#I cannot return to a place of sanity even remotely

[croquettish]

me, delirious, finding the hansry tumblr community: I have found my people

[tenebriism]

Doubly thankful now for the concealment of their faces, if only because Hades is CERTAIN there would be naught he could do to hide this next, far more intense round of heat. Damned Hythlodaeus... skilled in all manner of riling tactics that are certain to make Hades go even whiter in the hair, if such was even possible. " Ahem. " He clears his throat in likely a paltry attempt to mask his fluster, full on expecting to hear a GIGGLE come from his cheeky companion. " Unrelenting as ever in your efforts to chip away at my slither of sanity. I'd think you ill if ever a day passed that you were NOT attempting to tease me. "

So says he, yet in their continued friendship, 'tis obvious he does not MIND Hythlodaeus' playfulness. It balances out his own stoicism quite well, serving as something of a breath of fresh air amidst all the tension and expectations surrounding him. Indeed, Hades believes -- KNOWS -- he'd have long since lost his mind were it not for Hythlodaeus keeping him afloat.

Still, it does not keep the comment from running itself ragged through his mind. Is Hyth SERIOUS in his claims, or is it really, truly just a way of poking fun at him? Hades hasn't the courage to ask; he'll look more a fool than EVER should it truly be nothing, and how shall he ever recover from it thereafter?

He's thankful for the silence, if only because it allows him to somewhat re-gather his jumbled thoughts. The night sky always brought a sense of calm, bettered only by the company he shared. So taken by the view, he very nearly misses Hyth's next statement, but the GUILT that comes from it is overwhelming. He may not be able to look the lavender blossom in the eye even still, heart thrumming loudly and persistently within his ears at what felt like TOO intimate a gesture for mere friends, but he knows if he does not seize this moment in its entirety, he will come to regret it.

" Wait... " He reaches that very same hand out, grasping onto Hythlodaeus' as if that brief spell of distance had been more agonizing than anything he's ever experienced. " You needn't... apologize. Your actions did not cause me discomfort, " he mutters, slowly letting the tension ease up before he lets his fingers find their place betwixt Hyth's, " I do not know what I feel... around you, FOR you, but it is not discomfort. It is never discomfort, or anything... even remotely close. "

Oft he is on edge, indeed. Hardly rests, forgets to eat, thrusts himself into ever important matter possible because there is no shortage of work to be done, but it is Hythlodaeus who steps in to take care of him, and REMINDS him to take care of himself in his absence. His words may not always be heeded, not for lack of want, but merely because this is the life he has SWORN himself to, but it doesn't make him any less thankful for his best friend's efforts. He only hopes he does the same, in return, for Hythlodaeus, even if he is a touch less warm and welcoming in his manner of approach.

" I needn't you believing you are some... unwanted presence, understood? No matter how oft you test my nerves and patience. " 'Tis his turn to squeeze the other's hand reassuringly, to seal the ingenuity behind his words in place of the eye contact he cannot yet offer. " ... so banish the thought from your head. "

He had done it almost instinctively. Slipping his hand into Hades’ had been easy, but the anticipation if his white-haired companion would allow it caused a knot to form inside his stomach, justifying his behavior was a completely different manner. And the worst thing? Hythlodaeus couldn’t even really explain it himself.

Hades was his friend. His best friend. But what other meaning lingered behind those affectionate feelings Hythlodaeus harbored for said friend? It was too scary to really think about it, because what if there was so much more between them than either of them wanted to admit? But in any way the truth was obvious: Hythlodaeus would always be there if Hades needed him, even if he only was in need of someone he could rant to, someone that would remind him that sleep was more important than overworking himself, or someone that would hold his hand.

Hythlodaeus quietly chuckled to himself, a part of him was amused by the other’s obvious confusion. On the other hand.. what was he supposed to do now.

“If it is a kiss you want, by all means, all you have to do is ask”, he eventually replies, an almost challenging grin on his lips, but they both knew that this was nothing more than him teasing his friend. Hythlodaeus could imagine the other’s cheeks flushing by his bold words, but unfortunately his cheeks were mostly hidden by that vermillion mask, and as if to express Hades had nothing to worry about Hythlodaeus slightly leaned against the other’s side as he walked, giving his hand a gentle and tame squeeze.

Then he went quiet, but only for a short moment as he was guiding Hades towards a quieter area of the city, the big plaza that was usually deserted around this hour of the night. From there they had a beautiful view of the starry sky and the spires of the tallest buildings of Amaurot. All in all a beautiful view, but not as catching as the golden hues of Hades.

“To be honest, you seemed on edge and I wanted to distract you”, Hythlodaeus finally admitted out of the blue, and while it was definitely not a lie, it was not the whole truth either, but how was he supposed to unravel the depth of the complicated feelings he felt for Hades.

“And while I enjoy teasing you, I did not mean to cause discomfort. I am sorry.”

The gaze of his eyes is gentle and affectionate, and to emphasize his apology he lifts Hades’ hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it, and then finally he lets go of him, leaving his own hand feeling weirdly empty and cold.

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 14.5

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary:  And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously. 

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,701

Warnings: angst, dialogue heavy, language, angst, Violence, plot plot plot, did I mention angst? Cuz it’s here

Author Note: Texas weather is no laughing matter and never have I hated snow more than these last few days. This is definitely more of a transition segment so I wrote shorter snippets as a result, but there is some serious plot development nevertheless. The response to last chapter was so amazing I can’t thank everyone enough for all the love and support 💖💖💖

Links to Part 1 and Part 14 and Part 15

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

Ahsoka hijacks the Razor Crest as soon as Din teleports her aboard the ship. She pushes Din out of the cockpit, refusing to let him so much as glimpse the coordinates of the destination she inputs into the nav computer. The Oracle hadn’t been kidding when she said she didn’t trust him going alone to rescue his soulmate.

Bo-Katan hadn’t been phased by Ahsoka’s arrival, adapting to her presence with the same ease as a duck to water. However, Din couldn’t help noticing the moment her mask of cool indifference slipped when Ahsoka asked the reaper to stay in the cockpit with her, claiming they had important matters to discuss. 

Din climbs down the ladder into the hull, recognizing that the conversation about to ensue is not one he needs to be involved in. Fingers twitching restlessly, he commits himself to checking each of the weapons in his armory, sharpening his vibroblades and loading a set of whistling birds into his vambrace. He’d made a promise to Ahsoka against killing Moff Gideon, but he’d made no vow against scarring the Seraph beyond recognition.

When Din’s finished with him, Gideon will be a warning to the rest of the galaxy what happens if you steal from Death. 

He stills at the thrum of satisfaction that runs through his body at the thought of pressing Gideon’s eyeballs out with his thumbs. The darkness within him has grown stronger since he killed Hess and it’s becoming an increasingly harder challenge denying its craving for bloodshed. If not for Ahsoka’s intervention, he would have reaped Xi’an’s soul, breaking another sacred rule. He should feel grateful, but the darkness expresses annoyance instead, upset to have been denied its kill. 

There is a thought that has been plaguing the back of his mind, shackled in the same corner as his other doubts and regrets. He once had iron control over his powers and emotions, but now he’s holding onto his human façade by a mere thread. So slowly he hadn’t even been aware it was happening, his darkness has usurped his morality. 

He’s meant to be a neutral entity, but when he looks at his reflection in the fresher mirror all he sees is a weapon. 

Obsidian orbs have replaced brown eyes. Flawless tan skin has become dissected by lines of ink that once were blue veins. 

Darkness is corrupting him from the inside out, making him a slave to the power he once mastered.

And he doesn’t have a fucking clue how to stop it. 

~~

Bo-Katan joins him in the hull an hour later. She doesn’t say anything , just leans against the wall across from him, and Din continues cleaning the barrel of his amban rifle as if he doesn’t see her. 

The silence isn’t tense or uncomfortable, but he feels her gaze trying to penetrate his helmet. He knows the reaper well-enough to tell there is a question on her mind, but her hesitance to voice it unsettles him. Bo-Katan rarely holds her tongue around him, preferring blunt honesty over sugarcoating, which means whatever is on her mind must be serious. 

He bites back a sigh when she starts restlessly shifting in place and pauses his task. “Ahsoka told you,” he says at last.

“That Moff Gideon fucked with our lives?” Bo-Katan snorts humorlessly. “Yeah, she showed me everything.”

“I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Me too. But it’s...good not being in the dark anymore. I needed to hear the truth,” she replies stoically, but the pointless adjustment of her headband betrays her internal strife. There is a moment of pause before she looks at him again. “I heard about your promise,” she says, and it’s not really a question, except that it is.

