#oleg's writing

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

You speak of order and you mean a hierarchy,

The state's threats backed with violence,

Boot to the neck.

You speak of civilization as uniform,

All that's unlike you barbaric and wrong.

You speak of goodness and you mean conformity,

fearing the wrath of your echo of god.

You will not damn me.

You will not rule me.

You will not rid the world of my kind.

The rules that I break are nothing but hatred,

The uncivilized tongue in my mouth still alive.

Goodness?

My friend, I have told you of goodness,

I have told you of joy, of hope and of home.

If you had just listened,

what a world you'd discover

At the sharpened end of your scorn.

Reblog if you stand against order, civilization, and goodness itself

[magpie-come-east]

The Crucible for Silver

My third longfic for Elden Ring is finally complete!

If you are interested in an Oleg/Morgott story that simultaneously explores Morgott's life before the Shattering War and after he's freed from the Shunning Grounds, please check it out!

This is the longest fic I have ever written for fandom (137,000 words) I had an absolute blast doing it! Thank you everyone!

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

[literaryvein]

L. V., i found this poem lying on the bathroom floor

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

Look, sometimes god lifts you, its palm dry enough to be rock, to be the sun-leathered skin of those who never got to cross the big grey stone and as pink as their outside insides, and suddenly you're taking the biggest leap yet and your legs aren't even moving. Some part of you - not memory but the ghosts of many deaths worn into you through generations - understands danger, understands long, thin beaks and sharp claws, but this god has none. A fresher, fragile ghost whispers light, the long grey stone's flash-noise reckoning that raptures and unmakes and doesn't stop to notice.

This one stops. Its soft claws are dry as death but it doesn't squeeze them shut, doesn't communicate its wants as violence. You are floating softly into light and for once none of it kills you. Who am I, little creature, to deny you miracles.

[larisrenard]

— А ну, отошли от него! — палка с треском ломается о спину рослого мальчишки с прыщавым лбом, тот взвизгивает и резко разворачивается.

— С-с-сука! С-совсем страх п-п-потерял?! — выплевывает он сквозь зубы, готовясь бросится с кулаками на обидчика. Но Разумовский уже замахнулся обломком палки, и стоит прыщавому сделать шаг навстречу, как он тут же обрушивает ее старшекласснику на голову. А потом еще раз. И еще. Трое лупивших Олега ребят замирают как по команде, наблюдая за происходящим со смесью непониман��я и какого-то необъяснимого страха.

— Шухер! Псих рыжий! — запоздало выкрикивает ушлого вида паренек с глубоко посаженными бегающими черными глазенками. Бежать он не торопится, хоть и начинает понемногу пятится. Волков приходит в себя первым — хватает его за лодыжку, и, валит на землю. Завязывается новая драка, однако, двое других лезть в нее не спешат.

— Ч-чего вы там м-м-мнете сиськи?! С-с-сюда, блять, и-и-идите! — прыщавый мальчишка багровеет, хватая за запястье Сережу, сжимая его посильнее, заставляя выбросить палку

— Н-н-ну? Теперь ч-ч-что, с-с-сопляк?! Разумовский пропускает удар в живот и виснет  удерживаемый старшеклассником, силясь подняться на ноги.

— Федь... Не трогай его! Пошли уже, а? Ну их... Хрен с ней, с этой приставкой!

— Эта с-с-с-сука мне за вс-с-с.. за все ответит! — снова удар, выбивающий из Сережи весь воздух.

— Федь, да он псих конченый! Пусти его, блин...

— П-п-псих?! — Федя перехватывает Разумовского поудобнее, благо, весит он совсем немного, и с силой прикладывает его головой о ближайшее дерево. Пнув повалившегося на землю Сережу, прыщавый развернулся, сплюнул в сторону и оскалился.

— Н-н-ну? И ч-что он т-т-теперь м-мне сделает? Трусы! Я н-н-наведу т-тут п-п-п... — пламенную речь прыщавого прерывает его же истошный вопль. Дравшийся с Олегом паренек пускается прочь. Шорты на бедре Феди быстро окрашиваются красным. Разумовский стоит напротив, опираясь о дерево — почти на две головы ниже, с разбитым виском, прокушенной губой, отрешенным взглядом и заляпанным в крови ртом, расплывающимся в кривой усмешке.

— Я явился убить тебя... Меня послал дьявол по твою душу! — склонив голову на бок, Сережа встряхивает нож и направляет к горлу мальчишки. Его пробивает мелкая дрожь, а по левому колену, прямо в кроссовок сбегает теплая струйка мочи.

