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sillystringpasta · 4 months ago

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so, i see all these aus where danny gets help from the justice league for the anti ecto acts, and they're great. but hear me out. ghost king danny. classic setup, acts need to be repealed or war.

so danny goes to the league, of course.

the league of assassins.

Ra's is already familiar with death, and ghosts, and the realms. ya man's had the lazarus pits for centuries, he knows a little bit of what's what. maybe there's already some trade relations going on. more importantly, he has a massive group of hyper competent people who can pull strings in the government very stealthily, and have no outside affiliation or loyalty to that government.

but why not the JL? most of them are based in the USA. they work with the government (danny assumes). surely they are aware of the Acts. surely they would conform to them, enforce them.

so ghost king danny meets with ra's, who gives rancid vibes, but is able to, and wants to, do a smear campaign against the JL. against the USA. to gain favor with the guy who is the king of his most sacred resource, and knowledge about how to use the Pits to gain some basic liminal powers.

danny doesn't like the solution, exactly. but he's king. and this is what will protect his people. this is what will get expedient results. this is what his advisors who will still permit peace will allow.

so danny takes the deal with Ra's.

the initial outrage begins online, perhaps through MikMok. a mega famous influencer is cosplaying as superman, doing a twerking sort of dance to the most current haha funni meme song. the text overlay reads: when the superheroes condone genocide because they aren't human, ANTI-ECTO ACTS (whatever law/section code they were passed in).

it goes viral. and then someone finds the Acts (prodded along by the League) and it goes from a hit sensation online to every. single. news outlet flooding with information (puppeted by the League).

is this real? the Acts are real. but why? if these people(?) don't exist, why the Acts? the outrage. the mass confusion. the conspiracies. the new subgeddits and trending xitter tags. 4kun greentext be me: a ghost, becomes the new thing.

at this point, the GIW are scrambling to keep their involvment on the downlow. there are acts, sure, but they're not enforced :DDDD

vlad is in a similar situation. he cloned a guy. he def experimented on other ghosts to get to that level of knowledge. naturally, this is about when lex luthor gets involved. because, wouldn't you know it, but project CADMUS? yeah. that was a collab with DalvCo. they both wanted non-human clones from green stuff. they got it, and now luthor's sitting on some unpretty information.

he promptly shoves vlad under the bus, which is rapidly becoming less of a bus and more a trainwreck.

the league is surprised this happened, but goes with it.

the US governemnt is still trying to deny, deny, deny.

it's at this point that the JL gets themselves together. they don't know if the papers by Drs fenton are biased, or if ecto entities really are mindless creatures bent on destruction.

constantine says they're biased. green lantern concurs.

they decide to summon an ecto entity and find out what is going on.

danny is pretty stressed. it's a stressful situation. he's on break for the first time since they got a solution to this problem. he's not gonna answer a summoning. he has people to do that for him.

so they don't get the ghost king.

but they do get-

dani. and jazz. at the same time.

maximum possible psychic damage.

in the room at the watchtower is the big 3, green lantern, martian manhunter, flash, constantine, zatanna, raven, and black canary (legends of tomorrow experience? cool headed? there for arrow who is busy?).

dani doesn't like superman. he treats clones badly. jazz doesn't like batman, see Arkham.

dani doesn't know who c, z, raven, or bc are. jazz kinda knows of them, but not well.

so the actual negotiations go down with WW and MM.

they have a lot of questions. dani (abomination form) introduces jazz (basic looking human) as a princess of the realms. jazz says that the Acts are real, the realms want war, go suck a creamsickle (that was dani), they want restitution for the lives lost from the GIW.

then they leave the JL wondering who the GIW are.

someone (LoA) manages to hack the watchtower and post the meeting online as soon as it happens. or maybe they livestreamed it on Switch.

my spamblr, the result of my space buying tumblr in 1999, gains its first sexy women (jazz). jazz/WW fiction springs up on AOL3 overnight.

the GIW goes public. they try to push the envelop of ghosts being non-sentient. they try to use jazz being ambassador for that meeting to help their case. the JL is fighting accuations, but they are being pidgeon holed into siding with the GIW by the media.

it's at this point that things go from trainwreck to airplane runway crash.

dalvco and luthor are in a lawsuit. the usgov is under pressure from everyone. people are calling for impeachment of the president. the GIW is getting raided and having their evil posted online. the drs fentons are absent (in the ghost zone, either being evil or having mimosas with pandora). ra's is trying to use new knowledge of the Pits to reanimate tim's spleen. the JL is under constant fire. everyone who has ever had a malicious opinion about super or meta control is getting new platforms. danny can't use his intimate knowledge of what's going on to write his essays for school.

the world is galvanized. there are calls to action. liminals of Amity Prak come forward. you could be liminal too! the Acts get repealed. the GIW gets cleaned out, all prisoners rescued. the realms get restituition. the meta protection acts get expanded.

people will learn about phantom, the superhero. the dead boy who saved them all when the JL didn't answer amity's calls. the JL comes under more fire. they lose funding, defund the police style. for maximum chaos, this can be when the miraculous ladybug crossover starts.

phantom gets a bajillion features on true crime podcasts. tucker keeps sending links to the episodes to them. sam will never admit it, but she listens to them.

but things will never, ever be the same. arguably it's a bad end. but...

black canary restructures arkham from what jazz said to batman in that meeting. many of the rogues get actual help. the joker is transfered to a supermax. he never escapes again. nightwing takes the discowing costume back up in celebration.

vlad loses the lawsuit, and uses his powers to get one over on luthor, who has a mind control suggestion implanted to (amongst other things) never be able to work on these projects again.

there is greater transparancy in superhero work. this makes some people start social programs for villians who have a point. it works for a few of them. the JL is cleared up to handle more extraterrestriel threats, not leaving the burden on one person alone in the cities. the child sidekicks have less work.

amanda waller is fired. ironically, she had nothing to do with any of this, but people assume that she did. either way, everyone agrees it's deserved.

the league of assassins makes a lot of money. they get hired a lot in turbulent times.

disney, which is utterly unchanged in this dimension, makes a documentary about everything. they get dani in for an interview. it's in very bad taste. there is at least one death pun and CGI'd animal.

danny graduates.

clockwork smiles.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #writing #my idea #dc #batman #league of assassins au #my writing

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itsswritten · 24 days ago

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Earth's Song

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 795 (she's a drabble)

Warnings: Difficult birth is briefly mentioned no major details though.

Summary: Fairies are made for the wind & sun <3

Wings Masterlist

You could see it, just beyond the archway. Only a step away, the golden streams of rays filtering over the flowers. The breeze, a scent of fresh grass, pollen and peonies filling your senses– so close you could almost taste it. The melody of the earth was calling to you, its creatures and plants singing in a verse only you could hear upon your arrival. Your lips tugged into a gentle smile across your tired expression.

Oh you had missed this.

A soft gurgle pulled you from your musings, your gaze settling down on the little bundles that were swaddled to your front. Your babes, twin sons. Only weeks old. Could they hear it too? The earth's music? it’s song, it’s heartbeat– you were sure they could. Certain they felt it in their bones just like you.

“Isn’t it wonderful..”, you whispered to them, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on the tops of their heads. Wefts of hair as dark as their fathers atop, and their scent so inexplicably yours and his.

“My love…” Azriel spoke, an ache in his tone that seemed consistent with any action you did nowadays. You had tried to step forward, feet moving past the tiles of the River House subconsciously into the outside that was calling you–calling your sons too. Any action you seemed to make these past few weeks only made your mates heart lurch.

“Azriel…” your tone was gentle but firm, your free hand subconsciously rubbing the backs of your babes who were nuzzled against your chest. Their eyes slowly opened and closed under the gentle glow of the sun that reached within the doorway of the house. “I want to– need to feel the earth,” you replied.

It had been several weeks since you had been outside, several weeks since you brought your baby boys into this world. The birth had been difficult. A thought you didn’t want to dwell on, but something you knew was still very prevalent as you felt your mate's supportive hand press against the small of your back. His free hand still looped with your arm for stability.

It had taken a great deal of convincing for him to bring you here, to let your boys experience the world beyond the safety of the house walls. Azriel, ever the protective Shadowsinger, had been beside himself when he’d almost lost you. The birth of your twins—Illyrian-winged miracles born of a meadow faerie—had been far from easy. The ordeal had left you in a deep, unnatural slumber, robbing you of those precious first days with your sons. It was a cruel twist of fate, one that left you fragile in body and spirit. Even the sacred traditions of your kind had been set aside in the wake of it all.

And well, Azriel’s protectiveness had grown to a level you didn’t know was possible. You understood though. Didn’t blame him; if the roles were reversed, if you’d almost lost him, you weren’t sure what kind of person you’d become in the aftermath. But you were still here. Healing, growing stronger with every passing day.

So you convinced him, explained to him how fairies were made for the wind and sun, your boys, despite only being half of you– needed this too.

You watched as your mate hesitated, bringing you this far had gone against every instinct he had, but as he gazed into your reassuring smile he nodded. Gently moving with you, each step at a time. Your bare feet feeling the soft grass under your pads. The sensation sent a shiver through your body and as you began to ground yourself tears filled your eyes.

The evening sun basked it’s golden hour upon your skin, it’s rays warming your flesh in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks. You had missed this.

Your babes stirred softly, their tiny forms swaddled snugly against your chest. Their warmth grounded you further. You inhaled deeply, the scent of the flowers and the earth beneath your feet blending with the faint sweetness of your sons.

Azriel’s wings rustled softly behind you as he stepped closer, his shadowed presence a constant comfort as you let yourself lean back against him. You glanced up at him, your tear-filled eyes meeting his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Wordlessly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead, his gaze moving to his sons pressed against you with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I love you– I love you all so much,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion.

Your smile was the only reply he needed. Your expression looking fuller than it had done in weeks. And then you hummed, eyes closed as you harmonised along to the earth’s song.

a/n: a little wings drabble, our first snippet at seeing the baby boys...which yes I've finally landed on names. Introducing...Rune & Rain <3

wings universe: @minaethrym @megscabinetofcurios @scorpioriesling @dottedhalfnotes

Permanent taglist: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria @writingcroissant @searchingforbucky

#wings universe #acotar #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acotar azriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar series #angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #azriel x fairy #fairy x azriel #fairy reader x azriel

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she-who-fights-and-writes · 1 year ago

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MASTER LIST OF INSTRUMENTAL PLAYLISTS FOR WRITING (OR FOR STUDYING, MAKING ART, ETC.)

I find that the perfect writing playlist can GREATLY enhance the writing experience. Even if it doesn't make your writing "better" (which it can, since it helps writers with visualization, tone, and mood), it can definitely make your writing flow easier!

Personally, words distract me when I'm writing, either by breaking my train of thought or by getting me too into the music so that I'm jamming out to my favorite tunes instead of writing.

Therefore, I've amassed a vast knowledge of instrumental music across a variety of media over a course of many years. Now here I am, deciding to share all of them with you!

Maddy’s Favorite Instrumental Songs

Just like the title says. All of the best pieces of instrumental music I've ever heard, compiled together with no regard for genre. It can be a bit of a whiplash playlist, but some amazing recs in there that I just like listening to in my free time, not just for writing.

Maddy’s Ultimate Instrumental Playlist

A mega compilation of 550+ fantastic instrumental music from a variety of media and genres. Kind of a whiplash playlist if you put it on shuffle, but is a great start for anyone looking to find what kind of instrumental music they like! Playlist Groupings in Order: Independent instrumental songs, live action movies, animated movies, animated tv shows, live action tv shows, video games.

Maddy's Instrumental for Sleep

Some more chill vibe instrumental for people who either A) want to sleep or B) want a relaxed playlist that won't distract you with loud volume and sudden changes in tempo or melody.

MISC PLAYLISTS:

you're a haggard adventurer discovering worlds beyond your wildest dreams

Music to inspire wonder and wanderlust, the kind of feeling you get when you finally reach the end of a mountain hike and see the world stretching out before you.

you're a hero who's just lost everything

Basically the most sad instrumental music I could find. A playlist for grief and revenge.

more beneath the cut :)

you're a cowboy in the great American West

Cowboy instrumental for all of your ambient and writing needs. Or if you just really want to feel like a cowboy.

you're a divine witness

Epic choir music (no English). Most religious, some not, but all kind of have that eerie sacred vibe. I listen to this while writing my book about angels and demons.

you’re a scholar uncovering the secrets of the universe

Great chill study playlist! Has the kind of same exploratory/discovery type feel as the haggard adventurer playlist, but more dark academia.

you’re a villain plotting to take over the world

Villain-coded instrumental! Sinister, dark, and/or unsettling.

you're an academic weapon

HIGH BPM STUDY PLAYLIST! Keeps me focused, hyped, and helps me work faster!

you're an ancient god

Playlist that gives an ancient/eerie vibe. But some ancient gods are merciful- so there are some upbeat songs for wonder and awe!

you're falling in love

Music that encapsulates what I think falling in love feels like. Very beautiful, tender, and uplifting instrumental.

you're fighting the final battle

Intense and epic battle music for all of your fight-scene-writing needs! Good for getting shit done, but isn't necessarily restricted to high BPM like the academic weapon playlist.

you're having a tea party

Refined instrumental for a tea party, including classical, big band, and some miscellaneous goodies.

you're in a chase scene

Music for writing chase scenes. Pretty good hype music, too. Includes soundtracks from classic chase scenes in popular media!

you're in the medieval times

Medieval-sounding music for all of your ambient and/or writing needs.

you’re in your childhood room. the door is open a crack. people talk softly downstairs.