Din’s fingers tighten around the rifle. “Did she make you swear the same one?”

“No.” Bo-Katan shakes her head. “No, she didn’t.”

He’s not surprised by the answer. He actually thinks he should have expected it, considering the universe has always held him to a stricter standard than other entities. 

“Ahsoka made it clear to me that this is something between you, Gideon, and your angel alone. I cannot interfere just like you cannot kill him.”

There is bitter resignation in her tone. He recognizes it because he felt the same when he made his promise to Ahsoka. No one likes being told no when they want something. But this—knowing with absolute certainty Gideon is the one responsible for hurting their loved ones and being told you can’t do anything to avenge them? This is the kind of pain that will linger for years to come as an ache in their bones and a scar over their hearts.

It isn’t fair. But Din’s lived long enough to know the universe never intended life to be that way.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Bo-Katan asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He blinks at her, realizing this is the question she’d been withholding since she came down the ladder. Never has she asked him a request before. “What is it?”

“You must separate Gideon from the Darksaber,” she answers, expression one of absolute seriousness. “The Armorer warned my people if the Lightsaber was ever mishandled, it would turn against the wielder by transforming into the Darksaber. Instead of empowering you, it deceives you. Fills your head with delusions until you lose your grip on reality entirely.”

“And you want to spare Gideon’s sanity?” Din asks slowly.

“Of course not. The son of a bitch deserves to be punished for his crimes. Even if I did want to,” her lips curl into a snarl at the thought, “there’s no way of undoing the damage done to his mind. What I want is for the weapon to be returned to the Armorer. She’s the only one who can properly dispose of it.”

“Right,” he agrees quietly. Anything that comes out of the Armorer’s forge is built to last the length of eternity. He could toss the Darksaber into the center of a sun and it’d remain whole and unaffected, waiting to twist the mind of the next wielder. Nodding his head, he assures her, “I’ll take care of it, even if I have to cut off his hands.”

“Good.”

~~

Din paces the length of the hull, each thud of his boots making contact with the metal floor blends with the low hum of the engines. Usually he’d ignore the creaks and groans of his home, but the metallic symphony is the only thing capable of drowning out the thoughts in his head urging him to storm the cockpit and retake control from Ahsoka.

“Pacing isn’t going to make us arrive any quicker,” Bo-Katan tells him, not even bothering to open her eyes as she lounges atop one of his storage crates. “Ahsoka said it will be another hour at least.”

He has a retort ready on his tongue when a voice calls out his name from somewhere beyond the Razor Crest.

“Din!”

Din freezes in place as unexpected, heart-wrenching hope slices through his chest. He knows that voice. It’s his favorite in all the galaxy.

“Death?” Bo-Katan asks, concerned by his stillness. “What’s wrong?”

He tentatively reaches out towards the bond, giving it the slightest of tugs. When he feels the distant flicker of a reaction on the other end from his angel he nearly forgets how to breathe.

“The bond,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and relief. “I can feel it again.”

Longing fills his chest where the hollowness used to reside now that the invisible block separating them is gone. It wraps around his heart, squeezing so tightly he nearly falls to his knees. Din pulls at the bond again on impulse, possessed by the all-consuming need to see her, to have her at his side where she’ll be safe.

The bond protests the harsh treatment, too weak to physically bring them together across the vast distance separating them. He snarls a curse under his breath, hating being helpless to protect her. It’s unfair, he finds himself thinking for a second time. Unfair how it hurts more now being able to feel her presence compared to when he couldn’t at all.

A paper airplane flickers into existence on the horizon of his mind, flying straight into his hand when he reaches out for it. I can’t leave this place. Not yet, the note says. The words themselves are unsettling, but it’s the strength of the emotions she’s attached that has him reeling with shock. For one crazy, electrifying moment he thinks he’s passed onto the afterlife. 

Another note arrives. I miss you, Din. I want to see you so much it hurts. And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously. 

As he sends a message of his own, never has he been more certain that if anyone can put an end to the darkness inside of him—it’s her.

~~

“The Moff is an expert when it comes to defensive warding,” Ahsoka says as the three of them stand looking up at a canyon wall that extends in either direction as far as their eyes can see. “But even he can’t hide from my sight.”

Din scuffs at the salt-covered ground with his boot, still coming to terms with the fact all this time Gideon’s been hiding out on Crait of all planets. As much as he wants to believe Ahsoka’s right, his powers can’t detect even the barest hint of the Seraph’s presence.  

Bo-Katan’s eyebrows arch with skepticism. “You’re sure this is the right place? It’s kind of remote.”

“Perfect for building an army,” Ahsoka replies without missing a beat.

Din exchanges a look with his reaper, realizing this is the first time either of them are hearing about this. 

“Gideon has an army?” he asks. “Who—”

“Mercenaries,” she interrupts, turning around to face them. Her blue eyes are distant and cloudy, entranced by a vision. “When I break the warding, all but one will meet the end of their mortal lives attempting to overpower us.”

“All but one? I don’t think so.” Bo-Katan rests her hands deliberately on her blaster pistols. “Anyone who works for Gideon is an enemy in my book.”

“Migs Mayfeld is not to be harmed.” There is steel in Ahsoka’s voice as she blinks back into the present moment.

Din nudges Bo-Katan with his arm when it looks like she wants to continue arguing. The reaper huffs a quiet breath of annoyance, but eventually jerks her head in the tiniest nod of compliance. 

Ahsoka grabs her twin sabers from her belt and ignites their blue blades. She handles her weapons with deadly grace, altering her appearance from peaceful Oracle to fierce and cunning warrior. Turning back to the canyon wall, her gaze trails over the red-brown rocks only to pause and narrow at seemingly random points.

Bo-Katan tries and fails to follow her line of vision. “What are you—”

The Oracle leaps into the air with surprising agility, lashing out with her sabers against the rock. Blinding light bursts forth from the point of collision followed by a flickering glimpse of a gigantic metal door. 

“—looking at,” Bo-Katan finishes quietly, watching Ahsoka swing herself higher to attack another portion of the canyon wall where the next segment of warding is hidden. 

There is something undeniably satisfying about seeing the door materialize as the wardings cloaking it are destroyed. Every precise strike of Ahsoka’s sabers brings Din one step closer to reuniting with his soulmate.

As if spurred by the mere thought of her, fear ripples across the bond like a gust of icy wind, stopping his heart cold. His angel is terrified. Din reaches out as far as the bond will allow in its fragile state, trying to get her attention by pulling at it and shouting her name, but none of his attempts breach the storm of panic. 

“She needs me,” he mutters to himself, stepping forward with clenched fists. His vision narrows until all he can see is the door in front of him, an obstacle that must be dealt with. “She needs my help.”

“Wait,” Bo-Katan calls out, but her voice sounds as if it’s coming from thousands of miles away. “Ahsoka isn’t finished with the warding yet!”

If he were capable of rational thought in that moment, he would have heeded her warning. As it is, he summons his power into the palm of his hand, the darkness inside of him crowing in wicked delight. He winds his arm back, preparing to slam his fist against the door, only for a whipcord to wrap around his wrist with an audible zip. 

He’s pulled backwards onto the ground, breath knocked from his lungs as he lands with a heavy thud. Bo-Katan appears not a second later and pins him in place by straddling his waist. The darkness is demanding he push her aside, knowing with absolute certainty the reaper is no match against him, and it takes all his strength to wrestle the urge under control. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” She glares at him, eyes resembling green flames eager to incinerate him.

“I—” he rasps, breathing heavily. His hand starts trembling, a burning itch under his skin. “I can feel her fear. She needs me.”

Bo-Katan blows out a long, frustrated breath. “Well, shit.” She jostles him then, forcing his head to momentarily clear as his helmet smacks the ground. “Look, soulmates are soulmates for a reason, right? I heard it’s like being two halves of the same whole. So if your soulmate is anything like you, she’s not going to give up without a fight. You have to trust she can take care of herself right now. That she’ll be fine.”

Din bristles. Trust is not the issue here. There is no one he trusts more than his angel—not Bo-Katan, not Ahsoka, not even Kuiil. The issue is he’s being asked to deny the instinct to shield her from danger which is woven into every cell of his being.

“She’ll be fine.” The words come out sounding sharp around the edges, cutting his tongue like shrapnel. “Everything will be fine.”

