#which means 'who is like god'

[bow-of-aros]

Finish What He Started

Owen's been undercover for WEEKS, but of course Curt has to show up and spoil everything. He really needs to start learning his lesson.

Hi folks!! I'm actually really happy with this one events-wise (Owen deserves to be a little evil) and I hope that you all enjoy it! Of course, it ended up being longer than originally anticipated but that's never a bad thing in my book, especially for my absolutely not tragic gay spies :)) I promise I'll get to the Owen chapter eventually but for now just enjoy him torturing and then being soft with his boyfriend <33

Look, it’s been a long day. Owen’s been on this job for weeks, working his way into the confidence of some very powerful people with a careful finesse. This was a delicate situation, one wrong move, and his cover was exposed which meant the world could say goodbye to Owen Carvour.

It’s honestly pretty impressive how Curt managed to fuck it up so completely in under an hour.

To be fair, Owen hadn’t even heard that Curt had breached the facility until he’d been captured, which was certainly a point in his favour. Logically he knew that Curt was rivalled only by him in terms of skill, it’s been proved countless times over and Owen would be long dead by now if it wasn’t for his partner’s quick thinking.

But it was moments like this that really made him question whether it was skill, or some truly impressive luck.

Either way, it meant that Owen was currently standing outside of the interrogation room, going over his options.

On one hand, he could maintain his cover and the integrity of his mission by leaving Curt to fend for himself. He doesn’t doubt his partner’s capability to worm his way out of this predicament, he simply fears the damage that may be done. Both to Curt’s person and to the outcome of his assignment.

On the other hand, Owen could throw caution to the wind and put himself in the direct line of fire of his superiors just to bust Curt out himself. It would spoil weeks of work, ruin any chance the MI-6 has of getting their hands on this information, and likely earn him a lifetime of desk duty.

“Mikhailov!” Owen’s head snapped up at the sound of his current name, catching the eye of a soldier passing him by, “Are you ready to prove yourself? Dispatching this American should be simple enough, no?”

In the end, Owen had always known what he was going to do.

The door slams behind him, he’s learned that leaning into the dramatics tends to work in his favour, and he’s never been one to pass up the opportunity. Curt stands in front of him, shackled to a wall instead of tied to a chair, and hey, apparently trying different things is good in a relationship.

Curt projects an air of boredom, but Owen can feel the keen eye scanning him, cataloguing his posture, how he walks, and any hidden weapons on his person.

It’s a good thing that Owen’s an excellent actor.

“Ah, Agent Curt Mega. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Owen spoke with a thick Russian drawl. “The world’s most famous spy, right here on my doorstep, just for me.”

Curt scoffed, rolling his eyes, “I’m flattered, really, but—”

“You know, there’s something ironic about a famous spy.” Owen wasn’t really in the mood to listen to Curt blather on, so he raised his voice as he continued speaking. “I feel as though the more anonymous a spy is, the less you know about him, the better he is, yes? I mean, Curt Mega, how good can a spy truly be if everyone knows his name?”

God it felt good to get some of this shit off of his chest.

His partner looked like he was gearing up to say something stupid, so Owen kept going, “We have another man here, you know. Took a week just to get his name. It is difficult not to be impressed, but everyone breaks eventually. Even him, Owen Carvour.”

Owen let the name roll off his tongue, smug and taking immense pleasure in the reaction it elicited.

Finally, Curt’s bored mask cracked. His eyes widened in panic, breath hitching just the slightest bit as Curt’s full, undivided attention seared into him. A satisfying clang echoed through the room as Curt pulled on his chains, only getting a few inches before running out of slack.

Good, Owen thought, this is what you deserve for ruining my mission. Asshole.

“What the fuck do you want with him?! I swear to God the second I get out of here I’m going to make you wish you’d never been fucking born.” Curt spits at him. Quite literally, Owen can see the spittle flying from his lips with the force of his words.

He supposes that he should be flattered, and he probably is, but he’s too preoccupied with still being pissed to notice it quite yet.

A step forward brings Owen as close as he dares to go with Curt in this state. A sharp grin curls over his lips as he revels in Curt’s fury, fury over Owen being hurt. Ironically, a sort of fury only Owen himself knows how to draw out, if only Curt could realize it.

