#they're all so strangely fascinated with me

[angelslaughterz]

you're a dog ( and i'm your man ) - written by eric w.

( tw: probably everything you can think of tbh. it's based off of bones & all so... take that as you will. & please lmk what you think !! feel free to throw an ask in my inbox .)

cal eats the man who killed him first, sharp canine teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his throat. father-blood warm in his mouth, he feels something stir in him. he's covered in blood--in his fair blond hair, dripping down the pale line of his neck, staining the fabric of his shirt.

andre thinks he's beautiful, the way his blue eyes roll back at the first breaking of skin. he doesn't know why cal does it, just knows he's so angry, so hungry. andre cards his fingers through the blood-soaked hair, like he's a sick, feral dog.

blackflies swarm around them, drawn to the coppery scent of the blood. the room's sticky warmth is suffocating, the air thick with the smell of rot. cal's panting fills the silence, his eyes glazed with something wild. he pulls back, blood dripping from his chin.

"cal," andre whispers, his voice tight with a mix of fear and fascination. cal's eyes refocus on andre, and the feral, intoxicated look fades. he wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek like war paint.

cal stands, coltish legs trembling beneath him. he stares at his hands, the blood still wet. andre's eyes follow the crimson rivulets down cal's arms, over his trembling fingers, and onto the floorboards. he wants to kiss him, kill him, crawl under his skin. he doesn’t know which is worse.

the heat suffocates them as they bury his father. sunbaked earth, red as a fresh wound, crumbling beneath their boots.

his father's house, a tomb now. perhaps it always was.

andre's going 65 on the back roads. cal gets sick on the side of the road, rejects his father's flesh. andre holds his hair back, runs a hand along the curve of his spine.

they've been driving for hours, the radio static filling the silence between them. andre's jaw is set, dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. cal feels like he’s been pulled in a dozen directions, his emotions tangled and raw, nerves set on fire. he glances over at andre, takes in the way his broad shoulders hunch over the steering wheel, the way his dark hair falls over his forehead. he thinks about how they have killed together, bled together. they're like magnets, he thinks. opposites that somehow fit together.

they drive until the sun sets, casting the world in a bloody hue.

the motel is a blur of neon and shadows, dark wood panelling and stale cigarette smoke. the clerk, a tired-looking woman, doesn't bat an eye at their blood-spattered clothes or the wildness in their eyes. they pay in cash, and she slides the key across the counter.

cal scalds beneath the showerhead, scrubs until his skin is red and raw. the water runs red, then pink, until it finally runs clear. he stares at the drain, watching the last of his father's blood disappear down the pipes. it's a strange sort of purification, he thinks.

andre steps in behind him, his arms wrapping around cal's waist. cal jolts, gasps at the touch.

"it's me," andre murmurs, pressing his mouth against the downy nape of cal's neck. cal melts against him, his eyes slipping shut. "come to bed."

the moment andre touches him, he's all teeth and ache and need. all he wants is to crawl into andre's skin, to feel something other than his father's blood on his tongue. his hair's still damp when andre pushes him down, golden lamp-light shattering across his skin. he kisses hard enough to bruise, teeth clicking together.

cal tastes like iron and salt, and andre thinks maybe he's crying. they're both panting into each other's mouths, half-moon marks on cal's hips where andre's nails dig in. all cal can think is god god god he's so hungry. andre presses two fingers into him and it feels like the sweetest death. the animal-want claws its way out of cal's throat, a keening sound that's almost a sob, pools low in his belly. andre crooks his fingers, hits the spot that makes heat flood through him. it's too much, too much, too much, and he's so hungrysohungrysohungry he has to he has to he has to--

cal brings his forearm to his mouth, bites down hard. blood floods his mouth but it's different this time because it's his. his eyes roll back and he's shuddering apart, clawing at andre's shoulders. andre works him through it until cal gasps like a man drowned, until he's boneless and panting and sated.

andre withdraws, wipes his hand on the sheet. his eyes find cal's arm, dripping red. he takes it in his hand, turns it over to examine the wound. cal thinks he's going to bandage it, but instead, andre leans down, licks a slow line along the wound. his brown eyes lock with cal's, and something shifts between them, something raw and dark. everything blurs into a deep animal-want. andre can't remember whose hands are where, can't tell where one body ends and the other begins. just heat and teeth and blood.

it crashes down around them all at once until it destroys them both, until they go limp and collapse. it doesn't take long to fall into a dizzying sleep, tangled in each other.

cal wakes in the middle of the night with his body on fire, every nerve exposed and raw. he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. it is the worst hunger he's ever felt, the kind that gnaws at his bones and makes his teeth ache.

andre sleeps beside him, and it takes every muscle in cal's body not to tear into his throat. he physically has to push himself away, an unconscious whine humming in his throat.

throwing on the first shirt he finds, cal stumbles out into the motel parking lot. the night air is thick and warm, a living thing that clings to him like a second skin. his eyes scan the shadows for something to sate the hunger, something to quiet the screaming in his head and cool the heat that burns him from the inside out.

a rabbit darts across the asphalt, and cal's breath catches. he used to catch rabbits with his bare hands when he was a kid, would hide in the tall grass by the house, waiting for one to get close enough. his father had taught him how to snap their necks with a quick twist.

the rabbit freezes, eyes wide and black as onyx in the motel's sickly lights.

cal moves, silent as a ghost, his feet barely touching the ground. the rabbit darts again, but cal is faster. he lunges, his hand closing around its soft fur. the creature struggles, its tiny heart hammering against his palm.

