#mostly prose

[pennedbylisse]

THE DANCER & THE FIGHTER

summary: opposites attract - a law so pervasive that even subatomic particles abide by it. what made you think this story would be an exception to the rule?

dancer falls for the street fighter, or is it the fighter who first falls for the ballerina? neither knows once they get tangled up, because somehow it feels as though they've been falling for each other, for eternity, through past and future lives, fated to meet. two stars, one constellation, a united fate.

other stuff: lots of red symbolism (passion, violence, rawness, sacrifice). contrast between bruteness and fragility. jeongguk (almost) always has a torn brow or lip :( riddled with star-lore that if you get we might as well get married in june. like so much star-lore (if it's not already obvious) because I am nothing if not obsessed with the concept.

basically, my humble attempt at web-weaving all my hyperfixations and wrapping the product with a pretty jeongguk-shaped bow :))

genuine request that if you read and liked you heart or reblog. not only does it push my silly lil fic out for more people to read and have the chance of liking?? but it also lets me know what content engages most readers. thanks!!

warnings: unedited, verbose descriptions on occasion, author is not a ballerina so there might be some inconsistencies (call me out on it, plz!), still being added to and ongoing; I do have an idea of what the ending will be like

available on AO3 at pennedbylisse

current wc: ??

My Betelgeuse, brightest beacon splintering a sea of dark nights. I needed you to shine, even if it consumed you. I was no less of an exploiter than the same tyrant, Orion, which we antagonized and dreamed of escaping.

I loved you with urgency, famine and desperation. Yes, I loved you selfishly, but I never did love anyone else in the likeness.

You are the one. My one. My shadow and reflection. My Wonderwall.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　

ORION FIGHT CLUB september still don't know my name ♬

Elailah has a single addiction.

It is not the one-too-many cups of bitter, amber liquid in the evenings. Not the kind to be inhaled between lips from a thin, white cylinder. Not the white powder she catches her dance company members seeking aid in, and later feigns oblivion towards. Not the injectable or otherwise consumable kind.

It is rather abstract in the way it consumes her instead; an insatiable greed, she has come to know it as. Not for wealth, as she lives a comfortable enough life with parents that sponsor her (so long as she complies with what they choose for her to do, of course, but I'll get into that later).

It is avarice for possibility. For what potentially lies across the fence, dug beneath picture-perfect green grass. It's the chase for what's not yet known, not yet had. The coulds:

I could ascend to prima ballerina, if only I just practice enough.

I could make him love me, if only I make myself pretty enough, make myself soft-spoken enough. If only I'm agreeable enough, they'll stay.

This is all a somewhat lengthy way of explaining why she finds herself at an illegal fight club this night. She'd thought, once again, "I could..." win his attention, if only I pretended to share his interests.

Perhaps it wouldn't have to be pretend, she'd thought on their commute. Perhaps she'd grow appreciative of the change of scenery.

Once more, her narrow-minded pursuit of perfection has led her astray.

A bolus sensation makes itself prominent at the column of her throat. Bobs up and down with each peck the rooster takes of its comparatively smaller opponent in the cage center stage.

She quarrels with the inhumanity of the scene, and the irony that it is the humans that are lacking it, not the animals squawking and fluttering, only fighting for a chance at survival.

The smaller of the two roosters, with its white feathers now crimson, stumbles, sways on clumsy footing. The crowd erupts into cheers, green dollar bills being raised in the air.

In the uprise, she's tossed, and her hold of his tough hand slips.

A follower, he hoists his bet, sings victory.

I could fix him, she defaults. I could soften him. When, really, all she's sure of in that moment is that she'll break down into tears, or hurl her dinner, or somehow both, if she stays a minute longer.

She excuses herself to use the restroom.

He doesn't notice. It could be that in the overwhelm, she voiced it barely above a mutter, but it is more likely he doesn't even care. Finds her all the boring and dull, however pretty.

Hostile banging shudders the bathroom door.

Elailah grips the sink, threatening to sway after a bout of hurling. She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. Opens the tap, splashes some cold water onto her cheeks.

Swinging the door open, a lady threatens to stumble in. Visibly drunk off her mind, the lady mutters a derogatory mark as she brushes shoulders with Elailah in the exchange.

Elailah decides she's had enough of this side of town for tonight, and, possibly, for life. Walking down a crammed hall, she turns for the make-shift lobby of the establishment.

There's a figure hunched to one side on one of the benches flushed against the dim walls.

Another drunkard, she thinks.

But as she approaches the exit adjacent to him, she attempts to study him further, feigns discreetness in her swift side glances.

He's young. Couldn't be more than five years older than her, she estimates. (meh)

He's spitting blood onto the ground beside the bench. A small glistening puddle. Clutching the side of his ribcage as if it hurts to breath.

She thinks of Ian, her older brother. Tries to imagine how a paramedic would approach. What measure of assistance can be offered without too far compromising one's own safety.

Her voice isn't as comforting and practiced as Ian's, but she tries. "Hey..." Approaching him, her voice quivers "you ok?" Winces at the words that leave her gaping mouth. Clearly he is not ok. What she really means to say is "Could I help in some way?"

He merely coughs up a gargle as response.

What she settles for is retrieving a fresh sanitary pad from her bag. The last resort after violently rummaging through the bag's contents. Tears the packaging, unfolds it and hands it over.

"It's clean," she reassures, waving it slightly in front of his gaze. "I promise." It is only now she realizes his brow is in a disheveled state of crusted blood.

"There's no need-"

"I insist."

He collects it in his quivering hand.

Adrenaline, Elailah thinks. Then wants to ask "Who did this to you?" but restrains herself from meddling in stranger's business.

"Thanks," he clears his throat. It triggers a coughing fit which his crinkling face lets show he quickly regrets.

"I can contact the emergency services," she offers, reaching for her phone. "They can catch whoever did this to y-"

He holds one of his quivering hands in the air. "Don't"

There's bruising around his knuckles; all shades of red, young and old.

"Are you one of the fighters?" Her eyes widen, raking him, finding new wounds and the whisper of former ones across his skin. Questions bubble towards the tip of her tongue but instead she awaits his response.