— ...п.... п-п... п-псих! — на глазах Феди выступают слезы. Он ненавидит Разумовского. Он боится его. — Пойдем отсюда... — на плече старшеклассника ложится рука, которую он тут же убирает, почти бросаясь на товарища и толкая его.

___

— И что это было за представление про дьявола?

— Олег смывает с носового плотка бордовые подтеки и, немного отжав, складывает его вчетверо, принимаясь промывать разбитый висок Сережи. — Так... Отсылка на Горького... "Сказки об Италии".

— Разумовский поджимает к себе колени, морща лоб.

— Отсылка на Горького? — Волков прыскает от смеха — Завязывал бы ты с классикой... Серый, да ты его напугал так, что он обоссался!

— Не смешно! — Сережа отнимает руку Олега от своего виска —То, что произошло... Из-за этого он теперь может стать преступником! Энурез,  наравне с жестокостью к животным — далеко не первый звоночек... Он и так вымещал свою неполноценность на других, а теперь в его жизни на одну травмирующую ситуацию больше!

— Ладно-ладно, извини, больше не буду смеяться над ним — Волков пожимает плечами, снова промывает платок и принимается стирать кровь с волос Сережи — Но ты все равно молодец, Серый... Мужиком себя показал. Спасибо тебе. Разумовский закусывает губу и некоторое время они сидят молча.

— А нож-то у тебя откуда? — Олег осторожно укладывает на крупном камне только что отстиранную футболку.

— На кухне стащил... Когда в прошлый раз... — Сережа вдруг замолкает.

— Прошлый раз? — Не важно... Забудь... — Разумовский отворачивается от солнца и натягивает на голову капюшон, скрываясь заодно и от Олега. С минуту оба молчат.

— Из-за чего хоть подрались?

— О, это самое смешное! — Волков достает из кармана геймбой — подарок за первое место на районных соревнованиях по бегу, и демонстрирует Сереже живописную трещину, расходящуюся паутиной на целый экран.

— Дурни, лупасили так, что даже забей они меня, поиграть бы у них не вышло — Олег действительно находит эту ситуацию забавной, а вот Разумовскому не смешно совсем. Он вдруг поднимается на ноги, заключая Волкова в крепкие объятия.

— Когда мы выйдем отсюда, я подарю тебе новый... Обещаю... Купим все, что захотим и никто не сможет у нас ничего отнять... — Спасибо, Серый... — Олег никогда не загадывал так далеко и был склонен верить в то, что планировать что-либо не будучи уверенным в завтрашнем дне — глупость, но Сереже он верил. Верил, как никому другому.

— Мне сейчас обратно точно нельзя — С��режа отстранился и, переминаясь с ноги на ногу, стал теребить край толстовки — Сходи к медсестре, пусть посмотрит твои гематомы... Скорее всего тебе предложат полежать в лазарете — не отказывайся, только проси самую дальнюю палату. У нее окно рядом с пожарной лестницей и у него ручки не выдраны. И еще... Возьми фонарик и что-нибудь почитать.

___

Ночью Разумовский, действительно пришел к нему. Они забрались в постель, и при тусклом свете фонарика, Олег слушал, как Сережа читает. Разумовский умел передавать голосом любые интонации, оживляя скучный текст настоящими эмоциями. Под утро он начал засыпать, уронил на себя книжку и принялся посапывать, уткнувшись веснушчатым носом в шею Волкова. Кажется, именно в ту ночь Олег пообещал себе, что когда вырастет, обязательно влюбится в Сережу.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

the motherland don't love you, the fatherland don't love you, so why love anything?

prompt: drowning their sorrows

whumpee: kind of all 3 of napoleon solo, illya kuryakin, gaby teller

fandom: the man from uncle

hey!! this fic is a bit different from my usual stuff, it's much more about the angst and kind of the character study type aspect, so it's not whump in a traditional sense. nonetheless i really enjoyed writing it and i hope you like reading it!! (title from ya hey by vampire weekend)

“Listen,” Napoleon says, after his sixth or seventh glass of Scotch. “Fuck the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Gaby raises an eyebrow at him, takes a sip from her glass, and waits for him to say something else. 

Napoleon, however, seems to have lost his train of thought. “Fuck the CIA,” he repeats. “Nothing but a bunch of extortionists.”

“Yeah,” Gaby agrees, with the tone of one who doesn’t know exactly what it is they’re agreeing with but who is staunchly in support of it nonetheless. “Fuck the CIA,” she echoes, giggling at the English curse. 