"m'sorry," cal whispers, voice strangled, before he snaps the rabbit's neck. the bleat of pain is pitifully small. he holds the limp body to his chest, feeling the warmth leak out of it. something sings in his veins, which scares him more than the kill.

the first bite lights him up, a spark of agony-pleasure that sends cal sinking slow to his knees. he doesn't think about how it would look if there were anyone around to see it--the blond boy with the dead eyes eating a rabbit raw under the sickly yellow lights.

his teeth tear through the fur and into the muscle, blood pooling in his mouth. he should be sick, should feel the horror of what he’s doing, but all he feels is an all-consuming relief. an oasis in the wasteland of himself.

cal hides the remains in the bushes and stumbles back to the room, his mouth and hands sticky with rabbit blood. the door opens with a soft creak, and he slinks inside, not wanting to wake andre.

andre stirs, eyes fluttering open. "cal?" he murmurs, voice groggy with sleep.

cal freezes, his hand hovering over the now-blood-smeared doorknob. "yeah," he whispers back, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

andre leans up on one elbow, turns on the bedside lamp, casting a soft glow across the room. at the sight of cal, his eyes widen, then narrow.

"what the fuck." andre says, his voice tight.

cal tries to wipe his mouth, but his hand comes away sticky. "i'm sorry," he whispers. "i just couldn't-"

andre sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. "cal, the fuck did you do?" he demands, the words echoing in the quiet room. cal flinches, his eyes darting to the floor.

"i had to," cal whispers, his voice tight with pain and need. "i couldn't-" he can't find the words.

andre's gaze is hard, but there's something in his eyes that softens. he slides out of bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a gentle thud. "did you kill someone else?"

cal shakes his head, the motion jerky. "a rabbit," he confesses, feels himself about to cry. "i had to, andre. it makes me--"

andre doesn't let him finish, instead crossing the room to wrap his arms around cal's trembling shoulders.

"it's okay," he whispers, pulling cal into a fierce embrace. "it's okay, i've got you."

[smile-files]

remembering the time i was talking with my friends about how they could instantly tell i was gay and one said "either that or you were a shy straight girl". i can't stop thinking about that

[aquickstart]

ok sure i'll talk about farleigh start. i'll talk about his tragedy of never being enough as it were and then having to deal with fucking oliver. sure. disclaimer: it's about class (and race) and the horrible reality of the rich. the horrible reality of living as farleigh.

another disclaimer: i'm white! and poc definitely pick up on everything i'm talking about here as it is, and better. i was and am specifically interested in farleigh vs. oliver but it's impossible to examine without considering race. definitely let me know if anything abt this sucks!

farleigh and oliver are similar. it's annoying because every intruder that is not himself is annoying, partly because felix's attention swaying from farleigh is dangerous; there is always a threat of being discarded, even if no precedent existed. the potential is terrifying.

but you'd think he's seen this before, every summer (if venetia is telling the truth) or at least often enough to learn to recognize it fast, so he should know this will pass. part of it is i think still the deep anxiety, and i think he hated every boy that was there before, and it is sort of routine.

but definitely a huge factor in farleigh's annoyance is the fact that he's a biracial (black for cattons, that's all they see) man in a white rich household. he's alert and exhausted all the time. of course he's angry at oliver, regardless of whether he's the first to crash at saltburn for the summer or the fifty-first.

but the important thing is this.

farleigh is very jealous of and angry and pissed at oliver because farleigh sees all the similarities between them. outsider, in financial trouble, whatever it is, in need of cattons; and yet oliver is preferred. and farleigh seems to be the only one to really consider it. felix does not pick up on the hint when farleigh brings up the birthday party vs. his mother. felix's clumsy "different or... anything like that" is as much about race as it is about class, of course. the "we've done all that we can" bit is felix absolving himself of guilt because surely they had, surely the mysterious collective cattons that he's not really part of had tried all they could do. to him, farleigh is different from oliver, because farleigh has been helped. felix is rich and white and twofold uncomfortable with farleigh, even if he's nice about it, even if he genuinely enjoys his company; he doesn't look too close at farleigh because he feels too guilty to come too close. and farleigh can't do anything about it. he can't nice himself into it. the fucking tragedy of him is that he's never enough in the world of the ultra-rich white, even if (especially because!) he's born into it.

farleigh is very pissed at oliver because farleigh also sees all the differences between them. you know who can be nice poor white enough to fit in? fucking oliver. felix says "just be yourself, they'll love you" when oliver first moves in. farleigh was also probably told the same thing, and felix also probably believed that farleigh could just be himself, but even if the cattons were magically not racist at all (impossible), it wouldn't make a difference to farleigh. he would still self-censor, keep in check, be in dangerous waters (because racism is not just about the individual, but about the system). we see that he'd won himself leeway by years of trial and error by the way he speaks to the family, but it's still within the boundaries of acceptable, built by the cattons. he's part of them because they allow it, and farleigh is very, very aware.

the annoying thing is oliver can be himself. like, truly, genuinely, he can just be. and farleigh can't help but envy that.

as a side note, oliver is obviously jealous of farleigh in the beginning as well, because regardless of the reality of farleigh's situation, he was born into it, and hence, at least in oliver's mind, has his position solidified. oliver's whole thing is unquenchable thirst and hunger for whatever and everything the cattons have (including themselves!). he wishes to have been a catton from birth. to oliver, at first, there's nothing farleigh can really do to lose it. and until he figures out the cattons completely, he can't help but envy that.

but i think farleigh senses something different about oliver early on. at least on the level of the text, we have "you're almost passing [for] a real, human boy", which is so important because farleigh is the first to point out oliver's weirdness. the next to do so is venetia in the bath scene calling him a freak, but it's too late. farleigh is too early.