Bo-Katan disconnects the whipcord and rises to full height, apparently satisfied by his agreement. Din pushes himself onto his feet at a slower pace, his hand still shaking as if it's electric. He looks down at it, noticing for the first time the flesh is gone, replaced entirely by shadow. His expression tightens as he observes the change, realizing the black tendrils are slowly creeping up towards his wrist. 

An alarm rings out, reverberating off the canyon walls like an explosion. Din’s gaze snaps up just as Ahsoka lands on the ground in a defensive crouch. Now that it's been fully unveiled, the door bears a striking resemblance to ones he’s seen at military fortresses across the galaxy, ridiculously massive to intimidate enemies and impenetrable from outside attacks. It makes sense, he thinks with a scoff, someone as power-hungry as Gideon claiming an abandoned base as their lair. Without the wardings, Din is able to detect the massive number of souls gathering on the other side, resembling vermin crawling over one another in their haste to arm themselves. 

He searches for his angel’s soul, even just a glimpse of her bright light, only for his powers to instead encounter a massive cloud of dark, negatively-charged energy within a distant corner of the underground tunnel system. It fills an entire room, prohibiting him from sensing if anyone is inside. There is something strangely familiar about the energy, like he’s encountered its essence before, but he can’t recall the specifics of when or where. 

“It’s time.” 

Ahsoka’s voice reels his focus back to his physical surroundings. He notices the way her grip on her sabers tightens in anticipation and out of the corner of his eye Bo-Katan withdraws her blasters from their holsters.

The bottom of the door begins to raise with an earsplitting groan, but the mercenaries only wait the minimum amount of time it takes to pass under without hitting their heads to start charging forward. 

Every mortal has a beginning and an end just like everything else in the galaxy. These mercenaries are no exceptions, having long sealed their fates when they agreed to accept Gideon’s payment. So when Din’s shadowy hand phases through a man’s chest and tears his heart out of its cavity, staining the white salt under their feet crimson as blood bursts from the vacant hole, Din tells himself he’s simply fulfilling destiny. 

He repeats it when he discharges an assault of whistling birds, each one puncturing the throats of each target they encounter with a shrill warcry. And also when he rips a devaronian’s horn out of his head, a fragment of skull and bits of brain matter still gruesomely attached. 

Again and again, with each permanently silenced voice and every shattered fragile bone, destiny is fulfilled. 

~~

Din would be lying if he said he’s never wondered what it would be like to die. To pass on from this world into a new realm for him to explore. He’s imagined the idyllic afterlife mortals have written poems and novels about, describing it as a blissful safe haven where sorrow and tragedy have no definition because they do not exist. He’s familiar with their opinions of damnation’s appearance, too, as an infernal place of fire and brimstone and screaming.

They were wrong about that.

Damnation is not a distant hell. It is found in an underground lair on Crait. 

Instead of flames and sulfur, a Cupid’s blood is split and a soulmate bond is snapped in half. 

Instead of screaming, a madman laughs.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment,” Gideon says through his chuckles, hauling himself onto his feet. His voice is an abrasive rasp, as if he’s shredded his vocal cords by screaming. “I’ve had to be patient, wait to find your weakness so I could catch your attention. It’s a shame, really, she had to be the one you fell for. She was quite the little spitfire.”

Din stares at his soulmate’s motionless body, frozen in place. Please, he pulls at his severed half of the bond, resolutely ignoring how cold it feels. Open your eyes, angel. Don’t leave me. Please.

There is no response. Just heartbreaking silence.

“I sense your anger, your hurt, and grief. Those are mortal emotions.” The Seraph grimaces in disgust, then lets out a low hiss when he agitates the wounds on his face. “By living amongst their kind you’ve forgotten your true potential. You are not their equal, Death. You are their superior. Immortals are meant to be better than them. To rule over every aspect of their pitiful lives.”

“I don’t want to rule anyone,” Din says, dragging his eyes away from his angel to glare at Gideon. Both his hands begin to shake as his mind plunges into a gaping abyss of remorse and despair. “I just want a life with her.”

“Even dead, she continues to blind you.”

Din snarls viciously in response. His control is pushed closer to the brink, holding on by mere fingertips, and darkness engulfs the entire room as a result. 

The glow of the Darksaber persists, reflecting off his beskar and Gideon’s armor. It reminds him of moonlight, and he thinks for all that Bo-Katan warned him about the weapon’s sinful qualities, she did not mention its beauty. Even Ahsoka’s vision had failed to truly capture its radiance, just as a holovid can never compete with a face-to-face conversation. 

His powers are drawn to the Darksaber. The energy it emits matches the one encountered earlier when searching the tunnels for his angel’s aura. This close, there is no ignoring its familiarity, not when his brain feels seconds away from exploding. 

“I used to believe love conquers all,” Gideon prattles on, seemingly oblivious to Din’s torment. “I chose it as the Cupid motto because I thought there was nothing mortals cared more about than the health and happiness of their loved ones. Only after our fateful encounter did the Lightsaber reveal to me the truth.”

Lightsaber? Din’s head jerks up to stare at him, biting back a wince when the throbbing in the back of his mind intensifies at the movement. Does Gideon not realize the weapon has transformed? 

By connecting Ahsoka’s claim that Gideon didn’t fully understand the consequence of corrupting the Lightsaber with Bo-Katan’s explanation that the Darksaber deceives its wielder, the answer is an obvious one: he doesn’t.

Gideon mistakes Din’s confusion for interest and his lips slowly curl into a smile. “Mors aeterna. It means—”

“Death is eternal.” The translation slips unbiddenly from Din’s lips before he even realizes his mouth has opened.

“There is no one more feared or respected than you. But for what reason? What have you done to earn your reputation?” Gideon demands, spit flying as his anger flares. “You are no more than the universe’s favorite puppet. Mindlessly obedient to its every demand.” 

Hearing the truth always hurts, but hearing it from Gideon is especially torturous. Din’s creed to the universe has dictated his actions the entirety of his existence. He never fought against its orders, never thought of his own desires as more important than what it wanted.

Until he matched with his soulmate. She changed his priorities and shifted the center of his entire world by revealing to him even Death could experience love. 

There had been no hesitation when he broke his creed for her.

And he doesn’t hesitate breaking Ahsoka’s promise now.

“I just murdered your soulmate right in front of you and you do nothing. Did you ever love her at all?”

“I do.”

Din summons every trace of power and darkness he possesses and combines them together within his core—a volatile, pulsating mass of pure chaos. His beskar armor starts to crack and chip away, unable to withstand the increasing pressure. 

He thinks of his angel’s smiling face, the sound of her laughter, how bright her soul shines, and he thinks all those things are gone now. Not even a chance to say goodbye.

“More than anything.”

And Death lets go.

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[alfredosauce50]

whenever youre free, can you write yandere 2p china headcanons? im just thinking abt him 👉🏽👈🏽

Yandere 2p! China headcanons

Getting together with you was hard enough. But now that you’re his, he can’t go back to being a second choice he’s always been. He’s never letting you go.

Zao doesn’t have a single yandere characteristic by default, but when he does, ooh boy. It’ll take some time for him to deviate from his normal personality and mental stability, but given enough paranoia and infatuation, he will start losing his sanity, then, his ability to distinguish between right and wrong. And the terrifying thing is, he doesn’t even know it. By this logic, he is by far, the craziest yandere you’ll ever have the misfortune of encountering. 

(There isn’t a lot of fanart on 2p! China so have this fanart of Wei Wuxian for visual purposes)

Home life

He’s very into kissing, so much that he’ll sneak some in while doing the most mundane things. When he talks to you, he will hold your waist and fill the brief moments of silence with kisses. In his eyes, having his lips on yours while a conversation happens is being ‘productive��� as he makes the most out of being with you. Before anything escalates, which ends up happening more often than you’d prefer, you’ll pull away and clamp a hand over his mouth. He’ll lick your hand and laugh at your reaction. 

He bathes with you. He could’ve gone with the more economical option of showering, but he’s far from broke. And plus, he can do so much more while sitting down. You usually stay on the opposite end of the tub, but he’ll pull you onto his lap and whisper this in your ear, “Don’t be shy, kitten. This is your throne.” As you sink into his embrace, which ends up hotter than the water you’re submerged in, he will caress your back and make out with you. Once you’re pleading for air, he will pull away and trail a tongue up your neck instead. When you’re with him, he never actually lets you catch your breath, ever. 

