#so ethereal and exactly what i envisioned

[hythlodaes]

o dear soul / flesh and bone

love alone / is your home

[elvirable]

Ambrosia (Act 1)

[ Astarion x f!Reader ] | ao3 link

rating: explicit | word count: 2k | status: ongoing themes/tags: vaginal sex, feelings realization, denial of feelings, light smut.. for now, and a whole lotta angst, will add more smut tho in the next chapters, soulmates, fluff, written as a glimpse into his mind during each act ———–

Astarion would never tell you, though - it was his little secret, one he hid away just for himself.

In other words: A delve into Astarion's thoughts, starting with the day he met you. *will update description at some point. ———– A/N: i wrote this as a peek into Astarion's mind throughout Act 1. plan to continue as i progress throughout the game. lmk what you think and if you like this style!

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Grief had a penchant for wearing different masks.

Phantom faces that slithered through shadows, white-hot wrath that clawed at the throat, an endless gnawing that swallowed one whole: all faces of a primordial monster that had existed before time itself.

Astarion knew all this. 

He had met them all – intimate with its simplest form, a cold polarizing solitude; a loyal companion for two centuries, teaching him to lick his wounds with malice. Others had taken everything from him, or they were too weak to lift a meaningful finger. It took several lifetimes to finally mend his precious pride back together. Why should he practice mercy when no one had shown him any?

And by some stroke of luck, he was free – at least for now. Opportunity had fallen before his feet; he could chase after power, clutch revenge in his pale fingers, walk amongst the sun. Red eyes clung to the light glimmering across the water and wavering leaves. A desperate urge pulsed up his spine, insisting he memorize each saturated detail before it faded away like the most ethereal dream. The exhilaration rose wildly before plummeting to the pits of his stomach.

Huh, that was odd. It had never dawned on him that grief could also bloom in the slow, golden sunlight.

Languid beams washed against his flesh and through the faint hem of his shirt. Every fiber of his skin ached, dull and shallow, at the sacred warmth that had been a stranger for so long. He felt this haunted and holy gift – the vigor of life from each ray of light running over his fair face. Reunited once again, like long-lost lovers.

It was the sound of boots thudding against dirt that pulled him back into the world, on the ravaged beachfront. 

With straight posture, a hollow smile painted itself across his lips. ==

“You have your mother’s eyes, you know.”

No, he didn’t know.

Quiet was this small voice that, for some odd reason, had grasped onto his conscience the night he died. It had sung loud in the beginning, but now it was just a whisper. Everything else had reduced to dust, long-buried beneath the cold earth. 

But if he could conjure the ghost of his mother, he couldn’t be bothered to. Astarion envisioned a sharp tsk , a scowl dripping with disgust if she could see the creature he was today: a thrall to his own hedonistic desires, wielding manipulation and seduction as an instrument. A vampire , taking solace amongst the shadows and draining the life around him.

Maybe he was the same, just calloused and rearranged by the fate spun for him. 

However, there was no need to exhume the past. It proved futile anyway; he couldn’t even recall the previous hue of his eyes, much less run his hands over his reflection. The only thing worthy of concern was survival. Memories had been shrouded by the same pivotal virtue, the one that carved the habit to become shapeless – to cater to every impulse and whim of those who could serve useful. Those who could protect him, at least for the time being.

And that was exactly what he tried with you, as his breath was inches from your slender neck and your eyes widened in hazy alarm, catching him by surprise. 

“Shit.”

You scuttered to your feet in the frantic silence, dozens of excuses fluttering to Astarion’s tongue. The fatigue of bloodthirst hindered his wit, but he raised his palms in reservation.

He had already taken note of your misleading presence – you were small, but heavens , would you put up a fight. Other companions had already turned towards you for guidance the past few days, and you were carved with a beauty that could intimidate. Though, there were cracks underneath that facade – ones with darkness in between. 

Peering into these cracks was his only outlet to earn your trust; after all, it was paramount for survival.

“I – I wasn’t going to hurt you,” exasperated breaths pushed from his throat. “I just needed, well.. blood.”

Basked in the dim firelight, your wary gaze studied him for what he really was: a vampire, a slave to sanguine hunger. He caught the stutter in your furrowed brows before they eased. Smug delight settled in his nerves when you, although with apprehension, allowed him to taste you.

Astarion eagerly obliged, immediately losing himself in the euphoria– the sweet vigor of your blood, how silky and rich. A low hum vibrated in his throat, and he barely registered when your palms pushed his broad weight off of you. Lush satisfaction that quenched his blood-thirst still coursed through him like a stimulant, but he still caught the tail-end of your groan.

“I don’t care that you’re a vampire. Just –,” you paused briefly to reel from your daze. “We’re all a team now, so I have to have some trust in you. Just ask next time.”

He felt happy, more alive – not only from the fresh blood still lingering on his tongue, but that you trusted him. Maybe not entirely, but the anchor had already been dropped; one step closer to wrapping you around his finger, even if you weren’t entirely flexible. He could feel it in your gaze, in the little quivers that rolled through you while his fangs sunk into your soft skin.

Once you had returned to sleep and his frenzied nerves quelled, he mulled over your parting words. You weren’t phased’ that he was a vampire, instead placing emphasis on trust. You were full of surprises – especially when the entire world met him with repulse.

Something that had been fossilized inside him tremored, as if it began to thaw. ==

There was a thin chill in the evening air, in the way nature prepares for a new season. And he hated you. 

Well, he didn’t hate you – frankly, he couldn’t get enough of you; that was the issue. 

You plagued his thoughts like a helpless addiction, better yet like a mirror; one he had repeatedly peered into, struggling to find the right angle and when he did – he was left staring at you.

Those careful eyes – a mocking reminder of everything he could have been. So different, so resilient, so disgustingly kind.

Since the day he laid eyes on you, he was the first to glimpse at your secret hidden in plain sight. Your habit of hiding yourself from everyone you came across, retreating behind stone-bared walls and tailoring a facade just enough to avoid drawing attention. Reserved lips were a mere confirmation you sealed away a vault of grief that you didn’t want – or need – clumsy, temporary hands to pry open. 

That discreet resolve particularly made you the sour dagger twisting between his ribs. Grief had been your companion as well, but its mark never trickled from anywhere else – not a warbled voice or frustrated bout. It was only noticeable through a fleeting glint in your eyes. Meanwhile, he had made this medley of rage and anguish his armor. It had fused to skin, and he no longer knew how to scrape it off. Astarion dedicated decades to cursing the Gods. You ignored them.

He knew he should despise you and eagerly await the day he could shatter this mirror you were – but all bitterness dissolved in your presence. You had become his wonderfully terrible affliction; withdrawals could damn near kill him if they were to happen.

Ribbons unraveled from his chest with each conversation, whether it pertained to the graveness of the journey or a simple ‘good morning’ from your lips. Strange yet blissful, he could feel himself surrendering every bitter pang for the peculiar sensation of… comfort .

Once laced with such harshness, his mind eased with familiarity. An interesting chord of harmony, he thought, the two of you. From the start of the journey until now, you shared an enriching balance. He would encourage you to be more outspoken, while you stirred him to be authentic and soft – even if you weren’t aware. 

You were stable like bedrock; never once expecting to be selfless or pious, instead only demanded transparency – at least to the extent he was willing to concede. Aside from the occasional brow-raise or retort, judgment never twisted your face. Respect was a new sensation to him, as you gave him yours.

This dynamic, this balance ; it was irresistibly and invariably warm. 

==

The rendezvous sort of just fell into habit. 

Every night he would savor the ambrosia from your neck, and one evening tension gave way to carnal desire. Whether it was a simple cathartic release or not, he didn’t care; tender moments bathed in amber firelight or the hush of the night had always left him craving more.

“You’re such a tease .”

You’d whisper those words every so often those sacred nights, and a rakish grin would slide across his face without fail. Lust gripped him, but never once weaved with routine; the way your legs parted to invite him in left Astarion with an insatiable urge to indulge in everything you were willing to give him. He could spend the entire evening with his head between your thighs, cold hands steadying your quivering legs as his tongue lured you to new heights of pleasure – giving you exactly what you needed. 

When he was with you – skin pressed together, desperate hums like honey – he began to relish in taking things slow. 

He preferred the nights where your bare body writhed beneath him and melted against his, while he eagerly coaxed wispy whines from your lips. No matter how wet and ready you were, his girth always met resistance as he parted your warm, sensitive walls. Your skin buzzed at the sensation of his cock splitting you open, like every time was the first you’ve been touched.

Desire laced every word he whispered into the curve of your neck, each encouraging and soft. His pace was slow, pushing into the depth of your core, buried deep enough to kiss your cervix with each thrust. Low, guttural grunts left his throat as your body’s natural instinct clenched around his throbbing cock. 

Despite his centuries of experience, he found himself struggling to restrain from succumbing to the all-consuming euphoria of it all: your lashes wet from your tears, precious gasps warm against his skin, the desirous ache to fuck you the way that pretty face beckoned to be fucked. 

The unbridled intimacy – which felt so real and tender was enough to send him over the edge. His veins hummed with yearning as he drank in the vision beneath him; your skin flushed, shaky whines that sung his name as he pushed you to pleasure. And when you wrapped your legs to press him deeper – he surrendered to the white-hot bliss. 

Although Astarion would never tell a soul, his most treasured moments were spent after desperate breaths calmed and the entire world stilled.

It was never long before you lulled into sleep, and your weight slacked against his broad chest. He lingered over each detail with softer eyes; the gentle curl of your lashes, a freckle he had missed the last time. Peace graced such beautiful features, ones that were usually still with resolve. There had never been another face quite like yours in the two centuries he had lurked amongst the earth.

Your chest rose and fell slowly before you would eventually fidget, still deep in slumber, to slink an arm over his waist. His gentle hand grasped the one that rested against his chest, careful not to stir you, as he ran his fingers over your silk skin. Such delicate hands, he mused, that had to grapple their way through life.

He pressed a silent kiss against the back of your palm before laying it back on his chest. 

In the silence, something washed over him – that rousing feeling that he never knew quite what to make of. 

His eyes swept once more to watch the shuffle of your face, buried now against his side. Your hazy sighs warmed his bare skin. Astarion could almost laugh, imagining your face reddening if he ever shared how affectionate you were in your sleep.

Though he would never tell you – it was his little secret, one he hid away just for himself.

[celenawrites]

inspired by this lil rambling I did a while back

The veil on your head sticks to your forehead with perspiration and your fingers ever so slightly shake with nervousness. You stand before a large wooden door, and walking inside the room seems almost impossible for you. You consider calling a raincheck, or maybe running away from this whole arrangement - but your friend pats you comfortingly on your back and you feel somewhat grounded again.

This entire fiasco is for your own benefit, and you don't have any other alternatives.

So you suck it up and push open the wooden door, taking long strides to close the distance between you and your unknown betrothed.

The church is mostly empty save for the groom and a few key witnesses, thanks to a favor the old priest owed to the task force’s captain. The door’s loud creak gives you away, and everyone is now looking at you. Captain Price, the man who orchestrated this union, stands proud and steady as he eyes you down mechanically - possibly an old habit from his time serving in the army for so many years. The old priest stands in front of the pews with bated breath, almost impatient to get this over with. There’s a middle aged woman sitting in the front and she looks at you sharply with disdain, you’d assume she’s part of your betrothed's task force, if it wasn’t for the fact you were intimated last minute that she’s his mother.

And there’s your groom - Sergeant Kyle Garrick, dressed in an all black suit as he eyes you down with what seems to be wonder in his eyes. Apart from them, there seems to be no one else present here. 

Your friend adjusts your veil as she walks with you down the aisle. You’re sure that by now, her hand must be throbbing in pain from how hard you’ve gripped her. When it came to tying the knot, you hadn’t exactly envisioned this in your mind - but you try your best to play with the cards you’re dealt anyway. 

You almost wish you had dressed elaborately, instead of settling for a short white dress and a rental veil that makes your nape itch - but your wedding called for urgency and you had to ditch the elaborate bridal plans if you wanted to ensure your amenities are not cut off by the end of the month. 

With bated breath, you walk down the aisle as you grip onto your friend for some comfort. The walk is finished in minutes, and your friend is quick to leave you standing before your groom and the priest as they take a seat in the pews nearby. You look at Mr. Garrick, and he’s even more ethereal up close. A light scar runs across the span of his left cheek, but it only adds to his charm. His warm brown eyes twinkle like stars under the yellow fluorescent lights lighting up the room. If you had met him under any other circumstance, you’re sure you’d been smitten by now. Maybe you’d have asked him out for coffee…

Almost sensing your nerves, Kyle is quick to flash a kind smile your way and you breathe deeply as you look back at him and smile back a watery smile of your own. For his sake, you’ll suck it up and deal with it just fine - no matter what. 

Snapping out of your wishful thinking, you try to concentrate on what the priest is saying, but it is so hard to pay attention to the dronings of an old man when your handsome soon-to-be-husband stands in front of you. You notice that he taps his foot thrice at an interval of eight or so minutes, maybe as a way to deal with his nerves. After all, this is not just your wedding day. 

You both soon dot your I’s and cross your T’s as you both give out short, succinct vows and promise each other the promise of love and respect ‘till death do us apart’, which leaves an ashy taste in your mouth. This is not how this was supposed to be, but you both have no other choice in the matter. 

The rings are brought out, and you gape at how pretty the diamond looks on the thin platinum band. You wonder how much of his paycheck Kyle had to spend in order to find something this big and beautiful, and you almost feel ashamed for the ring you bought, a simple band with small gems encrusted in it - no cheaper in this economy, but still falling short of what the Sergeant had prepared for you. 

With quivering hands you slip his ring onto his finger, and he quickly returns the favor with a steady hand holding onto you, the warmth of his palm feeling awfully nice and comforting against your clammy hands. The priest finally announces, “You may now kiss the bride.”

Fearing the worst, you close your eyes shut as you’re not certain on how to approach this step. You’re no virgin, but kissing a man you barely know (and marrying said man) is something you hadn’t anticipated in your twenty-something years of your life. You feel Kyle wrap an arm around the small of your back gently as he raises the veil on your head - only to give you a chaste peck on the corner of your lips, just shy of giving you a proper kiss. Everyone present in the church let out reluctant claps, calling curtains on the show you both have put out knowing well enough that there is more to come. 

Now that the union was finally complete with witnesses and your marriage certificate soon after filed and to be submitted for review, you are looking forward to crashing on a bed and sleeping the day away after gorging out on some much needed junk food. (Especially if you wish to forget how Kyle’s mother has been eyeing you down like some filthy vermin throughout this sham of a wedding, really.)

“Welcome to the married life, Mrs. Garrick”, Kyle is quick to whisper in your ear as he ushers you out of the small church, and you’re yet to decide if you like the way he refers to you as his. 