and i like to think he clocks oliver too early because he sees the jagged edges that he recognizes in himself. i think that one other thing that farleigh envies is oliver's freedom to let go. freedom to let go is very similar to freedom to be, but not quite the same.

to be is about perception: farleigh knows he cannot fall out of line, but would like to, and oliver does not have to worry about it at all (i mean, he does, because oliver also performs for felix, but farleigh doesn't know that).

to let go is about the self: farleigh is too scared to even want what oliver eventually does, to even consider the possibility. oliver can let himself want. oliver can let himself act. oliver just can do things and want things. i'm not sure farleigh can.

and so in this scene, when oliver's wants and actions have landed him nowhere with farleigh, felix, venetia, the cattons, of course farleigh gloats. he can let himself do that, because if the cattons are slowly discarding him, farleigh can allow himself this one small victory. he's relieved because despite the dangerous similarities, oliver is, thankfully, not really the same as farleigh, right?

but like. this movie is a love letter to all things gothic. oliver is a white man. he prevails. the brief performance that oliver put on did eventually end up more effective than farleigh's lifetime of constraint. my heart fucking breaks for him to be honest.

the issue that remains is the fact of farleigh's survival. i like to think that oliver came to respect him. oliver is smart, but farleigh is clever. he picks up on everything oliver does (to refer back to the karaoke scene, farleigh immediately retaliates in the cleverest way, in the moment), and he's the only one to do so consistently (venetia, again, for example, comes close, but too late; oliver doesn't like that, there's nothing to work with). hence, stay with me for a little longer, the paradox: farleigh survives because he was never enough for the cattons, but he is very worthy of oliver's attention. in his own freaky way, oliver wants him. look at that.

so. farleigh. farleigh might come back. he always comes back. and i think oliver wants to try harder next time.

[cradle-of-darkness]

COOKIES OF DARKNESS NATION WE ARE OFFICIALLY BACK 💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

(long rambling in tags if u care)

[bugtoast]

I feel like no one talks about how medic is probably the only one who knows what pyro's face looks like under the mask. I mean he is the team's doctor after all, he'd have to know pyro's biology or genetic makeup at least to some extent to be able to heal them properly.

Even if medic hasn't gotten pyro to take their mask off, he's probably collected their dna and can come up with a rough guesstimate off of that alone

[laney-rockin]

Don't mind me, just imagining the main SNW crew (sans Spock) meeting a shit ton of Alternate Universe Kirk's and immediately showing interest in their universes Kirk because ofc.

AND THEN FINALLY SPOCK WOULD MEET KIRK- BUT INSTEAD OF IT BEING SOME FUCKED UP ALTERNATE VERSION OF KIRK IT'S JUST PLAIN OLD KIRK FROM IOWA. MEETING AS THE PAIR THEY'RE ALWAYS SUPPOSED TO BE.

... i'm totally not planning a fic about this concept. You're crazy /hj

[zoophagist]

ooc;; apparently it's dracfield week (a thing i didn't know exists) and i follow the renfield tag so my dash is just spiced up every so often with dracfield horny and man let me tell u pre-renfield 2023 me would never have believed i'd live to see this day... now that i'm here i'm mostly just bewildered

[nosygay]

lowkey offended that my parents still arent homophobic like am i not doing enough

[honeyvenommusic]

.

[thewisecheerio]

Messmer's actually terrible at his job. (affectionate)

Messmer is a fascinating villain, because he is strangely compassionate. I would go so far as to argue that this same compassion that is so at odds with his villainy is the very thing that drove him to become that villain in the first place. Hang with me; this is a long post.

Spoilers for Elden Ring DLC. Obviously.

Messmer tells us himself that his purpose is to purge all those stripped of the grace of gold. "Yet...my purpose standeth unchanged. Those stripped of grace of gold shall all meet death...in the embrace of Messmer's flame." We can piece together who gave him this genocidal purpose from his armor set's description, which tells us directly that he's working on his mother's behalf *and also* taking all the blame for it.

So he's playing war criminal on Marika's behalf. And I do mean playing. I'm not downplaying the fact that he is a war criminal; he has murdered on entire people. But here's the thing: he's *terrible* at playing the sole part of the spiteful, hateful overlord. He's *awful* at reveling in war and its victories.

Why? Empathy.

Messmer is strangely empathic for what could have otherwise been a cut-and-dry villain:

1. His relationship with Gaius, an Albinauric: We learn from Gaius's Remembrance that he was Messmer's bestie. We also know that Gaius was an Albinauric both from his armor as well as the location "Albinauric's Hut" in the direction he comes from at the beginning of his fight. Albinaurics are despised by the Golden Order, but Messmer didn't seem to care. In fact, he cared so little that he gave Gaius command of either a huge chunk or perhaps his entire army, second only to him. And what is given as the basis of this friendship? The fact that they were "both cursed from birth", i.e. a mutual understanding of what it is to be despised. They're trauma bonded because they have empathy for each other's predicament.

2. His relationship with the Jar people: Even though the Jar people were used as weapons of war against his own people, he doesn't seem to resent them. How do we know? There is a hospital where the Jars and their innards are being cared for in the Storehouse, a stone's throw away from where Messmer spends all his time. There are even a few baby Jars running around in it. Strange thing to do to what is essentially an enemy of your people, unless you consider them to also be victims of the same conflict.

3. His relationship with his soldiers: Messmer shares his own flame with his army. Yeah, that absolutely could be interpreted as a utilitarian move for the sake of war. Power up the troops, boost your chance at victory. But it's a strange choice when he could have just armed them in the traditional way of handing them sharp, pointy objects and pointing in the desired direction of stabbing. Instead, arming your soldiers with your own power could also be interpreted as something you do when you care about their survival and are potentially working directly with them to ensure it.

