentioned a lady of the lake,” Percival said, “I thought she was crazy.” “Bors and Lyon say they were raised by the Lady of the Lake,” Gorne replied, “she’s practically their mom.” “Hey! Bring the harvest!” Lyon shouted to the knight. Gorne and Percival took the sacks of roots and grains to the creek edge. The Lady of the Lake promised to return the harvest to Didraine. “That’s my sister,” Percival said, “she said you wanted your chalice back.” Percival offered the chalice. The Lady of the Lake took it and turned it sideways. At this angle, it looked less like a cup, and more like a complex series of ring dials. The ring dials spun. The boys were awestruck. “This chalice is an integral part of my ship,” the lady said, “this one is compatible, but it is from the wrong timeline.” “I’m sorry mom,” Lyon said, “but I don’t understand a word you just said.” “There are other ladies of other lakes,” she said, “we all need a chalice, but this one is not mine. Find the lake lady who needs this one, and give it back to her.” “Anything you ask,” Bors said, “we’ll do!” With that, the harvest and the lady disappeared into a bubble into the creek. “Dindrane will be fine,” the lady said, “I will tell her you must hurry to Camelot before the first snow. Keep close to water. Farewell.” A bridge of natural stone rose out of the creek to aid their crossing. It took a fortnight and three days ride to reach Camelot. The men told Percival stories about Camelot. They taught him the rules of knighthood, how to wear and maintain the Red Knight’s armor, how to use a sword, and a crossbow. They taught him how to dress and mount his warhorse with armor. He listened without question. Even as they passed the great tower and court on the isle of Shalott, Percival asked nothing. The last morning of their journey, they brushed their steeds and shined their armor. “Make it shine, boys. Impress the people of Camelot,” Gorne said. The men donned their polished armor over their thickest quilted clothes and rode hard to the south. Bare aspen trees surrounded the riverbanks. They crossed hills covered in light snow and dry flaxen barley. Once atop the highest hill, Percival looked into the valley and witnessed the opulence and splendor of the many snowcapped towers of Castle Camelot. The great drawbridge stood agape. The open gates signaled peaceful times. The river bent behind the castle, and emptied into the vast Lake of Avalon. Willow woods wept into the lake. The lake stretched to the horizon between the aspen forests and meadows blanketed in snow. The evening sun sank towards the lake as the sun’s reflection rose to meet it. Evening shadows crept up the towers in unison. Smoke rose in little streams from inside the wall with promises of warmth, hot food, and comfort. The watchmen rushed from their towers to spread news that Sir Gorne returned with the Red Knight in tow. Peasants gathered at the gates to welcome their champions home. Snowflakes and sunset pelted the shining armor as the knights rode at a gallop across the drawbridge, painted in orange fire and white flecks. Castle Camelot greeted them with warmth and cheers. Lyon and Bors maneuvered their horses to surround Sir Percival. Percival felt protected, and loved. The peasant’s appreciation warmed his heart. He collected several of the lilies. Lyon laughed, and offered him another. Percival kept it separated, closer to his heart. “Welcome to Camelot,” Lyon said, “how do like it?” “Camelot,” Percival lilted, “I am certain that this place is now, has forever been, and will forever be, my true home.” Lyon smiled. “That’s exactly how I felt,” he said.

<<<<<>>>>> --This story ends here and does not currently continue-- (¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯¯¯¯¯¯¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯) I encourage the free share of my content! Please share, use, & build upon my work My work can be supported Via Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/mythicide (_.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸_______.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸_)

#Knights #Gay #Percival #Parcival #Bors #Lyon #Lyonn #Gorn #Gorne #Camelot #Arthur #Arthurian #Legend

2 notes · View notes

goarticletec-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Pixel Slate vs. Pixelbook: The productivity conundrum

New Post has been published on https://www.articletec.com/pixel-slate-vs-pixelbook-the-productivity-conundrum/

Pixel Slate vs. Pixelbook: The productivity conundrum

So maybe you’ve heard: Google’s got a new high-end Pixel product that’s finally ready for us productivity-hunting primates to purchase.