Owen is not unaware of, and certainly not unaffected by, the power he wields over this man.

But, it’s about time that they make their escape, so it seems as though a grand finale is in order.

“Now now, Curt Mega, if I didn’t know better I would say that you know this man. Care for him, perhaps?” Owen draws back, closer to the door, “It truly is a shame that America’s greatest spy could not keep his emotions under wraps, we could’ve had so much fun.”

He finally turns his back, reaching out for the door handle, “Unfortunately, I am on a bit of a time crunch, and I pride myself on being efficient. I have a feeling that simply seeing his head may be enough to break you, so I will try to make it quick.” Owen turns back, one last time in the face of Curt’s creative threats and tosses a “Do not go anywhere,” over his shoulder.

And he lets the door close behind him.

It doesn’t take long to shed his disguise, a few prosthetics and some fake facial hair did the trick well enough. The vacant eyes of the men he’d been tasked to get information out of stared up at him accusingly.

“Oh sod off,” He muttered under his breath, fixing his hair and straightening out his clothes to the symphony of Curt’s bellowing through the wall, “I’ll figure out another way to get those contacts, and you certainly weren’t important enough for me to leave alive.”

Once he deems himself suitably presentable, he swings the door open once more and steps through.

Curt sags in relief, “Oh thank God. Owen, you’re alive! I hope you killed that asshole when he came to get you.”

“Of course, love. Or, should I say,” Owen deepens his voice, finding the inflection he’s been using for the past few weeks, “Agent Curt Mega.”

He switches back to his natural voice as Curt wastes time gaping, which is honestly a relief since his throat really doesn’t appreciate everything Owen was putting it through. “Honestly though, how on Earth are you considered one of the world’s greatest spies when everyone knows your name? It’s always baffled me.”

In response, a disbelieving laugh punched out of Curt, “Oh—You bastard! You sneaky, conniving, evil bastard! Why in the everloving fuck would you do that to me?!” He tried to drag a hand across his face, and was abruptly reminded of the chains binding him.

“Yes. That.” Owen ignored Curt’s imploring look, deciding to leave him hanging for a little longer, “Well, you somehow managed to ruin a mission that I have been working on for weeks, completely undercover. And you weren’t even assigned to it!”

“Yes, I—”

“No, you weren’t. I know you weren’t because I would have been alerted to the arrival of another agent during my report last night. From my actual superior, mind you, and not some Russian brute telling me they’d caught themselves a stupid American spy to torture after he’d carelessly broken into an armed facility!”

Owen forced himself to pause and take in a deep breath, regaining his composure during the steady exhale. He might have been concerned about Curt’s well-being, sue him. Owen doesn’t know what he’d do with himself if anything ever happened to him.

“Awwwww, you do care!” Curt cooed at him with a dumbass grin on his face.

Actually, Owen does know what he’d do with himself. He’d probably get his missions done a lot faster, for one. And he’d worry a lot less.

That grin softened as he said, “Look, Owe, I didn’t know about the mission. I think some information got turned around and I heard that you’d vanished. This was your last known location and I couldn’t wait for my inquiry into your mission status to come back so I decided to see for myself. I needed to know that you were alright.”

Well, maybe it’s worth it so long as he has someone to worry about.

“Alright, I suppose I can let you off the hook this time. But,” Owen raised his voice over Curt’s cheering, “You have to explain to the MI-6 why I didn’t get that list of contacts. You know, the thing I spent weeks trying to get, through my position here which came at the expense of several favours and a not insignificant amount of funds.”

The cheering swiftly died down and was replaced with a whine. “What?! C’mon Owe, your bosses are terrifying! And then they’ll tell Cynthia who is even more terrifying! Are you sure that you don’t want to take the fall for this one? For me?”

Owen’s expression very clearly conveyed that no, he did not want to take the fall for this one.

Not even for Curt.

And especially not even when Curt jutted out his bottom lip in a misguided attempt to garner some sympathy. Owen was not one who could be easily swayed, and certainly not in his position.

Curt however…

Trying not to give the game away, Owen sauntered forward and placed his hands on Curt’s waist. He pressed a chaste kiss to his partner’s lips, chuckling when Curt tried to chase him as he pulled away.

“Is that a yes?” Curt tried hopefully.