“Can we get some takeout on the way home?” you ask him, and he smiles that brilliant smile your way, the one that makes you just a little weak in the knees. 

“Whatever you want, wife.”

[smittenwithsmoker]

she’s got oceans tucked away in her hair, poems swim under her skin -Sanober Khan

Sanji x fem mermaid!reader

The chef had many dreams. He would become the greatest chef in the world. He would find the All Blue and finally cook with ingredients from all four seas to create the most delicious dishes the world had ever known. He would travel around the Grand Line with his friends in pursuit of his dreams and theirs. But perhaps the dream he’d held even longer, a dream which graced him every night for as long as he could remember, was to meet a mermaid. In his sleep, an ethereal voice called out to him with a siren song, whispered his name in his ear so clearly that he awoke thinking she’d be right beside him. He could envision her silvery tail, the eyes as blue as the ocean she lived in, the long flowing hair that floated around her in the water entirely weightless. Despite having never met the woman in his dreams, Sanji was so entirely sure she was real and that she was calling out for him.

He met her in a storm. The Thousand Sunny was conquering waves that seemed impossibly large and navigating through the swells with ease. Sanji stood at the helm, following Nami’s directions until he saw a flash of silver in the water. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, lightning reflecting oddly off the sea surface. However, Sanji knew at the second glance exactly what it was. So without a second thought, the chef yelled to his crew mates to take the helm and he dove off the side of the ship.

Sanji found her quickly, the silvery tail shimmering even in the murky, tumultuous waters. As he got closer, he heard his name being echoed through his head in a soft lilt, song like in its cadence. Her tail was caught in a net that had likely come undone from a fishing vessel in the storm and she was thrashing, trying to free herself but only becoming more tangled. She saw him approaching and he swore that when her eyes met his, that he knew her already. Her hands reached out to his and he clasped his larger ones around hers and held on as a current pushed against his body. Pulling himself closer to her, he reached for the small knife in his pocket and began to cut the net.

Once freed, her hands found his again. She looked at him, a soft smile on her face as one hand moved to caress his cheek. In his surprise, Sanji released the air from his chest and his lungs began to burn. A frown overtook her features and began to swim with him. A mermaid was the fastest creature in the ocean and within seconds, they were at the surface and approaching the Thousand Sunny.

Sanji gulped in breaths of air but did not let go of her hand as he made sure the woman of his dreams did not escape him. Her hand rested on his neck as she leaned in, first kissing both of his cheeks and then pressing her lips to his. As her lips moved with his, he could hear her voice in his head.

“You found me my love. My Sanji. My pirate. Thank you for saving me as I once saved you. I have to return to the sea but I shall find you again some day. Until then, we will meet in your dreams. I love you.”

Sanji stared at her as their lips parted and a wave crashed over the two of them. She held on so tight to him and his hands hurt from the biting cold of the water and how tightly he was grasping hers. Luffy reached down to him to pluck him from the water and his hands finally slipped from hers. She smiled up at him and blew him a final kiss before disappearing under the surface of the ocean, a swish of her silver tail the last thing he saw.

The crew thought he was hallucinating. They had seen no mermaid, only saw Sanji fall overboard and then surface before Luffy rescued him. It must’ve been a dream they told him. He almost believed them until he went to bed that evening. In his sleep, he heard the empyreal sound of her voice ringing through his head as she said his name before she appeared before him, silvery tail splashing as she made her way to where he sat on the beach.

“Who are you?” he asked the shimmering goddess before him. She smiled and reached out to clasp his hand.

“I am yours, Sanji Vinsmoke,” she retorted with a delicate smile. “I have been since I saved you when we were both children.” He remembered nearly drowning as a child and the months starving on that island with Zeff, but he doesn’t remember getting to that island. Had she saved him then? “Yes, that was me.” His eyes widened when she answered his thoughts and her hand moved to his cheek. “I know your every thought my love. I always will.” She pulled herself closer to him, resting her forehead against his. “Mermaids have only one mate in their lives and know them instantly. You are mine as I am yours.”

Sanji’s eyes widened again. Mates? He thought that was a myth but here was the woman of his dreams telling him it was true. She looked away from him and frowned as the horizon started to glow with the impending sunrise. Turning back to him, she pressed her lips to Sanji’s again and he melted against her, pulling her closer onto his lap. The apples of her cheeks flushed as she pulled away and tucked her face into Sanji’s neck. She nibbled there and he hissed as she bit into the flesh.

“I have to go,” she whispered and a sudden sadness had entered her tone. “I will always be near to you Sanji and if you need me, call out to me. In five years, I’ll be able to walk on land and I will never leave your side again. Wait for me my love.”

Sanji awoke with a start, breathing heavily and sweating in his bed. It was a dream. One that blurred the lines of fiction and reality and he had a difficult time understanding. Wandering to the bathroom to get ready to cook breakfast, Sanji gasped when he looked in the mirror. A small red mark in the shape of a mermaid’s tail had appeared on his neck in the same spot she had bit in his dream. A heavenly voice in his head whispering out, “Mine”, as Sanji realized his dreams might just all come true.

[mothwingwritings]

Save The Date

F!Reader X Jean Pierre Polnareff

Today is my birthday!!! Yaaay! To celebrate, I wrote this self-indulgent, out of left field, Polnareff-kidnaps-you-on-your-bday-and-tries-to-force-his-love-on-you story because why not? I’ve been wanting to write more Jojo and I love Polnareff’s himbo ass sooo here it is. :D I decided to go back to my roots with this one, it was therapeutic loool.

This was a bit rushed because I want to get it finished by today, but I hope you enjoy!!! Thank you for reading and for being here! Love y’all~ ( ˘ ³˘)♥

Warnings: Kidnapping, imprisonment, reader is restrained this whole fic, forced/nonconsensual touching and kissing, brief mentions of sex, delusional Polnareff, probably horrible butchering of French pet names (I am sorry any French speakers, forgive my google translate indiscretions (；´∀｀))

Everything was perfect.

From the varying balloons and streamers that dotted the room, to the bows he had placed so lovingly in your hair, Jean Pierre Polnareff had worked hard to make this presentation immaculate. It was what his baby deserved after all-it wasn’t like it was your birthday every day.

It took weeks of planning and organizing to get everything just right. He’d spent countless hours calling the best caterers and bakers in town, and spent all his down time consulting with party planners to make sure this soiree would go off without a hitch. He was even able to score the perfect dress for you from the fancy boutique down the street-the very same dress you had been casting wistful (yet furtive) glances at for quite some time. The moment the ornate frock had gone on sale he could barely conceal his excitement and ended up purchasing it right away. He was sure you would be thrilled to receive the gown as a gift, and also be touched by his intuitive nature, his knack for picking up on the things you desired.

It was just your style, and he knew as soon as you donned it you would look nothing short of gorgeous. Envisioning you in it made his heart flutter, the smile that would engulf your face as you twirl around in it, giggling in sheer delight as the fabric swirls prettily around you, was sure to be a sight for sore eyes. It was hard waiting to see the dream become a reality.

When he finally got the chance to slip it on your body, he needed a moment to compose himself before he proceeded with the rest of the party setup. He had been correct in his assumption-you looked breathtaking, exactly like a princess in your new frilly, satin, dress. He wished he could have arranged to also have someone do your hair and makeup to really complete the look, but it was too risky to chance it. As much as he would have loved for you to wake up to a complete makeover, he couldn’t trust anyone to not be suspicious of the arrangement he had currently setup for you, and he dared not muck you up with his own mediocre skills.

But at the same time it didn’t really matter that he couldn’t have a cosmetologist stop by, you always looked perfect and ethereal, dolled up or otherwise.

Everything was splayed out before you, not a single item out of place. The table was neatly set with his finest dishes and cutlery, set at the ready to be topped with the feast that he was preparing for you. Vibrant bouquets comprised of only the fullest and brightest blooms of your favorite flowers sat on each end of the table, and fragrant candles cast flickering light over the scene, exuding a very romantic aura. Dinner (one of your favorite meals) was nearly done cooking in the kitchen, and its scent had begun to enticingly fill the room. He could practically hear your stomach rumble in anticipation.

The centerpiece of it all was an elaborate cake, decadent and rich, your name and a sweet birthday message sprawled on its surface in a pretty, curving script. It was far too large for just two people to consume, but that just meant there would be more to look forward to in the future. Maybe you would want to freeze some of it to share with him again on your next birthday, like some couples do with their wedding cake. The correlation made him blush as he fixated on it, giddy as he fantasized about all that lay ahead for the two of you.

With everything assembled, all he had to do was wait. He parked himself opposite you at the table, dressed to the nines to try and match you. As impressive as his finely tailored suit was, he didn’t hold a candle to your radiance. He sighed dreamily as he took you in, his eyes roving over your peaceful face while slumber still claimed you. You had a habit of incessantly frowning or shooting him questionable glances while you were awake. Whenever you noticed that his attention was turned your way, a grimace inevitably followed. This moment of peace where he could drink you in without any backlash was bliss, and as much as he was excited for you to wake up, he couldn’t help but relish this serene alone time he was sharing with you.

No kicking and screaming, no crying, no unnecessarily hurtful words flung his way when all he’s trying to do is show you love. Right now there was just you, him, and this lovingly crafted display of his affection that he prepared just for you, the love of his life. A small mountain of presents towered behind him, waiting patiently to be picked open by your delicate fingers. Most of them were little things he had picked up for you here and there that he thought you would like, trinkets and baubles he felt exuded a very ‘you’ aura and thus needed to be brought home to you. He used to try and give them to you the moment he purchased them, but you would always turn them away, telling him that he was spending way too much money on you. Silly girl, no amount of currency could ever be a waste on you.

The gift pile was a veritable array of goodies sure to delight you, teeming with big things, small things, and one very important thing that had been weighing heavily in his pocket for the past week. He had always planned on presenting it to you on your birthday (there was no greater gift than a perfectly cut rock signifying your eternal union, after all), but carried it around with him as a good luck charm of sorts, keeping it near till the moment he could give it to you. He kept it in his breast pocket as close to his heart as he could, childishly hoping that the placement would infuse it with the immense love he felt for you, each heart beat coursing through it making it shine more dazzlingly.

Though he enjoyed carrying it around with him, the time was soon approaching for it to go to its intended home, sitting prettily on your ring finger. Musing on it made him glance down at your hands as they rested daintily on the chairs arm rest. He tried not to focus on the straps he had placed around your arms, holding you in place to prevent you from bolting the moment you woke up. You were such a jumpy, shy thing, inclined to run and hide the moment you spotted him. He knew this setting would be overwhelming for you, that you would not take all the extra attention so easily, hence why the sedation and extra restraints were needed. As much as he wanted to do a more natural approach, there was just no way to keep hold of you otherwise. It was a necessary measure, but it was one he hated nonetheless.   

Knowing you would be upset when you awoke filled him with dismay, but ultimately the drugs and confines were all just a means to an ends. After the initial shock wore off, you were certain to be pleased by all his effort.

Hesitantly, he reached out to grasp your hands, holding them gently in his own. His thumb slowly grazed your knuckles, tracing small circles over your soft skin. Were they not strapped down, he would have chanced giving your hand a kiss, his lips yearning to make contact with you in any way they could. It truly was a shame that you were so adverse to touch, for he constantly longed to handle you tenderly, treating you so lovingly you would become putty in his hands, melt at his ministrations. He could clearly picture the expressions you would make while he busied himself, running his fingers gingerly across your flesh, memorizing every inch of you in faithful reverence, kisses following where his fingers once tread.

It was his most avid desire, but he had yet to act on the fantasy. His dream would come true someday, but first you had to get used to him. Ease into your new life.

It was a torturous process, waiting for you to warm up, but he knew it would be worth it in the end. Besides, with how bashful you were he figured he would be your first time for so many things, and that was exhilarating in its own right.

Suddenly, you stirred. Polnareff perked up, his eyes darting to your face as he watched your own slowly blink open. You scrunched your face in discomfort, groaning as your head gradually rose from its lulled posture. The after effects of the heavy drugs made your movements sluggish and groggy, another small groan slipping past your lips as you rotated your shoulders in an attempt to stretch.

Your gaze eventually landed on Polnareff, his face lighting up when you didn’t immediately look away. Still heavily sedated, confusion dominated your features. At this point, you were unsure where you were, what was going on, and probably perplexed by Polnareff’s presence, maybe even so bewildered you didn’t yet fully remember who Polnareff was. A warm smile graced his lips as he watched you come to, your befuddled state too cute to resist.

“Ma chérie,” Polnareff purred, his voice drawing you further from your hazy state, “I’m glad you are finally awake. It wouldn’t do to have you sleep through your whole party now, would it?”

Disorientation was giving way to realization, a look of fear and agitation morphing your lax expression into a sharp scowl. You began to pull against your bindings, your tugs becoming sharper the moment   you felt resistance, alarm mounting when you realized how trapped you truly were. Your eyes locked onto Polnareff’s, the haze that had clouded them gone, replaced with resentful animosity. It was painful being at the end of your enmity, but he reminded himself it was to be expected. You would be filled with contentment very soon, he just had to get you there.

“Jean what the hell,” Your words came out listless and slurred. As the final dregs of the drugs wore off, you struggled to get your baring’s. “Where am I? What is all this? Did you… did you fucking drug me?”

 Panic was starting to course through you, wide blown eyes filling with tears that you tried desperately to blink back. Your breathing grew labored as you started to thrash, trying your hardest to free yourself from the man who had imprisoned you, despite your compromised state.

Concerned you would hurt yourself, Polnareff gripped your hands tightly to try and sooth you, but it only caused your struggling to grow in intensity. Noting this, he quickly relinquished his hold, instead opting to cup your cheeks in a manner he hoped you would find more reassuring. Your skin was moist from your freshly fallen tears, his thumb easily sliding across its delicate surface, trying to wipe them away as best he could. You attempted to recoil from his touch, but the restraints and his firm hold kept you in place.

“Please amoureuse calm down,” he shushed you, worry reflected in his eyes, “You’ll end up hurting yourself if you keep pulling like that-“

“Fuck off,” you seethed between clenched teeth, “Let me go NOW Polnareff, or I swear I’ll-“

He clamped a hand over your mouth, halting any further commentary. A deep frown etched itself into his face as he stared you down, patience waning at the immediate vehemence you directed his way. Today was not supposed to go this way, he expected some backlash sure, but you weren’t supposed to recover from the medicine he had given you so rapidly. It was supposed to take time, fester a bit so that you would slowly come around, giving him plenty of time to explain things to you and have you get used to the arrangement naturally.

All the extra precautions were to help you see this for what it was, a true celebration to exhibit his unwavering dedication to you, and not whatever horrific falsity you had concocted in your anxiety addled brain. He cursed himself for not giving you the larger dose as he originally intended, he was just so concerned you may sleep too deeply and miss out on your special day altogether.