"Something like that..."

Judging from how this side of town treats its residents, she's not far from danger. Ultimately, she might still need to call the emergency services, if not her brother. Nervously, she glances down at her phone in her grip.

Just as soon as it illuminates, it blackens. The silhouette of a hollow battery blinks in place of her usual (quote) wallpaper and she remembers how's shed been asking her date for a charger just before the roosters were brought out and the crowd erupted.

Swallowing her doubt, her face contorts with pity and helplessness as she says "I hate to ask...given yo-your condition..." she lets her gaze fall to the ground. "Would you be so kind to lend me your phone for only a moment? It's only a quick call to my brother. Turns out my phone died and I'm not entirely familiar with this part of the city. Not even partially familiar, actually."

She fidgets with her bag, awaiting a response. Watching to see if he'll retrieve it from his pocket.

He doesn't. Merely remains pressing the pad against his brow.

"I don't have one. Sorry."

"Oh," she smiles, though disappointment sinks in her chest. It occurs to her that he could be lying, out of spite, or weariness towards a stranger. "That's alright," she lies, but her light, airy tone doesn't let it be known.

Her steps start retreating on their own accord. "Thanks anyways. Hope you heal quick...and that the other guy is in worse condition- actually, no, I don't. I hope he's ok." She grimaces.

The bloody side of his lip starts to curl just the slightest despite the sting. She's cute, he thinks.

"Wait...where do you live?"

Silence.

"Relax..." he chuckles. "I only want to repay your kindness."

"Considered it paid."

"I'm not as bad as I look."

"You want me to take your word for it? Trust a stranger?"

"No. Just give me the benefit of the doubt until I do something undeserving."

"I would, if I clearly wasn't the one disadvantaged." She gawks at his build as he rises slowly and painfully. He could squash her out like a measly fruit fly.

"I can walk you home. It's not safe out there, this late. Besides, I could really use some fresh air, get out of here for a while. You'd be doing me a favor."

"East," she generalizes, hoping only to be led in the right direction. She could walk the rest.

"East?" he arches the intact brow, silver piercings glistening in the low lights. For a moment, Elailah thinks that perhaps he had been trying to pierce his other brow when it went awfully awry.

"Yeah, East..." she grips the handle of her bag firmly. "Around Sutton and Matlock," she mumbles, looking over her shoulder at the entrance doors that swing open with the arrival of other bidders.

Rich quarters, Jeongguk thinks and scans his gaze down her frame for the second time that night. Part of him envies her instantly. A smaller but nonetheless related part of him wants her to figure it out for herself, to struggle like the rest of the world.

Concealing his preconceptions, he nods, dark locks falling forward.

-

The cobblestone is glistening with moisture from a recent shower, such that Elailah has to measure her strides to save herself the embarrassment of slipping and falling all too ungracefully.

"What brings a Sutton and Matlock girl to this side of town?" He digs his hands in the pockets of his coat, partly to fiddle with the hole tearing the seam of the right one, and just as much to save them from the chill of impending winter.

Eilailah continues to watch her steps as she responds "Detrimental habits."

"What? Like gambling? Did you bid on me?" He smirks, curious to know.

She shakes her head. Shivers a little, tensing her shoulder up against her neck, as breeze blows in through the alley they are currently crossing. "I actually only saw the rooster match. I assume you were before it."

He frowns, slightly disappointed with the revelation she'd not witnessed his victory. It had been a well earned and bloody one. He'd actually bid on himself and would collect his earn the following day whilst speaking to ***.

"If it's not gambling, then..."

"Only seeing something that wasn't ever there." She doesn't elaborate, which leaves a curiosity searing his mind the rest of the quiet walk.

"So..." she strikes up conversation after the awkward falling into cadence. Glances up at the night sky instead of turning to face him. Tries to make out constellations she's studied during her delving into Greek mythology but the light pollution obscures the brightest silhouettes from this street. "What got you into fighting?"

He cranes his neck, stretching an imperceivable knot. "Father."

At the lack of elaboration, she inquires further, "He used to fight?" Thinks of it as mindless chatter to fill the crater of silence between their strides. Doesn't realize, yet, she's scratching up against an inflamed nerve.

Perhaps the topic of parents, altogether, should be held like religion or politics over dinner conversation. An societal standard she'd uphold if only her parents were the least bit imperfect.

At this assumption, he chuckles dryly. Shakes his head. "He's no professional. Can throw a sharp hook, though."

"He used to train then. 'Those who can't, teach' as they say."

Whilst she's enjoying the puzzle of a guessing game, he cuts to the point quite bluntly. "He sold me to the club in exchange for cash."

"Oh..." At a loss for words, she can't help but redundantly say "Oh..." through every layer of comprehension she crosses. "I'm sorry..."

"Why? It's not your fault."

"I did press the topic. You could have warned me."

"I actually don't get to talk about it. It's nice to let it out, in more ways than fists."

"Can't you just leave?"

Shakes head. "Tried. Twice. Failed. Twice."

"How?"

"I'm property. A product on the market. Each fight night, profit's made on me, that I don't event get a percentage of. The owner's not much for loss on investments."

"Are you chipped or something?"

"Might as well be. He can find me anywhere." He rubs his bicep in what can only be taken as a subconscious soothing practice.

"That's...that's fucked up." She stares vacantly at the cross streets ahead. Having acquired a new-found appreciation for her life, however mundane and unexciting.

-

When he drops her off at her block, she insists on walking the rest of the way by herself. He doesn’t object, understands her guards would be up with a stranger. She’s wearing space buns tied with soft pink ribbons that drape over her shoulders. the blow in the night breeze. She hadn't realized one had been loosening on the walk. 

The ribbon descends, billows onto the concrete. Jeongguk bends to retrieve it, when he bends back up to holler for her attention, she’s gone. He keeps it as memory of a stranger that had shown him greater kindness than his blood; wraps it around his wrist like a bracelet, to hold onto the good in the world, secretly hoping to return it one day, though he doubts she’ll stop by the fighting grounds given how pale and drained she had seemed at their first meet.

elailah doesn't sleep a wink that night. in her silk pajama set, and soft duvets, she can't help but feel disgusted, nauseated.

࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

WONDER WALL THEATRE september

As far as can be recalled, Jeongguk has been regularly ailed by a disturbance in the rhythm of sleep-wake. In his scenario, the scale lies skewed almost entirely towards wake.

On nights he thinks long and hard about it, he suspects the disturbance likely originated some time around his father's descent into alcoholism. The thunderous thuds of steps on the creaking floor, accompanied by heated arguments between his parents would startle him awake. He'd stare at the dark ceiling of his childhood bedroom as if it were a puzzle in need of urgent resolve. A puzzle in which he was key. If only he could figure out what he'd done wrong, then perhaps his father would start acting like himself again; his mother would no longer cry religiously.

With a strangled breath, and tense limbs under dinosaur sheets, he'd tune-in on what was being said, fearful it would escalate. In fact, he'd often imagine scenarios where he'd have no choice but to run out of the safe seclude of his quiet room, into the kitchen - the source of his mother's agonizing screams - to find her caught in his father's brute grip. By that time, he was uniquely aware of just how rough his father's hands could be.

Though his body was tiny and frail then, the rage and adrenaline in his veins could have easily convinced him capable of toppling the mightiest Goliaths. Even if this particular Goliath had his father's face and voice.

Now, considerably less tiny, only a few hours from turning of legal age, he made sure to absolve the occasions in which he'd be home at the same time as his father. The tables had shifted away from genuine concern for his family's welfare, to the selfish instinct of self-preservation.

He wonders aimlessly through night-cast streets of his town, until his legs throb with exhaustion, but even that pain is preferable to that which is brought on by a beating from someone who's meant to keep you safe.

At first, he'd only stroll through isles at a grocery store. Study each nutritional label on the packages, to kill time, and boredom. When that didn't suffice, he'd eavesdrop on the conversation of other customers, families - actual ones, of bond and not just blood. Wondered how it felt to be them.

Since then, he's graduated to his very own hideout: a dilapidated cinema theatre - the closest thing to his own place so far in his early life.

At its prime, somewhere around the era of the ***s, it was coveted as the town's few sources of entertainment. Ever since the internet, more and more people find little use for places like it. With everything at the reach of a thumb over a cellphone screen, films have stopped debuting in velvet theatres, rendering places like this obsolete.

Still, it remains afoot, its stained and worn facade camoflaging with the rest of the historic street. The only reason it hasn't been demolished yet is the mayor's fixation in preserving history.

In a practiced motion, Jeongguk raises a wooden panel next to a "FOR RENT" sign and swoops into the cavity. Lets it fall behind him with a thud.

At the foot of the entrance, he gropes the pitch-black darkness for a familiar paper box. It makes a white, static-like noise when he grabs it and shakes it in his hand for confirmation.

He strikes one of its matches against its textured side and the darkness retreats around the amber flame.

There's a wax candle stick waiting to be lit by his scruffy sneakers. It's wick is misshapenly curled and tarred from previous lightings. It sparks when the flame is brought near it, borrowing its luminance.

Jeongguk shakes the match in his hand until the flame extinguishes. Flings the stick haphazardly across the dim room where it echoes. He rummages his pockets for his cigarettes and lights one with the flame on the candle.

Inhaling the warm smoke and with the wax candle dripping onto and from its make-shift holder (a glass soda bottle) he ascends a flight of curving stairs. Follows the fire exit passage to the roof.

He walks to the edge, leans over the cement to peer down at the sleeping street. No pedestrians this late into night, and barely any cars whirring pass on their ways home.

Unsurprisingly, nothing's changed since yesterday night; there's still a closed sign on the door of the bakery, that only opens weekends, across the street, and next to that, the 24/7 convenience store is reliably warmly lit, the emo cashier bored, scrolling on their phone. The one damaged streetlight still flickers, though he'd placed a bet against himself that it would fuse out by the start of the month. Somehow, he owes himself for that; hasn't decided what yet. Probably wont amount to anything.

The town has steered away from the abandoned theatre, a dark cloud of folklore looming over the building. Or dark threads of folklore covering the lot, like dusty cobwebs.

Entertaining the rumors, Jeongguk has, on two distinct occasions, attempted to summon the spirits of the departed. The first instance: craving companionship; that other time: seeking answers to an existential conundrum he'd stumbled upon through the late night pondering he often entertained himself with in place of dreams.

This night, he's not in search of ghosts or answers to impossible question. He is merely seeking out the quiet of a sleeping town as background noise for a volatile mind.

While he consciously inhales a pair of deep breaths, attempting to ground himself in the moment, he mindlessly weaves and unweaves the ribbon from the girl around his wrist and fingers.

He's lost in the maze of his mind, thrashing amidst the competing voices. His thoughts are deeper and more abstract than people give him credit. They see a scruffy street thug, and nothing more. He's awful at voicing it, if anyone dares to ask; it comes at him as images, reels, often so overwhelmingly loud and fast that he can't restrain the impulse to funnel it through pencil on paper in a bid to catch up. To stay afloat the surface of the sea.

The pen translates the abstract of his mind into a tangible product, until it takes a life of its own amidst the pages of a tiny black journal, barely seamed to its own spine at this point.

wonders who the girl was. how he'd never seen her before. what led her to Orion, and why. why'd shed extended kindness to a disheveled stranger. so he draws the girl amidst the rowdy crowd earlier that evening. draws the ribbon draping down her shoulders like some sort of angelic halo. draws her creased eyes in cooncern as she asked of his condition. 

you see, for the longest time, jeongguk found himself alone. like the sleeping town cloaked in night, jeon found himself enveloped by darkeness; a lone star in an early universe. it hadn't occurred to him that one day floating debris could compact itself tight enough to birth a neighboring star which he ultimately would become engrossed in studying. (how are stars born?)

࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

ORION FIGHT CLUB September

SOMEWHERE EAST, AROUND SUTTON & MATLOCK september, still

Elailah gets out of dance rehearsals an hour later than scheduled, a change from the usual two hours over, and though that would normally be enough to put a pep in her step on the way home, today she feels a storm clouding her mood. She sort of lets it drench her. Her gym bag is heavy enough to draw a huff from her when she hoists it up off the locker room floor and shoves past the snickering, rumoring juniors. Heavy with all the criticism she'd received from her instructor for the better part of practice. Ballet master Byron has always shown a tendency to isolate her "poor posture" and "lazy arms" since she joined the company but today the comments were a hail storm. One would think her skin's calloused over from the amount of cuts inflicted by criticism; it's still as tender and youthful as when she'd fall on the concrete of her neighborhood while chasing friends in a game of tag. she holds the strap of her bag over her shoulder in both fists. holds the weight of the doubt that, maybe, she'll never be good enough for the part, as Byron so often accuses. and perhaps he's right, having trained enough dancers to discern between the ones that have the enigmatic spark and those that don't. no matter how much she dances in front of the mirror, she can never tell whether the sparks there, doesn't know where to look, really. is it meant to be in her gaze? in her poised smile? in the slopes of her arms and legs, which she painfully carves and molds? or is it something more abstract, gleaming from the soul, through the layers of tule. she thinks that if she were to see it one day, of sudden nature, she'd cling to it desperately. a lost ship having found its lighthouse. for now she has little-to-no alternative but to grope the darkness.

At times like this, it feels like all her life she's been auditioning for a part. She doesn't even know the casting, doesn't even know if its a character she'd like to become but it's no matter. she's an expert at becoming what people want her to be.

-

She doesn't expect to find both of her parents home when she sluggishly mounts the stairs up to their apartment door.

They're sat at the kitchen island, nursing warm mugs of coffee. Bills and print-outs are loitered across the textured surface of the counter.

Having heard enough attacks to her persona today, however disguised by constructive intent, she decides she can't hear anymore of it. She retreats down the hall she'd sauntered through just minutes ago.

Calls her one friend, from primary school. used to be neighbors before their parents moved her up into the city district for better dedication to dance. now they only keep in touch via socials, and scarce and few in between face calls.

she's still the only friend she has. at the dance company, it's hardly friendship between the students. it's rivalry fueled by ambition and misplaced greed of parents. every kid is fighting for a scholarship, or a position on the recital, hoping for their one chance in the limelight.

Childhood company wilts in the past as the phone call directs to voicemail.

E fiddles with the strap of her bag. repositions it so it's no longer digging into the flesh of her shoulder.

she shoots a text at her brother, Ian, the paramedic. starts walking down the block to his shared flat (shares it with other paramedics who thought they could better save for medical or nursing school if they could cut their rent into fourths amongst themselves). she types she's headed over, asks if he's around.

"sorry, sis. I'm on shift. ten more hours."

"can i just stop by, i think i forgot my cream leg warmers last week."

"No one's home today to let you in and Nick lost the spare key" they kept in a dead plant vase at the foot of the entrance next to the door mat. "I'll look around when i get off to see if I find it.

her parents could think she's still at practice. it wouldn't be an oddity. she just needed a moment of quiet solitude. just wanted to be no one or entirely someone else for only a moment before resuming her perpetual role casting.

and for reason she can't entirely name, her strides lead west. towards a sketchy, dingy fight club she first visited a week ago.

she visits the club the following night, drawn compulsively as if in a manic state. cloaked in oversized attire enough to be confused with a male figure in the boisterous crowd. she sinks into it, allows it to embrace her, as she watches from beneath her hood the fights proceed, all the while holding herself at the edge of her seat for the familiar pierced brow and set of dark locks.

she down plays it as pity. btut perhaps she's caught herself in her own web again. fallen to her own ploys of saving things whenever she feels helpless herself.

that night she's leaving to head back home. replying to her mother who asked when she'll be home. "did coach point out your sloppy form during *** move again. I've told you to strengthen your ankles*** lol.

a weird figure approcahes her in the dim valley. she doesn't realize at first.

somehow jeongguk comes to her rescue, lures her out of there muttering how it's not safe. takes her to his hideout until the storm blows over (apparently they were his rivals?).

-

Jeongguk's hand swiftly gyrates. Bold charcoal on paper, smearing against the side of his hand, his knuckles. The absract circles and frames begin to consolidate into a vivid figure on the page. Perhaps it because he deeply understands restlessness, a bystander can spot it in his incessant bouncing leg, the knibble of his cheek, the drumming of his fingers. whatver the reason, he manages to capture the fluidity of the dancer on the stage so that the drawing emanates her swiftness, her grace, her state of action, transcendence. she is dancing across the page just as much as she is dancing up on the stage.

he briefly glances up from his journal, scrutinizing the lines of her figure through his parted fringe*. doesn't stop his pencil from moving as he does so, doesn't want to disrupt the momentum.

when he looks back down at the page, blotches of red pepper its surface. he jolts his hand, sliding it to the margins of the page to inspect the source and finds the trail of red follows his flesh. lifting his hand for inspection, a tear over the abused flesh of his knuckles stings.

undeterred, he starts a new frame on the bottom left fourth of the page. emphasizes the sleek, elegant lines of her swan-like neck, her arms bowed about her.

had it not been for the intense stage lights, he wouldn't have noticed, seated in the dark auditorium a number of rows back, a tear glisten down her face. it did nothing to erode her smile. a paradox, that smile seemed. stoic and permanent but so fragile. a ceramic vase, sculpted to perfection, hardened by fire. no matter how many times she had collided with the gorund - which he estimated was more than he could count on his fingers - it persisted, never shattering.

and that's when his hands slowed on the page, leg ceased its bouncing, muscles laxed, eyes rounded. like seeing something hidden for hte first time, he came to realize she and him are kindered in spirit. kindred in pain. that while she dresses in heavenly tulle, and he in metal armor, their souls are weaved of the same thread.

࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

OUTTAKES

(things i wish i wrote better, emphasized more or changed altogether and why)

bit unrealistic how she'd walk with a stranger through the night, through an unknown and dangerous side of town, without access to her phone without as much as constant, paranoid glances over her shoulder.

Would have liked to have further developed the contrast between their respective sides of town (reminiscent of Gatsby’s East and West Egg) and emphasized the boundary line between the two, perhaps positioned Wonderwall theater dead center of it to symbolize their union.