Owen didn’t need to give a verbal response, as his firm squeeze to the space below Curt’s ribs, and the resulting yelp, should be enough of an answer.

“Not exactly. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

But sometimes he just couldn’t resist.

Looking up, Owen had the pleasure of watching Curt’s face brighten with the realization of what he was about to endure, the nervousness tinged with a giddy excitement that Owen ached to make him admit out loud.

Another time.

“Haven’t you done enough?” It was a plea, a search for mercy that wasn’t there and Owen had to resist the urge to draw him into another kiss. To destroy him.

“Hm, no. I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson quite yet. And, to make it up to me, I won’t stop until you agree to own up to your own mistakes. Sound fair?” Oh well, Owen can certainly destroy him in other ways.

Owen took a step back, surveying the man in front of him and formulating a plan of attack, pointedly ignoring Curt’s protests.

He placed his hands back on Curt’s waist, lightly trailing up his sides, taking careful note of the way his body instinctively flinched away or the slight cracks in his voice. “Now, we both know that your neck, and ears I suppose, is a very dangerous spot,” Owen punctuated his statement with a quick flutter of his fingers under Curt’s chin, earning a choked-off squeal, “And I imagine that I’d be hard-pressed to find somewhere worse.”

Curt was giggling now, eyes locked onto Owen’s hands which had barely touched him. Seeing him in this state, it was very easy to see how enamoured he was with this man, but he didn’t let that affect the show he was trying to put on.

“But, it would be a lot of fun to give it my best go, wouldn’t you say?” Curt squeezed his eyes shut as he frantically shook his head and, bloody hell it has to be illegal for a grown man to be this adorable.

“Well, fun for me, of course. Now, where should I start?”

Owen waited, contemplating, taunting, waiting for Curt to catch on until he cracked one eye open in disbelief.

“What? You want me to pick?!” The panic in his voice was palpable and only served to stoke the mischievous fire burning within Owen.

Blood rushed to his face when Owen shrugged casually, as though they were discussing what to eat for dinner instead of forcing Curt to take the first step in his own demise.

When the silence stretched on for too long, Owen said, “Well, I suppose that I don’t have to try something new. I mean,” He began to reach out to Curt’s neck, “If it isn’t broken—”

“NO! No��God Owen you monster, just not there!” Owen paused, a few scant inches away from making contact, waiting, “Fucking fine! Ribs! I choose rIBS—Shihihihit!”

Owen didn’t bother letting Curt finish his sentence before latching on to his new target. Nothing he could say would sound sweeter than the frantic laughter that bubbled up as Owen clawed down the bones. He dug his fingers in between the grooves, mindful to put just enough pressure to draw out those wonderful hysterics, but not enough to harm.

The most important skill a spy can have is precision, after all.

“Ahahhasshole! I’m gonna fuhuhucking—hehehehey!” Curt’s voice cracked as his laughter pitched up into more of a giggle.

The old tactic had gotten boring so Owen had switched to crawling his fingers delicately up his partner’s torso. He started at Curt’s sides, slowly working his way across the bumpy terrain of his ribs before poking under his arms and making his way back down.

It was endlessly amusing as Curt would start out snickering, shifting into higher-pitched giggling the further up Owen went, and it was punctuated by a shriek and the clang of Curt pulling on his arms each and every time he reached the top. Honestly, Owen could’ve stayed here forever, learning the various techniques that could draw such interesting noises out of Curt.

“Sorry, you’re going to what? I’m afraid that I can’t hear you over all that childish giggling,” Owen couldn’t help but tease. “You know, you could end this. All you need to do is agree to take accountability for your actions.”

He could see Curt attempting to form his lips around a response and deigned to lessen his touch, if only to allow the poor man a chance to breathe.

When Curt got himself mostly under control, he looked at Owen who immediately knew what his answer would be before he said it.

“Kiss my ass, Carvour.”

Owen clucked his tongue in disappointment, “Perhaps later, dear. Now, would you mind telling me which is worse?”

With only that as his warning, Owen attacked. Kneading at Curt’s side before rubbing his knuckles into his ribs with one hand, and ghosting along his torso with the other. Light, fleeting touches that spark across his nerves, keeping Curt in a constant state of anticipation.

Curt, for his part, was handling it quite well, “OWEHEHEN YOU BASTARD! I’M GOHOHOHOING TO KIHIHILL YOU!”