“You need to be quiet now, (Name),” His voice was low, a serious edge to it that froze your thrashing, granting him your full regard, “I know you are upset and confused, it’s only natural with how you woke up, and I don’t blame you for it. But there is no need for your ire ma cherie, look around you,” he released his hold, sweeping his hand across the room to show off his handiwork, “This is all for you bella. I worked so hard to make everything perfect for you because you deserve nothing less. Each decoration, accessory, snack, present-they were all assembled lovingly with you in mind. I’ve been preparing this for months, so please don’t be-“

“I don’t want any of this,” you once more cut him off, your voice choppy as you forced it out through shaky sobs, “I never wanted any of this. How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t feel for you this way Polnareff? What you are doing is wrong, this entire ‘party’ is wrong! Please, if you really care about me at all just let me go and-“

Swiftly, he slammed his hand down on the table before you, rattling the dishes so violently it was surprising that none of them broke. Startled by the sudden upset, you lurched in your restraints, instantly shutting up out of fear. Your body quivered in distress, worried that if you said another word it would only further enrage him, and the assault next go around may not stop at just a whacked table.

“Stop it,” He annunciated each word, his eyes holding a sharpness that sent chills down your spine, “You don’t know what you are saying mon cœur, you are just blindly judging things before you even try them.” He took a shaky breath before continuing, “I have been patient, I have been kind, I have given you nothing but love, yet you constantly keep me at arm’s length, turning away from me in disgust even though I worship the ground you walk on. Please for one minute stop being so damn ungrateful and just be satisfied with all the hard work I have put in to meeting your lofty, unreasonable standards, or else you may actually have something to cry about.”

Tears continued to pour down your cheeks as your panic-stricken eyes drank him in. Your bottom lip quivered, sniffles punctuating your breathing, but you didn’t speak another word. He felt momentarily guilty for going off on you (on your birthday, no less), but seeing the success his rare instance of harshness awarded him quickly overshadowed any negativity he felt, instead washing him in a feeling of victory.

Now that he got his point across, hopefully you could proceed as planned and things would be smooth sailing from here on out.

In the other room the oven started to noisily beep, signaling that dinner was ready to be served. He rose to his feet, hovering over you before making his way towards the kitchen.

“Ah, perfect timing,” he forced a smile, doing his best to hide the hurt your brusque behavior had inflicted upon him. He squared his shoulders, composing himself before continuing. “Here is how the night will progress, amour. I will prepare our meals and then we will enjoy them peacefully in each other’s company. Once we are done, we can dig into this cake I ordered especially for you from the gourmet bakery down the street, the one that’s so popular it has a wait list.”

He sighed dejectedly, hanging his head in defeat before continuing, “You may not care, but I think it’s important that you take into consideration just how much of myself I poured into this celebration before you make another snide, thoughtless remark.”

His eyes flicked down to the cake, a brief look of sadness wavering within them before he directed his attention back your way. “It’s lovely though, isn’t it? I am sure it will taste just as good. Don’t worry, if you haven’t calmed yourself in time to be let loose I will gladly feed you chérie. Even when you are being particularly… bratty, I would not want you to miss out on such a delicacy. Then, once our bellies are full you can start unwrapping this mound of presents behind me, and we will just pray that it doesn’t take us through the entire night.”

He chuckled, his demeanor beginning to soften as he spoke, appreciative of the obedience you were displaying and the lack of unwarranted commentary as he got through the itinerary for the night. “Finally, we will end the party with a gift that has been a long time coming, one that is a truly significant mark of our eternal bond. I know you will love it ma chérie, just as much as I will.”

He saw a shiver course through you at his words, a small, sad whimper tumbling from your lips as your shoulders sagged. The gravity of his allusion bore down on your small frame, shrinking you down in a poor attempt at hiding from your inescapable fate. He tutted when he saw your attitude shift, his hand again finding your cheek to give it a gentle stroke. This time, you didn’t flinch away. 

“I know this is a lot to take in ma beauté and I am sorry it frightened you at first,” he leaned down, planting a lingering kiss to your forehead before proceeding, “But you will come around very soon, I know you will. You are my sweet girl, and after you experience what a great time we are about to have you will be so overcome with joy that you will barely be able to stand it. In fact, you may already feel a little silly for giving me such a hard time, am I right?”

Suddenly, his expression turned bashful. A rosy hue illuminated his cheeks as he started to fidget uncomfortably, a slightly embarrassed looking smile gracing his lips. Your body turned cold as his hand slid from your cheek to your shoulder, idly toying with the thin strap of your dress. His roving eyes fell to your chest, a hungry look flashing through them before they found their way back to your gaze.

“And then, after you have finished going through all your gifts, to thank me for what a gracious lover I have been maybe… maybe I can unwrap something too?”

You shudder at his insinuation, a look of pure dread donning your features.

“Polnareff,” you choked out, strained words struggling to form one final, soft plea, “please.”

Before you could utter another word, his mouth aggressively claimed your own. He pressed hard against you, as if to engrain the scorching feeling of his lips on to your flesh. You whined, squirming against him until he pulled away, staring at you with longing, love struck eyes.

“Happy birthday, ma chérie. Let’s make this one to remember.”

[bijouxcarys]

WAIT NO SORRY I MEANT NUMBER 5 FUCK

Okie dokie, i didn’t proof read this, but I sincerely hope it’s okay! At some point it gained some kind of mythological undertones, but I kinda like it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aphrodite

Pairing: Robert Plant x Unnamed OC

Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUTTY SMUT

Smut Prompt #5: “I can’t pull out when you wrap your legs around me like that.”

Tags: @callmethehunter @celestial-dragoness @whothefuckisanja @m-faithfull @strsmn @ourshadowstallerthanoursoul @chromations @angrychicksposts

Robert was so excited when he saw that familiar face in the wings.

She said she wasn’t going to be here. That she had too much going on at work to join him on tour. But yet, here she was, an expression of encouragement towards her long-time lover as he pranced and jived across that stage.

Toothy grin plastered on his face, Robert’s energy skyrocketed, and it showed during Heartbreaker. Even from her place at the side, she caught glimpses of a singular prominent vein up the side of his strong neck as he wailed for his people.

With a permanent smirk, the Golden God strode along the expanse of the stage, dragging his snake-skin-clad feet behind him like a noble steed. Though, Robert transcended the prototypical energy of a knight and his steed.

His chest puffed and shoulders back, the command over the ministrations of his onlookers was a mere act compared to the way his fair lady conquered his being.

For a moment, he was in the midst of symphonic coitus, making balmy and visceral love to his Queen through the way his body rocked and rolled in time with Jimmy’s cadenced playing.

Through the thousands of flushed and elated faces looking up at him, he only saw her.

Even when his eyes were shut, or she was an ocean away, it was always her.

His mind began to wander. He thought of all the ways he could convey the joy of seeing her, of having her with him…by having her. He envisioned her soft, feminine form straddling his lean hips, joined together from below. She’d roll her body over his, creating a perfect rhythm synonymous with worship.

But as much as she loved to worship him, he lived to worship her.

That’s why, when all was said and done at the venue, Robert and his lover bypassed the post-show extremities and landed exactly where they both desperately needed to be. Locked away in Robert’s hotel room.

Very little was said between them as they devoured one another, mind, body, and soul.

Their lips were aching and swollen from heated kisses. Hair was tangled and clothes were carelessly disposed of once Robert had her hoisted up against the wall.

Her hands clung to his golden locks as he meshed their lips together once more, and steadily ground into her, teasing her core with what was waiting to bury itself deep inside.

Robert took advantage of the way she leaned her head back against the cool wallpaper, attacking her supple throat as he coiled his hips back and forth. Her moans were so ethereal, her gasps were the life source he needed, and her hot, flushed core was home.

She let out a small yelp as he urgently pulled her from the wall and over to the bed, making his fantasies a reality by holding her above him. She loved this position. When she was able to feast her eyes on the man she was lucky enough to call hers. To watch as his chest tightened and his jaw fastened shut, his brows creased and his plump lips dropped open to give way to hefty breaths.

Observing him intently, she raised and lowered herself onto his rock-hard cock, smirking as he widened his eyes in response.

“W…Don’t we need—“

She cut him off by pressing her hand to his mouth. With a shake of her head, she reassured him that she needed him raw and entire within. They could worry about the potential consequences later.

“Just pull out, baby…” she hummed against his lips, teasing him with a stolen kiss. “You know how much I like it when I’m covered in you…”

“Fuck,” he huffed, digging his fingers into her hair and smashing his lips into hers. He was slowly losing control. Her hands splayed across the expanse of Robert’s broad chest, using all her strength to rotate her hips just the way he liked it. His hips were instinctively lifting to meet hers, quickly picking up a pace that had them both moaning and panting in congruence with one another.

She unleashed a barrage of praises, words of pride, over his earlier performance on stage, relentlessly reminding him that he was the ruler of her world, her body, her mind, her soul… her perfect man.

Earth could have the Golden God, but she got to have him.

Robert was unable to form a coherent response, her soaked walls coating his cock and creating lewd noises below each time they met with eager, passionate thrusts. He gripped onto her with mammoth hands, moving her body in time with his the needier he became. Until it wasn’t enough. He needed to take his control back.

He sat up, wrapping his muscular arms around her waist as he flipped them over completely. He stood at the edge of the bed, pulling her towards him by her legs until she was pressed flush against him. Blue eyes piercing into hers, his cock once again impaled her, and the remnants of Zeppelin’s Golden God came back into view.

Robert fell over her, humming at the restricted feeling he felt as she locked her legs around his waist, her ankles crossed and the heels of her feet pressed into his lower back. One hand on the side of her neck and the other holding onto her smaller hand, fingers intertwined, he proceeded with a spine-chilling, earth-shattering pace, angling his hips in such a way that allowed his cock to hit all the right places in the depths of her aching cunt.

“Mmm—missed you, darlin’…” he grunted, lips inches from hers. He attempted another kiss, but the speed and intensity of his love made it near impossible to do so. So he settled for the continuous dance their lips played upon one another’s. He could tell by the way her neck and chest flushed up and the heaving of her chest became unsteady that she was on the edge.

“Robert…” she gasped, arching her body up into his in an attempt to feel every single part of him. Her free hand clawed at his shoulder. She was so close now. She’d been thinking of this moment all day. He coaxed her into her blazing release, proclaiming his unconditional love for her, the woman he deemed the Aphrodite to his Eros.

The way she tightened around him sent him into overdrive, so much so that pulling out seemed like a far cry from reality. His love felt too good, but he knew better.

Robert gave her a warning look as she only seemed to strengthen the hold she had on him with her legs. With a breathless chuckle and a crooked smile, he pushed some hair out of her face to look down at her.

“I can’t pull out when you wrap your legs around me like that.”

Her post-release daze made it hard to decipher what he had panted in her face, but not impossible. And in some impulsive, orgasmic throe of eternal ecstasy, she ripped her hand away from his and held his face close to her, breathing in a silky voice.

“Then don’t… come on, baby, I want it…” she encouraged him, her hips jolting through her sensitivity. “I want you inside me forever. All of you.”

“Naughty little minx…”

“Yeah?” She hummed. “Show me how naughty I am… make me feel it for the rest of the night…” She nipped at his lower lip. That did it. With a primal growl and a shudder, Robert gave her what she wanted, happily filling her with his thick load, and giving in to the power she had over his white-hot libido.

In that moment, they knew she’d be making unexpected appearances for as long as they presided at the feet of Aphrodite.

[senka-mesecine]

Not to be overly angsty, but could you write headcanons for trying to break up with the various platoon characters? And maybeee if you want (and since it’s been previously discussed they’re all a *little* obsessive) some of their reactions could be on the darker side? Thank you.

-

― I imagine everyone would think that a break up with Chris Taylor would be a normal affair; you think so, everyone who knows him thinks so and even Chris himself thinks so about himself --- fact is, he doesn't envision himself as the type to flip out, have a dark side or a messed up reaction where the prospect of you actually leaving rears its ugly head or really, Taylor doesn't think he'd have a nasty reaction regardless of the situation and the context --- he'd ironically be convinced with his whole entire being that's the domain of men like Barnes or Bunny, not him. See, he thinks he's above these day-to-day suburban notions too, dating, break ups and make ups --- all that everyday jazz. If he wanted all of that he would've stayed in college. He's a nice guy regardless. Cool. Righteous. Level headed. He can handle a rejection no problem. He knows right from wrong. He can move on. And all of these traits are genuine in him except when they're not anymore, though. When the break up ceases being a theory just hanging in the great ether without actually happening and becomes a reality now that's when everything dormant inside of Chris begins flooding out and he starts being scary. He'd be so shocked you're actually serious about this he might go the route of smashing things up, getting in your face, arguing with you and even attempting to restrain you from physically leaving. It's not that Taylor's a bad person. Not that he'd do this with malicious intent. He didn't plan on this...at least not unfolding the way it ended up unfolding. It's just that when he's impassioned about something or someone he can end up seeming over zealous and even over-attached to the degree he starts becoming everything he'd never in a million years describe himself as.

― King tells Rhah and Rhah tells Crawford and Crawford tells Big Harold and Big Harold tells Chris and Chris tells a bunch of other people within Elias' squad in the platoon, and regardless if they're still in the army or have already rotated back into the world somehow these boys all find enough mutual solidarity to meet up amongst themselves, communicate, correspond, make plans and discuss the matter of King's break up like it's a tactical issue of great importance (maybe have some weed to commemorate the good old times while they're at it too; swap tales and all that shit) and confront you about it at a later date as well. They function like a brotherhood. React to this like a brotherhood. You break one heart and you've broken everyone's because they possess enough innate togetherness to have each other's back, even if having each other's backs in this case means demanding closure from you or maybe even a one last ditch to try and persuade you to get back with their friend as an united front. All several of them at the same time, yes. Functions suspiciously like an ambush even though they swear, all smiles and jokey attitudes, that that's not what it is. In fact, it feels like breaking up with King you've invertedly ended a relationship with various other people too because it's admittedly a little startling to have a barrage of people, some of which you don't even know and perhaps only just met now, there wanting answers out of you, practically pestering you to give it another shot. They're not wholly unpleasant about it, but yeah, it's all maybe a tid bit obsessive when one really thinks about it; how you're cornered into this. Meanwhile, King himself could be there with the biggest shit eating grin ever like he knows exactly what he's doing.