Zao is very mindful of your comfort. Perhaps not when it comes to something sexual, per se, but he will always bring you a blanket if it gets a little chilly. If you forget to put socks on, he will put them on for you without asking. Whenever you go out, he will bring a bag with him and most of the things inside are either yours or for you. 

Spoiling you is a given. He can’t imagine a better way to put his hustle to good use--to give you things you want. Even if you don’t ask for anything, he never fails to get you something you end up loving. But there is one thing he won’t ever let you touch. Substances. Zao is so overprotective in all aspects of your life, he doesn’t even like you drinking. He’s a little more lenient on weed, and will let you have a few puffs of his joint. 

He always covers up at home, and will get a little flustered if you catch him indecent. Zao doesn’t wear a lot to bed, like tank tops and underwear, so he isn’t shirtless very often. The only time he doesn’t get embarrassed is when the mood is... You know. And he’s doing you-know-what with you. Otherwise, he will call you a pervert, but really, he’s teasing you more than expressing embarrassment. Because clearly, that’s rich coming from him.

Yeah. It’s not news how big of a pervert he is. Nor is he ashamed of it. Any dirty thought that crosses his mind, he will never fail to relay to you. It leaves you mortified when he tells you what he wants to do to you, in detail, especially when he isn’t being self-aware. Save that for when you get home, you idiot! But the private sphere only makes him even worse. 

He calms down at night, thankfully, and lays in bed with you on his chest. This is where his love language starts speaking to you. Connecting to you emotionally and mentally is how he shows he loves you. This takes place in long, deep, and random conversations, and if not, he will just captivate you in his dark eyes and stare at you endearingly. “What are you thinking about, kitten? I hope it’s something related to me~” Then, he’ll dig his hands through your hair and massage your head as he breathes you in until he gets intoxicated with you. 

When he gets jealous

He’s the type to get so jealous, it becomes suffocating for him--especially when he doesn’t outwardly show it. So whenever anyone remotely shows interest in you, he’ll keep his cool for the most part, but will get very irritable and clingy. It doesn’t matter how subtle they were, it could’ve been a single glance, even, but alarms will go off. He will pull you into a tight embrace and bury his face in your neck until they leave. You don’t really mind because he isn’t giving anybody trouble, but you do find it cute when he immediately returns to his soft side afterwards. 

Zao isn’t the biggest fan of conflict, even if he’s more than capable of it. Instead, he will gravitate towards his intelligence and cunning to outdo anybody he hates. Stalking is definitely on the table if he needs to get to know someone, then, when it comes down to it, sabotage. He will do anything to keep them busy so they wouldn’t have to see you. And he succeeds every time without you finding out.

Unlike most SO’s, it’s easier for him to get jealous over friends than love interests. He values the emotional aspect of your relationship with him the most, and gets very upset if you bond with people other than him, platonically or not. To make up for it, he demands your attention and ensures the time you spend with him is two times more fulfilling than whoever it was you were with. This is the fundamental reason why he’s more susceptible to getting jealous--literally anybody is a rival in his eyes. 

This is all the more reason to be so much more paranoid and restless than other typical yanderes. 

When you argue

He doesn’t agree with you on a lot of things, so it’s like talking to a brick wall. Objective subjects are easy to get through when it’s straight up facts, but if the topic is about what he can or cannot do in the relationship, save your breath. You will never get through to him. When he feels entitled to something, he takes his own side, regardless of what you feel about it.

Nevertheless, he will do the bare-minimum of leaving you alone in the meantime when you’re upset. That’s how he somehow respects this boundary he just crossed. But a few hours later, he will go back to normal, which means he will be affectionate even when you’re not in the mood. This cues the second phase of the fight. While you’re trying your damndest to push him away, he will corner you, physically and mentally. 

While he hugs you tight, he will force you to look at him while you cry. It’s invasive and suffocating, but the night always ends with you making up with him. Be it kissing or other means. It’s unfair, but no matter what he does, you can’t help giving in to him. And he knows this very well. That’s why he keeps doing it.  

Psychology + When he snaps

He is much more intelligent than he lets on. Even though he already knows you like the back of his hand, he studies you every day. If you asked him what you were thinking about, he could probably guess it. That’s what makes him such an intense lover. You can’t hide anything from him if you tried. Hence, he has a terrifying amount of control in the relationship, and he will use it to his advantage.

Zao is a good multitasker. He can juggle his ‘job’ and hobbies while keeping you in the palm of his hand. There is absolutely nothing you can do without him finding out, and this is precisely how he keeps himself miles ahead of you. 

As everything progresses, he will tolerate less and less. His love language is how much quality time he gets with you, along with emotional connection. Eventually, he will start ruling out the prospect of you having any of these things with anyone besides him. That includes friends, so he will start isolating you from them, all until the only soul you are truly close to is him. Soon, you will have to rely on him for everything, which he absolutely loves. He will make himself the only person in your life. 

As this continues, he will become obsessed with the idea of your co-dependency on him. Zao always loved looking after you, but he isn’t satisfied with that anymore. Being your own person? Hell no. Every single thing you do, he will be in the backdrop. If not, he will be next to you, and start influencing your own thoughts until you can’t even trust yourself. 

At this point, he is manipulating you to accept everything he does. And he succeeds a lot of the time, especially when he’s so unfazed. You start wondering if you should be this unfazed, even when what he’s doing is wrong. 

If one of your friends tries to intervene, he will make sure they won’t see the light of day ever again. He has a lot of connections, and combined with how cunning he is, he can get them to disappear with the snap of his fingers. He will keep doing this until every single person in your life is gone if he has to. 

Zao acts purely on his own desires. It’s his moral compass. Right and wrong will blur together so long as it’s for you, and there’s nothing he won’t do. Murder is as casual of a topic to discuss and do as having breakfast. 

A lot of psychopaths would at least get the thrill of doing something so heinous, but he won’t give a shit. He won’t bat an eye. He won’t feel the smallest shred of remorse and carry on like nothing happened. But what he will feel is satisfaction. 

If you find out what he did

You can cry all you like. He’ll only feel remotely guilty because you’re heartbroken, but it passes pretty quickly when he’s happy with what he’s done. You could try running away too. Try. But he always finds you. It doesn’t matter if you leave the country and go into hiding. He will follow you to the ends of Earth for the rest of his life. What can he say? He loves a good chase. It’s a fun game of cat and mouse he knows he’ll win. 

Every time he finds you, he’ll sneak up to you from behind and whisper, “Are you done, now? Let’s go home already.” If you try to run away again, he’ll just catch you and hold you tight, even while you’re thrashing in his arms. “I can do this forever, kitten. You have nobody else to go to, and nowhere else to be. So don’t waste your energy and come back with me.”

Response to ask: 

Of course :) I’m honored you submitted an ask to me after thinking about him 🤗 He’s definitely one of my favorites! Zao’s gotta be the most fleshed out 2p next to Allen. Since 2p’s aren’t canon, they rely solely on the fandom’s interpretation and ability to dish out content on them. I haven’t seen any proper yandere stuff on Zao, so I think this is a first. And boy, he’s a terrifying one for sure. I feel like he embodies the worst of the yandere trope because he’s into psychological manipulation. Worst isn’t the right word, actually. I believe ‘accurate’ is a better way of describing it. This is what a real yandere looks like. 

[1zashreena1]

No Shame

Pairing: M/F, nebulously OC/Priest!Diego Jimenez [Starz Power] AU IMAGINE

Rating: LITERAL FILTH

Warnings: Power imbalance, astronomical blasphemy, Diego's pornographic mouth, old timey woman related bullshit, set some time before 1900 in what will be present day Mexico

A/N:  I am an atheist so please keep that in mind as I unintentionally mangle Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular. This was prompted by an ask, you know who you are >.>.

Tag a friend! @girlpornparadise @nicke0115 @fleurfatale89 @mandoplease @heresathreebee @chensingmachinee​

Photo credit to @girlpornparadise​

I just woke up.

I have lost my last shred of sanity.

I must reevaluate all of my life choices.

I need guidance, discipline, a strong hand.

I am lost.

Perhaps mother was right. I will at least give her suggestion a chance. Father never forced us to obey her last wishes, but even if I never become a believer there must be some lesson I can learn from the experience. The only christian church in this new locale is catholic, that alone will be a new experience. I will walk there either early this morning or in the evening after the heat has dissipated. Mexico is a strange and wondrous place, but this heat is not conducive to proper corsets. Or really any underthings, for that matter.