The product is curiously tough to define. It’s a tablet, but probably not like any other tablet you’ve used before. It’s a laptop, but only kinda — and with a fair number of asterisks attached. And it doesn’t run Android, exactly, though it does run Android apps and have an interface that’ll feel awfully familiar if you’ve used a recent Android phone.

The product, as you no doubt know (you smart cookie, you), is the Pixel Slate — a convertible Chrome OS computing device that doubles as both a laptop and a tablet, provided you pick up its optional keyboard accessory. On paper, it almost seems like a more versatile version of Google’s high-end Pixelbook, which is basically the same thing except with a display that swivels back instead of detaching completely.

Once you’ve spent some time using the two products in the real world, though, something becomes painfully clear: These devices are absolutely not equals. And the difference between them is not what you’d initially expect.

Pixel Slate vs. Pixelbook: The stark hardware reality

Let’s get one thing out of the way first: Whether or not Chrome OS is right for you is a question only you can answer. I’m not going to waste your time talking about the merits or limitations of Chrome OS as a platform here, because that truly is a completely separate question (and one we’ve talked about puh-lenty over the years).

So from here on out, we’re gonna assume you’re able to get your work (and non-work) accomplished with a combination of web-centric tools, Android apps, and maybe even a couple Linux apps — and that generally speaking, a Chromebook provides an appropriate and hopefully even ideal productivity environment for you. Capisce? Capisce.

And let’s push one more pesky ol’ elephant out of the room while we’re at it: In terms of user interface, software, and capabilities (and despite what some coverage by folks who clearly don’t spend much time using Chrome OS outside of product review periods may suggest), the Pixel Slate and Pixelbook are essentially identical. So, too, is any other reasonably recent Chromebook with a touchscreen in place. What we’re talking about here, then, are differences in form and hardware between Google’s two flagship laptop/tablet products — nothing less, nothing more.

All right — so all of that being said, here’s the cold, hard, non-sugarcoated truth: Using the Pixel Slate for productivity purposes feels like using a lesser version of the Pixelbook. You’re trading a premium, luxurious-feeling laptop that also doubles quite effectively as a tablet for a pretty nice tablet that awkwardly functions as a second-class laptop.

With the Pixel Slate, instead of a sturdy-feeling metal body à la the Pixelbook, you get a flimsy plastic case with keys built into it. This contrast is most apparent when you try to use the device on your lap — y’know, like a laptop — and its screen wobbles around as you type while its keyboard attachment flexes and shifts beneath your fingers. It’s passable enough, but it’s certainly not ideal — nor is anywhere near a premium-feeling experience.

I’m actually writing this whilst propped up in my bed (yes, it’s that kind of week) and moving back and forth between a Pixelbook and Pixel Slate. Each time, the exchange feels like shifting between a top-of-the-line professional machine and a clumsily constructed screen-and-keyboard-attachment combo. The former is an absolute delight to type on, while the latter is one of those things you’d tolerate if no better options were present — maybe while gently kicking yourself for not packing a preferable solution — but would never willingly select, given the choice.

Harsh, I know. But we’re here to talk truths, and sugarcoating doesn’t serve any of us well.

Oh, and all of that is only part one. The real sticking point is still ahead.

Pixel Slate vs. Pixelbook: The tablet factor

“But surely the Pixel Slate has some advantages,” you must be thinking. And guess what, Waldo? You’re right-o! The Pixel Slate’s speakers are meaningfully better than the Pixelbook’s: They’re located on either side of the display, which means they’re always facing toward you (unlike the Pixelbook’s, which are beneath the keyboard and thus facing the wrong way when you’re using the device in one of its tablet-like arrangements). They’re noticeably fuller-sounding, too — no contest at all there.

And despite the fact that speakers flank its screen, the Pixel Slate has smaller bezels than its sibling, which we all know is a Super Big Deal™ in any 2018 technological assessment. The Pixel Slate also adds a fingerprint sensor into the mix, which a welcome touch, but it lacks a headphone jack (something the Pixelbook does have). Win some, lose some, I guess.