You see?

“Oh, don’t be so crass, Curt. It’s a simple question! Left,” Owen dug firmly into the muscle, “Or right?” He traced the grooves of Curt’s ribs, following an imaginary path to a very real prize.

“LEFT! Leheheheft you asshole!” How odd, Curt was telling the truth.

Owen would have to tuck away that little trick for later.

For now, Owen decided to forgo the light touch in favour of taking Curt apart piece by piece, content to watch him strain against his bonds desperately until he broke.

It took longer than Owen expected, and he had to give credit where credit was due as he imagined it would be difficult to be resilient against this sort of thing even if the so-called victim enjoyed it.

But, as he said before, everyone breaks eventually. So when Curt finally spat out “OKAY! Okahahay I’ll fucking do it! It’s my fahahault just—plehehease!” Owen promptly backed off and retrieved a spare piece of metal to pick the locks of his chains.

He unlocked one arm first, taking care to massage the arm and wrist to help stimulate blood flow before moving on to the next. Passing by Curt’s face, Owen couldn’t help but cup his cheek with his palm, using his thumb to wipe away residual tears. The warmth radiated against Owen’s hand, spreading to the rest of him when he felt a soft puff of air against his wrist and the extra weight of Curt leaning into the hold.

The trust nearly overwhelmed him. The vulnerability of Curt’s position was apparent, had just been exploited, and yet. And yet. There he was, eyes fluttering shut as he trusted Owen to support him, to not take advantage of him after their little game was done.

Owen allowed himself a brief moment of pressing their foreheads together, of simply breathing the same air before he withdrew, continuing with the routine of unlock, massage, move on.

Eventually, Curt was freed. Owen stood near enough to catch him should his legs fail to properly support him but, aside from a small stumble, Curt managed to keep himself upright.

“So,” Owen said as he and Curt stepped over the dead bodies and began making their way out, “Did you survive?”

Curt paused, checking around a corner before responding, “What, that? That was nothing!” He shot Owen a cheeky smile, eyes lit up in a way they always seemed to be when they reunited.

“That’s because I didn’t get your neck. You really should be thanking me, you know.” Owen gave the aforementioned spot a pointed look, but refrained from doing anything. It’s best to keep him on his toes, and it was a success if the nervous glance Curt gave him was anything to go by.

Then, faster than Owen could track, he was pressed against a wall with Curt staring up at him. The moment he opened his mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing, Curt was kissing him.

Under absolutely no circumstances would Owen admit that he’d gone a bit weak in the knees at the action, but it was over just as fast as it had begun. The only evidence that it had even happened was the hitch in Owen’s breath and the lingering sting from where Curt had bit his lip.

Curt stayed close for long enough to whisper, “Thank you, angel,” into his ear before swaggering off, leaving Owen to shove himself back together as fast as humanly possible and follow behind him.

Alright, maybe Owen had deserved that.

But Curt better be prepared to finish what he started the second they were behind closed doors or so help him, not even God Himself would be able to put Curt Mega back together after Owen was finished with him.

[paintedcrows]

they make me feel unwell

(continued: Stan & Young Ford)

[proselles]

clinging to the sex warning for arcane like an angst with a happy ending tag on ao3

[chiquilines]

Whoopsie daisy im late to the panel redraw train but this page is tattooed on my frontal lobe

[livums]

there's no way to say this without sounding like i can't take criticism (i can, it's something i had to work on like everybody else), but some people are like. really bad at giving constructive criticism and i think if you're receiving crit from someone that's not a bad thing to keep in mind for ur own sanity lol

[peace-hunter]

tfone au where OP is created as the last of the primes but way after them, a sparkling born at what were thought to be the last days of the war against the quintessons, the beginning of a new generation of peace after eons of war. a child meant to be loved and raised knowing nothing of war nor sacrifice.

he's kept mostly out of the spotlight by his siblings, who don't wish to expose him to everyone's optics so young, and want to wait until the war is done and over to properly introduce him to their people.

except of course the primes are betrayed and murdered by sentinel, the war is lost and everyone who knows and cared for the truth is either banished or outright killed in order to suppress it.