Napoleon smiles, then grows serious, evidently having remembered his earlier thoughts. He sets his glass down with a thump. 

“No, really. I mean, God knows I’m no saint, but…look at us.” He gestures in a vague circle that encompasses himself, Gaby, and Illya, all painted with bruises and cuts of varying severity, marks of a severely botched mission and the reason for their present collective inebriation. 

Napoleon then gestures to himself, prods at his fresh black eye with a bit more force than is wise. “Ow.”

“We do not work for the CIA,” Illya points out, speaking slowly to avoid jumbling his words. “Only you.”

Napoleon scowls at him. “Not the point, Peril. My point is…my point is, how often have we looked like this because of an UNCLE mission?”

Illya shrugs, scrunching up his face like he’s actually trying to count. 

Gaby answers for him. “Not very often. Not this bad.”

Napoleon points at her. “Exactly. UNCLE has better intel - well, maybe not this time, but you know - and they actually sort of care about us. Like, Waverly probably wouldn’t threaten me with prison if I was a little cheeky with him. Probably.”

Gaby and Illya both nod. 

“And,” Napoleon starts, more to indicate that he wants to keep talking and less to introduce a well thought-out sentence, “and. Okay. I mean, I’ve never been in the KGB and I didn’t grow up in East Berlin, so I can’t really speak for you guys, but my boss here?” 

He stops, considers his use of prepositions, realizes they’re not actually in the States at the moment, and rephrases. “Back in the US, I mean. Sanders, my boss, terrible man, really, talking a big game about the country being on top of the world like he’s the one who put it there. Anyway. He threatens me with prison pretty much weekly.”

Gaby looks at him intently. “Can he actually send you to prison?”

Napoleon shrugs, does his best to be nonchalant. “Probably. It wouldn’t be too hard to convince whoever it is that needs convincing. I mean, sure, I’m useful as an agent, but at the end of the day I’m nothing but a dirty thief who should worship the ground the CIA…well, I guess the CIA as like, a thing, can’t walk, but you know…I should worship the ground the CIA walks on because they kept me out of prison. Not that working for them is anything like freedom.”

“I understand,” Gaby says, leaning slightly against Napoleon’s shoulder, partly as a gesture of comfort and solidarity and partly because everything has gone a little spinny. She waits until the feeling subsides, then speaks up again. 

“In Berlin, they trap us. East Germany is supposed to be a good place, that’s what they tell you, but then they build this wall through the city. And what are we supposed to do? We can’t go over it, they will kill us. It’s like they don’t understand that it’s the same city on both sides. There’s no freedom like that. I don’t even miss it.”

She falls silent, finishes her drink, pours another, contemplates it for a moment. 

“I do miss it, I guess. Is it possible to not miss your home?”

Her eyes have gone a bit glassy. Unconsciously, she rubs at the fresh red scratch on her cheek. 

“It isn’t like East Germany ever cared about me. Or anyone, really. Do you know how many people they arrest every day? For nothing. They questioned me about my birth father once. Two years ago they arrested my neighbor for…how is it in English? Sed… something. They said he was against the state. He was only a painter.”

“Sedition,” Napoleon chimes in, shaking his head. 

Gaby nods. “That’s it. Sedition.” She pronounces the word carefully, committing it to memory. “And even then I - I do miss it. Even after everything. There is nothing left for me there, no one. Still, sometimes I think about how I can never go back, and I think it should feel like…like freedom, but it doesn’t.”

She leans more heavily into Napoleon and shuts her eyes. She will not cry over this. Over a place that does not care for her in the slightest. Over a place that she is indifferent to and misses in the same breath. 

A soft silence. Gaby scrubs at her eyes. Illya shifts slightly in his chair, keenly aware of the fact that it would seem to be his turn. 

He finishes the last of his drink - he doesn’t know what it is, something Napoleon made that had tasted good earlier but is now horribly bitter. He doesn’t know how many of these terrible drinks he’s had. He should have kept count. He shouldn’t be so drunk. But he is, and so his tongue is loosened. He takes a deep breath and tries not to wince when his bruised ribs protest. 

“My father was not a good man,” he says, and then stops. Napoleon and Gaby both look at him, attentive. He looks away, continues after a beat. 

“He was arrested. Sent to Gulag. He stole money from the Party. I thought, they will kill him. But he is still alive. No one can see him. They will maybe tell me when he dies, I don’t know.”

He pauses, considers, formulates the English words. “He is a criminal. Or else they would have freed him. He is in prison for almost twenty years. Oleg Grigorievich, he says to me sometimes… Solo,” he says suddenly, looking at his partner. 