So maybe the Pixel Slate makes sense for someone who mostly wants a tablet, for more passive types of consumption, and doesn’t care so much about the keyboard-using experience? Maybe. But, well, we’re talking primarily about productivity here, remember? And even when it comes to tablet-oriented use — because hey, even the most productive among us occasionally needs to kick back and watch a perfectly (ahem) work-appropriate PG-rated video — I’m just not sure the Pixel Slate is really the preferable choice.

I get that a lot of folks are accustomed to having a tablet that’s a slate-like screen and nothing more, but here’s the thing: The Pixel Slate is a really big screen. It’s 12.3 inches, diagonally, and just over a pound and a half in weight. That makes it too large and heavy to hold comfortably in the air for long, as one might hold a smaller tablet while lying back and relaxing.

You know what is a practical and enjoyable way to use a tablet of this size? With a stand attached. Kind of like the stand built into the Pixelbook, which allows you to position the screen at any angle and comfortably gaze uponst it or even tap it while it rests effortlessly on a table, desk, or your lap. And yes, the Pixel Slate’s keyboard attachment can accomplishment that same effect — but it’s less stable, less durable- and premium-feeling, trickier to manipulate, and less well-suited to the productivity side of your usage. (It also makes the Pixel Slate a touch heavier than the Pixelbook, when attached, and quite a bit clunkier, too.)

Beyond that, the Pixel Slate’s keyboard comes at a literal cost: While the base Pixel Slate costs $999 for a model that’s roughly comparable to the starting level Pixelbook, the keyboard attachment runs an extra 200 bones. If my high-tech number-crunchin’ machines are correct, that means you’re looking at about $1,200 for a system on par with the thousand-dollar Pixelbook — and when it comes to real-world usage, as we’ve established, it actually isn’t on par in oh-so-many ways. (Of note: The Pixelbook is currently marked down to $699, which makes the comparison even more skewed — though there’s no telling how long that discount will last.)

Putting it all together…

So what to make of the Pixel Slate? Who is this product for? Honestly, that’s a question I’ve been struggling to answer since I started using the device about a week ago. I guess if you only want a tablet and don’t care at all about having a physical keyboard, you could make an argument for buying one of the lower-end Pixel Slate models — which start at $599 for fairly limited-power configurations.

But once you start getting into actual productivity, that recommendation gets trickier to make. I don’t think anyone doing serious work will want anything less than the $799 Pixel Slate model, and once you throw in the keyboard, that’s a $998 investment — the same as a high-end convertible Pixelbook, which does all the same stuff as the Pixel Slate but in a superior all-around arrangement and without all the pesky compromises. (And that’s to say nothing of the Pixelbook’s current $699 pricing, of course, which wildly changes everything.)

If you really, truly just have to have a tablet that detaches from its base instead of swiveling around, the Pixel Slate might be worth considering. But I’d strongly suggest rethinking why you need that form and whether the swiveling setup might actually address your needs more effectively — especially when you consider the bigger picture of everything else involved.

Here’s what it boils down to: The Pixelbook is a top-of-the-line convertible that feels like the best of both worlds — a powerful and versatile machine equally well-suited to productivity and entertainment. The Pixel Slate, on the other hand, fails to excel in either domain — and it’s downright disadvantageous in the one most relevant to our current focus. If productivity matters at all to you and you’re looking for a best-in-class experience, the Pixelbook (which is guaranteed to get OS updates all the way through June of 2024, by the way) is still the one to get.

In an era overrun with endless options and ambiguous choices, thank goodness some decisions are still easy to make.

Sign up for my weekly newsletter to get more practical tips, personal recommendations, and plain-English perspective on the news that matters.

[Android Intelligence videos at Computerworld]

Source link

0 notes

heftmanrhamm · 2 years ago

Text

It's Julian and Robin in their love cave.