4. The mourning of people who betray him: Speaking of his soldiers, Messmer gets betrayed by at least a few of them. We learn this from the ashes of Andreas and Huw. Huw's ashes further tell us that Messmer *mourned their loss* as brothers-in-arms. Weird thing to do to someone who has betrayed you, unless you care very deeply about them to begin with.

5. The implications of the Storehouse: Even though he is actively genociding Hornsent on Marika's orders, he somehow has preserved an entire library of their history. At first, I thought this was maybe just British Museum vibes: steal all the artifacts and refuse to give them back. (And that could still be a correct interpretation.) But in context of the rest of these points, if you're truly hellbent on erasing a culture, why would you bother to preserve any of it? Would you not burn the libraries along with the people? It's a fairly common thing to do in our world's wars--destroy the art and history to ensure full erasure. And yet, it seems he can't even bring himself to avoid some small amount of sympathy for the people he was explicitly tasked with killing. If you really *think* about the basis for his sympathy for Marika, this does make a lot of sense. Messmer is following Marika's orders because he knows about what the Hornsent did to the Shaman. Wouldn't it then also be the case that once Marika's reign became nothing but genocide, i.e. an exact reversal of what was done to her people, he would have the same kind of sympathy for them? Perhaps this is a form of harm reduction in the only way he could square with what he thinks is his purpose.

6. His own self-hatred: Messmer despises his own flames, which we learn from the Messmer's Orb description. If you were happy to be Doing a Genocide, would you not celebrate your weapons of war? Wouldn't you take pride in them as tools of power? Unless, of course, you're not actually as happy as we think and maybe having regrets and come to be filled with severe self-hatred. Woops.

So then, if Messmer is this guy running around with a lot of Big Feelings (and probably a deep need for a Prozac prescription), why does he even agree to this genocide in the first place? Isn't that an *odd* choice for someone who seems to care pretty deeply about people, even people despised by his family's governing order? Why does he carry out these orders even to the point of developing a deep self-hatred?

This is where Messmer's sympathy, one of his best aspects, also becomes his fatal flaw.

I mentioned above in 5 that Messmer has access to information about both sides of this conflict. As much as he might have sympathy for everyone around him--including weapons used against the Shaman like the Jars--that means he *also* has sympathy for the Shaman. So if you have sympathy for the other side and sympathy for your side, and you are raised by your own side, then what is the natural outcome? Your side wins. If you must choose a side, then you fight on behalf of Child Soldier Fostering Mother Marika. She raised you, after all. It's inevitable.

In the end, that same sympathy he seems to extend to others also is what causes him to do war crimes. Out of an abundance of sympathy for what happened to the Shamans, he agrees to take up arms.

At the end of the day, he's still a villain that needs to be stopped so that he'll stop oppressing an entire people on behalf of his mother's misguided attempts at revenge. But making his reasoning to agree to become that villain in the first place *empathy* of all things? Fascinating.

[ahqkas]

Y’know how doe eyes are suppose to be cute and when you stare at someone with doe eyes they look so cute? But what mattheo had a partner who had those doe eyes but instead of cute aura and stare. It’s an actual unsettling stare like from an angle their stare look darken and it kinda gives Mattheo a shiver. A bad and good one

-🍕

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

MATTHEO RIDDLE WASN’T EASILY UNNERVED. he thrived in the shadows, embraced the darker side of his family name, and found a strange comfort in the eerie silence of the dungeons. yet, there was one thing that could send a shiver down his spine — a single look from his partner's doe eyes.

your eyes were large and innocent, framed by long lashes that should have given you a sweet, almost naïve appearance. at first glance, you appeared harmless, radiating a charm that many found endearing. but mattheo had come to learn that your gaze held an unsettling power, something that lingered between the realms of innocence and something far darker.

it was during one of those late-night study sessions in the slytherin common room that he first noticed it. the firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls as you sat across from him, engrossed in your potions textbook. he had been watching you, a soft smile playing on his lips, when you suddenly looked up, your eyes locking with his.

for a moment, time seemed to freeze. the warmth of the room faded into the background, replaced by an inexplicable chill that ran down his spine. your eyes, wide and seemingly innocent, bore into his with an intensity that was almost predatory. it was as if you could see right through him, peeling back the layers of his soul to expose his deepest fears and desires to you.

a shiver, both good and bad, ran through him. it was a sensation he couldn't quite place — part fear, part fascination. your stare was magnetic, drawing him in even as it unsettled him. he found himself unable to look away, trapped in the depths of your gaze.

"mattheo, are you alright?" your voice broke the silence between the two of you, snapping him back to reality. the concern in your tone was genuine, yet there was a subtle undercurrent that kept him on edge.

he shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering unease. "yeah, i’m fine," he replied, his voice a bit strained. "just got lost in my thoughts for a moment."

you smiled, a small, gentle curve of your lips that did little to reassure him. "you should focus on your studies," you said softly, returning to your book.

as the weeks passed, mattheo became acutely aware of your unsettling stare. it haunted him during the day and lingered in his dreams at night. he found himself torn between the instinctual urge to flee and an irresistible pull that kept drawing him back to you.

one evening, as you both sat by the black lake, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the water, you turned to him with those eyes again. this time, the darkness in your gaze seemed even more pronounced, sending another shiver through him. he reached out, almost without thinking, and cupped your face in his hands.