― O'Neill is an occasional coward in his own right, sure, and as a result one might think he could be too much of a doormat to actually do anything necessarily too awful if he was ever broken up with, but see, I think that's astoundingly untrue because I feel it would be shocking how quickly he could technically go from someone willingly servile and deferential to you to someone downright mean. Making fun of you, being faux-threatening, being a little cruel, going from being your lover to being your very own personal bully, outright lying that he has someone else lined up somewhere waiting for him and that he's flying out to (throws dart) a base in Okinawa to meet up with someone special and have some fun and this is all your doing because you don't know what you're losing out on by being the way you are --- it's all part of the special O'Neill menu under which he covers up just how devasted and afraid of losing you he actually is --- which yes, he wants and needs to cover up to seem tough because if by chance he showed you how he truly felt, he could reveal himself as the losing side over here and that's just no good in his books. So, he overcompensates. There was never a leech so difficult to get rid of as getting rid of Red actually is. He stalks. He prods. He pokes. He taunts. Might give you puppy eyes the next minute. Could whine. Act sleazy. Act smarmy. Could revert to being mean again. But thing is, there's no getting rid of him. It's difficult to tell after a while if his efforts are pathetic, weirdly endearing or both but one almost feels sorry for him. Almost. Funny thing is, O'Neill might just win you back on account of how awfully persistent he is.

― Everyone would assume a break up with Bunny would be unhinged and that's because it would be unhinged; he doesn't accept this pussy shit, as he calls it, and as a result he might do anything from shooting your neighbor's dog, shooting your own, breaking your windows or attempting to personally set your house on fire as retaliation; to him, this is free reign to do just about anything he wants. Heck, Bunny thinks he can do whatever he wants anyway (a notion he developed in the war) but when you give him an excuse as strong as this, all bets are off --- it's like you've left the gates to Disneyland and the Hugh Heffner's Playboy mansion simultaneously wide open for Bunny boy to browse and peruse as he wishes with zero consequences. He doesn't care if you love him or hate him after all of this, so long as you pay attention, even if it's of the most negative variety, he'll be gleefully content because it means he's on your mind and you scarcely have time for anything else seeing as how you're constantly fending off the crazy things your sick ex is doing to mess up your life. He rather relishes this a lot. The role of a sick ex. It's quite funny to him, actually. Bunny might love being your sick ex just as well as he likes being your actual boyfriend. Not a grand difference for him. It's almost hotter this way in his eyes. He gets into it. One could even say he's happy about it because there's seldom been a time this kid hasn't been smiling from ear to ear ever since the titular break up. It is undeniable it turns him on and that he views this as a bizarre form of foreplay and in fact, he ignores the fact you're not together anymore altogether; he meets you at a public place and he might just grin and throw his arm around your shoulder because that's his piece of ass right there.

― You break up with Wolfe and after the initial shock of that wears off on his end he immediately turns it around on you and makes it seem like he's actually the one taking authority and initiative and breaking up with you after you've already done all the legwork of starting this difficult conversation and breaking the ice around it. He's like a General ready for combat after the battle's already been done and concluded. Naturally, this is a self defense mechanism on Mark's part; a slightly spineless one, admittedly. But, no, this was his idea all along, you see, and he doesn't care anymore. Actually, he's walking away from this conversation altogether, so watch him go. That's it, he's going, all exasperated and up in arms. Going before you can actually pitch in with a counter argument that this was actually your decision and he practically usurped it making it seem like he's come up with it and somehow, you're the one seemingly ending up dumped, having no clue how or why it happened. I mean, you did want a break up...and you could be initially relieved it happened so quickly and seamlessly but part of you might have a bruised ego. Perhaps part of you is surprised at this turn of events. Wolfe might've never vocalized this once and now somehow he's the aggrieved party in control. All of this could serve as a bit of clever reverse psychology on his part, see, because now you might actually be tempted to question him why he wanted the break up when he's been nothing but happy up until like...yesterday or confront him that he's being manipulative; but you so long as you're still pursuing him and actively interested in his train of thoughts and he has the upper hand over you. He weirdly enough has a teensy, tinsy hook you in you don't even realize is there. Ironically, he's keeping you around through pretenses. It's a little sleazy but it works.

― Rhah calls you a Jezebel, Desdemona, Eve Accompanied by the Serpent itself, a Siren, the Whore of Babylon, more deceitful than Delilah, Salome and her Seven Veils, a Maneater, a Witch, a filthy Red and any number of creative, poetic epithets you can only really imagine nonironically, in all seriousness coming out of Rhah Vermucci's mouth and nobody else's. In fact, the insults are so flowery and highly decorative at times (even seeming...oddly flattering if you squint) one almost spots the barely concealed twinge of admiration and attraction still very much present even as you attempt to break up with him because while technically offensive, the ways Rhah theatrically describes you to your face in a feverish, passionate heat almost come off like he's describing the most desirable, vicious, alluring person alive and the subject of all his yearnings, all of that being peppered with sexual tension galore. It's like you're standing on the precipice of trying to end things with him or being dragged along for a round of angry hatesex just about now; either outcome is possible, with things weighing closer to winding up with you two desperately heaving and griding up against each other seeing as how Rhah might just be inches from your face, hot breath in your nostrils as he rants and raves how foul you're doing him now. Things could really quickly escalate from a shouting match to a frenzy of hungry, needy kissing where you're practically wrestling against each other and still arguing in between smooches because Rhah might be still there accusing you of being the equivalent of a trickster minx harlot and you very well could be trying to defend yourself. In either case, it's possible this break up goes nowhere because somehow both of you wake up the next morning properly fucked dry, high, sore, groggy and exhausted.

― While Elias might be the one who'd handle the break up with most grace, understanding and even outright forgiveness he also just downright wouldn't move on, in fact, you guessed it --- drugs and narcotics are his prime comfort. He gets high and he decides not to come down because now that you're out of his life there's not much worth coming down for. Not that he's hopeless. Man's sad. Melancholic, is all. He just wants to preserve the sole semblance of all the good feelings he had while you were here replicated in the form of the consolations and the escapism opioids offer; heck, he might even affectionately name his favorite combination of hallucinogenic dry plants rolled into a blunt after you personally because it's that obvious that the only way wants to cope with your absence is by effectively being on some figurative cloud of smoke somewhere, pretending you're there, and if you ever got worried because you did part on relatively good terms, feeling it's only right to check up on him every once in a while for old times sake you might find him entirely buzzed, smiling at you blissed out and vaguely relaxed and happy seeming because he doesn't think you're real. Something a break up from him and King might have in common. In fact, Elias could be all tenderness and emotion seeing you, pulling you close like you could disappear in a whiff of smoke any minute now and say something genuinely tender about how there's so much good in there world and how much of it is contained in you. How long has he been like this exactly? He seems loosened up and generally content but has he simply been in this den all the while smoking? His eyes are glazed over, joyful and distant and he thinks you're a waking dream and there's something bittersweet but a little disturbing about that.

― If you ever wanted to break up with Barnes he might nonironically hand you a gun and say something of the likes 'Go ahead. Do it.' in regards to the fact that if you want to end things you might as well end him. Kill him. He is coldly daring you as well as wholly meaning it with every nonplussed, frighteningly calm bone in his body. Because that's the only way this will ever actually end is if you effectively murder your partner. Widow yourself --- and you either have the guts to do that or you don't and if you don't then go around starting shit you ain't capable of going through with in the first place. That's his whole stance on the matter. If you hesitate he might just grab and turn that very gun, knife, firearm, weapon of murder of any variety around on you and hold the prospect of doing to you dangerously close to completion so it has time to settle into your head. It's a bit like Russian Roulette. That's what a break up technically is in his eyes; it's either or. Total finality. He isn't some sort of snot nosed, green boy, breaking up. Heck, those two words alone sound funny and unnatural even when he says them outloud to the degree he'd much rather do something entirely bloody and murderous to either you, himself or both than ever actually let you go and continue living with that. If he had to live with that he'd much rather return to warfare as a career and keep killing until he's eventually killed or keep the corpses piled up so high he's no longer himself. Either way, leaving him isn't really an actual possibility. He's giving you a way out, but it involves being just as coldblooded, murderous and cruel as he himself tends to be at his worst along with embracing every bad instinct he has as your own. Effectively, to break up with Barnes you need to kill Barnes...and to kill Barnes you need to become like Barnes. He knows and understands it and is goading you into it like a trial of fire. If you're not capable of going down that extreme route you'll never be rid of him.

[certifiedmaidenlessblog]

Okay literally nobody asked but since I am procrastinating AND restless:

My final thoughts/ranking of the Eternal mini:

(warning this is a full on yap sesh and I have next to no knowledge of music except for the very basics feel very very free to ignore)

1. Deja vu: I have feelings for this song. So gorgeous, dreamy and ethereal. Smiling so big because this song exists blah blah. Anyway the way I thought this song would be #chillvibes from the album preview snippet but then it turned out to be #nochill kajskajsj even tho there is definitely a lethargic quality to the song. I was so gagged but despite the tables turning on me I loved it immediately. Also the very random (but very well incorporated) tabla in the bridge? Slay. Initially I was mad that this wasn't the tt but with all the melodrama and orchestral arrangement, it has a similar vibe to guilty so I get it. But this song is ten fold of what guilty wanted to be (to me, that is). And I think this song remaining as a b-side to be occasionally performed instead of it being dragged through the promotional cycle and losing all the weight and impact of the song is a good choice too (the song itself is not very promotion cycle friendly either). I can't wait to see what the choreo looks like.

2. Horizon: Very kibumcore as a lot of people have also said, I think so too!! A very unexpected sound for a taemin song but he delivered sooo well. I do wish the song was longer tho. Don't know what being the second title track on this album means as of now but it's worthy of the position I'm sure.

3. Crush: Extremely shineecore! A cute and funky little number! Got me moving! The layers in the instrumentals are neat. I got exactly what was promised on the album preview. Well executed. No other notes. Other than the funky vibe there isn't really any standout element so I might get bored of it quickly tho.

Can't decide between ranks 4 and 5 so I'm calling it a tie.

4/5. Sexy in the air: I definitely should have let my brain soak this in a bit more before complaining about it cause now I literally can't stop listening to it helpppaksnakms cause Damn... This is crazy. What am I gonna do now?? Jaksjksks My first ranking for this song was literally second last (in a derogatory way) and now here we are. Also I held off from watching the mv first because I'm a very visual creature and I get easily swayed that way so I was trying to be #unbiased or whatever. I still think that the second verse is a bit meh, specially because of the English lyrics (i don't even know why I was so pissed off by the "turn me down" that was obviously supposed to be "turn me on", it wasn't even that serious 😭) but I was definitely being too harsh and it's not even as bad as I made it out to be and it doesn't stick out enough to get in the way of me enjoying the rest of the song. The switch up after the beat change is soooo good I've been obsessed with that part (the horny choreo definitely helps :D).

The good things about this song being the title track are: it's produced by dem jointz (the production is interesting and immaculate), the mastering of this song is better than most tracks on this album, it is performance oriented/friendly, both halves of the song are tied together so neatly that honestly the beat change doesn't even seem that unnatural even if it's shocking, tm devoured this track in a way that only he can, tm freak lore continues!!!! but most importantly it's bold!!! and it's a statement!!! (instead of playing it safe like he did with guilty imo lol, musically i mean). My only real grievance with this song is probably the fact that it wasn't allowed to go full freak nasty the way it was originally envisioned to be because we live in a society or whatever. Tm was moaning and groaning and saying fuck in the studio only for it to be muffled and be barely audible on the track. The dem jointz trademark of an addictive repeated word/phrase being distorted because otherwise tm would be put in horny jail fr (horny gay jail even because its so crazy that they had another man moaning on the track like skdkksksjdkd). Some of the lyrics being altered hastily (like "turn me down" ksjsjsks).This song being called sexy in the air instead of sex is in the air kajskaksksks. Sad. Because if anyone can pull off something like this without being cringe, it's tm. But it's okay I get it. Also notably this song has one of the veeery few ethical uses of that infamous bed creak sample (by ethical i mean relevant to the song at hand in a way that maximizes the slay of the song).

4/5. Say Less: Very pretty, short and sweet, could have been longer. A solid closer for this album and definitely stands it's own ground despite being on the track list after Deja vu. Which is lowkey a feat of its own. The instrumentals are infact drowning out his voice a bit but I don't think it bothers me as much as I had feared. Reminds me of Truth a bit.

6. The Unknown Sea: I don't have particularly strong opinions on ballads but I do generally only listen to ballads if I'm already super into the idol. And I do like most of the other ballads from tm. However. He's singing his ass off here but the vocal processing.... specially in the chorus his voice sounds very tinny. When I first heard the song I thought it wasn't that big of a deal but now it is definitely getting in the way of me enjoying this song. Beautiful bridge tho, definitely the highlight of the song for me.

7. G.O.A.T.: This instrumental is so fucking nasty I'm obsessedddd. Unfortunately the instrumental might just be the saving grace of this song. I went into this track thinking I was not even gonna be able to listen to this but thankfully it's not thaaaaaat bad. But we definitely need to get tm off his rapping agenda. Even after listening to this a bunch of times it's not sitting that well with me. (Which is crazy because after first listen I thought his voice was more well suited to GOAT than SITA???) I do understand that this song was meant to be a bit tongue in cheek like yeah the goat bleating sounds are hilarious in a good way but tm is Not giving the hardass aura that he thought he was going for and um. that's enough for me to be like :/ which is such a shame cause even the arrangement of this song is so interesting. But yeah whatever this track needed vocally is not in tm's strengths so. I'll wait for someone to upload the instrumental tho so that I can download it and play it with the rest of the album jksjsksksjsjs

I think it's a good choice to drop an album that's just him coming out swinging after such a drastic career altering decision. There's no more room for regrets or dilly dallying and he's confident. Which is a good thing. Because it definitely makes the statement he wants to make. The album as a whole is interesting, all the tracks differ from each other but that doesn't take away from the cohesiveness of the soundscape of the album. There is a clear logic in the way the tracklisting was done, the transition from one song to the next makes sense (even if I can't explain it properly).

That being said, yes the production and the mixing is a bit lacking (along with the other downsides of a low budget) but I don't think sm has songs like this in their vault anymore so... You win some you lose some idk.

Overall I do see this as a win. Yapping over and out.

[sungbeam]

beam! not sure if you’ve done this but can you ship your moots??? with any of the groups you stan and why!

omg i think i once did something,, kind of similar?? but let's give it a go !!