A playlist dedicated to nostalgia, to the feeling of lying in bed with your nightlight on after being too tired to stay awake at your family get-together. Could either make your day or break your heart lmao

you're the happiest you've ever been

Lighthearted instrumental meant to lift your spirits! A playlist dedicated to the joys of the little things.

#writing #writers #writeblr #booklr #creative writing #studying #writing playlist #roleplay #writing tips #writing advice #writing help #writing inspo #writing inspiration #inspo #music #music rec #instrumental music

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thyln4gf · 9 months ago

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Darling, can I?

✞ Confusing feelings - youre both lost, stuck and thinking about each other after the hookup. But its not a one-night stand if it turns into two, right?

✞ Word count - 1898

✞ I have synesthesia! Heres 5 songs that i associate with this fic - "favorite" - Isabel LaRosa, "bad idea!" - Girl In Red, "attention" - Charlie Puth, "eat your young" - Hozier, "meddle about" - Chase Atlantic.

✞ Warnings - smut, mentions of alcohol.

✞ Lando Norris x reader

Whiskey, expensive cologne, and dizzying passion.

Thats what he reminded you of. The image of him was burned into your brain permanently. Whenever whiskey washed over your tongue, memories of him would flash before your eyes. The way he had his tongue deep down your throat, mercilessly fighting with yours. The subtle flavour of whiskey and the cologne he used numbed your senses, almost making you forget your own name. No one has brought you to the heights he has by simply kissing you. No one, ever. And all that happened only once - yet, you couldnt help but let your mind linger on the memory. You kept it close to your chest, like something sweet and sacred. But you thought that he didnt feel the same - and you spent hours thinking about it. He was a famous figure, after all. You probably were just another pretty looking doll to him, something he could play with once and throw away. But did you care? No, not really. You knew that you could easily get anyone else. If you wanted to, that is.

Initially, Lando thought the exact same thing. That you were a pretty thing that he particularly enjoyed playing around with for a night. But, after you, hooking up with women simply didnt feel the same. He kept thinking of you and your scent. The way you looked at him (that look in your eyes was enough to make any mans knees buckle), and the way you made him feel. He was starting to regret his actions, as he found his heart making even more space for you and the feelings for you that have been bubbling up to the surface.

Today was no different - he was staring up at the ceiling, contemplating his life choices. It was approximately 7am, and all he could think about was you. Even when the pretty looking miss barbie he had in his bed tried talking to him - he found himself getting distracted. You just had a way of drawing people in, and barely even noticing it.

And, before he knew it, he was up on his feet, getting ready to leave the house. He had already escorted the blondie out of the door, and that was his last straw - as soon as the distraction left his space... he *had* to go and see you. He wasnt so sure if you would accept him, though. He felt like an ass. He used you and threw you away like something disposable. And he was sure that it was an uncomfortable experience to spot him out and about - monaco wasnt that huge, after all.

"Fucking hell..." he muttered under his breath, as he was currently failing to button up his shirt - his hands were shaking more than ever. He knew that you had options, and that so did he. But he was almost desperate to hold you in his arms.

-------

You were having another slow morning - the weight of your responsibilities was slowly, but surely, weighing you down. You had pulled yet another all nighter - your body is currently powered by hopes, prayers, and a load of canned caffeine. You were surprised by how you were still pulling through.

You were currently walking around with a textbook in your hands, hoping that the walking part is going to trick your body into staying awake. And it was actually working, honestly - despite your legs feeling like pieces of stone. The house was pretty quiet, too. One of the things that made you cherish living alone - peace and quiet.

But thats until you heard your doorbell ring. You werent expecting anybody, it was a Tuesday morning... you put the book down onto the kitchen table, and start making your way towards the front door.

You had a horrible habit of opening the door without peeking through the little hole. And you should have, atleast this time - because none other than Norris himself has made his appearance. You werent expecting such a sight, and so early. You werent expecting him to squeeze himself right past you into your house, either.

"What the fu - hello?" You calmly call out to him, your voice laced with confusion. However, you dont question it much, and close the door behind you. Lando almost looks grateful as you do so - almost as if he was expecting for you to kick him out.

He looks into your eyes, just like that. You can see him briefly licking his lips, and one of his hands going to the back of his neck, rubbing it. He looks away and takes a deep breath, before he can even say anything else. He had 'im nervous and overwhelmed' written all over him, in capital letters. But what is it? Only the sight of him made your heartbeat accelerate a tiny bit.

"I wanted to - ohhh..." he tries to speak up, but he sees you stepping closer to him. Your movements made him freeze in his spot. His breath got caught in his throat. In all honesty... when he looked into your eyes, all he could think about was that one night you spent together, and his confusion about his feelings towards you amplified. Your movements were slow enough to almost feel agonising, making him want to snap and break his composure.

Neither of you say a word, nothing. All he could see was you, and all you could see was him. You could almost imagine how his hot breath would feel on your neck, and in... other places.

But, besides your own thoughts, him struggling to breathe, and the distant ticking of the clock somewhere in the house, nothing else could be heard. The clock almost felt like a ticking bomb, a countdown of seconds until one of you snapped. Both of you knew what was coming a long, long time ago. It was just a question of when.

The silly little staring contest continued. But Lando couldnt keep to himself for much longer - he almost lunges towards you, planting his lips on yours like he was a drowning man, desperately trying to come up for air. You cant even describe the noise that just left your throat, though it was definitely one of surprise. But you quickly found yourself kissing him back, your hands immediately burying themselves into his hair, his snaking around your waist.

You both start losing yourselves, and pretty fast. All the energy and the longing spilled out, sending a wave of electricity throughout your body. You spent the past couple of weeks trying to ignore those thoughts. That maybe, just maybe - you liked him. Each and every of your doubts melted with zero effort as soon as you felt him squeeze your body against his, his fingertips clinging onto your clothes, desperately.

You werent sure of the speed you wanted this to be. As if sensing your confusion, Lando slips his arms a little lower, them now being wrapped around your hips. He didnt want to waste any time, nor he liked to do that. Suddenly, the feeling of being carried takes over - Lando has picked you up, and is about to pin you against the wall with his body.

The intensity he kisses you with increases as your body makes contact with the wall. You can feel his every muscle, hear all the sounds he's making. Hell, you think that you can even hear his heartbeat. You can feel a bite or two he makes on your lips, but youre too far gone for your brain to register it properly.

His body presses against you even harder, the feeling making you moan. You hear him chuckle - he's rather happy that he gets to see the wild side of you - youre always so calm, so... collected. He liked to joke that you were a rock in your past life. His hands leave your hips, now roaming all over your body. He always liked to explore - and this wasnt an exception.

Eventually, his hands start slipping under your shirt. His fingertips are a little calloused and rough from all the training and racing, but his palms were soft. His fingertips were still a little chilly from the air outside, and his palms felt almost disgustingly warm. The contrast between the textures and temperatures makes you shiver with pleasure. You cant help but imagine what they would feel like if he put them down your pants.

If you didnt believe in being able to read someone elses mind before... You were about to. Because you suddenly felt one of his hands slip lower, and lower, and lower. From your chest, down to your stomach, and down to the waistband of your pants. But he doesnt go further, for now - he pulls away slightly, to look up at you, his eyes filled with anticipation. He clearly wanted to ask if you really wanted this, for your permission to go further. He just couldnt find the right words - a part of him was scared as well.

You didnt know what to say either. You always struggled with talking about your feelings, leaving alone... these. All you could manage was crash your lips back onto his, even harder than before. A surprise groan leaves Landos throat, a moan - yours. He understood your message well, or so he hoped. He didnt want to misunderstand anything, even worse - hurt you.

His hand does end up in your pants, starting to slowly rub in all the right places. And, right at that moment, you can feel your brain disconnect from your own body - its almost like you were suddenly working on autopilot. You were almost ashamed to admit, but you could already feel yourself getting close. Something about him felt nothing like you have ever felt before, in all the right ways - his touch overwhelmed and turned you on at the same time.

Lando could feel your back trying to arch, and hear your moans getting louder. He smirks to himself - that didnt take long, he thought. Even faster than he would usually finish in.

The orgasm reaches you just seconds after. The wave felt hot, melting your insides and your inner thighs, as you moan into his mouth. Oh yeah, right - you two never stopped kissing each other during all of this. You simply couldnt be bothered to leave each others embrace. Well, you were basically forced, still pinned against the wall - but you didnt have any complaints. You barely had it in you to kiss him back anymore.

And he could feel it. He felt it. He pulled his face away from yours just a little, making eye contact with you. His hand that was in your pants just now comes up to his face, starting to lick the fingers clean. All while never losing the eye contact. For the first time in awhile, the sight in front of you made you blush.

Seeing your reaction, he chuckled, again. You were adorable. He hesitates slightly before speaking up.

"Could I be your favourite, darling? Can i?" He asks you, in the most gentle tone you have ever heard. The thought of it only makes you smile like an idiot.

'Youll know when you find the one', they said. And you always thought of it as bullshit. But right now? You were proved wrong. You were staring into this mans eyes and you could see the world.

Your favourite.

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #f1 fanart #formula one fanart #fanfiction #formula one fanfics #lando norris #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris smut #lando norris x reader #lando fanart #oneshot

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writteninlunarlight-years · 3 months ago

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I Have You Now

RadioApple X Reader

This is based on the song "Rule #34—Fish Inside a Birdcage", which is one of my all-time favorite bands. I have never written a poly story, but let's try it.

TW: AFAB Reader, Tentacles, Bondage, Sexual relations, Rough Sex, Polyamory, Voyeurism

The jazz club pulsed with electric energy, a tapestry of laughter and low, sultry whispers weaving through the air. Alastor had chosen this vibrant haven for a reason—it was the perfect backdrop to deepen his connection with Lucifer, a bond that had grown richer and more adventurous. They were both searching for new experiences to ignite the flames of their passion and tonight, they were ready to explore uncharted territories.

With a sly glint in his eye, Alastor had orchestrated a plan, putting out feelers for a captivating beauty who could match the formidable allure of both himself and Lucifer. And oh, how Mimzy had delivered.

Alastor had visited the enchanting woman alone on numerous occasions, each rendezvous filled with tantalizing anticipation and whispered secrets. But tonight was different; Lucifer had expressed a desire to join him, to meet the woman who had trapped Alastor’s thoughts and desires.

They held a sacred agreement in their unique relationship: no touching unless permission was granted beforehand. Alastor, the more primal of the two, had always taken the lead in selecting who would grace their bed. Still, this woman had become an irresistible obsession, drawing him back repeatedly. Lucifer craved a taste of her allure, and Alastor was eager to share.

As the lights dimmed, anticipation crackled, and a hush swept over the crowd. The stage bathed in a soft, seductive glow, and a striking sinner emerged, her silhouette draped in a deep red sequin dress that caught the light like shimmering embers. She gripped the microphone with effortless grace, her voice emerging as a breathy caress that wove through the jazzy notes, wrapping around each listener like a lover’s embrace.

The audience was spellbound, whistling and hollering, their enthusiasm palpable. Her body was a work of art—every curve and contour mesmerizing, her face a fascinating blend of beauty and mischief. But her voice, a sultry hymn that stirred something primal in the hearts of all present, truly captivated them.

How envious they would be if they knew that this intoxicating siren, whose soft melodies filled the room, would soon be screaming and begging in ecstasy between the two most powerful beings of hell.

As her set unfolded, each song seemed to heighten Lucifer’s intrigue. His eyes were glued to her as she danced with a sultry confidence, the sequins of her dress glinting and shimmering until, by the last number, it transformed into a daring bodysuit that left little to the imagination.

“She wears that when we meet her in the back…” Alastor’s warm breath ghosted over Lucifer’s neck, a stark contrast to the cool shivers that coursed down his spine at the sound of her voice. Nodding helplessly, Lucifer surrendered to the enchantment, finally understanding why Alastor had been so drawn to this woman, even without sharing a bed.

As Mimzy took the stage to gently usher away the hopeful souls desperate for the sinner’s attention, Alastor felt a thrill of anticipation. Tonight wasn’t just about his time with Y/N but about witnessing the intoxicating dance between Lucifer and this mesmerizing enchantress.

The night was still young, and the promise of passion loomed just around the corner, ready to unfold in a symphony of desire and exploration.