and the high guard, the ones the primes trusted the most, the ones that were supposed to protect them, the ones who failed in their most important duty, have to make a choice. to take the last prime, their last hope, with them to the surface, a hostile environment where there's little to no supplies and where they'll be hunted down by both sentinel and the quintessons as the biggest threat to their regimen.

or hide him in plain sight. place him where sentinel won't think to look for him. one more sparkling among many. and hope it will be enough to keep him alive. pray to primus that he'll protect his last child long enough for them to come back for him when it's safer (even if most of them have already lost their faith on him when he allowed the rest of his children to be massacred like that)

they almost lose their resolve when they realize they will have to take the little one's cog away in order to make him blend in with the rest of the newborns (and oh do they burn with murderous intent when they see what sentinel has done to their people but it's not the time yet-) but in the end they decide an impaired little prime is better than a dead one.

and so in the chaos of thirteen dead primes and a sudden energon crisis, a little sparkling who very few mechs really knew about and even fewer had seen completely vanishes. and in the depths of iacon a mech in charge of a new batch of newborns scratches their helm in confusion as they realize they must have miscounted the first time.

optimus prime is quietly erased from any official records by sentinel, written off as dead when they find a sparkling's frame mangled beyond recognition after an attack on the base of those rebels that insist on being a thorn on his side. killing the sparkling hadn't been precisely in his plans, he probably could've found some use for it after all, but he's not particularly upset about it either.

and orion pax grows up with an ache on his spark that tells him he's missing something far more important than a t-cog and dreams of gentle and loving hands, cradling him against the frames of mechs he cannot recall the faces of.

[arson-09]

Tamlin is actually such an underrated character in acotar. Because of feyres very biased narrative she forces readers to ignore the complexity of his character and man. its sad

Tamlin is a character who is genuinely GOOD at his core. He changed so much of the spring court for good, eliminating slavery within the spring lands and mortals having more protection. Hes a morally good character that made a few mistakes and is boiled down to just those mistakes. Locking feyre in the house and the magical/emotional blow up, which are both pretty decent fuck ups (i dont think siding with hybern fully counts as he was a double agent all along and tamlin was decently justified in thinking feyre was being kept against her will. lets be fr here) and even after he’s extremely fucked over by the nightcourt, his lands and court burned to shit, he still saves rhysand. Saves rhysand and tells feyre to be happy, even when he has every reason to NOT do that!

Hes a character that clearly holds himself to a higher standard. throughout acotar he puts lucien and feyres safety above his own, even sending feyre away when she was the only one who could save him. Even though what he did to her wasnt great its not completely irredeemable, rhysand did much worse things to feyre and other people but hes living his best life while Tamlin seems to find himself unworthy of being a person (acosf wheres hes been in beast form for roughly over two years) hes a perfectionist who now doesnt even think he deserves anyone because he accidentally hurt the people he loves most.

Sjm accidentally created a beautifully rich and morally righteous character who is so extremely fucked by the narrative. Which doesnt even work half the time as sjm cant seemingly commit to making him a full villain (seemingly by accident again she gave him quite a reasonable explanation to everything he did ‘wrong’ but still chooses to make him a punching bag)

If Tamlin was genuinely a morally evil character he wouldnt have NEARLY the amount of fans as he does. Hes a character that requires the minimum amount of media literacy and comprehension to understand and i LOVE him.

[serpentface]

Faiza performing the Kagnoma Odo (pretty literally 'lion dance'), a weapons dance and one of the more important ritual duties of Odonii priestesses. A relatively new addition to this traditional dance involves the musket as the primary weapon, which is fired mid-twirl into the ground at the climax of the dance. Faiza is experiencing an 'oh fuck' moment because her shot is more than ideally diagonal, but she’s being so cool with it.

This is a wholly ceremonial performance at the onset of the pilgrimage, performed in full regalia and lion skin (of the small, semi-domesticated strain) but no armor. It’s also distinctly a display of political allegiance between the powerful and beloved Odonii priesthood (and its loyal military) with the increasingly reviled and destabilized imperial family, with Faiza prominently wearing a bracelet of the royal serpent, which was gifted (along with the musket) by the usoma Stavis Amanti himself (Usoma is the Wardi word for king, which has been retained in the context of emperors).