Napoleon looks back at him with startling intensity. “Yeah?”

“You said that Sanders, he threatens you with prison, yes?” Illya asks, and then barrels on atop of Napoleon’s affirmative answer. 

“Oleg Grigorievich also does this. He tells me I will end up in Siberia like my father if I do not perform well. I love my country, I will die for my country, but…I do not love him.”

Gaby nods seriously. “Fuck Oleg Gri…gorievich,” she proclaims, pausing in the middle of the patronymic to hiccup. Napoleon snorts, and she elbows him. He winces. 

“Your elbows are sharp. And I already have a bruise,” he complains. 

“Sorry,” Gaby apologizes, mostly sincerely. 

Illya looks at them. He is beginning to think he should not have begun speaking, because now he is not sure that he can stop. 

“I am good at my work. KGB needs me. I am happy to work for my country. But…”

“Go on,” Napoleon encourages, leaning forward. 

“We won’t tell anyone,” Gaby adds. “Nobody tells anyone anything.”

“Except each other.”

“Obviously.”

“I was just making sure!”

“But,” Illya continues, and Napoleon and Gaby turn their attention back to him. “You are nice to me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. His face feels hot and his throat feels tight. For a very long moment all three of them just look at each other. 

And then, as if by design (though neither one of them had spoken to the other), both Gaby and Napoleon get up and grab hold of Illya’s hands. 

“What are you doing?” Illya asks, scarcely moving despite their straining. 

“Come sit with us,” Gaby says. 

“Please?” Napoleon adds. “So we can all be miserable together.”

“We are already together,” Illya points out. 

“Come on, please?” Gaby asks. 

Illya heaves another sigh that has him wincing. “Okay.”

He lets them pull him to his feet. For a second he gets horribly dizzy and he has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s leaning against Napoleon and Gaby has her hands on his back. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just dizzy.”

“So’m I,” Gaby agrees. “Come on, let’s sit.”

The three of them stumble back to the couch and sink down onto it rather ungracefully. Napoleon ends up in the middle, with Illya curled into the corner beside him and Gaby lying her head on his leg. 

“I’m glad you ruined my car,” Gaby suddenly says, not moving her head from its pillow. 

“What?” Napoleon asks. “We destroyed it. Beautiful car, too.”

Gaby shrugs as best as she can given her current position. “If you didn’t ruin my car, we would not be here now.”

She does have a point, Napoleon figures. “I’m glad we’re here,” he adds. “Working for the CIA is mostly terrible. Working with you is fun. You’re…” He trails off, unsure of or unwilling to fully voice any further words. 

Illya shifts a little closer to them, carefully. “At home I am part of machine. I do not mind this, but with you I am something else. Not a machine.”

“Just a person,” Gaby says. “More free.”

It’s different for her, she knows. Her career as a spy has been with Waverly alone. The only person controlling her is someone she trusts and likes. 

And yet Napoleon agrees. “Yeah,” he says, slowly. “I mean, Sanders is still in charge of me, but so is Waverly, and with UNCLE I’m not a prisoner of the US government, or at least I don’t feel like one. Maybe one of these days I won’t be, I don’t know. I’d work for UNCLE, with you guys, even if it was my choice, is what I mean, I suppose.”

“I am maybe not so free at home,” Illya chimes in, leaning slightly onto Napoleon. “This is how it is, I don’t mind. It is important that there is an order, things like this. But we…we care about each other, yes?”

It takes Gaby and Napoleon a second to realize that they’re being asked a question here. 

“Of course,” says Napoleon. 

“Obviously,” Gaby agrees. 

“Okay. We care about each other. And maybe so does Waverly. This is different. I am…I have…I can be something else here. And that is good too.”

“Well put,” says Napoleon. “Now, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m feeling a little bit too drunk and a lot bit like I’d like to go to sleep.”

“Me too,” Gaby chimes in. 

“Yes,” agrees Illya. 

“And I’m not moving.”

“Me either.”

“I will stay.”

Napoleon nods slowly, closing his eyes when this makes him too dizzy. “Glad we’re agreed.”

They rearrange themselves as best as they can, which involves a lot of shuffling around, grabbing of arms for support, and general wincing. Eventually, they manage to configure themselves in a reasonably comfortable manner, all stacked and tangled together. 

“Goodnight,” Gaby mumbles, voice muffled by the fabric of Napoleon’s shirt. 

“Night,” Napoleon echoes, already half asleep with his face pressed into a cushion. 