Helping Lucifer to his feet, Alastor guided him toward the VIP section of Mimzy's club, the air thick with anticipation and the heady scent of desire. As they entered, they were greeted by a living tapestry of beauty and seduction—Y/N and several other enchanting women glided gracefully between tables, their laughter and whispers mingling with the sultry jazz that filled the room. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the soft sounds of debauchery, a siren call for those ready to indulge.

Alastor felt a primal thrill surge through him; if Lucifer felt the same magnetic pull toward Y/N, he was ready to bring her home with them—Mimzy's rules be damned. Lucifer sank into one of the plush green armchairs, enveloped in comfort, while Alastor stood protectively behind him, his hand resting gently on his shoulder.

When Y/N locked eyes with them, it was as if a spark ignited between them. She was adorned in her stunning deep red sequin bodysuit, each facet glimmering as she moved. Her black strappy heels accentuated her long legs, and a bright red boa draped around her arms like a lover’s embrace.

Lucifer's thoughts spiraled into delicious fantasies of restraint and pleasure, envisioning all the ways he could tie her up, making her plead for his attention. Meanwhile, Alastor couldn't help but imagine the intoxicating sight of Lucifer and this captivating woman beneath him, utterly powerless and exquisite.

As she approached, Y/N gracefully settled onto Lucifer’s lap, her chest tantalizingly close to his face, and glanced up at Alastor with a playful pout on her candied lips.

“Oh, so he’s the one you brag about, Ali… He is handsome… such pretty porcelain skin…” Her perfectly manicured nails traced a delicate path down Lucifer’s cheek to the bowtie around his neck, tugging playfully.

The tension in Lucifer’s pants grew unbearable as he emitted a low growl, gripping the sides of his chair tightly to restrain himself from taking her right then and there.

“Alastor has spoken of you often, Miss Y/N, yet your beauty transcends mere words…” His voice was rich and husky, the evidence of his arousal only fueling her desires as she shifted, straddling him with a sultry grace.

“Hmmm, Ali seems to do a lot of talking. I am more of an actions woman myself.” She ran her hands along Lucifer’s arms, guiding them to her hips, her body pressing against him. A sweet, delicate moan escaped her lips as she ground against his growing need.

“My, my, you two! Had I known this visceral reaction would happen, I would have introduced you sooner,” Alastor said, his desire flaring hotter by the second.

She declined whenever he asked Y/N to be his courtesan, claiming Mimzy offered her everything she needed. But tonight, with Lucifer alongside him, he hoped to show her an unforgettable experience that would change her mind.

Mimzy approached, a playful smile dancing on her lips. “My, my, Alastor, planning to steal my most profitable soul by bringing your boy toy along?”

Alastor smirked, gently taking Y/N’s hand from Lucifer’s shoulder helping her to stand. As she rose, he assisted Lucifer, who was flushed and visibly aroused.

“Now, Mimzy, a real broker, doesn’t show all his cards right away,” Alastor teased, leading Y/N down the hallway toward her room. “We’ll be where I always end up when I visit.”

Y/N’s room was a sanctuary, secluded from the revelry of the club. Mimzy had taken special care to craft a space where her siren voice could enchant without distraction. As they entered, the ruby-red room was aglow with candlelight, casting soft shadows that danced across the walls.

“Hmmm, I hope you two like it,” she purred, pulling away from the men as she sauntered deeper into her domain. Her movements were languid hypnotic, and both men followed her with hungry eyes. She settled onto the bed, legs crossed, leaning back with a flirtatious head tilt.

“Alastor told me we would have company, so I pulled out a nice chair if someone wants to watch.” Her gaze locked onto Alastor, memories of their conversations about wanting to witness the passionate connection between him and Lucifer swirling in the air.

Alastor brushed past Lucifer before he could speak with a knowing smile, unbuttoning his tailcoat and flaring it behind him as he sat in the plush armchair. A lazy, lust-filled smile spread across his face, ready to indulge in the exquisite scene unfolding before him.

"Go ahead, my dear. She is all yours...for now." Once permission was granted, it was as if a dam had broken. Lucifer approached, his heart racing as he followed the sultry path the woman had taken to her bed. Standing before her, he gazed down at her alluring, half-naked form, the soft glow of candlelight accentuating every curve.

She looked up at him, her eyes ablaze with a fire rivaling the depths of hell. Slowly, Lucifer reached for the boa that draped around her shoulders, his fingers brushing against her skin as he pulled it into his hands, feeling the luxurious fabric slip through his fingers.

"Look at me. Don’t stop looking into my eyes. Right now, you are mine, all mine, so just give in to me." She nodded, entranced by his words, surrendering as he guided her gently down onto the plush bed.

“Hmmm, do be gentle with her, Lucifer. I plan to ravish you both the moment you have your fill.” The playful threat hung in the air, a compelling promise that sent shivers down their spines. Both panting softly, they exchanged heated glances. Lucifer preferred his first time with someone to be slow, savoring each moment.

With a delicate touch, he tied her hands gently with her boa, his fingers gliding down her body, eliciting soft trembles and shudders that only intensified the growing desire within him. Kneeling between her legs, he made sure Alastor could see every intimate moment unfolding.

Lucifer lifted her left leg, placed it on his shoulder, and kissed his way up her inner thigh, taking his time to savor her. Each kiss drew forth beautiful moans. Her lips parted slightly, releasing warm, misty breaths that hung in the air like an intoxicating perfume. Once he finished with the left leg, he mirrored his attentions on the right, each kiss a sweet torment.

With her hands bound, she couldn't tangle her fingers in his hair or grip his arms; she was entirely at his mercy. As he playfully nipped at her ankle, a small drop of blood pooled, and he licked it away, sending a thrill of sensation coursing through her, making her moan once more.

Alastor watched with a smirk, enjoying the sight of her unraveling, whether from the thrill of being watched or the raw power of Lucifer. He relished the pleasure blooming on both their faces.

Lucifer pulled back slightly, leaving her to whine in frustration. He teased, removing his tailcoat and tossing it aside with a flourish. Each pop elicited soft whimpers from her as he unbuttoned his bow tie and vest. “Y/N, you follow orders so well. No wonder Alastor likes you so much; he always loves to give commands.”

As the last button of his dress shirt came undone, he let himself fall gently atop her, supporting himself with his forearms beside her head. “So beautiful, blissed out, and I haven’t touched you yet. It’s true, you know, as Al said… I can change how big and thick it is on a whim, make you feel things you’ve never felt before.” Her eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping her lips as his words ignited her imagination.

“Hmmm, how would you like it to be that deep inside you? Rearranging your very insides?” He kissed her neck as he spoke, feeling her breath quicken beneath him. The contrast of his dirty words and sweet actions sent her spiraling into a realm of ecstasy she had never known.

“I think she would like that, Luci. She hasn’t even experienced my appendages yet; I’m sure that will prepare her nicely.” Alastor’s smirk was palpable as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the air thickening with anticipation.

Lucifer sat back on his haunches, eradicating his shirt, revealing his porcelain muscles glistening in the dim light. His soft, yellowed face reflected how utterly captivated he was by her. He undid his pants, kicking them off to reveal his desire, hidden only by a thin layer of fabric.

“Mhm, Lucifer, please... I want it...” Her voice was a sultry whisper, a plea that sent a rush through both men. She had only begged for a handful of guests, but Lucifer's power left her mind reeling, imagining how it would feel to have both of them at once.

“I haven’t even touched you yet, beautiful, and you already want my length inside you. How pitiful. Should I give it to you, Dolly?” He slid the zipper of her bodysuit down her back, knowing they both craved this connection, the thrilling anticipation of feeling one another before being taken by Alastor.

"Yes, please, please take me, then Ali, and you can play with me too..." Her voice was like music to both men's ears as the sentence caused both to moan deeply.

Alastor had eradicated his shirt, his dress pants opened, and his girthy cock out on display. Gentle, soft strokes from his hand as he continued to observe.

Lucifer had the bodysuit off and on the floor, Y/N's bare, beautiful body before him. He kissed her all over, avoiding the one place she needed him most. Letting a hot puff of air cover her sopping-wet pussy.

Finally, Lucifer allowed a hand to grace her folds and gather the slick that was pouring from her entrance. Rubbing her clit gently but at a firm pace, he watched her back arch, and her face contort in pleasure.

"Good girl, such a good girl, let go for me...need you nice and wet for me to fuck you." She babbled and nodded her high climbing. He added his other hand and worked her through not one but two orgasms with his hands alone.

To the side, Alastor moaned deeply at the sight. He couldn't lie. Lucifer was not just good with his forked tongue, but his hands, that of a creator could do magic all on their own. As he watched the slick cover Lucifer's thighs, he struggled to contain himself from going over there and taking them both.

Lucifer pulled away as your recent orgasm washed over you. He loved how your eyes rolled back and your tongue lulled gently out of your mouth. He released his length from his boxers, and he wasn't lying about his changing length.

Before both of your eyes, he had gotten longer and wider as he lined up at your dripping wet hole. Slowly, he entered and, with no patience to wait, bottomed out in you in one thrust.

Your beautiful scream turned moan had both demonic men alter to their demon forms as they listened to your pleas. Lucifer led your legs to his shoulders. As you hooked them behind his ears, he began at a brutal pace.

You felt him hit places that no other patron had hit before. Your eyes were lost in the back of your head as you babbled and begged for more.

The squelching sounds in the room only grew more rampant as Lucifer climbed to his peak. His words of praise and affirmation only spurred you both on.

Alastor growled demonically beside you two as he watched you both become undone. His possessive nature climbed to its rightful place as you both screamed in ecstasy.

Lucifer gently pulled out as soon as you were filled to the brim with his golden seed. He admired how beautifully he leaked out of you. Holding your legs up where they were around him just moments before, he looked at his partner and nodded him over.

"Come look at how pretty gold looks in her..." Alastor hummed; as he stood, his length was fully erect, and he slid off his pants. Climbing in the bed behind his partner, he leaned over his shoulder to look at your cunt.

"Hmmm, truly beautiful Y/N, my sweet boy made you so dirty. Lucifer, flip her around and clean her up, will you." Lucifer nodded and helped get you on your hands and knees. As he lay between your legs, he guided you down on his face and began to devour you.

Once your mouth opened to moan at the overstimulation, Alastor had his cock buried in your throat. He held your hair tight, forcing you to look up at him through your teary eyelashes.

"mhm, look at you, Y/N, you look so beautiful fucked out like this, with Lucifer's pretty face buried in you. Even more beautiful with my cock down your throat" Alastor gripped you tighter as his horns grew larger, and some black slimy tendrils appeared around him.

Your eyes widened as he caressed your face, and the moan on your pussy alerted you that he was also caressing Lucifer.

"Mhm, both of you will be good for me now, and I will give you a treat," Lucifer and you moan, nodding softly as Alastor's tendrils explore your bodies. The more curious of the black slime teasing your ass and gripping around Lucifer's hardening cock.

Alastor guided your head on his cock roughly, gaining more and more speed as he chased his high. The force of his thrust down your throat causes you to rub yourself on Lucifer's face more, making a moaning mess out of both of you.

As climax fast approached for Alastor, he stilled you. He let his cock sit deep in your mouth, a sinister smile painted on his face.

"Bite down, and I will kill you, understand," Before you had time to react to Alastors words, a cold, slimy tendril was entering your ass. Your eyes widened as more tears filled them from the way you were expanded. Once you were full, Alastor began to pump in you again.

Lucifer was gasping and crying under you; Alastor not only had a tendril stroking his cock tightly to mimic your sweet pussy, but he had two holding his legs up and apart so another one could enter him as well.

You were overstimulated and covered in sweat and sex. You had never felt so full and desired. As Alstor used your face and fucked Lucifer into eating you harder, it all became too much for you three.

Before long, three long moans exited you all, static popped, music played, and screams were heard. Each of your complete demon forms taking precedence from the shattering orgasms that filled you all.

Lucifer's cock throbbing from spilling two loads, had managed to cum down your whole back and ass. You covered Lucifer's face in your juices as overstimulation sent you over the edge. Alastor had you covered in his seed from your head to your chin, using his clawed hands to gather some and shove it in your mouth.

Once the appendages melted away, you felt a rush of exhaustion consume you as the suffocating boa constraint was removed. You were laid gently between Lucifer and Alastor, two figures who felt familiar and exhilaratingly dangerous.

Lucifer's warm and gentle hands tangled in your hair, combing through the tousled mess that echoed the wild night you had shared. His touch was soothing, starkly contrasting to Alastor's, whose fingers danced dangerously across your hip, tracing intricate patterns that sent shivers through your body.

As dawn's first light crept into the room, casting a soft glow over the remnants of your night together, you began to pack your belongings. The once vibrant space now felt barren, stripped of its life in anticipation of the next woman who might step into your place as Mimzy's best voice. Yet, as you folded clothes and gathered trinkets, you realized your actual place was not on a stage basking in the spotlight. No, your heart sang harmoniously with these two men, creating a more intimate and profound melody.

"Come on, you two," Alastor urged cooly, a grin spreading across his face. "We don’t have all day! The sooner we return to the hotel, the sooner we can go for round two."