"your eyes," he whispered, his voice a mix of awe and trepidation. "they're . . . something else."

you leaned into his touch, your gaze never wavering. "do they frighten you, mattheo?" a hint of challenge was present in your voice.

the boy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your stare. "they do," he admitted quietly. “but they also draw me in. i can't explain it."

"maybe that's because you see something in them that others don't. something that mirrors a part of you."

mattheo didn't respond, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. all he knew was that despite the unsettling nature of your gaze, he couldn't stay away. it was a paradox he was willing to embrace, even if it meant confronting the darker parts of himself reflected in your doe eyes.

[waitineedaname]

i was thinking my little thoughts while falling asleep last night, and a concept occurred to me: what if binghe learned about the system not from shen qingqiu, but from shang qinghua

look, he likes shang qinghua alright. he's pretty disinterested in p much anyone who isn't shen qingqiu, but on the list of People Luo Binghe Tolerates, shang qinghua is relatively high. he gave him advice on wooing sqq, after all, and sqq likes his company, so binghe tolerates his shang-shishu

but the thing is, shang qinghua is a spy. has been for decades. binghe knows this. really, everyone knows this at this point, which isn't a great look for a spy, but still. and since shang qinghua is a spy for mobei-jun, who is a subordinate for luo binghe, then technically shang qinghua is also working for him, but you don't get to the position of demon emperor without a healthy amount of suspicion for everyone in your court

so he decides to test shang qinghua a little bit. nothing major, just a little poking around in his dreams. he starts out with a subtle touch, just sifting through his memories. most of it is what he expected. he sees his time on an ding as a disciple and then later as peak lord, he sees him working for mobei-jun. he sees mobei-jun in some compromising situations, which he files away for later, and then sees him in an entirely different flavor of compromising situations, and binghe immediately decides to act like he never saw that

then he decides to take a more direct approach and starts nudging the dreams in other directions, to see how he might react to certain scenarios, test his loyalty. he expects shang qinghua to act cowardly, or bluff his way through a situaton, maybe even draw his sword if pushed far enough

what he doesn't expect is for shang qinghua to frown at the changes luo binghe made and go "I didn't write it like this"

what

binghe is so bewildered by that response that he loses his grip on the dream for a second, and before he knows it, shang qinghua has spun the dream scenario back into the way the scene originally played out. he steps back and looks satisfied. "there we go," he says. "that's how it went. you know, if I'd known I'd be dealing with this scene myself, I would've written it differently"

what the hell does that mean?

fascinated, luo binghe continues to test him. most of the time, when he toys with someone's dream, they're completely unaware of the changes. shang qinghua, despite not seeming aware that he's lucid dreaming, seems very aware of how each scene should go. except for, strangely, many of the scenes that binghe himself was in. binghe pulls up one from his disciple days, one of the times he remembered shang qinghua coming to qing jing on some errand. he hadn't even changed anything yet, had just let the dream version of his younger self launch himself at shizun in a tacklehug, but shang qinghua tsks and takes the reins from him before he can make any edits. "sorry bing-ge, but that was just way too out of character," shang qinghua says. the dream copy of luo binghe's younger self is sent further away, watching the peak lords with a sullen gaze. he's skinnier than binghe remembers being at this age, and one of his eyes is swollen with a purple bruise. that doesn't make any sense, luo binghe thinks. he hadn't been beaten on qing jing peak for years at this point.

the shen qingqiu beside shang qinghua in the dream stands with his back straight as a ruler, and when his gaze lands on luo binghe, he sneers behind his fan. shang qinghua sighs. "cucumber-bro really wasn't as good of an actor as he thought he was. he's way too soft to ever seem like the original goods."

alarmed, luo binghe dispels the dream and steps out of it entirely. sure, he knows shen qingqiu's personality changed almost overnight when he had that qi deviation. everyone knew that. he avoided questioning it much, unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth when it meant having a shizun that cared for him

but shang qinghua. shang qinghua seems to know something more about shen qingqiu's personality change. something he's not sharing. luo binghe didn't like the idea that one of his subordinates could be hiding something as vital as this from him

well, this had been a test of his spy's loyalties, hadn't it? perhaps he should make a visit to an ding. he had some questions.

[sweetcollywobbles]

more leon headcanons

i miss him i miss him i miss him i miss him i miss him i miss him

i miss my wife, tails.

so lets talk about him.

⟢ leon was 6 years old when his family was murdered. there was a time when he could remember all of their faces. yet as he gets older, their faces have become a lot more blurry. sometimes he catches himself staring into the mirror. did nonno have the same nose as he did? was he the same blonde as his nonna? does he have his moms' smile? were his dad's eyes just as blue as his? when they looked at him, did they see themselves in him as he's so desperatley trying to remember them in him?

⟢ leon is the italian version of a "no sabo" kid. he knows the language, yet doesn't seem to be able to put the words together himself. he just kinda stands there nodding his head with a blank stare. then when he has to respond he's just kinda like "uuuhhhh tbh idk". he knows how to correctly pronounce some words and phrases, but that's about it.

⟡HOWEVER, he will call his lover with italian terms of endearment, i.e., amore mio, cucciolotta, cuore mio, piccola, etc. he might even say some phrases that he does know in italian, i.e., Io e te per sempre (you and me forever), sei la mia vita (you are my life), ti amo tanto (i love you so much), etc.

+p.s. sorry for any misinterpretations, i'm not italian but i am mexican so spanish and italian are not too different (???) but please correct me if i'm wrong!

⟢ leon has always been a dinosuar guy. he's watched probably every dino documentary thats ever been made and rewatches them whenever they're on. so, naturally, whenever he travels for work, he'll try his best to visit every museum he possibly can to see their dino exhibit and nothing else. of course, as het gets older (probably DI to RE6) he'll explore the other exhibits but for rn he'll just stick to the dino exhibits. and if you must ask him what his favorite dinosuar is, he'll say the answer he said as a kid, a spinosaurus. it's common enough for people to know and not give him a strange look of confusion. but really, his heart belongs to the pachycephalosaurus.