Line art and the inspo below.

A collection of fan arts from this week.

Unsure if anyone's drawn the image above before. My apologies if so. But please, look uponst. I just thought it was funny.

Smol Thomas below.

#bbc ghosts #bbc ghosts fanart #my drawing thing #look uponst if you would like to #sorry if you've seen this before image several times #i didn't realise you can hide posts from your settings page #my art

69 notes · View notes

unproduciblesmackdown · 4 years ago

Text

sincerely me is about evan & jared, & besides a few lines all of “connor” is being written by jared, including the whole chorus & “sincerely, me” bits, while evan is then just being “evan,” so jared knows that he, as Proxy Connor, is interacting with this in‐universe fictionalized version of evan, but also in terms of “who is projecting what uponst whom here” i’m pondering if evan could also be thinking of what he’s doing here as being a sort of wish fulfillment version of jared, even while actual jared is being the Best Dearest Friend version of connor rn.

what i’m thinking about is how like, evan explains that his goal here is to show he was A Good Friend to connor, & clearly in this song & for forever, evan’s kind of making up what he supposes an Ideal Friendship would’ve been like, since they’re able to completely invent stuff here. & this is all of course coming after & contrasting with evan being underwhelmed by jared & alana’s Friendly Overtures on the first day of school, so we know he doesn’t find those approaches very moving. and what evan tries writing for connor is 1. that he’s not thriving 2. doesn’t get along w/his parents 3. drugs, in that order, but the way he presents that first point is by having the email open with “connor” saying Life Without [Evan] Has Been Hard/Bad/Rough. but This is after the actual start of things, when jared had previously written “we’ve been way too out of touch / things have been crazy / and it sucks that we don’t talk that much” which can sort of be forgotten as the setup of his joke there but when first presented certainly comes off earnestly enough / as something that evan could’ve accepted. and all this after evan & jared give each other those rundowns of their respective summers, implying they didn’t interact all summer, or at least not in any way that involved actually talking about their lives (”i miss talking about Life & Other Stuff....”), but jared didn’t approach evan on the first day of school by directly expressing any “wow missed you” sentiments, especially not to emphasize that further by saying how Bad it was to Not have had evan in his life. and maybe evan writing for “connor” in that moment is showing how he’d Wished someone he was friends with but hadn’t substantially talked to in a while would’ve greeted him after that hiatus, aka could evan be writing “connor” in a way informed by what he thinks he’d want from jared, as a Theoretical Ideal Friend, b/c it’s easy to suppose he’s approaching this whole situation of “what would make it seem like i was A Good Friend to connor” by way of “what would i feel seems like someone being A Good Friend to me” where he’s sort of being both the Fictional Himself, Evan, Connor’s Bff, and Connor, who he really doesn’t have any ideas about re: the Real connor and is seeing himself in this Idea of a person / projecting on him

like, both evan & jared are writing their respective parts here by focusing on their ideas of what would be A Good Friend/ship, but jared’s writing against evan, while evan is writing against jared in reality but like, if he’s seeing himself in both the “evan” and “connor” roles here, he could also be seeing either role as Another Person, that Good Friend, and why wouldn’t his ideas re: what he’d want from / consider a Good Friend be informed by things he’s considered Not good from his one actual friend, jared. who, also, we never actually see evan being A Good Friend to jared, or attempting that re: alana either, and we Could wonder if evan, in larping as A Good Friend To Someone here, might be thinking about ways he Hasn’t been a good friend too, but i think it seems more likely he’s mostly thinking about things in the framework of “what treatment / dynamic / Support would i want to get from someone” and that wish fulfillment of being able to invent an ideal friendship that simply supposedly already existed. while jared is probably seeing this part he’s playing here as "what would look like someone being A Good Friend to evan,” where you know, he’s Actually friends with evan, but via this proxy he can write as this different version of himself, part of this different friendship dynamic that is meant to just upfront Look to an outsider like this amazing relationship. he’s clearly keeping in mind that his part has to seem like connor (even if it ultimately doesn’t lol) but it’s like, he’s writing off of evan, why not draw from his own experiences actually interacting with evan, and in just being a person who is maybe not comfortable being outwardly Vulnerable / doesn’t Seem like someone in this moving, beautiful friendship, e.g. “i’ll take your advice / try to be more—nice”