Lucifer’s eyes sparkled with mischief at Alastor's teasing words. With a gentle squeeze of your hand, he led you toward your new beginning, an uncharted territory filled with promise and passion, where the music of your souls could intertwine once more.

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etz-ashashiyot · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 4: Executed Jews

By Dara Horn, excerpted from People Love Dead Jews

ALA ZUSKIN PERELMAN AND I HAD BEEN IN TOUCH ONLINE before I finally met her in person, and I still cannot quite believe she exists. Years ago, I wrote a novel about Marc Chagall and the Yiddish-language artists whom he once knew in Russia, all of whom were eventually murdered by the Soviet regime. While researching the novel, I found myself sucked into the bizarre story of these people's exploitation and destruction: how the Soviet Union first welcomed these artists as exemplars of universal human ideals, then used them for its own purposes, and finally executed them. I named my main character after the executed Yiddish actor Benjamin Zuskin, a comic performer known for playing fools. After the book came out, I heard from Ala in an email written in halting English: "I am Benjamin Zuskin's daughter." That winter I was speaking at a literary conference in Israel, where Ala lived, and she and I arranged to meet. It was like meeting a character from a book.

My hosts had generously put me up with other writers in a beautiful stone house in Jerusalem. We were there during Hanukkah, the celebration of Jewish independence. On the first night of the holiday, I walked to Jerusalem's Old City and watched as people lit enormous Hanukkah torches at the Western Wall. I thought of my home in New Jersey, where in school growing up I sang fake English Hanukkah songs created by American music education companies at school Christmas concerts, with lyrics describing Hanukkah as being about "joy and peace and love." Joy and peace and love describe Hanukkah, a commemoration of an underdog military victory over a powerful empire, about as well as they describe the Fourth of July. I remembered challenging a chorus teacher about one such song, and being told that I was a poor sport for disliking joy and peace and love. (Imagine a "Christmas song" with lyrics celebrating Christmas, the holiday of freedom. Doesn't everyone like freedom? What pedant would reject such a song?) I sang those words in front of hundreds of people to satisfy my neighbors that my tradition was universal — meaning, just like theirs. The night before meeting Ala, I walked back to the house through the dense stone streets of the Old City's Jewish Quarter, where every home had a glass case by its door, displaying the holiday's oil lamps. It was strange to see those hundreds of glowing lights. They were like a shining announcement that this night of celebration was shared by all these strangers around me, that it was universal. The experience was so unfamiliar that I didn't know what to make of it.

The next morning, Ala knocked on the door of the stone house and sat down in its living room, with its view of the Old City. She was a small dark-haired woman whose perfect posture showed a firmness that belied her age. She looked at me and said in Hebrew, "I feel as if you knew my father, like you understood what he went through. How did you know?"

The answer to that question goes back several thousand years.

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The teenage boys who participated in competitive athletics in the gymnasium in Jerusalem 2,200 years ago had their circumcisions reversed, because otherwise they wouldn't have been allowed to play. In the Hellenistic empire that had conquered Judea, sports were sacred, the entry point to being a person who mattered, the ultimate height of cool — and sports, of course, were always played in the nude. As one can imagine, ancient genital surgery of this nature was excruciating and potentially fatal. But the boys did not want to miss out.

I learned this fun fact in seventh grade, from a Hebrew school teacher who was instructing me and my pubescent classmates about the Hanukkah story — about how Hellenistic tyranny gained a foothold in ancient Judea with the help of Jews who wanted to fit in. This teacher seemed overly jazzed to talk about penises with a bunch of adolescents, and I suspected he'd made the whole thing up. At home, I decided to fact-check. I pulled a dusty old book off my parents' shelf, Volume One of Heinrich Graetz's opus History of the Jews.

In nineteenth-century academic prose, Graetz explained how the leaders of Judea demonstrated their loyalty to the occupying Hellenistic empire by building a gymnasium and recruiting teenage athletes — only to discover that "in uncovering their bodies they could immediately be recognized as Judeans. But were they to take part in the Olympian games, and expose themselves to the mockery of Greek scoffers? Even this difficulty they evaded by undergoing a painful operation, so as to disguise the fact that they were Judeans." Their Zeus-worshipping overlords were not fooled. Within a few years, the regime outlawed not only circumcision but all of Jewish religious practice, and put to death anyone who didn't comply.

Sometime after that, the Maccabees showed up. That's the part of the story we usually hear.

Those ancient Jewish teenagers were on my mind that Hanukkah when Ala came to tell me about her father's terrifying life, because I sensed that something profound united them — something that doesn't match what we're usually taught about what bigotry looks or feels like. It doesn't involve "intolerance" or "persecution," at least not at first. Instead, it looks like the Jews themselves are choosing to reject their own traditions. It is a form of weaponized shame.

Two distinct patterns of antisemitism can be identified by the Jewish holidays that celebrate triumphs over them: Purim and Hanukkah. In the Purim version of antisemitism, exemplified by the Persian genocidal decrees in the biblical Book of Esther, the goal is openly stated and unambiguous: Kill all the Jews. In the Hanukkah version of antisemitism, whose appearances range from the Spanish Inquisition to the Soviet regime, the goal is still to eliminate Jewish civilization. But in the Hanukkah version, this goal could theoretically be accomplished simply by destroying Jewish civilization, while leaving the warm, de-Jewed bodies of its former practitioners intact.

For this reason, the Hanukkah version of antisemitism often employs Jews as its agents. It requires not dead Jews but cool Jews: those willing to give up whatever specific aspect of Jewish civilization is currently uncool. Of course, Judaism has always been uncool, going back to its origins as the planet's only monotheism, featuring a bossy and unsexy invisible God. Uncoolness is pretty much Judaism's brand, which is why cool people find it so threatening — and why Jews who are willing to become cool are absolutely necessary to Hanukkah antisemitism's success. These "converted" Jews are used to demonstrate the good intentions of the regime — which of course isn't antisemitic but merely requires that its Jews publicly flush thousands of years of Jewish civilization down the toilet in exchange for the worthy prize of not being treated like dirt, or not being murdered. For a few years. Maybe.

I wish I could tell the story of Ala's father concisely, compellingly, the way everyone prefers to hear about dead Jews. I regret to say that Benjamin Zuskin wasn't minding his own business and then randomly stuffed into a gas chamber, that his thirteen-year-old daughter did not sit in a closet writing an uplifting diary about the inherent goodness of humanity, that he did not leave behind sad-but-beautiful aphorisms pondering the absence of God while conveniently letting his fellow humans off the hook. He didn't even get crucified for his beliefs. Instead, he and his fellow Soviet Jewish artists — extraordinarily intelligent, creative, talented, and empathetic adults — were played for fools, falling into a slow-motion psychological horror story brimming with suspense and twisted self-blame. They were lured into a long game of appeasing and accommodating, giving up one inch after another of who they were in order to win that grand prize of being allowed to live.

Spoiler alert: they lost.

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

I was in graduate school studying Yiddish literature, itself a rich vein of discussion about such impossible choices, when I became interested in Soviet Jewish artists like Ala's father. As I dug through library collections of early-twentieth-century Yiddish works, I came across a startling number of poetry books illustrated by Marc Chagall. I wondered if Chagall had known these Yiddish writers whose works he illustrated, and it turned out that he had. One of Chagall's first jobs as a young man was as an art teacher at a Jewish orphanage near Moscow, built for children orphaned by Russia's 1919-1920 civil war pogroms. This orphanage had a rather renowned faculty, populated by famous Yiddish writers who trained these traumatized children in the healing art of creativity.

It all sounded very lovely, until I noticed something else. That Chagall's art did not rely on a Jewish language — that it had, to use that insidious phrase, "universal appeal" — allowed him a chance to succeed as an artist in the West. The rest of the faculty, like Chagall, had also spent years in western Europe before the Russian revolution, but they chose to return to Russia because of the Soviet Union's policy of endorsing Yiddish as a "national Soviet language." In the 1920s and 30s, the USSR offered unprecedented material support to Yiddish culture, paying for Yiddish-language schools, theaters, publishing houses, and more, to the extent that there were Yiddish literary critics who were salaried by the Soviet government. This support led the major Yiddish novelist Dovid Bergelson to publish his landmark 1926 essay "Three Centers," about New York, Warsaw, and Moscow as centers of Yiddish-speaking culture, asking which city offered Yiddish writers the brightest prospects. His unequivocal answer was Moscow, a choice that brought him back to Russia the following year, where many other Jewish artists joined him.

But Soviet support for Jewish culture was part of a larger plan to brainwash and coerce national minorities into submitting to the Soviet regime — and for Jews, it came at a very specific price. From the beginning, the regime eliminated anything that celebrated Jewish "nationality" that didn't suit its needs. Jews were awesome, provided they weren't practicing Jewish religion, studying traditional Jewish texts, using Hebrew, or supporting Zionism. The Soviet Union thus pioneered a versatile gaslighting slogan, which it later spread through its client states in the developing world and which remains popular today: it was not antisemitic, merely anti-Zionist. (In the process of not being antisemitic and merely being anti-Zionist, the regime managed to persecute, imprison, torture, and murder thousands of Jews.) What's left of Jewish culture once you surgically remove religious practice, traditional texts, Hebrew, and Zionism? In the Soviet Empire, one answer was Yiddish, but Yiddish was also suspect for its supposedly backwards elements. Nearly 15 percent of its words came directly from biblical and rabbinic Hebrew, so Soviet Yiddish schools and publishers, under the guise of "simplifying" spelling, implemented a new and quite literally antisemitic spelling system that eliminated those words' Near Eastern roots. Another answer was "folklore" — music, visual art, theater, and other creative work reflecting Jewish life — but of course most of that cultural material was also deeply rooted in biblical and rabbinic sources, or reflected common religious practices like Jewish holidays and customs, so that was treacherous too.

No, what the regime required were Yiddish stories that showed how horrible traditional Jewish practice was, stories in which happy, enlightened Yiddish-speaking heroes rejected both religion and Zionism (which, aside from its modern political form, is also a fundamental feature of ancient Jewish texts and prayers traditionally recited at least three times daily). This de-Jewing process is clear from the repertoire of the government-sponsored Moscow State Yiddish Theater, which could only present or adapt Yiddish plays that denounced traditional Judaism as backward, bourgeois, corrupt, or even more explicitly — as in the many productions involving ghosts or graveyard scenes — as dead. As its actors would be, soon enough.

The Soviet Union's destruction of Jewish culture commenced, in a calculated move, with Jews positioned as the destroyers. It began with the Yevsektsiya, committees of Jewish Bolsheviks whose paid government jobs from 1918 through 1930 were to persecute, imprison, and occasionally murder Jews who participated in religious or Zionist institutions — categories that included everything from synagogues to sports clubs, all of which were shut down and their leaders either exiled or "purged." This went on, of course, until the regime purged the Yevsektsiya members themselves.

The pattern repeated in the 1940s. As sordid as the Yeveksiya chapter was, I found myself more intrigued by the undoing of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, a board of prominent Soviet Jewish artists and intellectuals established by Joseph Stalin in 1942 to drum up financial support from Jews overseas for the Soviet war effort. Two of the more prominent names on the JAC's roster of talent were Solomon Mikhoels, the director of the Moscow State Yiddish Theater, and Ala's father Benjamin Zuskin, the theater's leading actor. After promoting these people during the war, Stalin decided these loyal Soviet Jews were no longer useful, and charged them all with treason. He had decided that this committee he himself created was in fact a secret Zionist cabal, designed to bring down the Soviet state. Mikhoels was murdered first, in a 1948 hit staged to look like a traffic accident. Nearly all the others — Zuskin and twelve more Jewish luminaries, including the novelist Dovid Bergelson, who had proclaimed Moscow as the center of the Yiddish future — were executed by firing squad on August 1952.

Just as the regime accused these Jewish artists and intellectuals of being too "nationalist" (read: Jewish), today's long hindsight makes it strangely tempting to read this history and accuse them of not being "nationalist" enough — that is, of being so foolishly committed to the Soviet regime that they were unable to see the writing on the wall. Many works on this subject have said as much. In Stalin's Secret Pogrom, the indispensable English translation of transcripts from the JAC "trial," Russia scholar Joshua Rubenstein concludes his lengthy introduction with the following:

As for the defendants at the trial, it is not clear what they believed about the system they each served. Their lives darkly embodied the tragedy of Soviet Jewry. A combination of revolutionary commitment and naive idealism had tied them to a system they could not renounce. Whatever doubts or misgivings they had, they kept to themselves, and served the Kremlin with the required enthusiasm. They were not dissidents. They were Jewish martyrs. They were also Soviet patriots. Stalin repaid their loyalty by destroying them.

This is completely true, and also completely unfair. The tragedy — even the term seems unjust, with its implied blaming of the victim — was not that these Soviet Jews sold their souls to the devil, though many clearly did. The tragedy was that integrity was never an option in the first place.