Wished I'd exposed more of the toxic parent-daughter dynamic on Elailah's side to make the reader empathize with her desire to flee.

[faiell]

inspired by a scene from this heaven of mud by @garagepaperback

Sitting near but far, legs spilled off the edge of the bed, Potter turned to look at him. There were two wide windows on either side of the bed, drapes drawn back. The lights in Draco’s bedroom were off but it didn’t matter, the flat being in the city. Draco learned it was called light pollution- It meant you couldn’t see the stars. It meant it was much harder not to see what was right in front of you.

Potter looked beautiful. It should have ended months ago, preferably before it started.

[threewordusername]

i.

my mind replays fragments of what it meant to be yours; only you can save me, love. the truth is heavy. nothing i do will ever bring you back. still, i cling to the past, like a photograph soft at the edges —

you: fading, but not gone.

i should never have shown you my poetry. now, i'll spend a lifetime waiting for you to read this. tuck the pages into the corner of your room —

make a graveyard of these poems. i grant that privilege to only you.

ii.

today, i laid on the pavement, letting the warmth of the sun sink into my skin. i sit beneath the golden glow, eyes closed, wishing for a future that can no longer exist.

i found the hair clip you left in my glovebox two years ago, the off-gold one that looked good on you. part of me wants to give it back. the other wants it gone. it stares from the shelf. is there any outcome for me besides loss? i'm starting to believe that's not the case.

[toskarin]

I keep tapping my finger on this idea even if I can't quite articulate it out into the full thought it probably should be, but there's something really interesting about how the primary difference between a game that generates stories and a game that does not is whether it's trying to emulate the presence of a gm

a lot of games very straightforwardly simulate "doing the cool thing" in a way that appeals to every sense they can reach, making a very in-the-moment authentic experience, but in retelling, because there isn't some sort of storyteller agent built into things, it feels exactly like trying to describe a dream, and unless you insert yourself into the role of someone who's curating that story very heavily, even the curious parts of it end up feeling very dry

describing something weird that happened in (for example) dwarf fortress comes with a much higher base level of intrigue just because there's a structure at work to force one of the most interesting aspects of the game, the procedural storytelling that provides a decent chunk of the appeal in the first place, to also be the one that's carried over when it's retold

which sort of brushes up against that now-long-proliferated bandwagon of making deeply sentimental and personal retrospectives and reviews of games, because what's being talked about in those, the personal experience of interaction with the game, is more broadly interesting than the secondhand ephemera of the game that trusses the narrative up

[the-sol-eater]

[ content warning: discussion of in-canon sexual abuse ] Maybe it’s just because I’m not too active in the ALNST fandom and mostly observe from afar, but I think this fandom brushed aside way too quickly the fact that Till was sexually assaulted. I have never seen anyone talk in depth about like, what that actually means in terms of his arc and the storytelling of his character. Which I find deeply, deeply upsetting because holy fucking shit.

This man right here has been told, basically his entire life, that not only is he himself not worthy of being treated as a human, but that his body is not his body, but a piece of property that can be owned. And whoever owns his property can use it for whatever, and however they wish. Now, dehumanization is nothing new or unique in this world, obviously. The very concept of Pet Humans is dehumanizing by nature, leaving all six of our main characters as victims to it, even those who are more well-off like Mizi. But Till is a specially fucked up case almost distinctly unlike the rest, because he is actually treated like a fucking dog.

(x) Ivan: If you keep rebelling like that, they won’t ever remove your collar you know? Till: This annoying bastard… — Ivan: I told you so, didn’t I? You didn’t listen? Till: This annoying bastard... (translation courtesy of @leiikos on youtube)

(x)

An unruly animal who needs to be leashed up and put in it’s place. Animals, as is common knowledge, are not on the same level as a human being. But they are ordained to follow the commands of those above them. And if someone (thing) isn’t doing as it is told…

It deserves to be taught better. But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is the mindset that has followed Till his entire life by the ones who were supposed to take care of him. He is not human, even less human than the existing inhuman. He is a pet, even more so than the other pets, an animal. A thing. Property. Something to own. And the best thing about owning something?

You gain the ability to do whatever you want to it. Till’s body was not his from the start. It was used as something to toy around with, experiment with, to train and train and train, presumably for his whole life. His body, his skin, his flesh and bone and blood, it was all nothing more than a plaything. So what if he screams? Just ignore it. Or don’t. If this competition has taught us anything, voices have the most value of all. On top of it being reinforced that Till is not deserving of humanity, he is also not deserving of his bodily autonomy. People are free to do whatever they want with his body because it’s not his body, it’s theirs. And that brings us, finally, to the scene itself

He can’t sing her song, he refuses to. This isn’t the first time he’s refused to do something, far from it actually. What was once an innocent puppy with dilated hope in his eyes has grown into an angry, disobedient mutt. And we know what happens to an animal that refuses to do what they’re told. But there’s something interesting about dogs, or rather about the ones they descended from, the wolf: When the circumstances call for it, they will bite the hand that’s supposed to feed them.

And here is where I intrude to remind you that this is the only time we see anyone physically fighting back against the aliens in the confines of Alien Stage. We see Hyuna and Mizi fucking up aliens in All In, but that was after they had escaped from the cage. And you could make a case for Mizi trying to escape the grasp of the guards that grabbed her in Ruler of My Heart, but from what we saw she didn’t actually lay a hand on them and more so just tried to force herself out of their grasp. though if you disagree with me on that that's fine Here though? Till has this bitch’s face grabbed into his palm with a bottle in hand ready to smash it directly in between it’s eyes. I consider this to be the first act of physical violence shown against the aliens within the uncomfortably tight enclosure. And it’s triggered not because of anything personally done to Till, which on its own could probably fill a list that reaches the ground. But because of the prospect of Mizi being dead. Till knows that this place is shit, that his life is shit. Said so directly on his profile.

Dislikes: Everyone, including Guardian Urak (translation courtesy of @kh47uo on twitter)

But he stays regardless because Mizi is there. If Mizi is dead, Till has absolutely nothing to lose…Right?

I can almost imagine him thinking: There’s nothing you can put me through that’s worse than every other way you’ve hurt me. …But there was. Oh there was.