The Kagnoma Odo is the ultimate demonstration of the Odonii as an embodiment of the Lion Face of God and living vessel of military might and sovereignty, demonstrating her fitness and proficiency with weapons and as a spiritual unifier for soldiers. It is accompanied by drumming and occurs in stages, running through the three keymost weapons used in war- the spear, the sword, and the musket. The musket is of the most significance, given the weapon has developed a particular esteem as the ultimate embodiment of might and superiority. Assistants (almost always other priestesses, occasionally high ranking soldiers) load and prime the musket to be fired at the climax of the dance, where it is shot into the ground as the priestess leaps out of range of the shot. The firing signals the end of the dance and the rite itself.

While not the utmost exemplar of trigger discipline, only fully inducted and senior (and therefore very thoroughly trained) Odonii are permitted to perform the dance, and injuries during actual performances are quite rare (though are known to occur during training, more than a few Odonii have burns and wounds on their feet).

The most important renditions of this dance are performed upon declarations of war and before battles (in this case, generally done in full armor along with the lion pelt). It is also done during some trainings (while a dance, it is carefully choreographed to include naturalistic maneuvers of the weapons involved and helps soldiers limber up and learn to move their weapons). It is regarded as an impressive and motivating sight and a morale booster, and, seen at a distance, potentially intimidating to enemies.

A special variant of this dance is performed as means of fully incarnating the Odomache, which is done in full nudity with the body covered in the blood of the freshly sacrificed lion and cloaked in its raw pelt (the lion has become the corpse of Odomache in the moment of death, as part of its recreation of God's sacrifice). Her public, full nude appearance once (and only once) in this act is what allows the Lion Face of God to incarnate within her. Those in attendance see the spiritually vulnerable, naked human body obscured with the sanctified and deified blood and cloaked in the sanctified and deified skin. It is a merger of the contradictions of mortality and divinity, the boundaries between the two indistinct in flickering firelight and the flash of musketfire. She is witnessed by her people, dangling in between humanity and divinity and leading them in dance, and and is thus transformed.

[oh-no-its-bird]

Hear me out: warring states era Hatake who went on a mission somewhere in the land of waves and fell off the fucking map— where they then witnessed the Unspeakable Timeless Horrors Of The Sea And Spiral, then washed up on shore a solid years later, irreversible changed and tangibly Other.

Their wolf contract no longer works because there is something so deeply Wrong with them that animals (especially contract beats and spirits) can feel it. There is something tangibly, legitimately Other(tm) about them, and while they've been wholeheartedly accepted back into the clan, everyone knows this is not the same person who they lost a year ago

They gazed into the abyss and the abyss gazed back type shit fr

[egophiliac]

do you have youtube channel?

technically yes, but I just use it to host unlisted videos for embedding, so there's nothing, like, public on it. :') sorry! I basically don't post anywhere except here and occasionally on pixiv (in case it's not obvious, I suck at social media).

[foldingfittedsheets]

One of my earlier jobs in life was at a little pizza place. I worked there when it was first starting up. It’s the only job I’ve ever been fired from.

Anyway! For this story to make sense I’ve first got to set the stage. This pizza place started out as the Wild West of management but one of the original investors was super committed to work programs through the prison. We hired a ton of ex convicts and they were all, to a one, super hyped on Christianity. Like born again for the sole purpose of lauding Christ with their every breath.

I was raised without any religion which I liked very well. Throughout my life people have tried to inform me about their religion and I end up deeply resenting it. I’m good. I’m vibing. I’m staying in my lane. I’ve also had more than enough microaggressions for being queer that I get skittish around people who are especially devout.

I hadn’t been working there long but I’d definitely noticed the Jesus bug had gone around, I tried to steer clear of the topic for my own safety as much as possible.

The day our story takes place, I was folding boxes. Anyone whose ever worked pizza can attest, there’s so much box folding. It’s something that happens at every lull, the pizza machine demands box folding on a grand and epic scale.

On my right folding his stack of boxes was a guy wider than he was tall, made of pure muscle, Corey. He was newer on staff, and due to a stutter he didn’t talk much. All I knew about him was that he got hired through the rehabilitation program and had done time.

On my left folding was a tall middle-aged woman who loved to yell at me, Cindy. She and I rubbed each other the wrong way and had nothing in common, leading to a tense working relationship.

We folded boxes in silence. This was really my best case scenario as a quiet Cindy was a Cindy not riding my ass, and Corey intimidated me.