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

Ala was almost thirteen years old when her father was arrested and until that moment she was immersed in the Soviet Yiddish artistic scene. Her mother was also an actor in the Moscow State Yiddish Theater; her family lived in the same building as the murdered theater director Solomon Mikhoels, and moved in the same circles as other Jewish actors and writers. After seeing her parents perform countless times, Ala had a front-row seat to the destruction of their world. She attended Mikhoel's state funeral, heard about the arrest of the brilliant Yiddish author Der Nister from an actor friend who witnessed it from her apartment across the hall, and was present when secret police ransacked her home in conjunction with her father's arrest. In her biography, The Travels of Benjamin Zuskin, she provides for her readers what she gave me that morning in Jerusalem: an emotional recounting, with the benefit of hindsight, of what it was really like to live through the Soviet Jewish nightmare.

It's as close as we can get, anyway. Her father Benjamin Zuskin's own thoughts on the topic are available only from state interrogations extracted under unknown tortures. (One typical interrogation document from his three and a half years in the notorious Lubyanka Prison announces that the day's interrogation lasted four hours, but the transcript is only half a page long — leaving to the imagination how the interrogator and interrogatee may have spent their time together. Suffice it to say that another JAC detainee didn't make it to trial alive.) His years in prison began when he was arrested in December of 1948 in a Moscow hospital room, where he was being treated for chronic insomnia brought on by the murder of his boss and career-long acting partner, Mikhoels; the secret police strapped him to a gurney and carted him to prison in his hospital gown while he was still sedated.

But in order to truly appreciate the loss here, one needs to know what was lost — to return to the world of the great Yiddish writer Sholem Aleichem, the author of Benjamin Zuskin's first role on the Yiddish stage, in a play fittingly titled It's a Lie!

Benjamin Zuskin's path to the Yiddish theater and later to the Soviet firing squad began in a shtetl comparable to those immortalized in Sholem Aleichem's work. Zuskin, a child from a traditional family who was exposed to theater only through traveling Yiddish troupes and clowning relatives, experienced that world's destruction: his native Lithuanian shtetl, Ponievezh, was among the many Jewish towns forcibly evacuated during the First World War, catapulting him and hundreds of thousands of other Jewish refugees into modernity. He landed in Penza, a city with professional Russian theater and Yiddish amateur troupes. In 1920, the Moscow State Yiddish Theater opened, and by 1921, Zuskin was starring alongside Mikhoels, the theater's leading light.

In the one acting class I have ever attended, I learned only one thing: acting isn't about pretending to be someone you aren't, but rather about emotional communication. Zuskin, who not only starred in most productions but also taught in the theater's acting school, embodied the concept. His very first audition was a one-man sketch he created, consisting of nothing more than a bumbling old tailor threading a needle — without words, costumes, or props. It became so popular that he performed it to entranced crowds for years. This physical artistry animated his every role. As one critic wrote, "Even the slightest breeze and he is already air-bound."

Zuskin specialized in playing figures like the Fool in King Lear — as his daughter puts it in her book, characters who "are supposed to make you laugh, but they have an additional dimension, and they arouse poignant reflections about the cruelty of the world." Discussing his favorite roles, Zuskin once explained that "my heart is captivated particularly by the image of the person who is derided and humiliated, but who loves life, even though he encounters obstacles placed before him through no fault of his own."

The first half of Ala's book seems to recount only triumphs. The theater's repertoire in its early years was largely adopted from classic Yiddish writers like Sholem Aleichem, I. L. Peretz, and Mendele Moykher Seforim. The book's title is drawn from Zuskin's most famous role: Senderl, the Sancho Panza figure in Mendele's Don Quixote-inspired work, Travels of Benjamin the Third, about a pair of shtetl idiots who set out for the Land of Israel and wind up walking around the block. These productions were artistically inventive, brilliantly acted, and played to packed houses both at home and on tour. Travels of Benjamin the Third, in a 1928 review typical of the play's reception, was lauded by the New York Times as "one of the most originally conceived and beautifully executed evenings in the modern theater."

One of the theater's landmark productions, I. L. Peretz's surrealist masterpiece At Night in the Old Marketplace, was first performed in 1925. The play, set in a graveyard, is a kind of carnival for the graveyard's gathered ghosts. Those who come back from the dead are misfits like drunks and prostitutes, and also specific figures from shtetl life - yeshiva idlers, synagogue beadles, and the like. Leading them all is a badkhn, or wedding jester — divided in this production into two mirror-characters played by Mikhoels and Zuskin — whose repeated chorus among the living corpses is "The dead will rise!" "Within this play there was something hidden, something with an ungraspable depth," Ala writes, and then relates how after a performance in Vienna, one theatergoer came backstage to tell the director that "the play had shaken him as something that went beyond all imagination." The theatergoer was Sigmund Freud.

As Ala traces the theater's trajectory toward doom, it becomes obvious why this performance so affected Freud. The production was a zombie story about the horrifying possibility of something supposedly dead (here, Jewish civilization) coming back to life. The play was written a generation earlier as a Romantic work, but in the Moscow production, it became a means of denigrating traditional Jewish life without mourning it. That fantasy of a culture's death as something compelling and even desirable is not merely reminiscent of Freud's death drive, but also reveals the self-destructive bargain implicit in the entire Soviet-sponsored Jewish enterprise. In her book, Ala beautifully captures this tension as she explains the badkhn's role: "He sends a double message: he denies the very existence of the vanishing shadow world, and simultaneously he mocks it, as if it really does exist."

This double message was at the heart of Benjamin Zuskin's work as a comic Soviet Yiddish actor, a position that required him to mock the traditional Jewish life he came from while also pretending that his art could exist without it. "The chance to make fun of the shtetl which has become a thing of the past charmed me," he claimed early on, but later, according to his daughter, he began to privately express misgivings. The theater's decision to stage King Lear as a way of elevating itself disturbed him, suggesting as it did that the Yiddish repertoire was inferior. His own integrity came from his deep devotion to yiddishkayt, a sense of essential and enduring Jewishness, no matter how stripped-down that identity had become. "With the sharp sense of belonging to everything Jewish, he was tormented by the theater forsaking its expression of this belonging," his daughter writes. Even so, "no, he could not allow himself to oppose the Soviet regime even in his thoughts, the regime that gave him his own theater, but 'the heart and the wit do not meet.'"

In Ala's memory, her father differed from his director, partner, and occasional rival, Mikhoels, in his complete disinterest in politics. Mikhoels was a public figure as well as performer, and his leadership of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, while no more voluntary than any public act in a totalitarian state, was a role he played with gusto, traveling to America in 1943 and speaking to thousands of American Jews to raise money for the Red Army in their battle against the Nazis. Zuskin, on the other hand, was on the JAC roster, but seems to have continued playing the fool. According to both his daughter and his trial testimony, his role in the JAC was almost identical to his role on a Moscow municipal council, limited to playing chess in the back of the room during meetings.

In Jerusalem, Ala told me that her father was "a pure soul." "He had no interest in politics, only in his art," she said, describing his acting style as both classic and contemporary, praised by critics for its timeless qualities that are still evident today in his film work. But his talent was the most nuanced and sophisticated thing about him. Offstage, he was, as she put it in Hebrew, a "tam" — a biblical term sometimes translated as fool or simpleton, but which really means an innocent. (It is the first adjective used to describe the title character in the Book of Job.) It is true that in trial transcripts, Zuskin comes out looking better than many of his co-defendants by playing dumb instead of pointing fingers. But was this ignorance, or a wise acceptance of the futility of trying to save his skin? As King Lear's Fool put it, "They'll have me whipp'd for speaking true; thou'lt have me whipp'd for holding my peace." Reflecting on her father's role as a fool named Pinia in a popular film, Ala writes in her book, "When I imagine the moment when my father heard his death sentence, I see Pinia in close-up . . . his shoulders slumped, despair in his appearance. I hear the tone that cannot be imitated in his last line in the film — and perhaps also the last line in his life? — 'I don't understand anything.'"

Yet it is clear that Zuskin deeply understood how impossible his situation was. In one of the book's more disturbing moments, Ala describes him rehearsing for one of his landmark roles, that of the comic actor Hotsmakh in Sholem Aleichem's Wandering Stars, a work whose subject is the Yiddish theater. He had played the role before, but this production was going up in the wake of Mikhoel's murder. Zuskin was already among the hunted, and he knew it. As Ala writes:

One morning — already after the murder of Mikhoels — I saw my father pacing the room and memorizing the words of Hotsmakh's role. Suddenly, in a gesture revealing a hopeless anguish, Father actually threw himself at me, hugged me, pressed me to his heart, and together with me, continued to pace the room and to memorize the words of the role. That evening I saw the performance . . . "The doctors say that I need rest, air, and the sea . . . For what . . . without the theater?" [Hotsmakh asks], he winds the scarf around his neck — as though it were a noose. For my father, I think those words of Hotsmakh were like the motif of the role and — I think — of his own life.

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

Describing the charges levied against Zuskin and his peers is a degrading exercise, for doing so makes it seem as though these charges are worth considering. They are not. It is at this point that Hanukkah antisemitism transformed, as it inevitably does, into Purim antisemitism. Here Ala offers what hundreds of pages of state archives can't, describing the impending horror of the noose around one's neck.

Her father stopped sleeping, began receiving anonymous threats, and saw that he was being watched. No conversation was safe. When a visitor from Poland waited near his apartment building to give him news of his older daughter Tamara (who was then living in Warsaw), Zuskin instructed the man to walk behind him while speaking to him and then to switch directions, so as to avoid notice. When the man asked Zuskin what he wanted to tell his daughter, Zuskin "approached the guest so closely that there was no space between them, and whispered in Yiddish, 'Tell her that the ground is burning beneath my feet.'" It is true that no one can know what Zuskin or any of the other defendants really believed about the Soviet system they served. It is also true — and far more devastating — that their beliefs were utterly irrelevant.

Ala and her mother were exiled to Kazakhstan after her father's arrest, and learned of his execution only when they were allowed to return to Moscow in 1955. By then, he had already been dead for three years.

In Jerusalem that morning, Ala told me, in a sudden private moment of anger and candor, that the Soviet Union's treatment of the Jews was worse than Nazi Germany's. I tried to argue, but she shut me up. Obviously the Nazi atrocities against Jews were incomparable, a fact Ala later acknowledged in a calmer mood. But over four generations, the Soviet regime forced Jews to participate in and internalize their own humiliation - and in that way, Ala suggested, they destroyed far more souls. And they never, ever, paid for it.

"They never had a Nuremberg," Ala told me that day, with a quiet fury. "They never acknowledged the evil of what they did. The Nazis were open about what they were doing, but the Soviets pretended. They lured the Jews in, they baited them with support and recognition, they used them, they tricked them, and then they killed them. It was a trap. And no one knows about it, even now. People know about the Holocaust, but not this. Even here in Israel, people don't know. How did you know?"

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

That evening I went out to the Old City again, to watch the torches being lit at the Western Wall for the second night of Hanukkah. I walked once more through the Jewish Quarter, where the oil lamps, now each bearing one additional flame, were displayed outside every home, following the tradition to publicize the Hanukkah miracle — not merely the legendary long-lasting oil, but the miracle of military and spiritual victory over a coercive empire, the freedom to be uncool, the freedom not to pretend. Somewhere nearby, deep underground, lay the ruins of the gymnasium where de-circumcised Jewish boys once performed naked before approving crowds, stripped of their integrity and left with their private pain. I thought of Benjamin Zuskin performing as the dead wedding jester, proclaiming, "The dead will rise!" and then performing again in a "superior" play, as King Lear's Fool. I thought of the ground burning beneath his feet. I thought of his daughter, Ala, now an old woman, walking through Jerusalem.

I am not a sentimental person. As I returned to the stone house that night, along the streets lit by oil lamps, I was surprised to find myself crying.

#People Love Dead Jews #Dara Horn #Soviet Jewry #Soviet antisemitism #antizionism is not antisemitism #jumblr

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adultswiftie · 1 year ago

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Taylor Swift pulls her songwriting primarily from her own life, but not exclusively from it. She has written fictional songs, fully separate from herself, her entire career. Let's pull a quick, off-the-top-of-my-head sample:

Mary's Song

You Belong With Me - inspired by a scenario she dreamed up after seeing one of her band members "on the phone with [his] girlfriend, she's upset"

Speak Now

Starlight

Stay, Stay, Stay

And that's not counting ones where she spun a fictional tale out of her own immediate experience, like Love Story (her parents didn't want her to be with a guy, but the story she tells never happened), The Lucky One (the Joni Mitchell -to-Taylor Swift pipeline), Mine (an imagined future based off an early interaction), etc.

So why does the fandom as a whole seem to completely reject her assertion that large swaths of folklore and evermore are fully fictional stories and characters that she made up? That's what writers do. Certainly not every song is made up. Certainly with several of them we can look back with hindsight and take a guess as to why she was drawn to particular characters and tropes and stories at that point in her life. But the willingness to suggest the she is just blatantly lying about her songwriting process, the thing she holds most sacred, just baffles me.