@justalildumpling — okay i would give her sunwoo 💀 but i think she needs a jaemin in her life to balance out the delulu skcnekfbkdnfk they would be such an attractive couple tho im YELLING like,,, bro. i would actually fund the wedding ring. and he kinda feels like the my melody to her kuromi low-key 😭 like he would just love squishing her cheeks and kissing her

@jaehunnyy — ofc none other than jung wooyoung 😋 i mean,, who else yk 💁🏻‍♀️ they're both so silly and wholesome, and just their vibes match? both very cheery, sunny people, what can i say ✨ THE TYPE WHO ENDS UP W TWO KIDS, A GOLDEN RETRIEVER, AND A PRETTY HOUSE—

@mosviqu — the cali boy himself, eric sohn. as she says all the time, she is the bi black cat girl to his golden retriever, he is the skater boy of her dreams, just.... the vibes are so real, my friends, they should be spending midnights together holding hands and kissing under streetlights !! california boy, when r u gonna wine and dine her fr

@winterchimez — lee sangyeon, there is no doubt and no other answer?? my Mom and Dad™, if they get a divorce then i would be collateral damage. but i actually envisioned ally as sangyeon's type 😭😭 like that's not even a joke. the idea i had for his yn in liu is LITERALLY ALLY IRL. IM NOT EVEN KIDDING THAT SHITS CRAZY

@ethereal-engene — ash needs to be w woozi bc yk that thing where couples kind of look alike 💀 NO BUT this is good bc the first time i saw ash, i said she looked exactly like uji they both are so SKFNEKFJ anyways,, i feel like they'd be able to encourage and appreciate each other a lot :') idk ash and jihoon r both some of my comfort people, and i think that pair would work so well

@zzoguri — jacobie bae hehe !!! who else tbh like they both are such comfort-driven people. mon is such a hard worker and juggling so much at once all the time, and i just know that he would be the bestest boyfriend in the world, and would give them all the encouragement AND support to chase their ambitions yk. and the fact that mon appreciates music :')) and they would just bond over his pj karaoke

@loveliestfelix — our smexy daniel choi yeonjun !! okay i feel like every time i talk abt these two, i always say they would be the HOTTEST COUPLE EVER, and i am not kidding. this is the most serious i have ever been. she would so fit as his secret gf who the public can't even be mad at cuz she's so funny, gorgeous, and mad talented like—

@goldenhypen — jake sim 😌✨ okay ik this is like cheating, but but but think abt it 😭 jake is totally the type to just be sooo obsessed w his girl and just wanna shower her w affection, and i think it's only fair cuz em loves him sm too :')) like omg i could see them as the couple u see who loves holding hands and just,,, even just smiling at each other (´Д⊂ヽ

@hqrana — i think noa needs to be w hoshi 😭😭 like the vibes of both of them are sooo chaotic, but in the best way possible. like i can't even explain it—maybe it's the wolverine edit of him she made once—but she seems like he would put up w his crazy bs and still love him; like the cool gf w the loser bf 💀 sorry i really just clowned him HAHA

@tranquilpetrichor — choi san low-key 👀 like eris gives black cat girl vibes TT and ik that san also gives me black cat boy too, but i think it would work so well. like they're both SOOO cool, like the chillest people ever, but also so well-intentioned. and they would be the type of couple who have a softer, quieter kind of love, but still something i would throw myself over a cliff for

[divinemare]

i was so bored so i made this ai photos of my oc’s :) (instead of writing, what i should be doing) so enjoy, because they’re gorgeous beautiful perfect

Mareena

a court of gods and monsters

literally losing my mind over how pretty she is. that glow???? in my mind her eyes were even more greener (and with the so called “specks of gold” like tamlins) but nonetheless everything else is perfect

Demetria

cold starlights

SHE’S SO BEAUTIFUUUUUL, literally ethereal. i need to do a version with all the new gen and I WILL. also i couldn’t give her the double colors in her eyes so just imagine she has one gray eye ok? ok :)

Kallistrade

dark tides

she looks like she could kill you AND SHE WILL. you can just SEE the evil smirk in her eyes. the only thing i’m not so happy about is that i feel her skin is whiter than i envisioned, like miss gurl’s job is ocean, i feel like she has more of a tan, but the facial features the hair and the accessories are on point

Karina

cruel cauldron

SHE’S LITERALLY PERFECT STOP. this is EXACTLY how i pictured her. the hair the skin the eyes EVERYTHING. she’s literally mesmerizing (and those eyebrows???? i’m obsessed)

Ariadne

legend of a mortal love

i’m crying 🥹🥹🥹 my baby girl 🥹🥹🥹 i’m sorry but the DEFIANCE in her eyes???? she’s 100% looking at rhys in this pic. also the messy hair looks incredible

Maeve

born to die

OMFG. that’s all i’m gonna say bcos that’s all that NEEDS to be said. JUST LOOK AT HER PLSSSS

and that’s it i think, i’m gonna do more bcos im obsessed whit how this turned on. i wanna know what y’all think, is this how you pictured them too or what would you change? let me know pls!

[hero2222]

Story: An Angel's jealousy

Alice landed softly on Chisk's balcony, her wings folding neatly behind her. Her usual radiant confidence seemed dimmed, an unusual sight that piqued Chisk's interest as he glanced up from his workbench. He was clad in his usual attire: dark-brown dress pants paired with a light green tee, the ensemble oddly complemented by a white lab coat that had become somewhat of his trademark. His brown, messy hair and bright green eyes contrasted sharply with the meticulousness of his surroundings.

“What’s troubling you?” Chisk asked, the directness in his tone softened by genuine concern as he observed Alice. She looked ethereal in her white dress, which flowed elegantly around her form, a stark contrast to the practicality of Chisk's own appearance. Her halo shimmered softly above her long blonde hair, and her golden eyes held a storm of emotions.

“It’s... it’s Selina,” Alice began, hesitantly. She fidgeted with the hem of her dress, a sign of her discomfort. “I thought I might be homophobic because I felt relieved when she broke up with her girlfriend. And the idea of her being with anyone else... I don’t know, it just bothers me.”

Chisk leaned back against his workbench, analyzing Alice’s words. “You’re bothered by her being with someone else, or just the idea of her not being available?”

Alice paused, seemingly taken aback by the question. “Well, when you put it like that...” Her voice trailed off, her brows knitting together as she processed her own feelings. It was unlike her to be this introspective, especially when it came to her own emotions.

Chisk, noticing her struggle, decided to approach it from another angle. “Imagine Selina with someone new. What exactly bothers you about that?”

Alice envisioned Selina, her laughter echoing in her memory, her indigo eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s... it’s weird. Like, I should be happy for her, right? But instead, I just feel... annoyed? No, that’s not the right word...”

Chisk couldn’t help but smile at Alice's obliviousness to her own feelings. “Jealous, maybe?”

Alice looked surprised, as if the word was a revelation to her. “Jealous? But why would I be... Oh.” The realization dawned on her slowly, her expression a mix of confusion and surprise. “Oh!”

Chisk nodded, his smile widening. “Sounds like you might have feelings for her. More than just friends?”

Alice, now fully aware of the depth of her feelings, blushed. The thought had never crossed her mind, or perhaps, she had unconsciously chosen to ignore it. “I... I don’t know. This is all so new to me.”

“Take your time figuring it out,” Chisk advised, his voice steady and reassuring. “Feelings can be complicated. Especially in situations like yours.”

As the conversation drifted to other topics, Alice felt a weight lifting off her shoulders. Chisk’s simple yet effective way of dissecting her dilemma had provided her with a clarity she hadn’t known she needed. And as she eventually took her leave, her wings catching the cool night air, Alice realized that understanding her feelings for Selina was just the beginning of a much larger journey.

(Selina belongs to @lordrose97 )

[winksasleeplesseye]

adtrita (four)

SUMMARY: Amara, alongside Leon and Ashley, escapes from the church, but they run into more trouble and find Luis in a cabin nearby. Luis finally gives them some answers....but not much.

WORD COUNT: 4.9k

WARNINGS: mentions of blood, violence, some cursing

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For what felt like the millionth time, Amara went over so many things in her head. How things could’ve been, should’ve been, needed to be. It doesn’t matter that she was in the middle of a dangerous rescue mission, being led by the one person she couldn’t get out of her head for the past six years. Didn’t matter at all that even in the middle of this situation he couldn’t bother to ask how she’d been, what she was doing now considering she’d confessed she loved him and him the same in return at one point in time.

Did he even still feel the same? Would he have even held a candle for her for six years?

Sure, there was the teasing (mostly from her from what she could tell) and what have you but what about the love? She didn’t say that to him lightly, didn’t say that out of some obligation because he’d saved her life. 

Plenty of men tried to pursue in the past few years but she denied them all (she wasn’t above some light flirting though). It was a little bit of a hard act to follow with a man who’d fought grotesque monsters and flesh-eating zombies in an underground lab to get her something that didn’t even have a chance to fully cure her. But Leon did. No questions asked. 

Leon was—no, is—a good man. 

A part of her felt it foolish, maybe naive to admit she had most definitely held the candle for him, letting it burn down to its wick, more than ready to let the hypothetical flame burn at her fingertips.

Amara would be lying if she didn’t envision the next time they met again to be more romantic comedy and less horror film hell. 

Yeah, she was just really tired of living through life-altering events. 

Now, all three of them stood hiding between the windows of this church. Outside, she caught a glimpse of the moon, a pale gray silver intermittently overtaken by the clouds. The bluish-gray moonlight casted Leon in an almost ethereal tone as he kept his eyes in a constant swivel, their training differed in many ways but one thing was the same. Assessing the next steps. 

The voice that rattled inside her head sounded just about as menacing yet calculated (with a slight hint of cartoony) as someone else she knew once but his command was clear. 

Which explained why villagers were now hellbent on finding them. 

In the midst of Leon’s assessment, Ashley's eyes brimmed with tears, obviously a bundle of nerves once more as she asked him, “What do we do?” 

For a brief moment, Leon turns to Amara and she’s taken back to that moment back in a forgotten city as he assumed she knew the best course of action, but his gaze turns back to Ashley just as quickly. 

This is his mission after all. 

“Your father trusts me…and I need you to trust me too and do exactly as I say. I’m gonna get you home safe,” Leon speaks with authority, ever the consummate professional but there’s still a gentleness. He’d learned a good balance, she assumed. None of them would get very far if there wasn’t an implicit trust.

His words send relief through her, judging by the brief nod she gives him, “Okay, Leon.” 

He doesn’t say anything to Amara, clearly he assumed she didn’t really need so much of a pep talk as the untrained, unprepared college girl did. 

Their conversation is cut short by a bursting of a door beneath them, Leon turns his head towards the noise, raising a hand to tell Ashley to stay back. Amara cautiously looked over the rail as he joined her to see what was going on. 

The villagers had made their grand entrance, scouring every pew, every nook, every cranny and even behind the altar for them. Their words held all the venom behind them, even from here, Amara could tell something about them was off. 

Ignoring the disarray of their clothes stained with dirt and other things, their skin had a sheen to it that was unnatural and…their eyes…their eyes held a furious red beadiness to them. If Amara didn’t know better, she’d have thought their eyes were just about ready to escape their sockets. 

There was no going down there, that was for damn sure. 

Very much like a mind reader, Leon voiced Amara's thoughts and their next actions, “All right, let’s get the hell out of here.”

They cross the floor in crouched positions, nearing a ladder to take them up a floor as it sat against the wall. The sound of rain pelted down harder outside, the smell of that same mold and mildew is thick, clearly thriving in the nestled corners of the church. 

At its current height, they weren’t going anywhere unless…

“Get the ladder,” Leon simply commanded, immediately kneeling down. He didn’t exactly specify who he wanted to do the getting and didn’t want to assume he meant her. 

Amara and Ashley share a brief look, the former gesturing, “Up to you.” 

“Okay. Hope this is a one time thing,” Ashley mutters, more to herself than anyone else. Amara watched as she took care of how she stepped on Leon’s unreasonably, nicely broad shoulders. He stands to full height with no problem, which sends Ashley up to a higher point of vantage to kick the ladder down. 

Amara tried not to be a pervert and stare at Leon’s ass as he ascended the ladder before her, but she did need to look up to climb as well…and well, it was there. Low hanging fruit, or in this case, ass. 

Just as she reached the top, Leon flicked on a flashlight, which illuminated at least some of the dark path before them. Obviously, this was the church’s attic, judging by the items draped in covers and the boxes and barrels strewn about. A good layer of dust settled on everything so no one had been up here for a long while. A particular thought wiggled its way into Amara’s brain, could a painting be here? 

She couldn’t exactly have said that her original mission had ended, sure, Joe was no longer her support but as far as her other one, it was still a free game. It was a safe assumption to say she was in Spain. 

Killing two birds with one stone, getting rescued by Leon and finishing her own mission right under Leon’s nose. Who said he’d have to know anyway? 

If he wanted to be that way, seemingly avoidant and distant, she could too. 

Fuck, she needed to stop acting so stupid about him. He wasn’t going to immediately drop all his focus and professionalism to make small talk to appease her desperate need to connect with him once again.

This wasn’t Raccoon City anymore, Leon had an actual job to do, actual people to report to. They both did. 

But, that nagging in her head would remain for the moment. 

“What do we do? There’s no way out.” Ashley’s question cuts through the air as Amara examines something in the furthest corner of the attic. Nothing in here is remotely shaped like a painting.

She can already tell that Leon knew his next move, a foot planted at the edge of an open windowsill as a brief crack of lightning broke through the sky. He doesn’t even really announce what that move is, he just does it as he jumps out the window. 

A quiet thump is just about the only thing that alerted Amara to him landing on the ground. She and Ashley moved to look out the window, Leon stared back up at them. The height alone kind of made her queasy but she swallowed that down, asking Leon a crucial question, “Are you sure about this?” 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you, both of you.” He reassured, the rain soaking him within seconds.

Amara looked back to Ashley, “I hope you have good insurance.” Ashley sends her a tight smile. 

It’s not that Amara doesn’t have confidence in Leon, she does completely, but catching a person at this height? He may have nice biceps and probably great strength overall but they’re no match for gravity and other factors. 

She tried with everything to fight her hesitance and Leon seemed to pick up on it. “Hey, trust me!” 

With a quick prayer to whatever powers that be, Amara scooted herself off the edge and catches air briefly. She half expected a bone crunch or something but she found that she was very tightly secured against Leon. His hands gripped at her shoulders and underneath her knees.

He looked at her in his arms for what felt like a long time, but the moment quickly ended as he placed her feet on the ground. “Thank you for catching me.” 

“Anytime,” he responded in a way that reminded her of a different Leon. 

Amara tried not to curl in on herself from how the cold rain hit against her clothes, becoming just as drenched as Leon had in just under a minute. Ugh. 

She thought she’d left this disgusting rain in shitty London. This was the last thing she wanted to be doing. 

Leon catches Ashley with just as much ease, something that Amara can’t help but to find attractive. Goodness, she needed to calm herself down. But, shit, she also needed a gun. Her dear, sweet Beretta would be sorely missed. 

She listens with rapt attention to Leon’s transmission with “Roost” about “Baby Eagle”. She could only assume her codename was just as silly and she’s proven correct as she fought a small giggle at the use of “Black Hawk”. It made sense to use official codenames so that Leon wasn’t stupidly going around announcing who he was rescuing but that still didn’t stop it from being ridiculous. 

Condor One was a pretty badass one though. Fitting for Leon, she had to admit. Condors are amongst the largest birds in the world and Leon had one of the biggest dicks so it checked out.

At least a helicopter was coming for extraction. The sooner this shitshow was over, the better.