“Goodnight,” Illya concludes, head propped up at a slightly uncomfortable angle against the armrest. 

In the morning, there will be pounding headaches, empty glasses and bottles to clean up, and various injuries to check in on. But for now, there is only silence and comfort. There is only them.

thanks for reading! this was a whole different kind of beast to write but i really loved getting to explore their characters like this, i have so many thoughts about them that don't often get to come through in my usual 'beat them up' fics. i hope you enjoyed this!!

[sovamurka]

Not me suddenly creating an AU in my head about Altan and Lera being broken puppets in a magical shop owned by a wizard named... Sergey, of course. They try to repair each other in secret and find surprising comfort in one another. 

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

#...you know what #uhhhh #well you know how stories end and myths end especially usually in a tragic death (thar might result change of some sort) #or becoming a deity or sometimes both #you know how stories end and life just keeps going and there isn't a happily ever after or an unhappily ever after #because life just Keeps Going? #this wouldn't be a myth though #we're entering Waiting For Godot-ass absurdism territory #so i would format this more as a play #that takes place after the grand mythos but is also so painfully mundane and human #no gods and no prophets and no fates #just decisions you made and your ex you don't hate as much as you did when you said all the hurtful things to them #so you regret it now at least a little #and your back hurts and you're not the person you were twelve years ago but who is‚ really? #.....i have. free time #zoup are we doing this again?

I'm not sure if I changed or grew as a person but have some classic absurdism-styled musings based on social media old man yaoi:

In order of appearance:

The man in blue, also referred to as “T”

The man in red, also referred to as “R”

The man in [UNDETERMINED], also referred to as “The other T”

Act I

THE MAN IN BLUE is sitting in a gray waiting room. He is wearing a gray shirt and a washed-out, maybe-once-blue vest. There's gray in his hair and his face is lined with signs of fatigue. Besides him is an empty birdcage. 

The gray waiting room is sparsely decorated: the one prominent feature is the clock. All the indices are marked BUSINESS TIME. The clock has no hands. 

THE MAN IN BLUE is picking blue feathers and fluff from his grayish vest and graying hair, although the amount of blue fails to diminish. He puts every feather he picks into the birdcage. Every feather or two he looks at the clock, which changes nothing. 

THE MAN IN RED enters. He is wearing an orange checkered suit over a black T-shirt, casually holding a bottle of beer. The lines on his face are mostly those left by smiling. 

THE MAN IN RED sits down in the chair next to THE MAN IN BLUE.

T: Why are you here? 

R: Well, hi there, stranger. Fancy meeting you here. I'm just picking up T - I'll be out of your precious hair in no time. 

T:...i’m afraid I don't follow. 

R: T is in Eel's office. I'm picking him up and we're leaving. Not much more to get. 

T: I'm T. Do you mean the other T? 

R: Oh! I heard you've been going by a fancy new moniker to go with the new look. H or somethin’? 

T, fervently: No! (more quietly) No… I'm still… still… 

T trails off. 

R: Alrighty then, I'm here to pick up the other T. He should be out in a sec. 

Silence. The clock does not tick. THE MAN IN BLUE continues to pick at the feathers. THE MAN IN RED takes a sip.

R, quietly: Glad at least some of the old you is around, I suppose. 

T: What? 

R: Nothing important. 

T: O-okay. 

Silence. 

R: Why are you here, anyway? 

T: To see Mr. Eel, of course. 

R: Eel isn't in. 

T: He is- he's just busy. 

R: He for sure isn't, though. 

T: He told me to meet him here. 

R: Well then, he's being his usual level of truthful, isn't he? 

THE MAN IN BLUE opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He looks tired. He puts a handful more feathers into the cage. 

Silence. 

R: Why don't you just leave? 

T: I can't.

R: Why? 

T: I'm waiting for Mr. Eel. 

R: He's not coming, though. 

T: I know. 

R: Then why? 

T, quietly: Because there's nothing else left to do. 

Long silence. The clock doesn't tick. Nothing happens at all. 

R: Do you remember the play? 

T: What play? 

R: The fucking… stupid one, the one we put together in highschool. T - the other T - wrote the whole thing in one afternoon, and we just rolled with it. 

T, after thinking for a moment: The myth one? 

R: So you do remember! 

T: I did look good in that toga, didn't I? 

R: You sure looked like you thought so. (R chuckles) insufferable bastard. 

THE MAN IN BLUE chuckles, coughs up a feather. 

R: What's the, uh, avian situation, anyway? 

THE MAN IN BLUE freezes. 