#taylor swift #folklore #evermore #taylor swift theories #unpopular opinion #but I will die on this hill

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arts-bloody-rose · 2 months ago

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Blood of A Rose - Part 3 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - As (Y/s)’s life blends into Art’s, she struggles to keep hold of her sanity with his influence as others continue to test her patience.

Notes - Shit’s getting juicy, y’all 🤌🏻 Let me know if you would like to be part of the tag list or have requests!

Word Count - 3,107

Warning(s) - Violence

Song Inspiration -

The Pretty Wild - Sleepwalker

The days bled into weeks, the weeks into months. As the bond between them grew stronger, so did the resemblance of (Y/n) in the abandoned building the clown called home. And with it, so did she.

With much convincing, Art allowed her to make the bedroom her own safe space for when she spent her time there. With that being said, it also meant that if anyone other than either of themselves entered that room, there was no telling what that somebody would suffer through.

Sure, it wasn’t as if it was common for others to wander into the building, and that alone would be a death wish. But anything that invaded what he considered to be her sacred grounds was subject to punishment of the highest degree.

With countless hours of cleaning and rearranging, she was able to finally get rid of the dust and grime, save for a few particularly stubborn spots. And of course, the floors and walls were still rotted and peeling, but after getting a can of paint, roller brushes, and a pan, she figured it would be close enough to decent.

With Art’s help, he opened the can of egg-white paint for her and carefully poured it into the pan, happily doing so with a large grin. Once he poured enough for her, he set down the can of paint and straightened himself up.

“What?” (Y/n) asked him innocently when he looked at her mischievously. Then she noticed the hand behind his back. “No.” She warned him playfully, holding a finger out to him.

He snatched her wrist and she shrieked as he launched his hand out from behind him, smearing what she assumed was paint onto her face. As the cold substance touched her lips she gagged and kept her lips tightly shut, refusing for it to get into her mouth anymore than it already had.

Meanwhile, the imp that was Art keeled over in silent laughter, slapping his thigh and mocking her gagging as she ran out to the basin in their work area before the paint dried up to clean it off. She dried her face and it flatlined as she glared at Art. He simply shrugged with a half-assed apology written on his face, letting her storm past him back into her room to start painting.

The experience was peaceful, other than the rocky start and the fumes. Nothing could have prepared her for the fumes. The room wasn’t large and the building had no ventilation or filtering to protect her. The single window was broken and boarded so it wasn’t as if she could open it.

Her stubbornness was unforgiving as she pushed through hours of work to get everything done, fueled by her excitement to turn the room into her own.

The effects the smell had on her body didn’t hit her until the tail end of her painting as she finished the second and final coat of the remaining wall.

(Y/n) practically threw the paint roller into the pan, taking a deep breath when her head began to spin. She was aware enough to mind the wet walls, but couldn’t stop herself from swaying. After a significant wave of disorientation, she leaned - or rather fell - back against the doorframe, her head thumping loudly against it in the process and only worsening her headache.

With her eyes closed, her head spun as she heard the sound of rushed and heavy footsteps growing nearer, louder before they came to a halt beside her. She felt quick taps on her shoulder, light at first.

No response.

The next set nearly shoved her into the wall and her eyes sprung open, looking over at Art who had a panicked expression, his hands motioning around the both of them with haste.

(Y/n)’s eyes began to close again as she waved him off weakly. “M’fine. Just dizzy.” She slurred and heard him stomp his foot.

He suddenly bent down and picked her up bridal-style, taking her out of the room and outside to an old bench sat along the side of the building. He sat down and cradled her on his lap, albeit begrudgingly as he huffed and puffed to himself at the minor heart attack she caused him.

As her head rested against him under his chin, she began to recover enough to know she would be fine to stand. But with equal mischief, she pretended she was still ill just to stay in his arms for a little while longer.

The days following, Art was generous enough to help her bring in brand new furniture which they transported by a worker’s van - which he still hadn’t disclosed to her its origins - and the room was finally beginning to look decent.

The process was interesting, to say the least, as far as putting the furniture together went. They both sat on the floor, Art eyeing the new tools that came with the pieces and picking them up in interest while (Y/n) read through the directions.

What caught her off guard was how handy Art really was.

After she had finished reading through the first bit, she began to look back and forth between the directions and the pieces in front of her to start the dreadful process. It wasn’t until she was halfway through putting the dresser together that she began to grow frustrated, sighing heavier than usual as she took off another piece that was incorrectly placed.

Art looked over, sensing her frustration, and shooed her away from it. He took the tools from her and left to grab his own. When he returned, he sat where she had been and began to put everything together with ease while (Y/n)’s jaw dropped in both irritation and awe.

No directions. No guidance. Just Art doing what Art did.

Within fifteen minutes, the dresser was perfectly complete and he stood, presenting it to her with a large grin and flare of his hands while (Y/n) deadpanned.

“You waited.” She accused grumpily and he proudly nodded.

He then mockingly pouted at her and stepped his way over, squeezed at her cheeks and patted them before kissing her on the nose.

“Okay, I forgive you.” She mumbled, unable to stay mad at his adorable mannerisms.

With furniture complete, (Y/n) began to bring over some of her belongings and necessities. Clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, bed sets, a lamp and then some. He helped her without hesitation, mostly because he wanted to snoop around her house and bring back some of what he found for himself, but she accepted and appreciated the help nonetheless.

After a week, the whole room had completely changed. She could now call it her personal safe space, her home away from home.

“Art look, it’s finished!” She called to him from the doorway, looking into her room. He practically ran over to her with shared excitement, his face resembling shock. He clapped and jumped up and down, then blew a kiss into the room to compliment their work.

Art then turned to (Y/n) and kissed her cheek, baring a look of mischief before he ran into the room and jumped onto the bed. She crossed her arms and gave him a pointed look, but once he star-fished with childlike glee her face softened and she chuckled.

The hideout was nearly their permanent place of residence once the room was finished. She would stop by her house once or twice a day to check her mail or take a shower to freshen up. Her actual house very well turned out to be her new home away from home, finding an odd sense of comfort in the decaying building knowing that it belonged to the clown she so loved.

With how busy they had been with their little project, Art had built up a strong urge to wreak havoc. (Y/n) had her own urge, however significantly less violent. She would only ever be found guilty by association.

Or so she thought.

Following the familiar itch, Art tinkered away at one of his new inventions when they could finally rest after the more chaotic week. (Y/n) sat with him, staring at the latest newspaper that had been delivered earlier that morning to her house.

The usual sting rose in her abdomen as her eyes skimmed over the words of an article covering her work: disturbingly grotesque, lacking depth, pure shock value.

Each phrase felt like a hammer striking her soul, chipping away at the confidence in her work while Art was left to pick up the pieces. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the paper, crumpling it slightly. Suddenly, in the back of her mind, something stirred. Something darker than frustration.

She realized that her initial reaction wasn’t just sadness. It was anger. Uncharacteristic of her individuality, it simmered, threatening to boil at any moment.

She grew antsy with the unfamiliar feeling and stood up, crumpling the newspaper and snatching a match from the workbench.

Art watched incredulously as she struck the match and lit the article ablaze, dropping it into a nearby steel bucket on the floor and letting it burn.

Her exterior was eerily calm while her thoughts began to rage and cause turmoil. She looked over at Art who continued to stare and her eyebrow twitched in contained irritation. He simply lifted the new weapon off of his desk and showed it to her with a sadistic expression.

Over time, (Y/n) began to notice how the fits of frustration became more common. What used to be a simmer had indeed grown into a boil and only became harder and harder to contain, though she did it well. It’s what made her dangerous, and what intrigued Art further.

No matter what was going on through her head, she somehow always remained calm and collected. Time and time again other’s words and interactions with them made her seethe beneath her facade, yet nothing ever came out of it from her.

She had always avoided conflict, either by completely disassociating from it or just letting Art handle it in his own way. What they didn’t know was what went through her head in those moments.

For the past few months, she’d noticed a change. Subtle at first, but soon became impossible to ignore. As she stood silently in her anger, her mind thought up of ways to release that rage. Whether it was ramming a bat into a TV or slapping someone in the face, the images flooded her mind as an initial reaction. Almost as an impulse, coaxing her into giving in and finally acting on it.

She wasn’t aware of it yet, but the line between her calm, introverted nature and the darkness lurking beneath had already begun to blur. And soon, she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference at all.

It was nighttime, as was routine for them, to go on their walk, which Art preferred to call their ‘hunt’. They decided to take a different route to town for a change of scenery, but (Y/n) would be lying if she said it wasn’t more eerie than their typical route.

There wasn’t nearly as much lighting and the tall trees lining the smaller street casted foreboding shadows over them. But (Y/n) felt calm. Not only because it was an environment she was naturally attracted to, but also because of the figure walking alongside her. She could even go as far as to say she felt almost invincible with him.

Just ahead of them, a darker figure seemed to have the same idea of having a walk. From the look of it, they grew closer, walking towards them.

Art stopped in his tracks, staring at the man menacingly with wide eyes and a smile to match.

The man felt a chill run down his spine at the sight, but decided to stupidly go against his better judgment as he took a sip from the beer bottle in his hand.

“A little early to be dressing up for Halloween, don’t you think?” He laughed as he resumed his walking towards them.

“How about you mind your business.” (Y/n) bit back. Art’s head snapped over to look at her with an expression of shock, hand over his mouth as she casually put her hands in her pockets.

“You’re a snappy one! I like that.” He slurred with a drunken wink and her mouth curled in disgust. Art looked between the two of them with a mischievous grin.

“Then you’ll love it when I smash that bottle over your head if you don’t keep walking.”

“He might,” The man pointed at Art. “But I don’t think you will, sweetheart.”

In the blink of an eye, the bottle was snatched from his hand and broke over his head just as she warned.

Art bent over in laughter after his initial surprise wore off, pointing at the man now collapsed on the ground and mocking him by pretending to cry, hands twisting by his eyes.

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’.” (Y/n) spoke flatly as she shook off the beer that spilled onto her hand from the bottle. “Do you have a rag in your bag, Art?” She asked the clown in a softer tone.

He turned back to her and held up a finger for her to wait while his laughter continued, digging through his bag until he eventually pulled out a rag, albeit a bit dirty, but it would suffice. As (Y/n) dried off her hand, he pulled something else out and she turned away, the man screaming behind her not long after.

She wasn’t sure what came over her at that moment, and Art wasn’t exactly a good influence. She had made one or two threats in the past couple of months when her intrusive thoughts started to get worse, but never had she acted on them.

The most unusual part wasn’t that she carried them out, though. It was that she remained frighteningly calm before, during and after. As if it was second nature to her.

An hour before the sun was set to rise, they made it back to what they called home. Art remained his bloody self, heading to their work area while (Y/n) wandered into her room without a word, her demeanor just a shell of who she was as she thought of the night’s events.

She took the camera off from around her neck and set it on her nightstand, sitting on the edge of her bed and staring at the rug below her.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been before Art showed up and paused in the doorway. His smile dropped ever so slightly, leaving his eyes as his brow furrowed with concern. He walked over to where she sat and began to reach a hand out, hesitated, then touched her shoulder and quickly pulled away as if she had burned him.

Her eyes slowly lifted to meet his gaze and using a finger, he motioned up and down at her figure in question. With no response, she only looked back down and he was aghast, flinching back with wide eyes.

Art quickly looked around in a panic, fingers twitching with an unfamiliar urge and then quickly took a seat beside her. At first, his fingertips caressed her back. Then his arm reached around her shoulders and pulled her into his side, rocking the two of them soothingly.

After a few minutes, he felt (Y/n)’s arms slowly wrap around his torso, leaning into him as her head nuzzled into his chest.

“I don’t know what happened…” She mumbled in what sounded like disappointment. “It just came out of nowhere, hardly even any provocation.”

Art tapped at her back and she watched as he stood up in front of her. He mimicked exaggerated anger and pointed at (Y/n), then flared his hands at the empty space beside him, an imaginary person. He pointed at her again and gave her two ‘ok’ symbols, telling her that it was okay and that she did a good job.

“You don’t think I overreacted, do you…?” Art started to feel relieved when he noticed her usual, gentler side with him begin to show again.

He aggressively shook his head, slicing his arms over each other to give a firm ‘no’ and (Y/n) sighed.

“I’ve just been becoming more angered with things that used to only cause me pain. Those urges have been in my head more frequently recently and that was the first time I’ve ever acted on it. I feel conflicted after, but in the moment it just felt right .”

She looked up at Art with pleading eyes, but his smile remained and he lifted his hands to grab her cheeks. He pulled away and balled up his fists, gritting his teeth in feigned anger and motioning to what was around him with a sigh of relief.

“If I hold it in, will it just get worse?” (Y/n) asked genuinely.

He nodded his head and pointed at her. She looked off in contemplation as Art eagerly waited, fingers tapping against each other.

“I guess I could try and see how it goes.” Art clapped and shuffled closer to her, taking her head and leaning into it to kiss the top of it, then patted where he kissed.