tl;dr jared could be writing mostly as Himself, being [Evan’s Friend] in this exchange while he sees evan as, naturally, being [evan], but evan could be seeing himself as Evan, or as Connor, or see connor as connor or as more of Himself, Evan, but since he’s also writing this version of “evan” as A Good Friend to Someone He’s Projecting On, he might sometimes be thinking of it in terms of what he’d want to see from jared, theoretically

(also just to remind everyone how, in the sincerely me reprise, when jared’s writing emails alone & evan’s brushing him off, jared’s not only back to making jokes he knows evan is going to object to (aka will get his attention) but is also outright putting a version of Himself into the story and this friendship, b/c maybe it’s becoming more obvious to him that him being “connor” isn’t actually letting him be closer to evan. & then he’s not thrilled that evan just dismisses this & is not at all interested & they are generally not having any fun with this the way they did in the original number. just thinking about it All)

#what's the real tl;dr uhhhh #what if jared is writing connor mostly as himself. and what if evan is writing everyone as himself but also maybe at least indirectly #being Jared as well; since jared is ''The/My Friend'' here #deh #kleinsen #it's all always kleinsen....#fixing the order of those lines.....it's hard then bad then rough isn't it

65 notes · View notes

unproduciblesmackdown · 5 years ago

Note

let's see those Prime Numbers for the ask meme

2) favorite albums?

well i was Ready for kesha’s album Warrior to come out in iiii think it was the end of 2012 or early 2013?? i snuck out to that tour in dc that summer also. totally solid album and it was fun to have something so fun during a totally Not Fun period lol. i was also pretty into owl city at the exact same time lmao, that’s Blatantly for when you’re depressed lol...and i also eventually saw that guy on tour when a new album came out in 2015, and that was fun too, and was Enjoying Myself a factor in the tipping point of “ah jeez i gots 2 get outta here” that i had in the next month? maybe! and uhhh i listened a lot to the phoenix te amo album. that one wasnt tied to anything at all but i have heard it So much. super short and also rock solid and relistenable. and then here we are and the bmc obcr is a gift to the world b/c a) it exists and b) Cuz It All Slaps and c) it’s so fun to either sing or dance along, or cry along if it’s the agtikbi reprise and d) lgw... and e) all the eternal, well-mixed wroland vocals

3) favorite memes?

oh god lmao idk......real earlier 10s stuff was the I Say Hey he-man meme, and the “that really rustles my jimmies” meme which was real underrated......there’s been plenty of Memes where i’ve been like “this one is funny to me Every Time” but of course now looking back on it it’s like. what’s a meme??? Vine

(skipping 5 & 11 cuz that’s the Entirety of someone else’s ask and i don’t wanna just have to scrap theirs completely and i’ll get to it next!!)

11) favorite fanarts?

you know what, there’s continuously been a ton of amazing fanart where i’m like, i’m so glad i’m seeing this, & this is Artistic Fuel, and marge simpson anime has really been just this Standout Experience lmao like......idk for as Inspiring as it is, there’s only a couple things i’ve drawn that are Directly inspired, but i just flip for it all the time and like, it’s supremely expressive and like, comics that aren’t chronological but more like a Collage Of a Moment / Concept which i think is super cool and also i love when stuff reminds me that it doesn’t have to look ~super cleaned up~ to look great.

13) favorite people you know?

oh god this one really got out of control lol i started like, talking about everyone ever from this past decade. so for Convenience i’m interpreting this as “people *i* know, but they don’t know me” so that i can cheat and say will roland, voted person of the year 2019. by extension, essential supporting crew who helped us reach this point, like john simpkins or joe iconis. leave it at that!! it’s 5am and you know i’m not lying. who knew where going “wow, This guy” in late 2018 would have so much Value.