Long pause. 

THE MAN IN BLUE and THE MAN IN RED start speaking at the same time, stop. THE MAN IN RED gestures for THE MAN IN BLUE to continue.

T: That's why I’m here. Mr. Eel, he- I don’t know. I think he did something. To Tweet. 

R, quietly: Shit. I’m sorry.

T, angrily: No, no you’re not.

Silence.

T: What’s the other T doing if Eel isn’t here?

R: Oh, you know… things.

T: I really don’t.

R: Yeah, I suppose you wouldn’t.

Silence.

R: That play was the last thing we all did together, wasn’t it?

T: …I guess. I never thought about it that way. 

R: Always felt like there would be more after that, didn’t it?

T: Yeah. (again, softly) Yeah.

Long pause. The clock doesn’t tick. Nothing changes.

T: Do you think we were ever free?

R: Shit, man. Where’s that coming from?

T: Just… when we were all trying on our costumes and playing at gods and heroes…. Remember when the other T made up a goddess just for the play?

R, with a grin: Sure do!

T: Well, it all felt so silly. The tragedy and the fate and the made-up consequences to made-up actions. Like nothing like that was ever going to happen to us, you know?

THE MAN IN RED takes a sip of his beer, takes off his glasses, polishes them, puts them back on.

R, with a curt nod: Yup. 

T: And now I can’t help but think - were we wrong from the start? Was it always going to go this way and we just didn’t notice?

R: Hey man, I just played the god of prophecy in a highschool play once, I don’t actually have all the answers to everything. (Pauses). I’d like to think our choices mattered, though.

T: I’d like to think so, too.

R: Even if that means you were a dick for no reason and this hell is all your making?

T, loudly: Yes! (he looks around, as if surprised by the noise, shrinks his head back into his shoulders, continues in a half-whisper) I’d rather this all be my fault than out of my control.

R: I can get behind that logic. 

Pause.

R: You know, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.

T: Why not?

R: Well, with your fancy new agent and the marketing make-over, and with me and the other T getting back together-

T, mildly appalled: You two? Again?

R, ignoring T: It just felt like the end of an era. The part of the biographical movie where the credits roll and they show a few paragraphs of what everyone ended up doing with their life, but you don’t actually have to read those to have fun watching the story. Didn’t suppose you’d still be… well, you.

T: Hard to get rid of that particular character flaw. 

R: Is it, though? It’s been a hot… what, dozen of years? Do we really have anything in common with that bunch of theater kids anymore?

T: I don’t know. (T sighs) Sometimes I feel like nothing has changed. Like it’s all just been one super weird summer vacation and any day now I’ll wake up and have to go to school again and it will all make sense. Or that this is just another one of the other T’s weird plays and afterwards- (T stops himself, takes a deep breath, then continues)

T: afterwards we all get to go home and do whatever we want. And Tweet’s fine.

THE MAN IN BLUE nudges the cage with his foot. The pile of feathers shakes. THE MAN IN RED looks at the cage, frowning. 

R: Did that bastard really do Tweet in? 

THE MAN IN BLUE groans. 

R: damn. (Pause). Me and the other T have been shit-talking you behind your back, to be completely honest. The way you just left with the first talent scouts and agreed to… well, you know all the stupid-ass clauses you agreed to much better than I do, even though me and the other T warned you it was a shady deal. But no, your holier-than-thou highness had all the right connections, nothing bad could ever happen to you… 

T: We already had the “consequences of my actions” talk, R. 

R: No, I know, what I'm getting at is… I thought it would make sense. You were a smug insufferable bastard and you had it all blow up in your face and I thought it would feel right, but it doesn't. You're not a neat little representation of what happens to prideful people, you're just… a guy I was friends with once who's having a shitty time and whose even shittier boss killed his goddamn bluebird. And the other T's agent is starting to fuss about his weird-ass comedy routines not being marketable enough and my back hurts in the mornings now and I misplaced half of my encyclopedias when we had to move so my advice column isn't doing so hot, either, and I'm pretty sure that's not karmic punishment for any of my multiple sins, it's just… a thing that happened. Like any other damn thing. And for what it's worth I'm sorry the things happening to you have been so fucking awful recently. 

Long pause. THE MAN IN BLUE coughs up a few feathers. THE MAN IN RED tries not to look too awkward. 

T: I'm sorry about your uh, advice column thing. 

R: Eh. I’ve had worse. 

Long pause. THE MAN IN BLUE looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Nothing changes. 