But the weight of the silence grew too much for Cindy, who finally said, “I really want to go to bible school.”

I folded a box. I had less than no idea what bible school even was and I didn’t want to get sucked into a religious topic.

On my right Corey said, “W-why, Cindy?”

“Well, cause I believe what’s in the Bible, but I just don’t know it all.”

He nodded sagely to this.

Cindy continued, “And every time I sit down to read the Bible I get real sleepy. And I know it’s the devil.”

It’s so hard to convey her tone in written format. It was delivered with the emphasis and exasperation of an inevitable inconvenience. Like, I just know it’s the squirrels eating the bird seed.

I froze in place at this pronouncement. My only exposure to Lucifer was Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comics and I was trying to mentally twist into a frame of mind where The Morningstar cared enough about this one middle aged lady expanding her knowledge of the Bible that he followed her around cursing her with sleepiness when she picked it up.

I think I expected Corey to say, “Well that’s silly,” or something to acknowledge what a bizarre thing Cindy had just said.

Instead he said, “Yeah!” In a tone of complete agreement.

I didn’t look up. I tried to keep my face neutral at this development.

But something must have shown. Corey said, “You don’t believe in God?”

I shrugged casually and said, “If I did I wouldn’t talk about it at work.”

“C-cause it’s t-true. If y-you t-ry to r-read the B-bible on unsanctif-fied gr-round the d-devil m-makes you s-sleepy!”

I made a noncommittal sound and fled into the back room.

Over the next week it drove me crazy though. The logic of it wouldn’t leave me alone so finally one day when it was just Corey and I in front, and the restaurant was empty, I said, “Hey man, I have a question.”

He shrugged and listened.

“I really don’t mean this with any disrespect, I just genuinely want to know about the logistics-“

“J-ust ask.”

“Okay, so if Cindy gets tired when she reads any book, is it only the devil making her tired when it’s the Bible?”

His face went purple with fury and he yelled, “F-fuck you!” at my retreating back as I fled once more into the back room.

It will forever remain a mystery.

[ube-bluebay]

i have a problem

really long rambling in tags

[tea-cat-arts]

You know what, I've read enough fanfic. I'm confiscating Madame Yu from you guys

Free my girl- she did the things she's being accused of, but not as frequently or severely as the fandom pretends, her actions are being taken out of context, and her depth is being reduced to that of a Colleen Hoover antagonist

[shortnotsweet]

[ “SOMEBODY TOLD ME”]:

BREAKING MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME. SEVENTEEN TRACKS AND I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS GAME. A BREAKIN’ MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME—BUT HEAVEN AIN’T CLOSE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS.

— The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)

Princess Rhaenyra’s insolence is wearing her stepmother’s patience thin. Queen Alicent is not ten years her senior, but even during her own sixteenth year, she cannot recall herself behaving so brazenly. She would never burst into courtly discussions in nothing but gilded armor and the underskirts of her riding leathers, awash in blood. (She would never be spotted in blood that was not her own, anyway. Alicent has never picked up a sword, not one that belonged to her.) Nevermind that Rhaenyra is attending to diplomatic affairs with bared teeth and scales, no—the crux of the matter is just that, her affairs. Rhaenyra is the Realm’s Delight, a beauty incomparable to any fair maiden, Alicent included. She indulges herself with appetite of a spoiled child, the confidence of man, and the pickings befitting only to her royal blood. Criston Cole. Daemon Targaryen. Harwin Strong. Laena Velaryon. She’s full of love, isn’t she? That selfish, foolish girl. What does Rhaenyra Targaryen know of love, of duty? She is a child in so many ways—she thinks killing makes her a man, thinks the throne is hers despite being a woman, thinks she can have her knight and her uncle and her protector and Laena Velaryon in one fail swoop. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know herself half as well as Alicent does. Alicent, who sees her for what she truly is, who wants to see all of her and more of her and none of her. Alicent has been stolen into the Keep by her own father—both of their fathers—but Rhaenyra is the key to this place, is the window to everything barred. Rhaenyra Targaryen has a dragon. Rhaenyra can fly.

That’s what Rhaenyra had promised her once, with her lips pulled back in a grin, exposing the white of her teeth like the violently radiant creature she was. “Perhaps when you grow tired of plotting against me, we shall ride on dragonback together,” she had said. The tease.