“Like I said, it’s dangerous. Stick close.” 

Ashley nods once again. “Okay.” 

“Think you should probably give me one of your guns, Leon.” Amara suggested.

Two capable agents were better than one. Throbbing pain aside, Amara had a hell of a shot. No point letting it go to waste. 

He looks at her like she’s said the craziest thing. Replying with a quick whisper of, “What? No.” 

“What do you mean no?” She can’t fight the confused twist in her features. “Don’t be fucking stupid. We’d have more of a fucking fighting chance if you’d give me one of your guns, Leon. It’s two against…a hundred maybe.”  

If her words sting him, he doesn’t let that show. Still focused as ever. “My mission is to keep you both safe.” 

She doesn’t want to argue especially in this rain, but her whisper has a tinge of yelling to it. “Yeah, and two people—agents—who know their way around guns is better than one, would you concur?” 

He shakes his head briefly, begrudgingly handing her the shotgun that was strapped across his back. “Try not to waste ammo.” 

Now that’s what she called firepower.

Her lips quirk into a sickly sweet smile. “Relax, Kennedy. This isn’t my first rodeo.” Even that isn’t enough to break through his seemingly new hard exterior, a quick eye roll is all she gets before he pushes a tipped over shelf blocking the doorway. 

“You two know each other?” Ashley questioned as they moved quickly and quietly through the path revealed just beyond the doorway. 

“Oh, very well. We have a history even Shakespeare would envy…” she quips, moving close to Ashley, whispering the last part with a hand covering the side of her mouth. “But don’t tell Leon that, he might disagree.” 

She laughed quietly, a momentary reprieve from the horrific situation and Amara is glad to have provided it.

The three crouch close together, Leon leading the charge as the rain picked up in its intensity but somehow the flames that came from the torches the villagers held still shined brightly. Amara quietly checked the barrel to see it’s already loaded as Leon moved quickly towards one of the villagers whose back was turned on them. They muttered in Spanish but not words that Amara could translate, but the quiet venom of them was still obvious.

Leon unsheathed his knife, coming up behind the man, coming down on his throat with a ferocity that Amara had never seen from him before. A quick spray of blood coated his hand and the knife—Marvin’s knife—she realized. It barely phased him. Well, outwardly, at least. 

With a firm hand over the man’s mouth as he drops to the ground with a quiet thud. Onto to the next one for Leon. 

This was no longer the same Leon she’d met years ago, if this action didn’t make it abundantly clear. 

Both of them could now navigate dire situations without so much as a thought to doing it, but to see the sheer capacity for brutality that Leon possessed…she wasn’t sure how to feel. 

It’s not like she wasn’t also capable of it too, it’s why she’d gotten the nickname she had. Getting the job done took priority and that usually meant whatever means necessary. 

After all, the end, for the most part, justifies the means, right? 

Just as quick, the villagers become aware almost immediately of their location. Barely a step away from the church. Ashley let out a shriek from fear as they ran at them with murderous intent in their eyes. 

“What is wrong with these people?!”

Almost on instinct, both Leon and Amara shield the girl on both sides. 

The rain practically doused Amara’s vision as the villagers crowded them. Any eyeshadow left on her lids had started seeping in as well, a burning sensation that left her squinting and no doubt her eyes bloodshot. The weather was no joke.

“Stay the fuck back!” With quick moves, she pressed the butt of the gun into her shoulder and unloaded a deadly shot at close range. The recoil was no joke on this thing but that one shot was enough to cut through the crowd. 

Shit, that’s gonna hurt later. 

A few of the people convulsed on the floor (despite lacking a full head on their shoulders) and Leon is quick to stab them in their downed state. 

“What the hell is wrong with these people?”  Her voice was incredulous, voicing the same question Ashley had only moments ago. 

“Hell if I know! Just shoot!”

“That’s your plan?”

“A wise woman I once knew would say point, aim, shoot in that order!”

Amara couldn’t exactly argue with that. But, shit, did him being so authoritative have to be so hot? She does as told, helping Leon clear a path to hopefully get away from this place. They run as fast as their legs take them, coming to a bridge only to find themselves flanked on either side by more village people.

Saving grace comes to the three of them in the form of Luis frantically waving them towards the inside of a cabin. “Over here!” 

They didn't think twice about booking it like a bunch of track runners trying to make it to the finish line, the second Amara’s body passed the threshold of the doorway she all but crashed to the floor a few feet away from the door. 

Stabbing. That’s what her lungs felt like, definitely not like the stabbing Leon had gladly partaken in earlier but it was enough to keep her planted to the ground and struggling for every breath. 

Shit. Is this what chainsmokers felt like? 

Amara was no Olympic athlete by any means but she wasn’t out of shape either but as far as she can tell, that was hard to tell right now. 

Luis slammed the door shut, temporarily shielding the four of them from the villagers outside. They were relentless, a mere cabin wouldn’t exactly hold them back for long, judging by the pitchforks and torches. But it’ll do. Leon placed a gentle hand on Ashley’s shoulder as she was nearly keeled over, fighting for air from the effort of running. 

Within a few moments, Leon is on Luis like a hunter after his prey. Amara only briefly glimpsed the absolute rage in Leon’s eyes as he stated, “You.”

“Hey…listen…about earlier…” Luis seemed to pick up on it, immediately cowering back away from Leon. 

“Yeah, about that…” He has him against the wall, fist pressed into his chest. 

Amara’s eyes shifted between the two men. What in the hell exactly occurred between the time she’d last seen them both? Whatever happened, it clearly pissed Leon off on a massive scale. She doesn’t remember the last time she’d ever seen him so angry, well maybe ever actually. Of course, this was a different Leon now compared to then. Back then, Leon was very sweet…so sweet in fact that Amara occasionally thought he couldn’t hurt a fly but he cursed like a sailor to make up for it. 

Luis’ almost gray-blue eyes fell on Amara and Ashley. “Hey…I see you found your missing senorita and your radiante flor.” 

He was clearly trying to deflect and defuse the obvious tension radiating off of Leon but still Amara can’t help the small smile on her face at the compliment even through her annoyance. Certainly a charmer. 

But, come on, the guy disappeared for several hours and she’s just supposed to not be irritated? Hell, maybe she was more pissed than Leon is, if she wanted to be real. 

She arched her eyebrow. “Are you ever going to use my name?” 

He doesn’t answer as Ashley walks up beside her, “And the senorita has a name and it’s Ashley, and you are?” 

“Name’s Luis,” He responds in an almost sultry manner, “Encantado.” 

“Great. We all have names…Now-“ Leon forced his fist harder into Luis’ chest, a small grunt of pain coming from the other man. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” 

Amara half expected Luis to tell Leon the same thing he’d told her back in his lab, it’d certainly resolve Leon’s hostility towards him but things weren’t that simple, that easy. An ominous orange-red glow came closer and closer to the window. Amara is the first to notice. 

“Very good question…unfortunately…”

“Uh, Leon?” As if pulled by a thread, the other three turned towards her. Leon lets up on Luis to look outside the window too. The villagers had gotten another way around the gate that Leon closed. 

And it wasn’t just a measly few villagers. They were surrounding the cabin. 

He turned sharp towards both Amara and Ashley. “Hide. Now.” 

“Fuck that.” Amara protested almost immediately, checking the barrel of her shotgun. “Ashley, you go hide. We’ve got this.” 

Hopefully. 

The girl scrambled, searching for somewhere good to hide. This cabin was just about as wide open as anything and there weren’t really any good spots to hide. That is, until Luis lifted—with Leon’s assistance—a knocked over bookcase, revealing a hole. 

Leon ushered Ashley through the hole, she threw him one last glance as she crawled through, the worry in her gaze was pretty obvious but he quickly nodded his head in reassurance. Amara quietly commended him for putting on a brave face for her or hell, maybe he just is that brave to think they could hold off these people. 

Luis and Leon move back to the window, Amara training on her eyes through the very same window. “Alright…it’s game time.” Leon nodded minutely in agreement before retreating away from the windows. 

Leon already beat Amara to the next course of action in barricading the other open windows surrounding them. Meanwhile, Luis spouted manly nonsense (well, by Amara’s standards) to Leon about stretching and warming up. 

“Yeah, now if you’d shut up, we’d be good to go,” Leon responded just as quickly. That made Amara smirk to herself but this wasn’t the time for that.

“Can you two shut up the lovers quarrel and shoot these motherfuckers, please?” She yelled just as the first few villagers climbed inside the cabin. 

“If the lady insists!” Luis shouted back, almost in a twisted excitement. 

Luis, for all his secrecy, was growing on Amara in a way. For a scientist, he sure knew his way around a gun. An asset she could appreciate right now. 

More and more villagers bombarded almost every entrance to the cabin that they could, an acrid scent began to fill the air from the bodies piling up and…melting? A detail that Amara desperately wanted to rid from her mind. 

Amara, Leon and Luis flanked one another, trying to keep the villagers back but there were only three of them compared to god knows how many rabid people out there. 

“Don’t have much ammo left, gentlemen!” Amara announced, sending a group of three men flying back into one another from the force of the shells leaving the barrel. To add a fucked up cherry on top of everything, a hulking man wearing a pig head over his own burst through one of the barricaded windows with a massive sledgehammer.

The whiplash Amara gets at the sound definitely will leave a crick in her neck but that’s a problem for later. “Up here!” Luis shouted, running up the stairs and she followed not even a second later with Leon being the last to race up the stairs behind them. Creating distance between them and this thing was the smarter option as it swung wildly at everything in its path. It was hard to tell who exactly the thing was after.

Another serious case of deja vu came over her and she didn't hesitate to voice that, “This guy is too much like RC for my liking.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Leon scoffed just as he landed a kick on one of the villagers. 

Just as the hulking figure came after them, Amara readied the shotgun to take a shot but the familiar click sound she knew too well came out instead, “Shit, I’m out!” 

“Here,” Luis barely gave her a moment to think before he tossed her a spare gun. Hm, she had to practically fight with Leon to even get the shotgun. 

“Appreciate it!” 

She tried to ignore the quick shake of Leon’s head, clearly in annoyance toward the man. 

Barely two seconds passed before she began unloading ammo into the pigheaded idiot, to hell with the other people right now. 

“Is he even feeling this?” Amara questioned aloud more to herself, an almost incredulous laugh but only to avoid some other reaction. Probably crying. 

The cabin was all tight corners and no good exit point, it was a good thing they’d sent Ashley away…they were sandwiched, to say the least. And not in a good way.

Half a second later, as the three of them scattered like bugs around the cabin, Ashley burst in through the back door. “Leon! Amara! Hurry!” 

All three of them turned to look at her before Amara broke out into a dash for the door, she had never ran so fast in her life. She didn’t hesitate to follow behind, the men both hot on her tail to escape. Running across a bridge, Leon had to be commended on his quick thinking as he shot the chain, severing the tie between the villagers and themselves. But first, Amara needed to catch her breath. 

Labored breaths escaped their lungs as if they had all ran a marathon, Amara let her head lull back against the wooden wall. 

Safe. For now.

That wouldn’t be the case for long though. But still, Amara couldn’t believe how exhausted she felt, and for the first time in the evening, a brief touch from Leon came down on her shoulder. 

“You good?”

No. Far from it. 

Before Amara could answer, Ashley began coughing hard. Gasping for breath as…blood coated her hand. 

Both of them, almost as if on instinct, checked on Ashley.  Amara didn’t even hesitate to ask, “You alright?”

“What’s hap-happening to me?!”

Luis, in a rare show of genuine concern, took Ashley’s hand and asked, “Ashley, is this the first time you’ve coughed blood like this?” 

The girl nodded in response. 

“Care for an explanation?” That set off alarm bells in Amara’s head. It only felt natural to question him now seeing as he hadn’t reacted the way they had. Not too long ago, the taste of copper poured from her mouth so it had to be connected, right?

“Do you remember what I told you? At the lab?” Luis set his eyes solely on Amara, an interesting grayish-blue color to them. 

The heat on the sides of her face from both Leon and Ashley bored their eyes on her too made her feel a little uncomfortable. 

“Refresh my memory.” Amara answered defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest. It didn’t take two and two to put it together but she wanted to hear him say it out loud. 

“The cough, the blood—it’s caused by something called a…” A brief pause. “Plaga.”

Plague. 

The Plague.

Now, she remembered the lab. Las Plagas was a…virus or a parasite, but what exactly did that entail for all of them? 

Leon and Amara share a brief look. He does the same with Ashley. 

Clearly it hadn’t clicked for the latter two. 

Luis went on. “Ok. You saw those “people”, right?” 

“You have the same thing inside you.” That gets Amara’s attention. “The same thing that made them like that…”

“This, what you’re experiencing, these symptoms…” Luis spoke in a lower tone, almost an ominous warning. “They’re only the beginning.” 

Something about that made her heart break a little. If it weren’t bad enough for Ashley being kidnapped, now she had a parasite too? Not to mention, so did Amara but she wasn’t sure what to make of that predicament for herself yet. Could someone with her…powers…even turn into one of those people? Calling them people was being polite because she wasn’t even sure what they were anymore.

She didn’t want to think the z word but their characteristics were certainly lining up that way.

Naturally, that spiked a fear in Ashley. “I don’t want to become like them.” 

That made two of them.

Luis with his back turned to them, seemed to stop short. “You are, well, lucky.” 

“How do you figure?” 

“You see, at this early stage, the parasite—the plaga. It is possible to remove it…with a surgical procedure,” He threw his hands up. “All you need is some know-how.” 

Amara could just hear the sly tone flood his next words, “And, oh yeah—the right equipment.” 

They all set their eyes on a scar on Luis’ chest that he proudly displayed. He’d failed to mention that he had also been injected with the parasite at some point and successfully got it out. 

“You’re kidding.” 

 “No worries. See, I have a plan,” He pointed to his head and winked. There was a caveat to this, Amara knew. “But you’re going to have to trust me.” 

And there it was.  

Leon looked over to Amara once more, he already seemed to know her thought process. Trust wasn’t exactly something that was easily given. But what choice did they have right now? 

A simple head nod from him seemed to be more than enough for Luis. 

“Great! We’re partners then!” He headed off on the path and something in Amara felt compelled to follow him. Was it a curiosity? Was it something else? 

“Hey. Why are you—“ 

“No time for any questions. The clock is ticking.” 

Leon asked what had to be a crucial question. “Why are you helping us?” 

But Luis was quick with an answer, not even turning around to look. “Because it makes me feel better, let’s leave it at that.” 

He waved a radio in his hand. “I will contact you later.”

Amara doesn’t even second guess her decision. Only a few strides make it past Leon before his hand clutches at the bend of her arm to pull her back gently. “Where are you going?”

“With Luis?” She said, as if it were obvious. She could just barely see his form in her vision. He hadn’t gone too far yet. 

“You’re still my mission, you know that, right?”