⟡ of course, in its natural progression, leon will also delve into a fascination of raptors and reptiles. he'll go to zoos and spend his time in the reptile exhibit. he'll also go bird watching for any avian raptors he can find. this also does mean that he has nice pair binoculars and will buy a native bird identify guide when he travels. his documentary options have now expanded with his two new interests which really excites him.

⟢ whether you believe it or not, leon is actually more of a fruity cocktail kinda guy. he doesn't mind beer or hard liquor, especially when he needs something strong and to the point. something to help him drink away the bad memories and all too realistic nightmares. but if he's just in the mood to enjoy himself, leon will cook up a salty dog or a cranberry vodka.

⟢ leon oh so terribly wants kids. but before he forces you into his life, he never thought that to be possible. so in his off time, he would volunteer for the NICU at the local hospital to be a baby cuddler. he got into it after he tried it with rebecca. it gave him the sense that everything will be okay, that even if he can't have a few of his own, at least he can be there for little ones that need someone, even if its for a moment.

⟡ TRUST, that once you do have a baby with this man, he's all over them. that baby will never not be in his arms or in the proximity of him. he's on spit up and diaper duty. baby wakes up late at night crying? no worries, he's already in the room (he was sleeping on the nursery floor). you will almost have to battle this man to hold YOUR baby.

⟢ leon is actually a really big fan of romcoms and time pieces. in fact, his favorite time piece movie is pride and prejudice. oh he absolutely adores romantic pieces like that especially because he's a hopeless romantic at heart. he's fallen in love with the idea of falling in love with a girl he's just met and having soft intimate moments with them. his guilty pleasure romcom is 13 going on 30, especially since after the whole plagas incident, the movie was just released and he binged that movie on repeat.

⟡ BUT, just because he likes time pieces and romcoms doesn't mean he doesn't like action or thriller movies. leon's a really big fan of the matrix series and star wars series. also the fast and furious franchise is actually where his love of fast cars and motorcycles stem from. he just can't do any horror movies because baby has trauma :(

₊˚⊹ ᥫ᭡. 𓂃

it's not much, but i thought these were silly and gave him a little more character. please let me know what you think or if you have any headcanons of your own!!!

xxox

[onyourowndaisymae]

"... they're softer than i imagined."

"hmm? pardon me?"

"and do you really wear these all the time? they look brand new."

barbatos looks over his shoulder to see what you might be referring to-- the spoon he's stirring with stills in his hand as his attention is drawn to you.

your hands open and close, outstretched before you, as a pleased smile graces your lips, your cheeks brighter from the heightened temperature of the kitchen around mealtime. his gloves-- previously set aside while he was kneading pastry dough and left off after for convenience-- are now slipped onto your hands. they don't fit you properly, of course. they're molded to barbatos' hands like weathered railings on a busy staircase, accustomed to every line, every vein, every plane and bump gathered through his existence. your hands stretch and shimmy, but they do not fill the space inside the gloves like he would.

a smile settles on barbatos' face as a chuckle escapes him. what a curious little thing you are.

"waited until i turned my back to steal my gloves, did you?"

you grin. "maybe."

he carefully sets the stirring spoon on its designated resting spot before crossing the kitchen and coming to join you. he settles in quietly behind you, chest against your back, coming to get a good view of your hands as you stretch them out in front of you.

there's an innocent affection in watching you toy with his gloves. like offering your lover your coat in the cold, a strange sense of satisfaction settles over him as you adjust them around your joints. a part of his uniform, so insignificant and menial to him, has become an object of your fascination. he doesn't deny himself the pleasure of pressing a chaste kiss against your temple.

a giggle bubbles up your throat. what a lovely sound, he thinks. the two of you are alone in the kitchen-- maybe that's why he lets his bare hands skim affectionately up your sides, soft and gentle as the find their way to your wrists. warm fingertips skim under the edge of the white fabric, unrolling a part folded under itself before giving a calculated tug on the garment, easing them on to your fingers more comfortably than you had managed alone.

"i must admit," he murmurs next to your ear. you can hear the amusement in his voice as he does. his fingers wrap around the exposed part of your wrists, drawing your hands closer to where you both stand. "they do look quite nice on you, my love."

[shalotttower]

A Natural Benefit

Title: A Natural Benefit

Fandom: Death Note

Characters: L Lawliet x Reader (female)

Summary: L wants to try something new, you want to be left alone. So an offer is on the table, it's a mutually beneficial arrangement after all.

Word count: 2100+

Notes: yandere!L, kidnapped Reader, dub-con kissing, manipulation, captivity, L and Reader were together at Wammy's House

"Would you indulge me?"

Your eyes dart up from the page to his face. L looks at you like he always does ─ an intent yet oddly distant stare that used to make goosebumps appear on your arms. Nowadays you're somewhat re-accustomed to his mannerisms. He doesn't blink much, tends to stand behind your back whenever possible, likes to play with his food and enjoys invading your personal space far too much to be deemed socially acceptable.

His habits are strange but harmless.

"No," you say, just to be contrary.

L is fond of making things sound simple, and then — snap! — the trap is shut, and you find yourself doing a completely different activity than initially expected.

"I want to kiss you."

"N-" You blink and lower your book down, not bothering to mark it. "What?"

"Kissing is an act of physical intimacy between individuals," he says like it's an obvious fact and you're merely slow on the uptake. L's expression doesn't change, neutral despite this being anything but a normal conversation starter even by your standards ─ admittedly low.