Alicent had yanked her into an empty corridor by the silk of her sleeve, ready to chastise her for her ill behavior. Conversing with the lords and ladies of the court at a feast was one thing, but chattering about her bloody encounters in battle over the pudding tureen were another. The lord at her elbow was going green. Alicent’s own face was likely red; her heart raced whenever Rhaenyra got like this. Alicent had never seen the battlefield—only seen battered men in dented armor and the slumps of corpses lined along dirt roads in the aftermath of war—but her own imagination terrified her like nothing else.

(Rhaenyra is better with a sword than half of the knights in Westeros, and more lovely than the lot. Her reign has not yet begun, but already the commoners flock to her—lured in by tales of her beauty and fine hair—and soldiers would follow her into battle. Alicent would not follow, but she would watch and bite her nails down to the quick.

She thinks of the figure Rhaenyra cuts in full armor, the heat in her gaze underneath the slots of her helmet. Alicent remembers the weight of her own hand in Rhaenyra’s—which was gloved—when the princess rode up to the spectators box and grasped it in her own, bringing Alicent’s knuckles to her lips. She thinks of Rhaenyra murdered in the sky, skewered with another man’s sword, plummeting to the ground, torn in half, streaking crimson across the clouds. Alicent would scream, or cry. She might laugh. She would throw herself from the window of her tower. Rhaenyra’s bloody exploits terrified Alicent for reasons she could not identify, and excited her for reasons she refused to.)

“I’d sooner be confined to the castle for the rest of my days than get on the back of that bloody lizard,” Alicent scoffed. Rhaenyra only tucked her hand over Alicent’s, where it was resting on her forearm. She flexed her fingers, moving to release her grip on the dark fabric, but Rhaenyra intertwined their fingers and held them fast.

“You’re confined already. You are already accustomed to such a thing. I know you. But—”

“But you forget yourself. You think you’re invulnerable, Rhaenyra. You don’t know who you are.” Alicent intends for it to be a sneer, but instead it comes out quietly, and too gentle for disdain. She can’t know. Rhaenyra is as trapped as she is, but they’re trapped together. They belong together. She belongs with Alicent.

“I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and all of Westeros. I am a dragonrider. I am—I am your daughter. In a way. Your sister, too. Your enemy. Your sword, your shield.”

“And what am I?” What else is left for me? Alicent wonders.

“My Queen. For now.” Rhaenyra cocks her head, and the gleam in her eyes burns like fire raining down. “When I am Queen, you will be my lady.”

[tomurakii]

I like bloodweave. Okay. But I DON'T like the version of them in fanfic where Astarion is a dick and Gale is like. Whining and pleading for him to be emotionally vulnerable (or just. Nice to him) prior to the relationship being established. Because that is just not accurate. Gale needs the player to express interest in him during his weave-teaching scene before he even considers hitting on them properly. Gale is entirely resigned to his fate and needs someone else to pull him away from it. Gale only starts being sweet and romantic and devoted after you accept his love confession and give him hope for the future. Gale says fuck all and then slinks away to cry privately if you break up with him.

Like he isn't chasing after people lmao. He isn't dropping to his knees and crying about anything much less this dickhead he met a week ago. He is overwhelmingly passive about literally everything personal to him up to and including his own death (provided there are no casualties/there is a good reason) until after the player expresses that they care about him. Astarion is not doing that in any of these fics.

Like Gale is friendly and a dork and doesn't wanna get murdered but he fully has a suicide plan. He thought the artefacts would help him survive but he didn't believe he'd ever truly live again. If Gale confessed and Astarion said/did like one (1) mean thing afterward Gale's romance is closed off forever. He's wandering into the forest to cry. He's killing himself immediately. His fragile ego and self worth can't take it. You have to understand that when we joke about him being pathetic it's not bc he's like. Sopping wet and chasing people down and begging for a scrap of attention. It's because he craves affection but would literally rather die than ask or even hope for it until someone else forces that hope back into his serotonin-deficient tadpole brain.

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

Entomologist really was the perfect talent to give Gonta. What better field of study could you pick to parallel the guy whose entire character is drenched in misunderstanding and loneliness than that on the animals which are looked at by most people with complete disgust just for existing the way they do?