-----------------

The walk to the church is long. You go slowly in the evening heat, unwilling to become any more disgusting with perspiration than you already are. You had forgone petticoats, crinoline, or even bloomers, but found the bounce of your chest too much and so had opted for the cropped corset. You are beginning to understand the local women's choice of garments.

The church is stone, backed up to the cliffside, dark and cool on the inside. It is also echoingly empty. You wander about, touching pews, taking in murals, and dipping the tip of a finger into what you assume must be holy water. 

"Are you lost, little girl?"

With a small shriek, you whip around to locate the owner of that rasping voice. It is a priest, It is a damn shame, is what it is. He is tall, broad, strikingly broad, eyes and hair dark, and he has just enough of an accent that you know English is not his native tongue. You gawk at the nearly perfect features; a long, straight nose, high cheekbones, thick brows, a cutting jawline, and sinful lips.

"I- I am sorry. There was no one about so I was simply looking. I did not mean to intrude." You stutter out. It should be a crime of nature to take a man like that to the celibacy of the church.

"Of course you are not intruding. But, if I may, you do seem… lost. And alone." His words are solicitous but his eyes glitter in the low light. Absolutely massive hands emerge from the sleeves of the cassock and you have to remind yourself that it is rude to stare. He stalks over to you, there is no other word for such a predatory gait, and you stumble back a step. He is not as tall as his hulking presence seemed, but he still towers over your frame.

"I am. Lost, that is. I did come here alone, but I live with my father. We only recently moved here." Why are you telling him so much? Is it the collar? Or his hungry expression? 

No one has ever looked at you thus, as though you were some delicacy to be savored. It confuses you greatly and you feel quite flustered. It evokes feelings that were stirred the few times you snuck out at night, slinking through the streets of Philadelphia to peer into a foreign world of nightlife and debauchery. You had seen the opium dens, the women walking the streets, people enjoying themselves and each other in ways you so desperately wanted for yourself. Mother always did curse me as a hedonist. 

"Would you like to confess? Have you been sinful?" He holds out one wide hand in gesture to the confessional.

"Oh, I am quite certain that would not help." You laugh bitterly. "I am not Catholic, in fact, I am not even a Christian. I imagine I must be brimming to overflow with your 'sins'." The sarcasm of your tone is unmistakable. 

He looks you up and down leisurely, you feel very hot very suddenly. "Perhaps not yet." You blink, but he continues, "Come. Sit with me and tell me why you are here then, little girl." Sitting in a pew, he motions to the small gap between himself and the arm. It does not seem like nearly enough space for your wide hips. That large hand pats his own leg gently and you find yourself stepping forward as though hypnotized. 

You were right, it is not enough space, you are practically in his lap. He is hot and solid against you, his body has no give and you can't help but compare it to the only other time you felt anything remotely so hard. The wedding night had not been nearly so attractive. Your chest is heaving above the corset as you fail to subdue yourself.

A long arm rests along the back of the pew, you can feel solid muscle under your shoulders. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you fold them in your lap but this only results in a more spectacular display of cleavage. You steel yourself and turn to look at him…

The priest is staring at your breasts. 

I thought they could not… am I wrong?

His eyes snap up to your own and you feel faint. They are the deepest, darkest brown you have ever seen. He is stunning and you are enthralled.

"I have never been to a church service, my father despises the institution, but my mother passed away a few years back, and one of her last wishes was for me to explore the church." You confess in a rush only to wince at the choice of wording. Your eyes drop to his chest with your mortification, it is not a wise decision on your part.

The sheer breadth of him is boggling. You can see muscle flexing under the black garment and all you can think about is how it must feel. Your palms itch to touch and you fidget minutely until something makes contact with your skin. Glancing down, you see that he has deposited his rosary in your shaking hands. Slowly, but not hesitantly, he closes your fingers around the smooth wood by engulfing both of your smaller hands in one of his larger extremities. 

His skin is like fire and you feel the same crackling energy that fills the air prior to a strike of lightning. Trapped by his presence, you gulp.

"Tell me." He breathes into your hair, "You know nothing of the faith? None of the rituals or traditions? No rules or obligations? Do you even know to which sins you might confess?" It seems that it should be saddening to him, but his purring tone is almost gleeful.

"C-correct. I do not." You stutter. Your eyes remain focused on his single hand overlapping both of yours in your lap. He is so close to your center that it makes you ache. Are there levels of sin? Am I committing a more serious offense right now? A higher sin, if you will? Perhaps you really are hysterical. 

"Oh, little girl, what I could teach you of sin would certainly fill you to overflowing."

You shudder violently and break out into goosebumps. The feel of your hardened nipples trapped inside the corset is maddening. Your former husband had never incited such a severe reaction, then again, he did not look like this man. 

"Married!" You blurt out in a panic. He freezes but does not back away. "Was. I was married. He, he returned me to my parents when I failed to produce an heir. Like a faulty broodmare. Is, is that a sin?" The babbling string of bitter words reveals far more fear and humiliation than you had planned. "It was an annulment. He was Protestant. I was deemed frigid." 

You gawk in shock as that gargantuan hand lifts to trace a single finger along the neckline of the corset peeking out of your blouse. Your pebbled nipples are visible through both soft layers of fabric and he brushes over them fleetingly. Your entire body jerks and you gasp. 

"To be barren is not a sin, however the Church does not recognize an annulment after the marriage has been consummated. In the view of Catholicism you are still married. Have you known any other men than your husband? Biblically, of course." He rumbles into your ear as his hand flattens over your collarbone. The span of it encompasses you from shoulder to shoulder. You feel dwarfed and vaguely threatened. 

"No… But I have wanted. To, to know. Another." Your breathing fails as the hand slides down your front to press your own fists into your crotch firmly.

"Now that is a sin. You are lustful, are you not?" His hopeful tone rips a whine from you. You somewhat enjoyed relations with your husband, it was vaguely pleasant sometimes despite your general overall distaste for the man, but this feels much more similar to when you touch yourself.

"I," you squirm, consumed with a heretofore unknown feeling of guilt, but he presses down harder on your lap and your legs spasm as they try to spread of their own volition. 

"Go on," He orders quietly. "Your lust led you astray, did it not?" The arm around your shoulders has constricted, his other hand snakes inward to stroke over your throat and it's hammering pulse point. You whimper as your belly liquefies and you want … something.

"I, I t-touched." Oh, this is beyond mortifying. Women are not supposed to want, much less touch, and certainly not enjoy as you have. You know what is respectfully acceptable in polite society and you know that the things you have done to yourself fall very neatly and precisely outside of those parameters. 

"You touched another man?" You shake your head tightly. 

"You touched a woman?" Again, a negative response, and again, a strangely gleeful question.

"You touched yourself." He purrs triumphantly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. The feel of his beard lowers your inhibitions. You had always wondered how a beard would feel on your chin, your neck, between your thighs…

"I cannot judge the severity of the infraction without witnessing the full extent of your wrongdoing." What does that mean? "You must show me, little girl." 

Your jaw drops and you turn to him in shock. He is so close that your noses touch and all you can think about are his lips framed so perfectly in that closely cropped graying beard. The hand on your neck creeps downward to flatten your left breast.

"Like this?" He questions softly, brown eyes blazing. Despite his best attempt, he cannot completely engulf your breast in his hand. Rather, he squeezes gently and massages. You are struck speechless, the touches are instigating a new and terrifying response lower in your body. Your breasts have been handled before, but you have never felt anything like this. 

"Not, um, not especially. I do not, I did not--" you choke off as he locates your nipple and pinches softly. Your hips buck of their own will and deep inside you can feel tension winding tighter. This has never happened before and you aren't entirely sure that you like it. "I never really touched, there. It, it's l-lower." You did not mean to say that.

He releases your hands only to slip between them and your body. Belatedly, you remember that you wore nothing under your skirt. You try to squeeze your legs together, it does not stop his progression. 

"Tell me to stop. Tell me you do not want to do this, and I will add lying to your list of transgressions." His voice is dark, dangerous. You relax into his hold and his fingers press the fabric deep between your thighs. The wetness soaks through, you have never been in such a state. "It seems that in spite of your reluctance, you are quite ready to show me."

"Here?!?" You yelp. The cry echoes along the high ceilings and he chuckles at your outrage. 

"Perhaps you would prefer the confessional?" He grins at you with a dazzling array of teeth. It is more threat than anything else.

"I thought, ohh, I thought priests could not. Not. You know." Flapping your hand about seems to convey your message sufficiently. 

"My vows are no concern of yours, little girl." He growls into your ear and you squeak helplessly under the assault.