"Thank you for enlightening me about the definition," you lean back against the cushions, "still no."

"Why not?" He asks after a momentary pause.

"Because I don't want to."

A simple answer to a weird request. You try to resume reading, but there're other things currently occupying your brain ─ namely the attempts to understand what prompted such inquiry.

L never asked for physical contact before; platonic or otherwise. Sure he tried to entice you into spending time with him through bargain and manipulation, and you pretended to be oblivious enough to earn an Oscar for your acting skills. However, there never was any talk of kissing involved. Any kind of touching, actually.

He hums. "Would you like me to explain my reasons?"

Sometimes you think that the sole cause of L's existence is just so he could annoy people for kicks. His questions are always peculiar, and you've learned that every single one of them is designed to lead towards some specific conclusion, preferably the one he wants. You have a feeling that if you say 'yes', L will proceed to list a hundred points about why kissing is good. And then another hundred why kissing him specifically is beneficial.

"No."

He looks at you. You look at him and raise the book higher.

"Indulging me would benefit both of us," L says, undeterred. "You're very curious by nature and I find it quite fascinating that you're able to deny your curiosity in this particular case."

Has a more obvious bait ever existed anywhere in human history? Probably not, and you'll bet your entire life savings on it too.

"I'm not curious," you lie, "now leave me alone. I want to read."

He leans forward. "You haven't focused on the book since I asked my question."

Smartass. You purse your lips and pretend that the characters are suddenly so interesting, that it's hard to look away from the intricacies of the plot unfolding inside this fictional world. At least things there make sense; no need to figure out the hidden meanings behind other people's words, because they are mostly transparent when there's a whole paragraph dedicated to the protagonist's feelings.

He reminds you of those spider-like creatures from documentaries ─ their actions seem random at first glance, yet upon further scrutiny prove to be anything but. Instead, they're meticulously crafted and executed to obtain maximum results.

L studies you for a little while longer, and eventually pads towards the kitchenette. The kettle whistles soon after as he makes himself tea; mint flavored, judging by the aroma wafting through the air.

______________________________________________________

You should have known that he won't give up ─ L is just as persistent as you are stubborn. If anything, you've set a challenge before him, and he tends to fixate on those until they are solved: a fact well-known and accepted among those who ever had a (dis)pleasure of interacting with him.

He doesn't outright ask you again, not the next day or the one after that. No. Accidentally, the only type of movies you're able to watch now are rom-coms or dramas with lots of kissing scenes sprinkled here and there between the banter bordering on cringe; sweet confessions spoken over candlelit dinners; passionate declarations whispered during sunsets... Clichés, amore, and kisses galore.

"I'm not sure this is the best movie for the evening," you say, as the screen flickers with images of two leads gazing into each other's eyes like they found the answers to every single question asked.

"The reviews are quite positive," L replies, munching on caramel popcorn.

"Reviews can be faked. And the trailer was misleading. I thought it was going to be an action movie."

"It is an action movie. The genres are listed right there," he points at the screen, and the words 'romance and action' stare back at you.

You frown and settle deeper into the couch cushions. It's uncomfortable ─ watching romantic scenes with L in the same room. His presence doesn't feel oppressive or demanding, yet you can't shake off the squirmy, twisty feeling. The kind when you enter an elevator with someone else and get slightly agitated for no reason. And so you try to slow down your breathing, but it only makes things worse. Your heart beats faster, palms start sweating and the hypothetical elevator stranger inevitably thinks that you're weird.

L isn't an elevator stranger. He's the owner of the elevator, and the entire building, and the city.

"He's going to die in the next ten minutes," you mutter.

"No, he won't."

"Yes, he will."

L hums. "Want a bet?"

Your eyes narrow.

"If he survives past the fifteen minute mark," L says slowly, "you indulge me."

"And if he doesn't?"

"I leave you alone for two days."

There's no hesitation on his side. None whatsoever, which proves suspicious immediately ─ L never offers something unless certain about the outcome beforehand, whether by logical deduction or calculated gamble. Probability factors run inside his brain instead of blood cells and grey matter, calculating risk vs return ratio quicker than any computer ever could.

You glance at the screen. It's a simple plot. There were a twist or two earlier, sure, but overall nothing extraordinary that would require hours upon hours of critical thinking to unravel.

A man, a woman. A handsome villain who wants them dead, for various reasons. They run and fight, shoot guns, dodge punches, and kiss between those because apparently there's time for romance even when a life is on the line.

It's a very simple plot; and two days are a lot to pretend that L doesn't exist. That you got rich enough to buy this kind of apartment.

"The speakers?"

"Switched off."

"The cameras?"

"Those will stay."

Of course, they will. You wouldn't expect anything less ─ privacy issues are non-existent here in more ways than one.

L isn't always a presence. Sometimes he leaves and you're alone with nothing but books and TV to pass time, but two days sound wonderful regardless. There's something in empty spaces that's enticing, even if they're temporary. L, for all his peculiarities, isn't too bad of a company. He's quiet, and often busy with his own matters. But he also has this way of looking at you that is unnerving. Like you're interesting. Or important. Or simply fascinating.

Sometimes he wants to talk, he wants to listen, he wants to ask questions and give answers until everything blurs into an amalgamation of words. It's exhausting.

Two days sound good. His hand is dry and slender. You grasp it and shake it once.

"I'll start the timer now," L says after your hands separate.

______________________________________________________

Twelve minutes.

Three more and he's dead.

You wish that he'd just kick the bucket already, so you could spend the next forty eight hours in pure, undiluted bliss.