T: Would I be an asshole if I said I knew Mr. Eel would end up like this? That I made him do all the awful stuff he did to me? 

R: …That's some mighty self-destructive tendencies you've got there, pal. 

T: No, that's not- (T huffs, flicks a few more feathers into the cage). I knew he sucked, I knew he ruined everything he touched, but I felt so on top of it all I thought, hey, let him try. Let's see who ruins who first. 

R: Well? 

T: I really didn't plan for what would happen if he wins. And… I am feeling pretty ruined right about now. 

Pause. 

R, stretching: For what it's worth, I don't think you're an asshole. Just an arrogant bastard who bit off more than he could chew-

T, interrupting: That doesn't sound better-

R continues: Because he thought he knew how to make everything right for everyone. And it's a stupid thing to believe, but it's not the worst of intentions. Too bad they led you here. 

THE MAN IN BLUE coughs up another feather. THE MAN IN RED pats him on the back, hands him the beer bottle, stands up. 

Act II

THE MAN IN [UNDETERMINED] runs out of Mr. Eel’s office, full bag over his shoulder. He is wearing a gray T-shirt and a jacket decorated with an assortment of pins. Off-brand glasses of the look Mr. Eel created for THE MAN IN BLUE are pushed up to his forehead. 

THE MAN IN [UNDETERMINED] jumps into THE MAN IN RED without slowing down. They are instantly all over each other. THE MAN IN BLUE stares into nothingness and takes a sip of THE MAN IN RED’s beer. 

THE MAN IN [UNDETERMINED] and THE MAN IN RED go to leave, hand in hand, exchanging kisses.

The other T, turning to T for a second: oh hey, I didn’t see you there! You okay, buddy? 

R: I think I got all the talking he had for the day out of him, dear. Let's leave him be.

The other T shrugs and continues on with his life. 

THE MAN IN BLUE is sitting in a gray waiting room. Every once in a while he takes a sip of THE MAN IN RED’s beer. He does not look at the clock, staring into space instead. The clock does not tick. This changes nothing.

fuck you I've changed and grown as a person. social media old man yaoi

[giftcardgiveaway234]

[leporellian]

the binding of laika

ben florin, "laika"/jamaica kincaid/le loup, "we are gods! we are wolves!"/archival footage of the soviet space program/genesis 22/alan shapiro, "space dog"/olesya turkina, soviet space dogs/brennig davies, "first dog in space"/daniel ortberg, "children's stories made horrific: curious george"/idomeneo prepares to sacrifice his son in the garsington opera production of "idomeneo"/alan shapiro, "space dog"/louise glück/jonathan coulton, "space doggity"/bojack horseman, "free churro"/maynard solomon, mozart: a life/mac demarco in an interview with npr/@/fateology, “muttnik”/unknown/alex wellerstein writing for the new yorker/ ancient doll found in roman egypt/steiff laika toy/guillermo del toro's pinocchio/richard silken/laika wikipedia page/bojack horseman, "free churro"/photograph of laika//nih.gov’s page on oleg gazenko/oleg gazenko/alan shapiro, "space dog"

[anthonsgi]

★’･ﾟ:｡･:*:HSR Men random bf!headcanons:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★

【Note: Hello! I have decided to write short headcanons for a few men in this game [playable only, sorry Oleg simps (*_ _)人], excuse any fluency errors, English isn't my first language, and I am still learning as I go! Please enjoy, and don't hesitate to request anything; I'm open to suggestions!】

【Pairings: Dan Heng, Gepard, Jing Yuan x GN!READER】

【CW: none!】

☆〜DAN HENG〜☆

He enjoys your company even if you two aren't speaking; simply being aware of your presence near him when he's focused on something insignificant, like reading a book, relaxes him.

Definitely has a soft spot for you and lets go of his usual cold and reserved demeanor when you two are alone.

There have been a few instances of him unconsciously beaming at you as he got lost in thought, looking at your excited face while you rambled about something you're passionate about. He'd never admit to it, though, if you called him out on it.

Prefers to be the big spoon mainly because he loves the feeling of your back pressing against his chest when your breathing slows as you fall asleep.

However, he appreciates it if you ask to be the big spoon whenever he has a nightmare or one of his visions.

He has little relationship experience [renheng ＼(º □ º l|l)/], so as committed as he is to making you feel loved and appreciated, he searches the data bank in the archives for information on romantic gestures and comes across a book about the significance of pet names. After "educating" himself more, he may refer to you as "my love," "darling," or even "baby" if he's feeling particularly lovey-dovey.