You push to your feet with a hand on his thigh, but it gives you pause. He is solid under your touch, nothing but the bulk of muscle. What does a priest do to attain this level of, of, well, muscle? You glance down and your legs wobble. His interest is prominent. You have never seen anything that large.

"Do not worry about that. Show me how you worry about yourself. It is your soul at risk here, after all."  He ushers you to the little booth with his looming presence and a large hand on your lower back. You suppose he must either know what to do about himself or you are wrong about all that the priestly vows entail. How would I know?

The confessional is just big enough to fit you both. You spin around only to find yourself face to chest with him. He smells purely and indefinably male. Your hands come up to steady yourself on his chest and you give in to the temptation to feel. His rippling muscles make your legs give out and you collapse gracelessly onto the bench.

He kneels to the floor in one fluid motion. Those very large hands gather up your skirt but he catches your eye.

"Now you will show me how bad you have been and I will mete out your punishment."

--------------------

Am I truly going to debase myself in this manner? With a priest? In a confessional? I am very certain that this is not what Mother meant. You always were too contrary.

Your hands shake as you reach out to slap the skirt down tight to your knees. 

"Wait!" You plead urgently. No man has ever made you pant like this. His huge hands grip your knees through the skirt, he looks up to drown you in those bottomless eyes. "I… how do I, what should I call you? I do not even know your name."

"My name is Diego, but priests are referred to as 'Father', little girl." He smiles widely, it transforms his face into something softer, younger and freer. He does not ask for your name and you do not offer it.

"Now," he murmurs, "Show me how you sin."

A full body shudder shakes your form and you take a deep breath. Your hands release the skirt and you close your eyes in embarrassment. Painfully slowly, he rucks the skirt up to your lap, dragging his hot hands up your thighs as he progresses. 

"My, my. You are very bad, are you not? Nothing under your skirt?" He tsks, but his voice is warm with pleasure. His hot breath washes over your center obscenely, "And so very pretty."

Slapping a hand over your mouth does not muffle your whimper. He keeps one hand on your skirt, but reaches up to wrap the other around your forearm. Pulling your hand to yourself, he stares at you meaningfully. 

With great trepidation, you bring your fingers to your pulsing point of pleasure. The priest moans quietly, his dark eyes fixed on your most forbidden place. You jolt with the initial contact, then press down firmly. It feels just as good as always, but the addition of a ravenous man watching makes you clench tight far sooner than normal.

"Does it feel good?" He rasps quietly. You nod deliriously. 

"Do you enjoy being observed?" His lips curl up at the corners with deviousness.

"I- apparently? Never. I have never, ohh." Your voice is unrecognizable. 

"Your husband never looked upon you thus?" He arches a brow. You shake your head in horror. 

"N-no! He never touched or, or, oh, put his mouth on me." Your admission is a fearful whisper. "I had heard talk, filthy gossip, of men doing such things but..." You trail off with wide eyes as he licks those sinful lips very deliberately. 

"Yes, terrible rumors. That would be rather shameful." Those long fingers creep ever higher and your eyes must be ridiculously large. The pressure in your belly is crushing, you can feel everything tightening by the moment. 

"But." You gulp. His eyes gleam with anticipation. "I have. Thought. About it. Being touched so… pervertedly. Is, is that a sin?" Your breathy voice is tremulous with wary hope.

"No, little girl." The dark rumble so close to your most private parts vibrates decadently, the sensation is so strong that your eyes roll back momentarily. "No worse than the sins you are already committing."

"Oh. W-well, in that case, perhaps I should have asked for it specifically." You tease. The look in his eyes is not teasing. You lick your lips and nearly beg, "Will you t-touch me? Please, Father."

His pupils grow wide as you look on in wonder. His hands spasm, his expression crumples as if in pain, and he groans lowly, "I will touch you, bonita. I will touch you until you are sorry for your sins and beg me to stop."

Shaking like a leaf, you hold your breath in anticipation as his hands climb ever higher until they hover above your folds. "Please." You breathe.

One finger strokes along the edge of your lower lips, gliding in more wetness than you knew you could produce. It dips between to part you open, a sob escapes your gritted teeth, then he touches your entrance gently. You watch, bespelled, as he tests for give. I want it, you realize. Then, he finds the correct angle, and sinks the entirety of his long digit inside you.

"Ohhhh!" You wail as your body collapses in on itself, ecstatic paroxysms shaking you apart in waves. Your fingers press down harshly to draw it out.

"Yes, little girl. Let me see. Very good." He coos quietly. Your mind stalls in confusion, but then he moves. 

"Oh, oh, what. I do not understand. Please, I. I. What. What are you doing?" You whisper brokenly. 

"In order to fully understand the sin, you must fully explore it. Do you want me to teach you?" The question is dripping with wickedness. His expression is frightful, covetous and foreboding.

You nod, then shake your head as the finger retreats, only to nod again as two fingers return.

"It has been some time, has it not? Since a man filled you?" Your discomfiture grows, but it feels too good to stop him. 

"Y-yes. He was, your fingers are the s-same size." The confession is wrung out of you. Your mind flashes back to the sight of his bulging interest and you cannot help but wonder just how big he is. 

"That would explain why you are so tight. Do not fret, I can offer you a solution to that as well." Teeth gleam in the low light and you shiver. He shuffles closer on his knees and your brow furrows in concern. He smiles warmly, "Go on, continue."

"I do not. Know. Are there other, more things?" You feel foolish, but he clearly knows more than you do about this. 

"So much more, little girl. Does a sinful little creature such as yourself like this? Are you enjoying the fingers of a holy man in your most filthy of places?" Said fingers brush deep, he touches places that have never been reached before. His wide shoulders keep your legs spread far to give him room. 

"Y-yes? I think? It. It feels, strange. I feel full, but yet I want more. I--" you choke as he thrusts his fingers into you, pulls out, and then sinks deep again. Oh. Ohhhh. This feels better than anything you have experienced yet and tears roll down your cheeks. You beg shamelessly, "Please, oh please. Do not. Do not stop."

The deep bark of laughter is humiliating but it feels too wonderful for you to care. You are tightening again, bearing down around him steadily. He commands you confidently, "Again, little girl. Show me again."

Your inner muscles flutter wildly and then compress decisively. It is different than your self-induced sensations, but just as good. Your head falls back against the wall as your hips roll offensively. You are making noises that sound demonic in their own right, high pitched screeches and sobbing wails.

"You are a quick study. Have a third." Diego growls and you feel stronger pressure as he pushes three fingers into you. It stretches you uncomfortably for a moment and your hands fly down to his wrist.

"Wait." You gasp and squirm. He adjusts his hand to a new angle and the pain subsides to only aching fullness. "What. What are you doing?"

Your jaw hangs open limply as you watch him leaning ever closer to your privates. You remember your own admission clearly He never touched me or put his mouth on me.

The priest continues downward until you can only see the top of his head, covered in thick, lustrous hair. His breath ghosts over the little ball of nerves before you feel something completely foreign. Hot, soft, wet pressure where your fingers had been earlier. His tongue. You realize with a shock. He is licking me!

The first pass is too new, the second is long and slow so you have time to process this terrifyingly delicious sensation. Your back bows, your head cracks backwards against the wall, and you scream. You want more, you want to run, you sink down onto him and jerk away spastically. He is relentless, you are not entirely sure what he is doing besides using his tongue on you, and you do not possess the mental wherewithal to find out. Your hands flit about violently until one lands in his hair.

He groans against the center of your pleasure.

You shriek and hang on tightly as your body seizes up with another climax. Your vision wobbles and you gasp for air. 

As things come back into focus he stands over you, untying the sash to part his robes. Your eyes immediately drop to the bulge of his manhood being freed by hands slick with your juices. You recoil in fear at the sight.

He is positively massive. Longer than you thought possible but even thicker around. His own hand barely circles the girth. The tip is dripping steadily and you can smell the sharp tang of his desire.

He reaches forward in a flash of movement and yanks open your blouse and corset deftly. Your chest bounces free and you shrink into the wall at your back 

"Now," he eyes you intently, "You are prepared to receive your punishment."

"Will you hurt me?" Your tiny voice gives him pause as he registers your fear. His eyes soften and he reaches out to brush your wild hair back gently. He cups your jaw and leans close to your trembling body.

"What is a punishment that does not hurt just a little?"