Over the next few weeks, she decided to stick to her word and let the now impulsive thoughts take over. She hesitated at first, but Art nudged her inconspicuously from beside her when he noticed and prompted her to follow through.

Depending on how much the person had angered her and what was nearby for use, it ranged from ramming their head into a wall to simply kicking them in the groin. But she never went further as that was Art’s part of the fun, and she never wanted to deprive him of such joy.

It still felt strange at first, to say the least. But the more she gave in, the less she thought about it and just did it . The strange feeling turned into relief, the relief turned into satisfaction, and the satisfaction turned into pure pleasure .

In doing so, (Y/n) gained a certain level of understanding as to why Art loved what he did. She would never torture as he did, if at all. And she still refused to watch.

As she embraced the new aspect of herself, they formed a newfound respect for each other. More than what they had before, which they never believed could be greater than what it was.

Tag list: @callsignwidow @hoe-for-daddywise

#art #art the clown #art the clown x reader #damien leone #david howard thornton #terrifier #terrifier 2 #x reader #blood of a rose #fanfiction #terrifier 1 #terrifier x reader #Terrifier 3 #horror #slashers #spooky season

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perfectlyoongi · 4 months ago

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ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who bakes cakes with you in the early hours of the morning when the whole city is still asleep. three or four in the morning were sacred hours in your house as autumn approached. with matching aprons and wine glasses in hand, you and Jungkook followed instructions as disorganized as possible, hoping to find some cake batter or cookies in the midst of your laughter. the music played low, remaining completely silent when you and Jungkook exchanged jokes and visions, but always lulling you into a little dance that lasted the entire morning. at six in the morning you sat at the table tasting your creation before saying goodbye and falling asleep in your rooms. “today i want an orange cake. i know it’s late, but do you want to do one with me? i found two recipes that might be good. i’ll even let you have the first slice.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who has a collection of photos and videos of you that you might consider embarrassing. Jungkook seemed to have a certain gift when it came to humiliating you: whenever you were distracted, or too involved in something, Jungkook made a point of saving everything on his phone, creating a folder in his gallery with just your photos. you could say it was a hobby of Jungkook’s that always made him happy, as it was in these more personal moments that your soul truly shined and oh, how he was in love with that light. “you are so done on your birthday. you’ll see, i’ll post the photos i took of you in the car yesterday. you were beautiful. the world needs to see your natural beauty.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who always orders your favorite pizza when he doesn’t feel like cooking. you shared the household chores, it was an agreement that was quickly made by you as soon as you became housemates; but there were days when Jungkook came home more tired, or even after dinner, and there was no desire or patience to cook. as such, Jungkook would order your favorite pizza from your favorite pizzeria and, after paying for it, he would call you over for dinner while he went to bed. in a way, you were always Jungkook’s priority. “hi, the work ran a little late today, sorry. i already called for your favorite pizza and you have the money here. i hope you eat well. i’m really tired. good night, angel. good night.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who buys letter magnets to communicate with you on the fridge when your are mismatched. there were times when you would get home when Jungkook had just left. there were times when Jungkook would go to sleep when you were preparing lunch. there were days when you didn’t even see each other. but as you shared a house, communication was essential to make that experience comforting. so Jungkook bought a large number of colorful magnets in the shapes of letters for you to use as a means of communication. they were only used for basic things, of course, but it was still a very tender gesture on Jungkook’s part. “buy bread. dinner 8pm. seal.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who always gives you a ride in winter, even if it’s just to get bread. Jungkook was so warm and helpful. if you needed something he was there to make sure you didn’t miss anything. and, when the weather was more brutal, with snow and rain decorating the streets, Jungkook always made a point of taking you wherever you needed to go, secretly keeping in his heart all the streets shared with you, shouting the most popular songs in the radio. it could be mere minutes, but it was enough to leave Jungkook completely surrendered to you. “don’t be stupid. with this cold? you may get sick and then what? i don’t know how to take care of myself, let alone you! I’m looking out for your well-being, that’s all.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who plays drunk uno with you on long summer nights. when the boredom was a lot and the nights were too hot, you and Jungkook decided to distract yourself with a simple game of cards. changing some of the rules, you and Jungkook agreed to play several games of uno until one of you was too happy to continue. there were screams and laughter, a lot of cheating and distortions, long nights enveloped in pure happiness and complicity. without there ever being a loser, but also without any winner, you and Jungkook repeated the game on the hottest and most boring nights, each of you needing the other’s presence to make that summer something unforgettable. “no, no! you can’t put a +4 after i told you to take 2! stop being a cheater and accept your defeat. no. put the card back into your deck!”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who declares himself to you when the storm stole all the light in your house. several candles were scattered around your living room in an attempt to bring some comfort in that darkness. sitting on the couch without having much to do, you and Jungkook watched time pass slowly. a long period of silence danced around the various flames, stealing all your comfort and offering Jungkook a small door for him to finally open up to you. and it was when you went to get water that Jungkook followed you to the kitchen and, very confused and nervous, finally confessed to you. “i don’t know if it’s the candles that are making me nostalgic or if it’s really your company, but i want to tell you something. i like you. a lot. i don’t think i should like you this much but i have no control over my feelings for you.”

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sarenth · 1 year ago

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Patreon Poem/Prayer/Song 82: For Ash

If you want to submit a request for a prayer, poem, or song to be written to you privately or to be posted on this blog or my Patreon for a God, Ancestor, or spirit, sign up for the Ansuz and above level here on my Patreon. This request was made by Cunnian for Ash. Askr, rising high Ancestor, great-limbed and growing Deep-rooted, know Your descendants Askr, renowned one Skin, burned bark…

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#ancestor #ancestors #animism #animist #Ash #Askr #Gebo #Grove #lund #lundr #Patreon #poem #polytheism #polytheist #prayer #religion #religious experiences #sacred #song #tree #trees #Ve #viðr

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malleleothreesome · 1 year ago

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Under the Mistletoe with Malleus

❤️ summary: Malleus' latest hyperfixation is mistletoe ༶༶༶ 💚 warnings: gender neutral reader, SFW, fluff, romance, Christmas centric but not religious ༶༶༶ ❤️ word count: 4k ༶༶༶ 💚 inspired by: this ask thank you! ♡✧*:･ﾟ

Malleus listens intently to all the tales you have to tell, all the little pieces of your world, of yourself—all the little snippets that come rushing out from the recesses of your memories, painting a picture of your humanity and the universe you'd once inhabited. All the intricacies and details of how your family would spend Christmas, the foods, the gifts, the songs—he loves hearing all about your unique traditions and experiences. Malleus is endlessly grateful for each of these recollections that you decide to entrust him with—small moments of personal history that hold so much weight in shaping who you are. Your mind runs wild as your thoughts run rampant, a blur of vivid recollections that overwhelm you. Then, he sees the tears brimming on your lash line and the tremble of your lower lip, his heart sinking instantly when the painful weight of homesickness visibly crashes down upon you. His own emotions, his yearning, his gratitude are all clogged up in his throat. When the tears finally drip past your lashes and down your cheeks, you're swaddled in strong, firm arms that cradle you. Malleus doesn't bother with words as he shushes your sobs, only offering his comfort with the secure tuck of your frame against his larger form, and the gentle tracing of his elegant, gloved fingertips along the curve of your back in soothing circles. His soft humming is melodious against the crook of your shoulder, warm and welcoming as he surrounds you completely.

Wanting to make the Christmas season extra special for you, his dearest friend, Malleus spends copious hours poring over the plethora of holiday books he could acquire from the school library—reading and studying each festive tale, tradition, and legend until the pages are wrinkled with the oils from his fingertips. Each chapter carefully absorbed and ingrained into his psyche, his eyes sparkling alight with delight and fascination, relishing in the lightness and warmth of the holidays as he familiarized himself with this magical and jovial festivity. When Christmas rolls around the corner, Malleus ensures the front entrance to Ramshackle dorm is lit up and decked to the nines in brightly glowing lights strung all over the framework—an aura of luminescence and color enveloping the dilapidated architecture with festive spirit. The rest of the exterior of the Dorm was covered with glittering golden tinsel, wreaths, garlands and pinecones—whatever he had deemed as festive in his extensive research.

Malleus was determined to honor this strange holiday—a special and important part of your childhood—but unfortunately, none of the decorations, lights, or Christmas cheer were quite as meaningful and special as what he wanted it all to symbolize. When he heard about the tradition involving a parasitic plant, he was naturally intrigued by the idea that a plant would wilt away and die if not united with a particular organism—it could only flourish and thrive when entwined with its complementary other half. In return, the mistletoe would provide both beautiful flowers and ripe fruit, enhancing the lives of the forest around them and fostering harmony within the ecosystem. However, it was the usage of that plant during a kiss that truly made him delighted by its macabre nature and its value to this sacred human festivity. It seemed befitting somehow that the now dead mistletoe, the melancholy parasite that thrives in connection with others, could bring a measure of life and happiness to all who cross its path through a kiss under its eternal, desiccated embrace. Perhaps, this tradition could serve as his best effort to explain that this gesture was intended as a token of appreciation for the kindness you have extended to him—the pleasure and privilege of having you, such a splendid and bright star, in his dark and dreary world—his reward to you for making him feel alive with such an overwhelming sense of happiness that he didn't even know the sensation could exist until you entered into his life. For Malleus, you were the one to awaken him, to pull him from a long slumber and into your embrace, allowing him the privilege of knowing warmth, love, and joy once more. A ghost of a smile appears on his lips, unbidden, as he imagines the roots of the mistletoe spreading through both your lungs, finding nourishment in each other's energy, a complete symbiosis.

Malleus desired so much that your connection would be reciprocal, as intimate and profound as the magic of this holiday would allow. Though your relationship up until this point has remained platonic, he hopes the magic of this custom might give him permission to love and cherish you as so much more. From the moment he first laid his eyes on you, his heart had already made his decision. That fiery intensity of emotion for you has only been compounded with each meeting the two of you have shared—the yearning that only grows stronger with each moment he spends at your side. His feelings for you have reached a saturation point; the deep well of passion and affection that burns ever stronger within the confines of his chest will not be extinguished unless the source of all his turmoil is revealed and answered in due kind. At long last, he wastes no time in preparing the customary kiss. His heart yearns so dearly for it that even the constant tug of his usual shyness and trepidation could never possibly bring him to halt in his advances. Malleus promised himself that the delicate, thriving thing you and he were developing would not fall prey to the same pitiful demise as the mistletoe if left untouched and unwatered. If you did indeed feel similarly about him, he could only imagine the beauty and majesty that would blossom between your intertwined souls, a union of great and unstoppable potency, a lifetime of adoration and devotion.

Therefore, he procured a large branch of mistletoe, so ripe and abundant with sprigs that its small, white berries shimmered and shone. The hanging plant seemed to call out, in a sing-song tinkle of fairy bell laughs, for his beloved to walk underneath, so he could ensnare you in its clutches and give you an obligatory kiss you couldn’t refuse—or so he hoped. Malleus wrapped the strand with some festive red ribbon, decorated with twirling glittery snowflakes, making it shimmer under the twinkling rays of Christmas light. Then, he carefully balanced the mistletoe at the highest point above the doorsill and stepped back, admiring the way the golden glow of the lights would reflect off the glossy white berries, casting them in an ethereal iridescent glow that made them pop, dancing across its branches as though possessed by some Christmas spirit. They sang for you, just waiting for you to take Malleus up on their unspoken promise of his unrequited, hidden desires for your lips.

With that, Malleus knocked on your door. Though, despite his determination and his willpower—so vast and endless that his ambition was virtually limitless—Malleus couldn't help but be flustered, his hands trembling and sweat forming along his brow, heart rate beginning to rise like a swelling wave until he could hear it beating in his pointed ears. The silence that engulfed him was deafening as his mind replayed the myriad ways you might respond to his advances—sharing his sentiments, returning his affections, giving him the opportunity to finally love and kiss you the way he so desperately, hopelessly yearned. Or—perhaps, his advances could have an unwanted negative reaction, creating friction or even destroying your friendship—if not the very love he sought—completely. Undeterred by the looming anxiety that threatens to drown him like a tempest-wrought sea, his heart manages to remain valiant and brave, the steady rhythm keeping him tethered, ensuring him the courage to risk the possibility of breaking apart and dissipating with the winter wind that sieves through his lithe fingers.

As he hears the creaking footsteps along the old staircase inside, the adrenaline kicks in, giving him the fight or flight impulse he has been lacking, his legs stiffening, threatening to buckle from his immense nerves, knees trembling so harshly that he almost loses his balance. He shuts his eyes, trying to brace himself for whatever comes next, not allowing himself to breathe again until the knob finally gives way and the door is thrown open. At last, Malleus gazes upon your dazzling appearance, flooding his vision with an image he's dreamed about for weeks: you stand before him, bathed in the bright, effervescent light, glittering hues of gold and green like a present wrapped up just for him. Before he even allows you a moment to compose yourself and register his presence, Malleus can't help himself, the need to let his words rush out overwhelming him until his syllables practically stumble over each other.