17) a fandom you wish more people were in/you had more people to talk to about?

oof hmm.......amnesia tdd didn’t really have a “fandom” even though it obviously got a lot of attention, it’dve been fun if it had though lol. it’s tricky to answer this one cuz i always prefer like, smaller fandoms and/or finding the Niche or some other way of just like, interacting with a small corner of things, so i’m never like wow god damn wish i’d been absolutely in the thick of it with this thing. i’ve been in Corners n Niches and it’s been fine by me, really

19) a fandom that you had the best time in?

HMM lol.........marble hornets sure was fun but like, a lot of that was just the content itself and not necessarily The Fan Experience, tho i sure got a lot out of it in a ton of ways. i mean tbh that’s true of each thing i’ve really Gotten Into majorly, i go hard af and then walk out the other side with these #connections or #experiences like whoa where’d these come from lol!! but really like, overall, i’m probably having the best time right now. the “fandom” is basically just our agenda lmao but like i said i’m always having the best time when it’s a pretty niche deal, And the sheer variety of Contents n Characters to draw from here is super nice, and the fact that it’s like, oh yeah and i’m finally recognizing this should’ve-been-obvious entire Passionne i’ve had since always, and that’s great too, and like, also just having the Variety Of Live / Current Unfoldings that go down.....like, everyone havin fun with the Joe Iconis Xmas Xtrav was entirely great. and just the Engagement level is basically the best, cuz like there’s the times where maybe i’ll get a zillion notes and that’s definitely fun in its own way but i always enjoy just the way smaller amount of ppl who are Particularly Enthusiastic, and like, there’s times where like, maybe i’m *technically* in this larger circle of ppl but like, totally more of like a Tangent or peripheral to that circle or whatever lol........this feels like a really solid balance of like, being sorta in this orbit of people in a chill way, but also definitely the direct interactions Existing, which is always important lol but hasn’t always been a constant throughout my Fandom Experiences at all

23) who were you at the beginning of this decade?

2009-2010 was a real distinct year lol i was in my second year of college in the middle of my teens, when i’d hardly really been getting to Explore My Interests Freely up to that point and still wasn’t, but all of a sudden it’s like goddamn i have to figure out my major???? and i’m like, obviously in the middle of only just now Really getting to figure out my identity in this deeper and more genuine way, thanks to being lucky enough to Live On Campus and be away from home like, 2/3 of the year, but i was just like, oh god i’m in Stress Hell now all the time cuz like. i’m trying to figure out my whole thing and what my ~Career~ should be and i just have no idea but am like, trying super hard all the time lol it was not successful and i was just really stressed about it all the time. i was def quieter back then.....pretty lonely at the time, i did not get into mh and gain the presence of any Online Friends until late 2010, and i hadn’t yet been sort of accepted by a small faction of theatre people via my roommate’s connections.....i wasn’t at all Out yet, and was def In Progress of figuring it all out.....i didn’t have nearly the Self-Esteem i have now lmao, it was Not a great time and in a lot of ways ‘09-’10 was the start of a downturn into Worse Than Usual Times, though in Other ways it was definitely an upturn lol like. the latter related to stuff that was important to me / who i am, the former tied to the situations i was in and the godawful morale that resulted

29) a time when the worst case scenario happened but you pulled through?

well by the end of 2012 i had my Wrath Parent deluxe mad at me big time, AND i was stuck at home all of thee time with that (not at all hours but. every day.) it was terrible!!! tf was going on in 2013, cuz that shit was definitely like, a gross blur of a lot of indistinct misery. and then, relatedly, when it was so shitty in 2015 that i was like fantastic, i am so officially sick of this i’m outta here. i revisited some Misery Posts from that period lately for someone stranger on twitter’s project or something, and boy i was having a bad time Summer Of ‘15 lol, things not getting better at home And a job that was so shitty that it was like..................bye. lol. and then i spent a year living out of a minivan. which was real lucky in ways b/c like. infinitely better than if i had not had that minivan. and when that broke down i was also then lucky enough to have this friend who was relatively nearby who’d also been willing to just like, set me up to Not have to ask the lgbt center where that trans-friendly forest zone a couple cities over was. nothing as dramatic as it could’ve been, fortunately