A final, disgusting message to the pet to put him back in his place. Back on his leash. Making sure he will never forget where he stands for the rest of his days.

And that is really what the sexual assault of Till represents to me. It is a cruel reminder to Till that fighting back is impossible, having hope, being free, it might as well be a fool's fantasy. He will always be less-than-human, less than anything. His body will always be the property of the ones that were supposed to protect him, claimed, and then used used used until it’s worn out and dead.

And the aliens chose to exemplify that fact in the most direct way they possibly could.

So what if he screams? Just ignore it. Or don’t. If this competition has taught us anything, screams have the most value of all

[mordredpendragon]

everyone in camelot is bisexual and polyamorous we love to see it. i don't think it would have saved camelot (in my humble opinion) but the raunchy gay sex sure did help!

[dreamsy990]

hi i wanted to draw my own au so have a snippet of scene i rewrote like 12 times and will likely rewrite again

[urproblematicfav-ao3]

Ok more hanahaki charlastor au thoughts

Hanahaki affliction: Is when you have strong enough feelings for someone that it literally manifests as flowers and herbs in your heart and lungs. It's not really painful, just uncomfortable, in the same way that your heart squeezes when your in love anyway.

Hanahaki disease ON THE OTHERHAND: Is those feelings when left untended like a unkept garden, or if you feel rejected and have to feel all those plants that were growing, die and wilt inside of you. Extremely painful, and can lead to temporary death if too severe or abandoned. Not exactly a life sentence with immortals but still, it sucks.

Cw: body horror ass shit lmao and unnecessarily in depth flower symbolism at the end.

Charlie wakes up with a sore throat and her chest hurting. She throws up some spore buds, and then does the most rational thing in this situation and carves open her chest with a knife to see what's going on in there. She's got a whole cuscuta europaea growing in there, along with white roses and pink hydrangea. Obviously, this is sick as fuck. And also like, not a thing that happens to Hellborn. It's a cursed soul Sinner thing. She's not dating Vaggie anymore. Sooooo, the only possibility for why she's experiencing some kind of horrific soul shenanigans like this, is if she's somehow in love with a different Sinner. AND WHO ELSE COULD IT POSSIBLY BE. Alastor. Like duh, Alastor.

So she's hype and giddy as hell about this physical manifestation of her love. She definitely realized she had a pretty bad crush on Al, but this was basically proof those feelings went DEEP. She goes and kisses Alastor the second she sees him in the morning. Which isn't abnormal, because Alastor is a very touchy-feely person and a passing quick kiss is completely acceptable behavior with him. He complains about his throat hurting, and keeps coughing into his hands which is more than enough proof to her that her feelings are reciprocated because like...wild fucking coincidence otherwise?

Meanwhile: Alastor wakes up and throws up belladonna and red roses. Which is bad. Because feelings are bad and horrifying and only for weak, immature idiots. Alastor immediately goes into panic mode, because he's already gone through this shit before with Vox. And tangled up in the mess of purple barries coming out of throat like wine, was still tiny chunks of columnea hirta and mermaid weed still lodged somewhere in a corner of his lungs from decades ago. Annoying. But another thing he could easily repress and ignore after sufficiently puking all morning. Charlie kisses him, because she's a repressed little freak who never got enough attention as a child and he goes about his day trying not to grab the nearest sharp object and perform a self thoracostomy.

As the days go by, Charlie gets more happy with her developing lungs, and Alastor gets progressively more angry and kinda dying a little.

Eventually, Charlie decides the best thing to do with her new garden, is to show it of!!! To everyone, obviously. Because love is beautiful and is something you should share with everyone. And also Alastor's flowers were super pretty. Even if the prickly one was like less cute spore buds and just...kinda getting tangled in her thoracic walls. Still cute tho.

She immediately removes her skin and folds her musculature of the way so her ribcage is on display. Her heart, lungs, and entire upper torso is practically fully exposed to the air. It hurts a lot, but it's fine and tolerable for what she wants to do. She wears a strapless, lowcut top so her chest is exsposed as much as possible. And keeps straps on her skin that connect on the back of her shirt like a bra, so it doesn't fall and cover her up.

Angel and Husk are, rightfully, a little horrified. But also its Hell. It wasn't uncommon for people to do psycho shit like this, but still, freakkkyy. Angel thinks its a little gaudy and weird. Husk thinks its just flat out gross to be wondering around with exposed organs. (Vaggie has no opinion because I keep forgetting she exists.)

Charlie pouts and insists what she's doing is extremely fucking romantic. Literally the most romantic thing you could do in this situation. Why wear you heart on your sleeve when you can carve it open and wear it like a flower crown? She loves Alastor, so she's going to hold her love for him in her ribcage like a basket, and happily show off all of her feelings like a newlywed with their wedding ring.

Alastor sees this. And obviously, this is Slut™ behavior. Mostly because he's possessive and insane, and has not once considered that Charlie likes him. Charlie going around, basically topless, showing off another man's claim on her, and how omggggg in lovvveeee she is with someone other than him, is horrific social etiquette. It enrages him to no fucking end that he has to be suffering with a bunch of ripe belladonna aspirating him in his sleep, and she gets to parade around like a lovesick whore with whatever newfound relationship she has.

The second he sees her chest, and her garden, he immediately tells her what she's doing is disgusting. Unladylike, gaudy, inappropriate, shameful, literally anything that makes her hate herself enough that she stops making him feel so jealous and angry.

Charlie interprets this as him saying that their relationship is the inappropriate thing. That it's disgusting of her to so readily show off their love to other people like an idiot. That her and Alastor should just be quiet and private about their relationship because he thinks she's something too shameful to publicly admit to having. Alastor's an Overlord, and arguably has more to lose by dating the dumb bimbo princess that either is singing or getting into embarrassing cat fights.

She agrees and promises to cover herself up again. And then goes to her room to cry. Alastor is both very happy with this and absolutely pukes for 5 hours straight over how guilty he feels for making her upset over his selfishness.