_______________________________________________________

The male lead dies after seventeen minutes.

When the credits roll over, the apartment is silent except for the soft buzzing of electronics. You look at the screen, stubbornly, because you don't want to look at him, the owner of the elevator, and the building, and the city.

"It was close," he comments, as if trying to comfort you, which makes it even more of a sore spot.

That’s what L thrives on ─ technicalities, loopholes, small and seemingly insignificant details which are easily overlooked, yet make a great difference. You're not sure if you're annoyed, or disappointed. And what’s more important ─ at whom.

You have known for years that L tends to get his way eventually whenever there's something specific caught up in that head of his; a fixation which refuses to leave until satisfied, and sometimes even after. Snap. You can get up and head out of the living room, you know you can. Will you though is another question entirely.

L isn't a typical captor ─ he doesn't demand or force you into things. He simply presents a possibility and waits. Not aggressive or domineering, not sadistic. But oh he is a PhD of holding a grudge. Leaving now probably means waking up tomorrow and finding that every single disk has vanished without a trace, along with the bookshelves being switched for some obscure scientific texts on chemistry, physics and other things that require an advanced degree to fully understand.

Because someone decided that you don’t deserve entertainment anymore. Because someone is petty enough to deprive you of basic mental stimuli, and is stubborn enough to hold onto that decision even when reasoned with. Unsuccessfully.

It's a talent really, this particular brand of making your life miserable in many small ways, so they accumulate into something greater over time until you feel like the walls are closing in slowly but surely.

You can't back out, even though no one openly stops you from doing so. And L knows that. And he knows that you know. His lips twitch and curl upward before flattening again into neutral territory.

There's a theory that if you pull a band-aid fast enough, it won't hurt as much. The credibility behind it is questionable.

You exhale and meet L's gaze ─ his posture hasn't changed from the beginning to the end of the film, knees tucked to his chest, eyes two dark pools that stare without blinking. His fingers drum a steady rhythm, and that's probably the only sign that gives it away.

Anticipation.

"Fine," you say finally.

His mouth opens before closing back again. L doesn't move a bit.

He wants you to do it, you realize. Wants you to initiate instead of just allowing it. What an ass.

You squish his cheeks between your palms until his lips pucker outwards. L makes a soft noise of surprise but doesn't try to fight back.

Black lashes cast a shadow across his skin. There's no perfume or cologne, no distinct smell ─ he uses plain soap and shampoo which don't have a discernible aroma.

"I believe I was promised an indulgence," L says, voice muffled a bit by your hands on his face.

He looks like a fish this way. A silly, ridiculous image that would make you snort if not for the situation at hand.

Band-aids and ripping them off.

You sigh, lean forward, and press your mouth to his.

He tastes like caramel popcorn.

Mint tea.

Indulgence.

The angle is awkward, and L doesn't move an inch to accommodate the position. He stays still like a block of solid rock, not a single muscle twitches, and doesn't even attempt to reciprocate. You have half a mind to think that maybe he's mocking you, but then his fingers lightly curl on the fabric of his jeans. L's eyelids flutter half-closed when your noses bump, then open again right after. Another oddity added to the pile.

It lasts no longer than ten seconds before you pull away. L blinks. Touches his lower lip with the tip of a finger and rubs it like searching for traces left by the contact.

"You were promised an indulgence," you remind him, trying to sound calm, collected, but your ears and neck feel hot, "not a make-out session."

Technicalities and loopholes.

L has that look you can't quite pinpoint yet know far too well. You've seen it many times before. When he thinks about something but keeps it to himself for now.

"You look more lively," he remarks eventually. "Healthy complexion suits you."

You don't need to hear what he says next, because the words already ring through your head.

"I told you it would benefit us both."

[fataldrum]

Dorian Gray is queer art, period.

Apparently Netflix has decided to make an adaption of The Picture of Dorian Gray with Dorian and Basil as siblings. Unless they're planning to go the gothic horror incest route, they've completely missed the point of the relationship between these characters.

If you haven't read the book, Basil is a painter who becomes infatuated with a beautiful young man, pouring his feelings into a painting. Dorian becomes jealous of the painting's beauty, realizing that he will never be as young and unspoiled as the version of himself on the canvas. He finds himself wishing that the painting could age instead of him. His wish is granted, allowing him to stay young and beautiful until the end, with his moral and spiritual decline reflected only in the painting.

I cannot overstate how queer this book is. Dorian is so beautiful that their first meeting inspires a wave of existential terror in Basil. Dorian changes Basil's entire understanding of art and beauty. This book is so queer it was used as evidence at Wilde's sodomy trial.

The existence of the portrait itself is tantamount to a confession of queer desire. Basil tells his friend, Lord Henry, that he can't exhibit the painting because "I have put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry (who will later lead Dorian into a life of vice) laughs, but Basil explains:

“[E]very portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. [...] It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.”

This is how he describes meeting Dorian:

When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. [...] I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape.”

Notice that turn of phrase--it was not conscience but cowardice that made him attempt to flee. Why would conscience factor into his decision? Because he felt shame at his reaction to Dorian's perfect, beautiful face.

Lord Henry is shocked to discover Basil cares for something besides his art.

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me.

Basil goes on to confess, "I see everything in him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there."

Lord Henry still doesn't understand why there is too much of Basil in the painting, so Basil explains:

“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too much of myself!”

Lord Henry asks how Dorian feels about Basil, and his response is absolutely tragic.

The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

Any adaptation that ignores the way Dorian's existence and beauty utterly destroyed Basil is doomed to be shallow and insipid. This is not just a book about a magic painting. It's a monument to queer longing.