Before you can answer his lips are on your own. He fits his mouth to yours, the beard burns wonderfully, and when you gasp he slips his tongue inside to attack your own. He takes and takes, leaving no inch untouched, just as you assume he will do below. His broad body arches over you and he steps between your legs. One hand cups a breast and he uses it to pin your shoulders, the other drops lower to position his length at your entrance. You shake violently, the memory of your wedding night clouds you with apprehension.

The pressure is immense, you sob into his mouth as he pushes into you. It pinches sharply at first when the head breaches, but then eases and the majority of him sinks deeply into you. He pulls back from your mouth to look at your tear stained face. 

"Breathe. Relax. You can take this, can you not? You are a good little girl, yes?" The soft rumble brings you back to the present. You are stretched to the limit, but he is not hurting you. Diego stays still long enough for you to soften around him, your tense muscles ease and you understand that it feels good. Very, very, very good. "There. How perfectly you take this. You were made for this, to writhe on my cock. So sinfully tight."

You open your eyes to find him huddled close, both big hands petting over your hair, down your cheeks to cup your breasts. His face is tense, he is holding himself back for you to adjust. It is more thoughtful than your previous proceedings. You reach up to touch his beard in wonder, it is wet with your arousal. Hands wandering, you stroke down his torso until reaching where you are joined together. He hisses above you as you feel the base of him, still unable to fit all of it inside you. Hands climbing, you slide up under his shirt to encounter a wall of muscle under soft skin. The feel of him makes you whine with want.

"Oh, you are indeed ready to atone." He sighs happily. Leaning down, he buries his face in your bosom and you jump with the textures of smooth skin, soft hair, and ticklingly abrasive beard. Wet heat envelopes a nipple and your chin crashes into your collarbone as you try to see what he is doing. He laves your nipple with the flat of his tongue, long and decadent passes that have you gasping and quivering. 

"A loving doe, a graceful deer—

 may her breasts satisfy you always,

 may you ever be intoxicated with her love."

He murmurs what you assume must be a proverb directly into your chest as he uses you wickedly.

Your hands settle on his broad shoulders, he is warm and solid all around you, you are soft and pliant beneath him. Narrow hips hitch and you cry out at the aborted thrust. He is so deep inside you that he must be able to touch your heart. Your heat clenches around his length and you both moan.

But then, Oh good lord, he moves. The long drag of his retreat pulls unknown sensitivity from you and the newfound discovery spills from your lips.

"Oh. Ohhhhh. This is. This is what. I, I never knew-" You babble mindlessly until he snaps back into you. Here you shriek. Words fail you entirely as he takes you more thoroughly and enthusiastically than you have ever been had before.

"Yes, little girl. Take the punishment you deserve, that you require. Take it all." He growls harshly, his hips smack your buttocks and the sound of it is obscenely blasphemous in this building. Your fingers dig into him as the tension builds. You are familiar with this, it feels much the same as it does when you bring yourself to fits, but it continues to mount. Previous experiences had ended at this point so you assumed achieving the same outcome was simply not possible by this method of stimulation. It feels like you might be wrong.

"I can tell that this pleases you. Wicked little thing, greedy on my cock. You want more, yes?" His dark words should make you feel shame, but he sounds inordinately pleased with your proclivities. He bites your neck and you bawl as your body contracts on him blissfully. His elated groan sears you with pride, "Yessss, good girl."

He rips himself away, drawing a soft protest from you at the loss of his body. His eyes are wild, chest heaving as he announces, "Now you may repent, little girl. On your knees."

You thrill at his command. This you have seen just once in your naughty wanderings, a woman on her knees and a man using her mouth as he would her nethers. 

You drop to the floor, hands landing on his bare thighs, and gawk at his impressive manhood on full display. He is perfectly formed, long and curved just slightly at the end, thicker around than you could have ever imagined. His cock, you rather enjoy the illicit word, shines with your wetness. 

"Open wide and do not bite. You would not want to err further than you already have, yes?" He instructs softly, but his hand on your head is like steel as he urges you forward. You nod nervously and lick your lips, then glance up at him.

His eyes are black, huge and starving, his mouth hangs open as he breathes harshly, and he actually whines at the sight of your tongue. A curl of power glows inside you. Leaning forward, you touch the leaking tip in a fleeting kiss while watching him closely. His expression melts in agony, "Yesss, take it. Ohh, perfect little girl."

The praise emboldens you enough to open wide and lick him as he did you. It is wet, salty and slipperier than his tongue, firm and hot. You taste again and his shaking hands pull you forward. Your jaw relaxes instinctively and he bumps the back of your throat. You cough, but his ragged moan is too sumptuous, you need more. Keeping him held firmly, you press your tongue to the underside to trap him against the roof of your mouth. With chagrin, you feel yourself drooling, but when you go to slurp it back into your mouth it creates suction around his length. He howls above you.

"Ahhh, yes. Yesyesyes. Sí, perfecto. Taste me. Take my cock deep." You pull again and both of his massive hands squeeze your shoulders tightly. What if it is like the other actions? The thrusting? You bob your head experimentally, taking ever more of his length with each round. 

"Yes, yes, little girl. That is it. Take. T-take a deep breath!" His instructions are simple enough but you do not understand why until his hands pull your nose deep into the thick thatch of hair at his base. Heat pours into your throat and you understand rather well exceedingly quickly. There is nowhere for his release to go but down, you swallow frantically to avoid choking. It is not enough, the salty liquid cascades down your chin as he pulls back and you struggle to breathe. He collapses back to the door of the confessional, panting harshly.

You cough for a minute, clearing your throat. Your knees ache, the aftertaste is strong, but the absolutely devout way he peers down at you would be worth every sin.

"Am I forgiven, Father?" You murmur demurely.

He hauls you to your feet so quickly that it makes your head spin. His lips are on yours, his tongue delving deep inside as he licks the taste of himself from you. Breaking the kiss, he sets you back on your feet and tweaks your nipples one last time.

"Go home. Go home and get on your knees and remember what you have done, little girl." With that, he opens the door of the confessional and dumps you out into the church proper. The large space is blessedly empty. You relace your corset hurriedly and dart for the door. Stepping outside into the humid night, you turn around for one last look. He is standing there, just outside the booth, clothing mostly righted, staring after you with voracious eyes. As the door closes he dares to wink with no shame.

‐----------------

You run home in the dark, terrified to be caught in your stained skirt and ripped blouse. The winding road that climbs the cliffside to your casita is traversed before you know it and you hesitate outside your own door. The small lamp of the sitting area is visible in the open window, your father is still awake. Creeping in, you hug the edge of the hall and dive into the kitchen. 

"Ah, you're back! How was the church, honey?" Your father calls. 

"Oh. Stuffy. Pretentious. The usual." You holler casually, already mounting the stairs to the loft where you sleep.

"Well, your mother would be happy you tried. Good night!" He responds with amusement. 

"Yes, of course. Good night." Your response is vague and distracted as you round the corner at the top of the stairs and close the door. Finally alone, you collapse to your knees on your pallet and laughingly cry yourself to sleep.

------------------

When you wake the next morning it is already light out. You can hear the crashing waves far below your open window and you sit up slowly. Your languorous stretch is cut short by the ache between your legs. My jaw hurts, too.

Voices outside catch your attention. Slinking to the window, you peer over the sill to receive a surprise. Your father is standing outside under a palm tree speaking to another man. You would know those broad shoulders anywhere.

The priest! Your panic is drowned by confusion, He is wearing regular attire, no cassock. Why is he here? Why is he dressed so? What is he saying to your father? You are rooted to the spot as he mounts his horse, a very fine horse, you note, and then glances up. He spots you failing to hide and has the absolute gall to wink before riding away. No shame.

Tearing down the stairs, you meet your father in the kitchen. Barking cheerfully, you greet him with a chirpy, “Good morning!”

"Good morning, honey. You did not tell me that you met the Don of this town at the church last night. He has been overseeing the repairs to the roof. It seems he donated all the supplies and materials. I have heard the locals say that he expects hard work but is fair." Your father is preoccupied with the process of making coffee, luckily, so he does not see your gawping expression. 

"He, he is what?" You ask. What happened last night?

"The Don. He said the new priest should arrive sometime next week. But, there is more." You sink into a chair, hands shaking. Your father continues obliviously, "He invited us to dinner at his hacienda tonight. Apparently, you made quite an impression." 

Hands land heavily on your shoulders as your father stands behind you. "I am sorry, honey. I had to disclose your past. He seemed undeterred, Don Diego said you seemed a bit of a, a, handful, but he likes that. Maybe this is your second chance. I worry what will happen to you after I've gone. An unmarried woman alone in this world is often preyed upon."