“I’m aware, Dad,” She replies with a bit of snark. “But one of us should go with him to help his plan, right?” 

“He said he’ll contact us later—“

“—and I can’t wait till later. I can catch up later,” Amara tried to gently remove Leon’s hand from her arm but he wasn’t budging. 

“It’s dangerous out here. Just stick close for now.”

“Leon, I can handle myself. Focus on Ashley, alright?”

For what felt like the first time since their reunion, Leon proved to her that he wasn’t completely unphased by it all as his grip got a little tighter and his voice became a tad uneven from a built up frustration, “Just stay with me!”

“What is up with you? You’re acting like I’m incapable!”

“You’re acting differently too!”

“Me? Different? That’s irrelevant right now. The priority is the mission but there’s clearly something else going on that we need to learn about and the only one who seems to know a damn thing is leaving!” 

“Amar-“

“Enough! We’re wasting time standing here,” Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed in the direction of Luis. A nagging voice told her to at least reassure Leon she’d be back, so she did even though it sounded less reassuring and more annoyed (she was very annoyed at him).

“I promise to catch up, alright?”

[xawkward-ariesx]

Muse

Jane had loved the smell of her university dark room back in her student days. What had started out as a means of filling the time and giving her a plausible excuse to forego social events back in freshman year had developed into a passion. A means of capturing a moment in time and instilling it permanently in film to be revisited at whim. Her flatmate Donna had once accused her of preferring her stills to the people captured within them. It wasn't entirely true.

People were confounding and endlessly confusing. She didn't know how to navigate social situations, always misconstruing or just missing social cues entirely. The stories people told outright were rarely the whole thing. It was akin to being given the cliff notes and being asked to rewrite the chapters from them, you were bound to miss the details and the nuance. It was frustrating in a way that photography wasn't.

People didn't expect her to talk behind a camera much more than to simply direct them and that was something she excelled at. She knew how to get what she wanted from people, always cutting to the core of the matter, no patience for skirting around it.

She rarely entertained regrets. If she hadn't gone after something there was a reason for it. And yet there was one woman who plagued her as of late. Rose Tyler, her current muse. The young woman had modelled for her on numerous occasions now and yet with every opportunity presented to her, Jane still had not plucked up the courage to say more to her than the usual directions she gave all those that stepped in front of her lens.

But there was something different about the blonde. Something that urged her to speak to the ethereal woman. Something that itched to put hands to her skin and maneuver her as if she was clay to mold rather than a subject to instruct. Something that beckoned her closer and had time running away from her. With every urge came the certainty that she should keep her distance. Very few people could tolerate her 'eccentricities' and Rose was a work colleague. She'd never had trouble separating work from the rest of her life before and yet...

She was brought out of her thoughts by a laugh.

"You look so lost in thought that I'd be offended if you didn't keep calling me back for each new idea of yours." Rose teased, tongue between teeth in a smile that demanded to be captured on film. Jane resisted the temptation as always.

"Sorry." She replied sheepishly.

Rose hummed, "Ya know I thought you'd be chattier."

"What makes you say that?" Jane fought to keep the sharp tone out of her voice, fiddling with her camera as a distraction.

"You know my mate Jack. He said you had philosophy together one semester in uni, and it was only a semester because you got into a debate about theology with the lecturer before switching course."

Jane flushed red at the reminder, "That was a long time ago." Though they had remained friends since then despite how obnoxious she found the man at times he was always there to bail her out when she needed.

"Maybe." Rose conceded, but only for a moment. "But my mum cuts your friend Donna's hair and she has plenty to say about her 'spaceman' friend."

Jane rolled her eyes at the familiar nickname. Donna had frequently referred to her as a 'space case' but the real nail in the coffin for that nickname had been the astronomy class she'd taken after dropping philosophy and promptly fallen in love with. Donna's left eye still twitched when she mentioned certain comets.

"Donna's a gossip."

"So's my mum." Rose grinned.

"Tilt your head back."

Rose did as told. She was brilliant like that. She needed very little instruction to understand exactly what Jane was envisioning. It was as though she had insight into her psyche, which was a frankly terrifying thought considering how the other woman occupied it.

Rose waited for the shutter of the camera before groaning.

"Come on. You can't detest me that much if you keep having me back yet you barely ever say a word to me that isn't completely perfunctory." She pouted.

Jane snapped another photo with a glare in retaliation but that only caused the pout to fall away to make room for another smile.

"I bet you ten quid I'm not the worst company in the world."

"You're friends with Jack, that doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

Rose shrugged, "He came to my rescue on a drunk night out gone horribly wrong a few years ago."

That sounded like Jack alright, there was probably flirting involved, she thought bitterly. "What happened?"

"Ex-boyfriend drama." She shrugged looking the most somber Jane had ever seen her. "Apparently restraining orders didn't mean much to him. Go figure." She gave a wry smile then.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's over and I gained a Jack from it."

"I suppose he's not the worst." Jane conceded, fiddling with the light settings.

"I'm telling him you said that, he'll be thrilled."

Jane groaned, "Ugh his ego is bad enough as is."

"Tell me something about yourself instead and I won't." She bargained.

Jane cocked an eyebrow, "Really?"

"Mhmm, the secondhand stories are all well and good but I'd rather learn something from the source."

"Why the interest?"

"Because you're cute." Jane flushed causing Rose to laugh. "And because maybe you're not the only one with a muse."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jane frowned.

"Uh uh, I only offer information in exchange for information."

"We're trading in secrets now?"

"Absolutely."

Jane fiddled with her camera strap as she considered her options. She wasn't sure exactly what to tell the other woman, there wasn't anything that seemed consequential enough for this exchange of secrets.

"I wanted to travel." She started, the answer suddenly coming to her. "I felt suffocated growing up, never quite good enough for the life that had been laid out for me. I tried my hand at half a dozen courses at uni trying to find my place before realising that I just wanted to get away. Photography allowed me that freedom."

Rose smiled softly at the answer, "I'm in art school. I dropped out of college as a teen to live with a guy who I thought was the love of my life but turned out to be an awful mistake. I did some nude modelling alongside other part time work to pay for rent and things, after things ended and realised that I wanted to go back and get my degree. You've shown up on a few of my sketchbook pages."

There was a moment of silence as the two women regarded each other seeing the other in a new light now. The moment was shattered when Jane unwittingly snapped another picture.

"Do you want to see? Seems only fair, you've shown me your work of me, about time I returned the favour."

"Lead the way Rose Tyler." Jane grinned.

[ghostforwhat]

Just saw your post about will wearing the gloves but I was wondering if you could maybe elaborate? English isn’t my first language so I think I’m misunderstanding the post! You said he did it wounded and bloody, with love and Hannibal’s permission, but Hannibal never agreed to commit suicide right? Like, will killed them but is Hannibal giving him permission to kill him your interpretation of the scene or is it actually canon? Am I missing something? Also idk I feel like even though he did push them off the cliff with his own “hands” (or rather body) I don’t think it’s what he meant when he told Hannibal he wanted to kill him with his bare hands. I’m thinking he meant putting flesh to flesh, maybe suffocating him or beating him to death. I feel like I’m missing what you’re saying, I’m so sorry! I always love your interpretations so I thought I’d ask for clarification <3

Hey! This got way longer than I meant, apologies in advance! So two things before anything else, the first being that I don’t think it’s necessary to apologize at all, for numerous reasons here, but mainly you don’t have any obligation to enjoy everything I put out into the ether. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy and pleased that you like my take on things but I’m as prone to romanticizing insignificant factors of this show as anyone else. I tend to post with the basic joking stipulation of “this is what that means. to me.” and the catch all of the concept “the curtains were blue.” That’s to say, there’s no definitive answer and I’m shooting a gun off in the dark because I like the way it lights up factors of their relationship, because Will might start wearing gloves due to the fact he’s committing felonies with a shaky permission slip or Will could be wearing gloves in an attempt to emulate Hannibal and further the honeypot situation. There’s reasoning actions from an intellectual standpoint and then there’s speculation, I don’t normally tag my posts as meta or analysis because I rarely think it deserves those labels. What I see is affected by bias and what I want to see and that’s always going to bleed over my thought process.

The second being that I never really expect anyone to reblog things, (not that you can’t!) it feels more like I’m simply talking to myself out loud on a playground lol so I’m sure your English is absolutely fine and I’m even more positive I could have phrased what I was saying in a more cohesive way.

Okay! So, beyond the personalization of interpretations and my own incoherency, I agree completely that when Will says “with my hands” he wholeheartedly is envisioning exactly what he saw when he killed Tier and that’s beating Hannibal to death. He’s not toying with brutality, he’s confirming he’s more than capable of enacting it and at that point, he’s confident he will. But after Tier, after Hannibal’s chosen proxy is dead by Will’s hands, Will goes to Hannibal and shows him what is essentially his intentions. This is, at the time, is the most honest scene in the show between them. Will treats Tier’s corpse like a sacrifice, putting his body on Hannibal’s table isn’t really subtle. When Hannibal prompts him, Will confirms that it was “intimate” and following it, we see a shot of Will’s bloody knuckles. And we know what happens then, Hannibal asks if Will was imagining Hannibal when he was killing Tier and while he receives a rather poignant non-answer, it’s clear Hannibal is made aware that this is the truth and Will felt vivified in doing so. In response, Hannibal does what Hannibal repeats later on the cliff, completely aware of Will’s intentions and encourages them anyway with touch, with acceptance.

Touch between them is significant, it’s not necessarily as rare as we tend to say but it is a focal point whenever it it happens, the camera lingers where hand meets hand for them. So when I said the gloves were a barrier, I meant more so that they were Will attempting to distance himself from the temptation of Hannibal’s acceptance, and the next time Will imagines killing Hannibal, it’s with a blade. That’s the disconnect, that’s the ripple effect of him experiencing a situation similar to what he thought he wanted and finding it unsatisfying though he doesn’t quite understand why. (A quick add on to this, in the Shiizakana transcript, during Will’s dream sequence with Hannibal tied to the tree and the stag pulling the ropes, it says that after Hannibal’s death, after Will wakes up, Will doesn’t find any solace in Hannibal’s death.) If we accept this speculation and the canon notes, a point could be argued that Will doesn’t fantasize or make another attempt on Hannibal after this without ropes or a knife or a gun present because he’s not trying to kill Hannibal with the promised intimacy. Again, distance. We put space between ourselves and that which has the potential to hurt us. Will wants Hannibal dead and yet doesn’t want to deal with the repercussions of living without him because he loves him.

That’s why I don’t want another season, that’s why I do genuinely believe Hannibal let Will pull them off, not maybe out of a sense of agreed suicide but because Will’s transformation (to Hannibal and to us; a character arch) is complete, he can embrace Hannibal and he can embrace acceptance and if that results in their deaths, Hannibal technically already knew that it would. Will told him, in many different ways at different points; “This isn’t sustainable.” “I’m curious whether either of us can survive separation.” “When it comes to me and you, there can be no decisive victory.”

Will can only push them off if Hannibal allows it, there isn’t a violence or reluctance to it, they fall together.

The gloves might not signify anything. I like hand motifs and I’m not above putting more meaning into things that are probably just a wardrobe decision. I hope I clarified this and not just made it worse.

[kiri-cuts]

An adorable Nietzsche death star in “The Super Mario Bros. Movie”

For a few months back in the thick isolating tar of 2020, I sat in my damp one-bedroom flat and dramatically envisioned myself as Artex, the ethereal equine who sinks into the Swamp of Sadness in “The Neverending Story.” “Blub, blub,” I’d say to the quiet company of mold in the corners of the walls. “Down I go.” 

I’d dream about my head sinking promptly into the muck, one feature at a time. My round chin and miserable little downturned mouth checking themselves in at the one-star beach resort of death called Depression, my flared nostrils padding themselves closed with soil, my eyes nestling into the sweet slumber of swampytime. My hair would be the last to go, submerging itself with all the joyful enthusiasm of a lump of sugar into a thick latte foam. 

As it turns out, the Swamp of Sadness ain’t worth shit. Pull yourself into its deepest and most suffocating clot all you want, but you’ll still have to work, eat, do the dishes, wake up every day, etc. Artex never had that problem –- lucky bastard –- and the brochure for Depression certainly left those details out of its marketing spiel (no wonder it was only a one-star resort). 

A few months earlier I’d bought a Nintendo Switch on an impulse purchase. It was an item I couldn’t particularly afford, but brains pushing for death don’t exactly fixate on such details. And so it was that I played “Mario Odyssey” in the midst of an agonising funk, and on a daily basis the aforementioned swamp would get temporarily hosed off. For much of the game, I was horrendous at preserving Mario’s life. The little jump-crazed dungaree enthusiast died a million deaths –- each one more punishing and avoidable than the last. 

This was never intentional, I’m just terrible at games. But as it went on, and the game progressed, I realised that this was potentially the entire point of many Super Mario games and others of its ilk. As each level wore on, muscle memory kicked in and I fell into the various bouncy rhythms of survival that Mario has to offer. 

In order to be victorious, Mario had to repeatedly eat shit. He had to fall off walls, ricochet off lava, get his arse chewed out by a mega-chain chomp, and drown. And then next time, maybe he wouldn’t. In fact, death helps to ease the navigation for the next attempt –- you know what not to do and where not to do it. As Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “Death is close enough at hand so we do not need to be afraid of life.” Amen, brother. 

This mechanism is referenced within “The Super Mario Bros. Movie,” in which Mario –- in an attempt to simultaneously impress his bird and save his cowardly brother –- must complete a treacherous obstacle course. And of course, he absolutely eats shit in his first attempt –- but he gets better. 

Perhaps the greatest reflection of this ideology, though, comes courtesy of a luminescent glow of nihilism called Lumalee –- a delightful prisoner caged up in Bowser’s dungeon who cheerfully proclaims an abundance of cynical statements in favor of death. “There is no escape. The only hope is the sweet relief of death,” they joyfully muse. Later, when the film’s finished, they gleefully tell the audience, “Everything’s over now and all that’s left is you and infinite void.” Our boy Nietzsche would be proud. 

For those in the know (so, not me), Lumalee is based on a species of creatures called Luma from “Super Mario Galaxy.” At the end of that game, a whole adorable group of them happily kamikaze into death’s sweet embrace courtesy of a black hole fashioned by Bowser. Like Steve-O in a glass factory, these little cuties just absolutely love the chaos of life, the natural sting of pain, and the delicious thrall of extinction. It really puts things in perspective. 

While I have no doubt there are some players who can walk through every level of any “Super Mario” game without a single misstep or death –- just as there are people in this world who have likely never had to face a single day of depression or anxiety –- the purpose is to repeatedly face death. To endure it, to return to it, to vanquish it. Live, die, repeat. Collect enough hearts in the game, and you’re more or less impervious to whatever spikes life –- or levels –- have in store for you. As Nietzsche once put it, “One has to pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive.” And Mario does, good sir. Oh, how he does. And he absolutely motherfucking loves it, too. 