Charlie's garden starts to wilt, little by little. She keeps all the flower petals that fall in a jar so she doesn't lose them, even if the feeling is dying. The hydrangea and and roses start to lose life, while the cuscuta europaea gets more and more twisted and brambly. She's less publicly affectionate with Al, since he clearly isn't comfortable with that kind of love language. And she does her best mentally tell herself that he still loved her, even if he was really fucking bad at showing it.

Alastor's garden gets infinitely more hostile until he's coughing up blood and struggling to speak with how badly torn his throat is from vines and thorns. Deadly nightshade is deadly for a reason. This happened last time too. Whatever idiotic feelings in him were so rancid and septic that it starts to kill him before it ever blooms properly. His feelings were too horrific and monstrous to be ever worthy of reciprocation. He carves open his chest, like Charlie did, and instead of a well organized and lush little pocket of flowers, all he gets is a thread of half dead roses that were black with blood and rotten barries that pop like dust. He cracks his ribcage out of place, sticks a knife in his chest, and systematically carves out both of his lungs and chucks them at a wall. If Vox, or Charlie, or anyone else he could never love right was going to move on from him, then he was too even if it meant physical mutilation. His lungs and garden grow back by morning.

At some point Angel and Husk notice that both of their health starts to decline to the extreme. Charlie assures Angel that she's fine and it's just a rough patch that they'll get through together. Alastor informs Husk of how many bones a canary has in its wings and then immediately runs away.

It's super fucking obvious that he's a dumbass. So they follow him to his room and just point blank ask why he's treating Charlie like shit when she's in love with him. Alastor splutters and is baffled by the implication. Because no the fuck she isn't. That's ridiculous.

Angel asks if he's always been this stupid, and Husk reminds him that Alastor didn't even notice that he was in love with him the whole time he's been under contract.

They threaten to kick Alastor's ass if he doesn't stop being the stupidest person on the planet and the realization that he's been emotionally torturing and punishing Charlie for quite literally no reason starts to sink in.

Charlie says in her room most days. She's having trouble walking and breathing at the same time. Hellborn heal slowly and naturally, Nephilim are a little better at it but this was a human affliction, something that affects the core od your Soul. Which is something she didn't even have from the start. She works on her sketchbook or tries to figure out new business plans.

Alastor comes in and asks how her chest is doing since she's been extremely modest lately with her fashion choices.

Charlie assures him that she got his point, and she won't bother him or anyone else with her stupid feelings. He sits down on her bed, and hangs out for about an hour straight before just blurting out "Are you in love with me...?"

She turns around and stares at him like he's a dumbass. Which is he is. And says "Yes???? Yes I'm in love with you????? What the fuck?????"

Alastor starts panicking and rambling about how much he hated this fictional person he made up in his head to hate for taking away her attention and love from him, while his throat closes up with thorns and he tries to rationalize emotional abuse. Charlie punches him in the stomach, making him throw up flowers. And then kisses him and tells him he's stupid and that she's gonna kick his ass for making her feel so awful.

And then something something very serious conversation about Alastor being an ass, and his deep rooted insecurities over relationships in general. And then kissing a lot and swapping flower spores until they have matching gardens and metaphorical pollinated flower babies.

SO FLOWER TIM

I already made the decision forever ago on what flowers were going to symbolically represent Alastor and Charlie.

Alastor is Cuscuta Europaea which is a parasitic plant and an invasive species. I wanted him to be one of those vampire plants that kill the other plants around them, and I really love how pretty and tentacle-y this one is. (It sorta comes up plot wise in my main show lion au that the green magic that carves out parts of Charlie's Hotel and adds pocket dimensions is causing her extreme pain on a magical level since she's connected to Keekee and the Hotel)

And Charlie is Atropa Belladonna, or deadly nightshade. (This is where the Atropa Lio title comes from) I like the symbolism of something mistaken as pretty or less dangerous than it actually is for her given her repressed/hidden demonic nature that she covers up with the rainbows and kitties aesthetic. Ik other people have used more traditionally happy or sunshiney flowers like marigolds or sunflowers or just anything cutesy and girlish. Which I think definitely still works for her, but I wanted something more complicated.

And finally Vox. He gets this sick as fuck flower called Columnea, OR Dancing Dolphin, Shark plant, Goldfish Plant. I needed something for Alastor to throw up to represent his still lingering, and repressed lost romance with Vox. And stumbled onto this fucking adorable ass thing so now thats Vox's whole plant

Anyway. Thats it. I might turn this into an actual thing but also I just wanted to get the imagery/prose and idea out before I hypothetically forget it without actually writing it. It would be probably pretty short, POV alternating thing.

[thestarfishface]

Something a little different, but I've been toying around with prose recently and wrote a little short story about Verity's old crew!

What's currently posted is the first half of a rough chapter idea I have planned- I gotta hash out exactly what I wanna do for the back half, but I think the first part stands okay on its own! Look out for a continuation in the future, though :>

[pama-saga]

okay psst... if i made that mcsm rewrite as a blog... would anyone be interested?

[retellingthehobbit]

I'm on break this month! But the pretty-long next chapter of my webcomic adaptation, "The Song of the Lonely Mountain," will arrive on November 13th! Follow my blog here for updates :) In the meantime have a preview and a sleeping Gandalf. Here's a link to chapter 1 of this comic if you want to start from the beginning, and I'll see you all in a month!

[fictionadventurer]

Potential July Reads

Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell

The Small House at Allington by Anthony Trollope

Emma by Jane Austen

Pilgrim's Inn/The Herb of Grace by Elizabeth Goudge

Something involving Robin Hood (movies count)

Something involving superheroes (movies count)

[alectoperdita]

A little late for WIP Wednesday but what is time but an illusion?

Anyway I began messing around with a possible third chapter for Meeting upon the threshold since I was talking about where Kaiba goes from there and ended up with this. Not sure if I'm gonna keep it or what.

Some smut under the cut but it's pretty mild.

---

Plumes of smoke curled toward the heavens, ethereal hands grasping and plucking at the stars in the night sky. They wreathed a head of canary yellow, a lover's fingers combing through the mussed strands.

Kaiba was not this man's lover. He was most definitely not his friend. If they were lucky, they'd be no more than ships passing in the night.