"I wish to partake in the traditional parasite with you," he tells you quickly, trying to sound confident despite the urgent desperation to speak leaking through in his strained vocal chords, struggling to hide the shakiness that attempts to invade and taint the voice he wanted to convey his longing for you with. His words are filled with hope and trepidation, his emerald eyes wide with vulnerability as the mistletoe glistens under the shimmer of lights he personally strung up, bathing the two of you and your surroundings in a magnificent luminance that casts a perfect spellbinding glow upon the scene. Your mouth falls slightly ajar as your eyelids flutter in confusion before registering his intention, noticing the way his expectant eyes dart between your lips and the hanging plant above your door frame, his intense gaze giving you the most telling implication. The sudden realization of his motive renders your whole being paralyzed. Your face heats up from the sheer impossibility of the moment and your brain fizzles into a complete and utter daze, unsure how to comprehend the enormity of the offer he's extending.

An eternity seemed to pass as the seconds ticked on, his dark brows knitting together as the mist and tension seemed to wrap around the both of you. The sting of the cold wind whistled past the space that seemed to shrink between the two of you in unbearable torment. A curtain of lacy snow was falling around, shrouding everything in a dull glow. The night itself seemed to be in a strange sort of serenity and apprehension—watching his eyes lock onto you so intently and feeling his breath, hot and heavy, mingling in the frost between the two of you. The foggy mist of the cool evening air floats through your hair, tiny particles of frozen water suspended around you and shimmering brilliantly as the beams of multicolored lights shine past and illuminate each crystalline droplet in a celestial aura.

Despite it all, your focus was on him alone.

Finally, he was able to collect the breath stolen from his lungs and continue his confession, taking your floundering silence as an invitation for his explanation. "I had wished to spend some time with you under a mistletoe, even though this is something that humans usually do with their partners or loved ones..." he admits sheepishly. You couldn't stop the gasp that escaped your lips when you saw how glassy and emotive his eyes were, the sparkling lights catching the yellow flecks in his viridescent stare.

A shadowy flush washes over his pale complexion as he allows the words he had tried so long to repress to come flowing freely from his lips. "I've noticed how sad you seemed since you were removed from your world, and I wanted to bring you a little of the Christmas cheer you're accustomed to. I wanted to ensure we'd have a pleasant Christmas, especially with how often you've shown me such loving kindness," a sigh escaped his throat, "you've gone to such great lengths, I wanted you to know just how much you mean to me..." His fingers thread together anxiously as he continues his ramblings. "I was so excited to learn the Christmas tales, legends, and histories behind all the traditions... There is so much joy and good-will involved. It seemed a befitting way to honor our time together. As my beloved friend—," his tone holds a subtle note of reluctance to his last statement as he lingers on the term a bit too long. "I wanted to ensure your time in Twisted Wonderland wasn't depressing, and that you experienced Christmas as best you could under your circumstances." The more his sentences seem to elongate, the further he's pulled into himself and begins to overthink every minuscule aspect of his interaction.

The wind picks up slightly, blowing his silky, ebony locks away from his forehead, revealing the shiny scales that cascade up the top half of his head as his horns poke out through the billowing strands. His long, heavy cloak trails behind him, sweeping up the fresh piles of glittery snowfall, shimmering under the auras of the decorative lights he painstakingly strung for you. Malleus was so imposing in the darkness of the night—there's an ineffable beauty to it as his skin seems to emit its own soft glow. Yet, despite his frightening appearance, he appears so docile and timid standing before you with his head bowed, one foot dragging the toe of his boot along the white slush and ice, kicking clumps of snowy wisps, attempting to abate his mounting anxiety.

"...Are you aware, child of man, of the nature and symbolism of the mistletoe?" He pauses and peers into your eyes, emerald pools pleading for mercy as a crack opens within him, revealing his fluttering soul for your scrutiny, allowing you to glimpse his emotional state in a rare display. "Mistletoe requires the partnership and nourishment of another to keep it flourishing—without its partner, it will wither and die a gruesome death, gasping, desperate, starving..." The strain on his tone is audible, words full of unspeakable yearning as he pines so desperately, the loneliness of centuries seeming to distill within a single, all-encompassing desire for your acceptance and love. His Adam's apple bobs with a hard gulp of apprehension as he seeks the approval he longs for deep within your gaze, hoping he has finally found the love of which he has searched for since the first heartbeat he has taken.

"No matter where it falls, or how strong its stem or seed, it will perish without another plant to sustain and nurture it," his explanation was grave and yet somehow poetic, holding you entranced with rapt attention. Each sentence was meant to mimic his struggle—the endless waiting, and the desperate need for companionship that has weighed so heavy on his aching heart for so long. The solemn confession of a hopeless romantic, yearning desperately for the chance to take root, plant his soul and spread until all the ache was gone, replaced by the warmth and fulfillment of life only a partner could give him.

"And yet, if the two plants come into symbiosis with each other, the result is breathtaking—one would not expect something so simple would possess such transcendent beauty and vibrance," his melodic tenor takes on an ethereal quality, as the wondrous facts he learned are once again brought to the surface, replacing the melancholy in the air. "Mistletoe is capable of blossoming to life; producing flowers and bearing fruits when combined with its host, providing an environment for both plants to flourish and thrive," his heart picks up its pace at the subtle meaning and implication behind his words. "Once a healthy mistletoe becomes entangled with its beloved, the pair remain connected and thrive, ultimately strengthened by the bonds forged in interdependency, blooming brightly against the frigid temperatures of winter." Malleus' soul is brimming and bubbling over with the hope and anticipation of a relationship with you and, in an instant, Malleus understands what it truly means to be alive.

"Since you first crossed my path, the mistletoe within my chest grew with such ravenous appetite, longing to reach out to your heart and find harmony, sharing in warmth and nurturing life. You, my lovely starlight, are a plant of the utmost virtue," he gently caresses your cheek as you fall deeper under his enchantment. His words have rendered you completely immobilized, the smooth silk of his voice ensnaring you, unable to escape its sweet whispers and dulcet tone. "For the first time in all of my years, the bud inside me began to bear fruit and opened my eyes to a paradise I never thought possible. Through a simple act of your kindness, you have breathed life into my tired and aching heart and granted me new purpose." Malleus cups your face so delicately, long, tapered fingers stroking the curve of your cheekbones in loving affection. He gazes at you with glowing, adoring eyes, staring deep into the infinite possibilities of your future together. The soft plumes of the falling snowflakes softly embrace you as his feather-light touch communicates all his longing and unspoken passions. You allow yourself to bask in the tender and raw vulnerability of his heart as the glimmering lights and stars in the sky shine with the promise of a brighter tomorrow for you both.

"I had spent many years in unending isolation. Each passing second in your presence was the happiest, most indescribable euphoria. It took a considerable amount of time to discover these feelings and become aware that they are associated with the yearning for intimacy, something which I was denied for a great amount of my lifespan. I've long desired the things I've learned your Christmas legends signify," the words leave him on a wistful sigh, an endless source of elation. "Of family, comfort, love... All that I desire for Christmas is you," he concludes softly. "It was thanks to my research into the mistletoe that I realized how much I needed your lips as though without them I would never draw another breath, so I ask... Do you wish to be mine? Could I have the gift of your lips, of a kiss?" he requests breathlessly as the tip of his tapered thumb ghosts across the flesh of your plush lower lip, sending shivers throughout your whole being.

At last, the confessions of his affections toward you reach their inevitable resolution, allowing the culmination and coalescence of every feeling and emotion within his soul to burst forth like fireworks, shooting off into the midnight air in an explosion of beauty and intensity that would cause any witness to pause and stare in awe of the magic of the night. Like the soft, romantic tones of Christmas music and the enchanted glimmers of holiday lights, Malleus' spell woven in the lyrics of his confession engulfs you in an aurora borealis of ardent devotion. The feeling of his hands against your cheeks radiates warmth and comfort as he cradles your visage close, tender and secure against the soft flurries that flow all around you, surrounding you with an intimate aura of holiday mirth. You find yourself leaning into his touch as your heart and soul yearn to return the depths of his affection, so openly displayed across his handsome, captivating features. With a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins, your knees threatening to buckle from his searing yet unyielding stare, you gather the strength to utter the most wonderful syllables you have ever experienced the pleasure of pronouncing—the sum of every single one of his blessings wrapped up neatly into one succinct phrase.

"I love you, too."

Your voice was shaky, unsteady, cracking under the emotion, but the message was unmistakable. The intensity of the moment rendered Malleus stunned and speechless, tears of delight stinging his emerald eyes, brimming at the waterline with the intensity of his joy. Every single day was spent thinking of the next instance where the two of you might cross paths and now, you'd just given him the most spectacular present in the world. Malleus doesn't think about anything else, he just leans in, lips parted ever so slightly, barely containing the gasping breath that escapes his throat as his nose nudges yours and his entire world collapses upon itself before igniting with an incandescence of pure elation. With all the delicate adoration of his whole, enchanted being, he offers you a sweet brush of his soft, inviting lips against yours. A whimper emanates from his mouth as a trembling sob of disbelief is unleashed, reverberating between the two of you and sending every last vestige of his restrained sentiment into you, engulfing your heart in a fervid embrace that crushes you with all the weight of his desperation—his centuries' worth of desire and craving for an end to his misery.

Despite having never been kissed, his lips moved confident and gentle, as though it were as natural as his very breath, or the thrum of his heart. The sensations were unparalleled—better than his wildest expectations as your flesh entwined with his, mingling the pliant texture and pillowy warmth. A satisfied sigh rolls past his tongue, which teases the seam of your mouth, offering gentle, fleeting sensations as he licks and teases your bottom lip. A series of jolts rock your frame when his fangs accidentally nip at the skin. The sound that leaks from his throat as he swipes his tongue over the wound and laps up the warm, metallic liquid of your blood is guttural and broken with the raw emotion of being deprived of such ecstasy for so long. It was heavenly—to finally be united and experience the taste of love, passion, and the transcendent rapture of the one and only person to ever make him feel such happiness.

He swallows every whimper and moan of your kiss, reveling in the sounds that permeate through your entangled forms and dance on the frosted wind. Your fingers come to thread through his silk-like locks, nails grazing his scalp until a shudder rattles his chest and his tongue can't help but invade the hot, wet cavern of your mouth. There's a subtle pressure placed on the base of your skull, adding a deeper angle, so that he may completely envelope and taste the sweetness of your saliva as you revel in each other. When the chill of the winter winds brings forth the full impact of the cold, and the mistletoe spins aimlessly under its icy breath, swaying above, you are undeterred in the bliss of your newfound love. Your noses smudge as you press yourself further, gaining deeper contact and savoring each brush of his deft, explorative tongue and the tickle of his heated breath fanning against the sensitive surface of your palette. The kiss sparks flames within you that make you forget the bitter chill, warming the deepest crevices of your core, staving off the frigidness of the night and replacing it with the cozy, fluffy heat of your love. You clutch desperately, latching onto the black tailcoat and pressing the muscles and softness of your bodies even closer, desperate for each touch, wanting him as close to your form as you can manage. The fullness of your feelings for each other, and the completeness of his confession, finally come together in a bittersweet, perfect dance of two souls. Forever bound, hearts thudding in unison as you two continue to exchange kisses underneath the mistletoe, filling this merry season with newfound glee and a holiday tradition all your own.

When you two finally make it inside, you sit comfortably with his arms wrapped around you atop a pile of plush blankets, surrounded by mounds of pillows under the twinkling lights of the massive tree he had erected and draped in garland. Next to him, there was nowhere better you'd rather be, snuggling deeper into his warmth, burying yourself in his embrace and cuddled tight under his heavy, weighted cloak as the roaring fire before you burned in a warmth that reflected that of the deep, profound affection the two of you shared for each other. As he held you in his lap, surrounded by the soft music playing in the background and the decorations he'd strung, he looks at you with excitement alight on his beautiful visage, eager to share more fun facts about his latest hyperfixation. With the shimmering lights refracting across the deep emerald pools of his gaze, he starts to ramble, "Did you know, mistletoe is also a sacred symbol of fertility—"

Woah, woah, woah, woah... I just spent all day working on this, its like, 10:30pm and now I'm just now eating mac and cheese for dinner. I really love what I created, I hope you all do too. This was fulfilling a request for my 12 Days of TWSTmas event, so uh, anon, I'm not sure if this is what you expected of me... I think I projected my own newfound mistletoe hyperfixation onto Malleus a bit too hard, but I hope this meets your expectations. I'm desperate to hear all your thoughts on this one, I really want you guys to love this as much as I do! I wish I had more to say here, but my brain is melting. My exhausted brain longs to sign this off like a corporate email. Best, Erica Malleleothreesome

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst malleus draconia #twst malleus #twisted wonderland malleus x reader #malleus draconia #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus x reader #malleyuu #twst imagines #malleus draconia fluff #my writing

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