And I can’t lie, after I’d gatecrashed Bowser’s wedding, smashed his bird, and drank the free bar of his castle dry to the point that I could reach the “Mario Odyssey” finale, I actually felt emotional. Me and this little Italian plumber had been through so many deaths together and come through it all smiling –- just a couple of big cocky lads kicking over the big boi’s nuptials bash. Somehow, I didn’t feel the sweet embrace of that swamp anymore. In fact, I momentarily forgot it existed. And yes, so I then got up everyday, and I ate shit everyday –- we all did, and we still do. But there are so many 1-Ups. And when all else fails, there’s always nihilism.

[tryingtryingtryingtryingg]

I’m back again had a weekend and a hyperfixation and here’s another essay to send into the ether. I’m going to be talking mostly about contemporary art here. So. (Op feel free to ignore this, I’m sure you’re sick of responses to this post by now.)

So I felt the need to respond to the original post because even though i know it wasn’t intended that way, I could envision a scenario where someone saw it and decided that going to an art museum would be a waste of time, and I didn’t want them to feel that, especially when some of the statements made were just flat-out wrong. Maybe it was hyperbole for the sake of humour but eeh I didn’t want anyone leaving thinking curators were just sitting around with their thumbs up their ass jacking themselves off to their “perfect collection” while laughing at us plebs. That’s private collectors lol.

I was slightly frustrated because the post was bringing up these issues as if there aren’t entire areas of curatorial studies dedicated to arguing over how much to reveal and how much to leave open to the audience (wall text discourse). As if art has a set meaning writtten in stone, and the role of the museum is just to engagingly dispense that information to the viewer. As if audiences don’t draw new meanings out of works of art all the time. As if artists aren’t constantly playing with the line between something being seen and something being understood.

Scott Burton is someone that I should maybe mention. He was an artist active in the 60s through the 80s. One aspect of his work was these public sculptures he was making that kind of resembled furniture, only there would always be something *slightly* off about them in the the way they looked, or the way they positioned your body when you sat in them. They didn’t obviously look like artworks. They didn’t scream for your attention. The first time I saw one I didn’t see it—I thought it was just an interesting bench. It was only later, after seeing his work mentioned in a talk, that I realised what I’d been looking at.

Part of what Burton was trying to create in his work was this kind of ability to go unnoticed—to be able to pass for regular furniture—but then if you knew, you *knew*. It might sound exclusionary, and it’s hard to deny that’s exactly what it is, but for him this dynamic he wanted with his audience came out of his experience of cruising as a gay man—the way you would signal your availability to others secretly in broad daylight. The way you hid in plain sight waiting for someone to see you for who you are. Waiting to see someone like you.

So imagine you are a curator, how do you label a work like this? Where would you put the label? Should you point the work out and make sure everyone knows it’s there? Or should you stay true to the artist’s vision and thus allow people to maybe miss out on an amazing work of art?

Do you think it’s a bad thing, to be allowed to overlook something, only to realise later that you are also capable of ignoring things in plain sight? Is there not meaning in that experience? Does it not make you want to look at the world differently after you’ve experienced it?

Does it make a difference how you find out? Through the wall text? Through a friend? Through a book you found after googling the artist’s name? Through a gallery sitter whispering in your ear? A stranger on the internet?

And staying on the subject of queer artists. The museum could explain things by going hey look, this painting here is queer art made by a queer person, that Actually Did You Know amongst the queers [this symbol] over here has [this meaning]. And then every homophobe or person with homophobic leanings is going to shutter themselves to the work no matter what it is. Do you not think there is value in letting someone like that fall in love with an artwork, for it to speak to them, for them to find out only after sitting with it a while that it had been created by someone they’ve been taught to find disgusting? I’m not saying “This-is-How-We-Win-Over-the-‘Phobes”—art isn’t a substitute for activism—but is there not potential in the space created by that deferred realisation? Do you not think there is value in a queer audience member recognising [that symbol] and feeling like they’ve been granted access to a hidden dimension of the work? That the artwork is made richer for them specifically, because they speak its language?

I’m not saying this is the only reason why museums might decide to be less didactic, but it is one of them, and I hope that people might be able to see that, and recognise these decisions as *decisions*. Decisions that have usually been made in an attempt to balance the curator’s sometimes conflicting duties of care, to the artwork, to the artist, and to various audiences.

People might not like these decisions, I don’t always like these decisions. (And very often the decisions are objectively shit. Did the curator include a bunch of environmentalist artwork in their latest show because the museum is getting flak for being heavily sponsored by oil companies? We *should* drag them for that!)

A lot of work does require some explanation, I won’t deny that, but i genuinely haven’t seen a museum plopping something like a urinal in front of people and expecting them to figure it out themselves. Or okay, say maybe they didn’t explain the Duchamp urinal. But did they explain the Man Ray sculpture next to it? Would it be possible to use the information revealed there to interpret the urinal as well, if you know they were made the same year?

You might be going to an art museum hoping to learn more concrete information about the history of art, and you might leave slightly disappointed. That’s perfectly valid! It’s fine to feel frustrated. But maybe the reason for that isn’t always “art museums suck and curators don’t know what they’re doing”. If you find your curiosity unsatisfied there are books you can look at, documentaries you can watch (many of them produced by the museums themselves for this express purpose, because they hope people will want to know more than could ever be fit into a single exhibition). Should they maybe publicise these resources more? Definitely. But they’re not intentionally hiding them from you.

I don’t go to something like a natural history museum expecting to become an expert on geology. Going through everything can be overwhelming. I leave maybe knowing that the Cretaceous period came after the Jurassic one, plus the names of a couple dinosaurs that were alive in each one or something. I don’t think that means the museum failed me. If I wanted to know more about anything specific I’ve now been equipped with vocabulary to go off researching on my own. I have a couple names and a couple dates that can get me started. If I see a character pick a chunk of obsidian off the ground in a movie I can go “aay volcano nearby”, because I now know obsidian is made of lava. Can you tell I’m not a geologist?

I’m not saying art museums aren’t elitist, or corrupt, or that they shouldn’t change, or that things are acceptable the way they are, I am just attempting to shed a bit of light on an area that might seem very opaque to many people, and to explain the reasons why some things are the way they are. But I’m very much not an industry insider here, I’ve never worked in museums and i don’t care to, and I’ve definitely met Art People who seemed weirdly invested in proving they were better than me. Im not writing all this to try to defend the museum’s sanctity or honour or whatever, I’m writing this hoping to show people that they can still find meaningful experiences in these spaces, despite the many flaws.

That being said i don’t want to hijack the space for people to vent their museum-related frustrations or dismiss anyone wanting more out of them, and I’m sorry if it comes across that way. People are welcome to disagree with what I’ve said here but I hope it’s still like… informative or something. I get mad at museums too fwiw✌️

I would be very interested in hearing the museum design rant

by popular demand: Guy That Took One (1) Museum Studies Class Focused On Science Museums Rants About Art Museums. thank u for coming please have a seat

so. background. the concept of the "science museum" grew out of 1) the wunderkammer (cabinet of curiosities), also known as "hey check out all this weird cool shit i have", and 2) academic collections of natural history specimens (usually taxidermied) -- pre-photography these were super important for biological research (see also). early science museums usually grew out of university collections or bequests of some guy's Weird Shit Collection or both, and were focused on utility to researchers rather than educational value to the layperson (picture a room just, full of taxidermy birds with little labels on them and not a lot of curation outside that). eventually i guess they figured they could make more on admission by aiming for a mass audience? or maybe it was the cultural influence of all the world's fairs and shit (many of which also caused science museums to exist), which were aimed at a mass audience. or maybe it was because the research function became much more divorced from the museum function over time. i dunno. ANYWAY, science and technology museums nowadays have basically zero research function; the exhibits are designed more or less solely for educating the layperson (and very frequently the layperson is assumed to be a child, which does honestly irritate me, as an adult who likes to go to science museums). the collections are still there in case someone does need some DNA from one of the preserved bird skins, but items from the collections that are exhibited typically exist in service of the exhibit's conceptual message, rather than the other way around.

meanwhile at art museums they kind of haven't moved on from the "here is my pile of weird shit" paradigm, except it's "here is my pile of Fine Art". as far as i can tell, the thing that curators (and donors!) care about above all is The Collection. what artists are represented in The Collection? rich fucks derive personal prestige from donating their shit to The Collection. in big art museums usually something like 3-5% of the collection is ever on exhibit -- and sometimes they rotate stuff from the vault in and out, but let's be real, only a fraction of an art museum's square footage is temporary exhibits. they're not going to take the scream off display when it's like the only reason anyone who's not a giant nerd ever visits the norwegian national museum of art. most of the stuff in the vault just sits in the vault forever. like -- art museum curators, my dudes, do you think the general public gives a SINGLE FUCK what's in The Collection that isn't on display? no!! but i guarantee you it will never occur, ever, to an art museum curator that they could print-to-scale high-res images of artworks that are NOT in The Collection in order to contextualize the art in an exhibit, because items that are not in The Collection functionally do not exist to them. (and of course there's the deaccessioning discourse -- tumblr collectively has some level of awareness that repatriation is A Whole Kettle of Worms but even just garden-variety selling off parts of The Collection is a huge hairy fucking deal. check out deaccessioning and its discontents; it's a banger read if you're into This Kind Of Thing.)

with the contents of The Collection foregrounded like this, what you wind up with is art museum exhibits where the exhibit's message is kind of downstream of what shit you've got in the collection. often the message is just "here is some art from [century] [location]", or, if someone felt like doing a little exhibit design one fine morning, "here is some art from [century] [location] which is interesting for [reason]". the displays are SOOOOO bad by science museum standards -- if you're lucky you get a little explanatory placard in tiny font relating the art to an art movement or to its historical context or to the artist's career. if you're unlucky you get artist name, date, and medium. fucker most of the people who visit your museum know Jack Shit about art history why are you doing them dirty like this

(if you don't get it you're just not Cultured enough. fuck you, we're the art museum!)

i think i've talked about this before on this blog but the best-exhibited art exhibit i've ever been to was actually at the boston museum of science, in this traveling leonardo da vinci exhibit where they'd done a bunch of historical reconstructions of inventions out of his notebooks, and that was the main Thing, but also they had a whole little exhibit devoted to the mona lisa. obviously they didn't even have the real fucking mona lisa, but they went into a lot of detail on like -- here's some X-ray and UV photos of it, and here's how art experts interpret them. here's a (photo of a) contemporary study of the finished painting, which we've cleaned the yellowed varnish off of, so you can see what the colors looked like before the varnish yellowed. here's why we can't clean the varnish off the actual painting (da vinci used multiple varnish layers and thinned paints to translucency with varnish to create the illusion of depth, which means we now can't remove the yellowed varnish without stripping paint).

even if you don't go into that level of depth about every painting (and how could you? there absolutely wouldn't be space), you could at least talk a little about, like, pigment availability -- pigment availability is an INCREDIBLY useful lens for looking at historical paintings and, unbelievably, never once have i seen an art museum exhibit discuss it (and i've been to a lot of art museums). you know how medieval european religious paintings often have funky skin tones? THEY HADN'T INVENTED CADMIUM PIGMENTS YET. for red pigments you had like... red ochre (a muted earth-based pigment, like all ochres and umbers), vermilion (ESPENSIVE), alizarin crimson (aka madder -- this is one of my favorite reds, but it's cool-toned and NOT good for mixing most skintones), carmine/cochineal (ALSO ESPENSIVE, and purple-ish so you wouldn't want to use it for skintones anyway), red lead/minium (cheaper than vermilion), indian red/various other iron oxide reds, and apparently fucking realgar? sure. whatever. what the hell was i talking about.

oh yeah -- anyway, i'd kill for an art exhibit that's just, like, one or two oil paintings from each century for six centuries, with sample palettes of the pigments they used. but no! if an art museum curator has to put in any level of effort beyond writing up a little placard and maybe a room-level text block, they'll literally keel over and die. dude, every piece of art was made in a material context for a social purpose! it's completely deranged to divorce it from its material context and only mention the social purpose insofar as it matters to art history the field. for god's sake half the time the placard doesn't even tell you if the thing was a commission or not. there's a lot to be said about edo period woodblock prints and mass culture driven by the growing merchant class! the met has a fuckton of edo period prints; they could get a hell of an exhibit out of that!

or, tying back to an earlier thread -- the detroit institute of arts has got a solid like eight picasso paintings. when i went, they were kind of just... hanging out in a room. fuck it, let's make this an exhibit! picasso's an artist who pretty famously had Periods, right? why don't you group the paintings by period, and if you've only got one or two (or even zero!) from a particular period, pad it out with some decent life-size prints so i can compare them and get a better sense for the overarching similarities? and then arrange them all in a timeline, with little summaries of what each Period was ~about~? that'd teach me a hell of a lot more about picasso -- but you'd have to admit you don't have Every Cool Painting Ever in The Collection, which is illegalé.

also thinking about the mit museum temporary exhibit i saw briefly (sorry, i was only there for like 10 minutes because i arrived early for a meeting and didn't get a chance to go through it super thoroughly) of a bunch of ship technical drawings from the Hart nautical collection. if you handed this shit to an art museum curator they'd just stick it on the wall and tell you to stand around and look at it until you Understood. so anyway the mit museum had this enormous room-sized diorama of various hull shapes and how they sat in the water and their benefits and drawbacks, placed below the relevant technical drawings.

tbh i think the main problem is that art museum people and science museum people are completely different sets of people, trained in completely different curatorial traditions. it would not occur to an art museum curator to do anything like this because they're probably from the ~art world~ -- maybe they have experience working at an art gallery, or working as an art buyer for a rich collector, neither of which is in any way pedagogical. nobody thinks an exhibit of historical clothing should work like a clothing store but it's fine when it's art, i guess?

also the experience of going to an art museum is pretty user-hostile, i have to say. there's never enough benches, and if you want a backrest, fuck you. fuck you if going up stairs is painful; use our shitty elevator in the corner that we begrudgingly have for wheelchair accessibility, if you can find it. fuck you if you can't see very well, and need to be closer to the art. fuck you if you need to hydrate or eat food regularly; go to our stupid little overpriced cafeteria, and fuck you if we don't actually sell any food you can eat. (obviously you don't want someone accidentally spilling a smoothie on the art, but there's no reason you couldn't provide little Safe For Eating Rooms where people could just duck in and monch a protein bar, except that then you couldn't sell them a $30 salad at the cafe.) fuck you if you're overwhelmed by noise in echoing rooms with hard surfaces and a lot of people in them. fuck you if you are TOO SHORT and so our overhead illumination generates BRIGHT REFLECTIONS ON THE SHINY VARNISH. we're the art museum! we don't give a shit!!!