Yet when the thin sheet draped across Jounouchi's shoulders slipped, unveiling tan skin sheened by moonlight and freckled with constellations, Kaiba fitted himself against the broad back and clasped the nape of his neck. Beneath his palm, skin contracted, muscles flexed as Jounouchi inhaled, then exhaled more smoke.

Up close, the acrid smell slithered up Kaiba's nostrils and settled in his sinuses. His discarded clothes already stank of smoke and charcoal. The last thing he needed was to take more reminders of Jounouchi with him when he left.

"Smoking's a disgusting habit. Good manners dictate you shouldn't do it around guests." Instinctively, his hand squeezed. Not enough to hurt, but it made its presence known.

Craning his head back to meet Kaiba's eye, Jounouchi took another hit, cheeks hollowing. His eyes glittered bright with a challenge in the darkness. "Bite me. You ain't no guest of mine. I didn't invite you to come in."

But Jounouchi had. He was the one who suggested they went upstairs. He was the one who went down and sucked Kaiba's cock without prompting. Much as he currently suckled on his cancer stick.

Kaiba opened his mouth to argue but found himself sinking his teeth into Jounouchi's trembling shoulder instead. For a beat, salt was what he tasted. If he bit harder, he was sure he'd draw out an iron flavor, much like the chicken hearts Jounouchi served to him downstairs.

The rest of him sank into Jounouchi, too, hard cock buried inside his tight heat once more. No condom, merely skin against skin. Kaiba's claws dug into the windowsill for leverage, while Jounouchi's nails scored the back of his hand.

Jounouchi's head lolled forward, a pretty crown of teeth mark astride his shoulder and half-hanging out the open window overlooking the sleepy street below, as Kaiba thrust. When he moaned, low and quiet, he expelled puffs of smoke from his flared nostrils, his open mouth as if he nursed a live furnace inside himself.

With a firm yank, he pulled Jounouchi's head backwards and claimed his mouth. Kaiba would draw out the fire from his ribcage and swallow it. Devour it. Let it light and fuel the cold, neglected hearth within his chest.

"Kaiba," Jounouchi gasped, arching into him.

The blanket fell away completely. Their bare skin pressed together, dotted with sweat. Funny, Kaiba didn't remember taking off the rest of his clothing. He didn't remember Jounouchi getting naked enough in the first place to warrant the modesty afforded by that thin blanket.

Moonlight cascaded over the sinuous curve of Jounouchi's puffed out chest, highlighting his stiff brown nipples. Silver pulsed between his breastbones as if some holy inner light leaked from him. But it was merely Jounouchi's necklace catching the light.

For a heart-stopping moment, he mistook it for a ring, another man's gift of devotion. But the metallic clink sounded cheap. They were Jounouchi's dog tags, the same ratty ones he wore through high school, beating against his chest.

Kaiba fucked him harder. Faster.

Time moved, inextricable, skipping and stopping between each stutter of their hips, each hitch of their breaths.

The night stretched on. It seemed the sun would never rise, so their ships would stay moored to each other's shores. Rocking, swaying in an isolated sea of pleasure.

Maybe Kaiba didn't have to leave. What world existed beyond the warmth of Jounouchi's body and his breathless gasps of ecstasy? They could be a dimension onto themselves, cut off from the rest.

"I'm close. I'm coming," moaned Jounouchi.

Kaiba grunted and closed his hand around Jounouchi's heavy erection. It jumped. Jounouchi clenched so tight, wetting Kaiba's palm with his release. He stroked him through the orgasm, which felt as drawn as long as the neverending night, and at the end of it, Kaiba was there with him, spilling deep into his pliant body.

But the night was over. The scent and weight of Jounouchi faded from his arms, a ghost banished by the sobering day. Kaiba lied alone in his bed in his mansion, curtains drawn and half-erect in his sleeping pants. He resisted the urge to drag a hand over his haggard face or pull the covers over his head. He most definitely wasn't going to touch himself.

Today marked the third day since his ill-advised tryst with Jounouchi Katsuya in his sad, thin futon in his shabby, tiny apartment.

Of course, Kaiba hadn't been back to see him since. Why would he? The experiment was already proven a failure. No matter what his unconscious mind may dream of.

(Jounouchi had, thankfully, not hounded him either.)

Right?

Right.

Just two ships passing in the night. Nothing more.

[bewareofraiju]

In the early 2010s there was an Italian fantasy blog whose blogger was very critical (sometimes exceedingly so) to the most recent fantasy books that were being published in that time. I remember she was especially strict towards italian author Licia Troisi. And McCaffrey. Heck, she even disliked ASOIAF, believing there was too much politics and little fantasy.

She deleted her blog in 2020, I think? Now I find myself wondering how she’s reacting to the huge popularity of romantasy right now. Is she realizing Troisi wasn’t that horrible after all compared to some of the stuff they’re currently churning out?

[foolsocracy]

hey hi hello i hope you are doing welllll. I just wanted to let you know that the version of pete that exists in my brain is 90% of the time visually just how you draw him. and this extends to practically the whole noir cast. -canary-song

LUCIAN!! Hey hello hiiii I hope you’re doing well too! I’m doing alright here on my end :]

WAAA that’s the highest of praise wow im so glad u like my interpretations that much!! So cool. My oc Peter Parker…

[wanologic]

Your art style is.awsom. keeeep going.

By the way do you have any ocs? If you do could you show a reference of them?

Thanks, it is impossible to stop so i will keep trudging along hahaha

I have a ton of ocs, but my main ocverse is collateral damage.

You can find it all in the #collateral damage tag, which is actually pretty extensive. Theres not really like, reference sheets for each of them, but this post is a lineup with the full extended cast.

I've also explored a little with an ex-young adult adventurer/protagonist named logan and the transition from Very Important Teen to jaded adult with baggage.

Lastly ive got a project all written out and half designed about a magic university - it was supposed to be a 2023 project that i started, but i was hit super hard with a bunch of really intense life stuff last year (I didn't draw much bc of it) so its a bit tainted with that at the moment - no plans to finish right now. might come back to it eventually.

Theres a few stragglers that i have designs for as well like alice and blair but they dont really have much of an internet life beyond a few posts here and there.