31) a time you were scared?

hmmm when leaving The Parents Home overnight, that was intimidating. bit of completely jumping into the unknown there, and also like, when you spend your lifetime assuming that Someone’s Arbitrary Wrath will be uponst you always, it’s hard to shake that sense of dread and doom, like ah jeez i am really potentially bringing hell on myself here........and like i mentioned with Start Of The Decade, there was just a ton of fear there all the time lol, trying to figure out virtually overnight The Whole Of Who I Am And What I Want when i’d only just even gotten to start......also i wanna say i maybe came out in 2011?? and i sort of also felt obligated to come out to my parents also (plus i think i was giving them like, one last chance to surprise me and be decent and kind of Grow Up themselves even tho i was the like, 16 y.o.) which yknow, kids you do not have to come out to anyone at all. someone was talking the other day abt how they didn’t think lgbtq “discourse” had evolved as much as you’d hope over the past decade, but idk about that, it's only a little bit of a wildly complex topic, and for starters Online Trans “Discourse” of a decade back was wayyyyyy in a vastly different place than it is now, leaps and strides really. so the way to ~really~ do it was presented kind of more rigidly i think. anyways i did it via email and was incredibly stressed to even open the reply a couple days later lol......which ended up being really weird and vague, and then there was a phone call where no one brought it up, and the only result was increased ire and resentment :( ........and then there was still like, cops encounters! near or not-as-bad-as-they-could’ve-been vehicular collisions! but tbh generally my reaction to the latter was underwhelming, except for one particular time when i was a passenger and also tense af for the rest of the ride. that’s it for Immediate fear really lol......oh wait one time i was at this decent sized Convention Panel Event and when i’m nervous i can Only talk more (it’s possible!!) and i snuck into line for the q&a and Right when i got to the mic (intimidating) they were like oop we’re low on time, lightning round!! :’] that was obviously more just a crapton of l’anxiete

37) a fashion that fell out of style that you wish would make a resurgence?

were Gladiator sandals this decade? the strappy deals that like, went up the ankles / calves? that was in fashion for a year or two and i’m into it. i like sandals and that kind of drama

41) something you learned a lot that not a lot of other people might know about?

i don’t know that i learned way a lot of anything that’s real in-depth knowledge and niche lore.........i have learned Nothing

43) an important relationship (of any kind) you had?

i had???? lmao well either way let’s say current relationships count and like, pretty much everyone in my Sphere i value a lot! i never like, have or have had a ~close~ ring of ppl around me lol like i thought it was lucky if i talked to someone Every Day (and not at all the Usual thing) and now it’s more likely that i talk to two people every day and maybe that sounds sarcastic but it’s not at all lol. i know my social stats aren’t impressive but i so appreciate what i get to enjoy and have. and other Connections might be way more like, we are friendly acquaintances, we talk on rare occasions, we haven’t talked at all in ages, we talk but only to trade cute pics of cats, Etc etc, but i seriously do appreciate all of everyone who’s cool who i get to interact with in any way and like, be in each other’s spheres and Not just like, absolutely on nobody’s radar. also obviously soph you are here in that list in case i wasn’t implying it good enough lol it is 5am and god knows deciphering what i say at any time can be its own challenge.....ur Epic Highs and Lows of bmc 3.0 is so good lmao

#hell yeah tysm now also i should go for Passing Outs #(where you pass out like knocking out)#thank you Three Other Asks i see and appreciate it as well #oh wait shit four!!!#lol #it's 5:20am bed time bitch all day hit the hay #i forget what i say here i've been on and off doing whatever for the past 5 hrs obviously lmao #nothingunrealistic1

2 notes · View notes