Dan Heng isn't a jealous boyfriend; nevertheless, if something bothers him, he becomes touchy! Always holding your arm or wrapping his hand around your waist.

Haven only just awakened, he's such a sleepy cutie! He'd try to kiss you but miss and peck your chin instead.

☆〜GEPARD〜☆

He's an exceptionally blushy guy, and it's pretty simple to make him flustered. Just hold his hand, and he'll melt.

No matter how long you've been together, Gepard loves to kiss but will never do it without getting your consent first. His kisses are short and gentle, but they are also tender and reassuring, given that he frequently cups your face in his hands.

Even though this guy evidently struggles to keep his plants alive, he will make every effort to grow a lovely flower as a gift for you.

He attracts kids like a magnet; some of them aspire to be captains like him, and it's the cutest thing ever to see him grow nervous as they shower him with compliments and questions.

Sometimes he'd find you asleep on the couch, and he'd pick you up bridal style and carry you to bed carefully so as not to wake you.

Oftentimes, Gepard's responsibilities prevent him from spending time with you, but he always strives to make up for it.

Used a cheesy pickup line once and never tried it again after feeling the second-hand embarrassment.

He always looks for a way to impress you with his strength.

☆〜JING YUAN〜☆

His duty as General usually keeps him occupied with work stuff, so when you pay him a visit during the day, he'll light up almost instantly and he'll be in a good mood.

You have to constantly kick him (gently or with force depending on how much sleep he has robbed you of) so he can turn to the other side and stop snoring.

When writing about his day in his diary, he always mentions the instances where something reminded him of you. (Spoiler alert: the majority of his day description is him adoring your facial features).

Jing Yuan's kisses are typically quick, although if he's feeling exceptionally touch-deprived, he prefers deeper, longer kisses.

If you decide to move in with him, it will be incredibly domestic; you would prepare each other's favorite drinks and meals just the way you like them without needing to ask, and you will share each other's clothes and accessories on a daily basis.

Routine, even if secure, can be exhausting, and he finds himself trapped in one. Therefore, Jing Yuan appreciates it when you try new things with him and make him feel like he can breathe freely again. Without worrying about any boring responsibilities, just you and him spending time together. Those are his most treasured moments.

He's very protective of you. Secretly that is. It might seem that he's not that bothered by the times you may have spent a while longer on an errand or went exploring, but he's actually worried! Sometimes to the point of sending someone to go look for you, just to be sure you're all safe and sound.

Has asked you to massage his back on multiple ocassions after a particularly tiring day.

[magpie-come-east]

Writing a fantasy sermon for fic about how the curse of the Omen manifests 3-fold in ways abhorrent to the Golden Order

1) disorder of form - omen are crucible touch and have bodies that are amalgamations of all life

2) commune with wraiths - this is less concrete but I imagine this upsets the Orders Ideals regarding death. Omen can gain some power with the souls of the Order’s spurned. They have a connection with the suffering inflicted even beyond death as the Erdtree denies those souls.

3) omen blood houses fire - bloodflame is tied to accursed omen blood. Omen blood is flammable, and the Order abhors fire. It is forbidden, it is the cardinal sin.

(Also just poor Morgott having to not only deal With the shame of his appearance but the horror of knowing his blood is tainted with a forbidden element. He IS sin)

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

Guy who has wandered through the halls and corridors of your body not with any special kind of love but with the untold intimacy of a contractor assessing the damages and potentials voice: right, so the main issue here is that the body is currently a temple, okay, and what we want is for it to be a home, cause temples are pretty and all and occasionally nice to be in if you're into that sort of thing but very few people would actually want to live in one. So what we're gonna do first is you're gonna take a look at what's here, the carrying walls and windows and all that, and you're going to come up with something you'd actually like to be alive inside of, and it's going to be a lot of work and it's going to feel strange and stupid and embarrassing but you're still gonna do it, because otherwise this construction site is fucked. And maybe what you want to live in is a skatepark or an anime-themed cat cafe or an esoteric library that has a dildo section for some reason, so it might feel like it's a downgrade from a temple, but it's actually the opposite cause the main customer for a body is you and the main customer for a temple are templegoers and maybe higher powers of some kind, - i wouldn't know about those, they never hired me, - not the temple itself, which is what you are, right, cause the body/mind/soul separation doesn't actually do anything, so what you're gonna do is look at the current layout and dig out whatever hope and ability to want you have and come up with a blueprint, and then my boys can actually get to work. Oh, and you have got to change the windows, it's drafty as fuck in here.

[literaryvein]

L. V., i found this poem on my third cup of coffee