He has no idea how correct he is. The absolute nerve, how dare he, this is despicable, the, the, cad!

Your father leans down to kiss your head, "He asked my permission to court you. I told him he needed to ask you. I will not decide your life for you. Follow your heart this time, honey."

You liked it. You liked him. You want him again. You will wear the scantiest dress you own to dinner. Repay him in kind with damning torture. 

"Oh yes, I remember the exact wording he used to describe you: a hellcat." Your father chuckles fondly.

No shame.

[100hearteyes]

Lexa travels back in time to prevent her girlfriend’s death, for which she was responsible, from happening.

TW: past character death, grief.

(thank you @butmakeitgayblog for the moodboard and beta’ing.)

–

Three moments.

Three key moments, however inconsequential they may seem, triggered a chain of events which culminated in Clarke and Lexa meeting for the first time.

For Lexa, it was instant attraction. For Clarke, although they would only find out many years later, it was the promise of doom.

“You can’t just erase me from your existence, you know? I’ll still be there.”

I might still die, is what Clarke doesn’t say. Lexa hears it anyway.

Nowadays, Clarke is but a ghost. Literally. Lexa has no idea how or even why it happened, but it had been an exact year since her girlfriend died when her non-corporeal form first showed up.

It was… gut-wrenching. Lexa has no words for how painful it was to see the love of her life in otherworldly tones of grey and not be able to touch her. It’s become easier with time, but she suspects this hollow ache that pulsates every time Clarke appears to her will ever go away.

“You’re the one who told me there was a way. You said it would work.”

This Clarke is Clarke, or rather the continuation of her; but she’s also not exactly the woman Lexa knew, regardless of the shape she has taken. This Clarke is rude and unsympathetic and has little to no regard for boundaries.

She’s an unpleasant version of the love of Lexa’s life.

Still, it’s hard to dissociate them. Lexa must do it, though, for the sake of her own sanity.

“I said you could avoid being the reason why I die,” Clarke states. “I meant it. You can.”

This journey has taken Lexa to remote places and from each she took tokens of different cultures and outlooks on life. She’s learned about grief and guilt. She’s learned to accept what she cannot control and respect what she doesn’t know. Above all, she’s come to a realization: if this doesn’t work, she can take the final steps to let go. This isn’t the final step towards the precipice.

Two years ago, Lexa would’ve lost herself looking for Clarke. Now, she’s finding herself again, parsing through the grief and plucking the parts of her she’d lost after everything that happened. And the puzzle is coming together, piece by piece and day by day, creating a new version of her which may not be whole anymore and may not be exactly who she was before — but it’s her, and it’s imperfect and it’s beautiful.

Lexa has learned to love herself again.

So this isn’t a desperate Hail Mary, her one last resort, the final step into madness. If anything, wherever it may lead her, this is closure.

The first door she opened was in Cape Town, South Africa, where Clarke was born before her family moved back to the States.

It was a cold December morning. On her side of the door, Lexa was thirty and falling apart. On the other side, Clarke was five and building a tower with Lego blocks.

Lexa felt herself staring long into an abyss.

All she had to do was relocate a single object and leave through the same door she’d come from. Days later, when she returned to her home country, she found out Jake was still alive. His daughter was not, though.

The second door she opened almost three months later. February 25th, Lexa’s home city. All she did was drop Anya’s phone into a lake.

When she came back, all her problems were gone.

It sent her reeling.

Lexa began to wonder; was she doing this for Clarke, or for herself?

She was meant to open the third and final door just a week later, but spent the 3rd of March holed up in her apartment, curled into a ball on the couch. She had jumped into this without a second thought, out of a selfish desire to relieve herself of the guilt of Clarke’s death.

Someone else had paid the consequences. Someone else was making her mistakes now and paying for them. Someone else was going to have a loved one ripped from their life.

What right did Lexa have to unload her burden onto someone else’s shoulders?

It took her months to get back on her feet. If the past year and a half had been an amalgam of denial, anger, and, with her selfish undertaking, bargaining, her second voyage in time had triggered the stage of depression, reflection, and loneliness.

It was then that she finally came to terms with ghost Clarke’s presence in her life. The afterlife form of her girlfriend gave her the tough love she needed to push herself off the ground. Clarke punched Lexa into motion and through it, Lexa found acceptance.

Lexa loves herself, now. She loves herself like she never did before, even when Clarke’s love made her feel invincible. Now, she sees the cracks and hard edges, the places where the cloth of her doesn’t reach far enough to breach the gaps, and she’s made peace with it.

Her shortcomings are no longer defined by her limits, but rather what she lets herself be limited by.

Lexa flexes her fingers. “What happens if I open this door?”

“I turn right instead of left. We never cross paths on the Brooklyn Bridge.”

This door has been locked for two years. Lexa never opened it, afraid of the crushing feelings that may lurk behind it. Behind it is Clarke’s studio, where she spent hours painting, the outside world all but forgotten. Lexa would sit in the corner, laptop perched on crossed legs, pretending to work but really watching Clarke print her talent on canvas.

Lexa feels ready to open it, now, even if what she finds behind it is a row of paintings leaning on purple walls, rather than gray skies and the wooden planks of the Brooklyn Bridge.

She has two conditions, though. Her fingers tighten on the handle.

“Do you live?”

“Lexa, you know I can’t–” Clarke stops short at Lexa’s stern glare and sighs. “Yes.”

But that’s not enough. Lexa won’t be selfish again — she doesn’t just want Clarke to survive; she wants her to live.

“Will you be happy?”

Clarke averts her eyes, then swallows. However, when her eyes meet Lexa’s after she’s taken a fortifying breath, there is nothing but honesty in them. “Yes.”

“Were you?”

Lexa’s heart constricts as Clarke’s eyes well with tears. What does it take to make a ghost cry?

Clarke nods, tries to get hold of her emotions. Her lips tremble and Lexa wants desperately to take her in her arms. If only she could.

“More than I can ever put into words.”

–

March 3rd, the day everything changed.

Twice.

The day Lexa found Clarke and the day she lost her.

Lexa opens the door and finds herself once again on that day, seven years ago, when she was trying to balance three cardboard boxes while speed walking down the Brooklyn Bridge, trying not to crash into any people — or worse, topple over the railings and fall to a wet death.

It was fruitless, of course. Just about to cry mission accomplished, she collided with something solid and everything in her hands went flying.

Not this time.

This time, Lexa changes the course of events and Clarke never crosses that bridge.

She watches from afar as her past self makes it to the other end of the bridge unscathed and a whole new life rolls out in front of her.

“You did well.”

Clarke appears at her side, colorless though still beautiful. There is a nostalgia to her expression, a knife that slashes at the relief that blankets it.

As she studies Clarke’s face and her mind fills the grays with color, drawing memories along the light edges dark lines, Lexa finds herself unwilling to let go. She moves to take Clarke’s hand, but catches herself at the last moment, remembering the colors she’s seeing are a figment of her memories and there is nothing she can touch.

Clarke notices, though, and regards her with such sympathy and compassion Lexa wants to run away with her and never open the door again.

“Come with me.”

They stroll down the bridge, side by side, their tranquility offsetting the electric current stringing everyone around them; the runners and the hurried, the young and the old, together. They find a bench to sit on and stay there for a while, watching the river run its course and the sun arch over the city and the people fall into slumber as the hours go by.

Can she stay here? Can she live a life in a world not her own, in a time asynchronous to hers, under the guise of having Clarke at her side?

She knows the answer to those questions. She’s long since learned that what she wants isn’t always what she needs — and vice versa.

“I’m proud of you.” Lexa meets Clarke’s gaze. Human or ghost, and despite the absence of color, Clarke’s eyes are beautiful. Lexa has always found solace in them, a rock to hold on to in times of need. She hopes she’s been able to provide even a fragment of that same comfort. “How are you feeling?”

It takes Lexa a few moments to sift through the throng of thoughts and feelings which this day has brought forth. Even now, she has doubts. But greater than anything, and the driving force behind her actions, is the desire to make things right.

She finds a feeling amongst the rubble and makes it hers. Peace. She feels…

She feels at peace.

However, after spending two years with the grumpy ghost of the woman of her life, Lexa is also feeling nostalgia as well as the pain over her upcoming loss.

Ghost Clarke was a way to remain connected to the past. Now, Lexa has to let go of that too.

“I hope I was able to make a difference,” she finally replies, eyes still locked with Clarke’s. “It’s not even about my guilt anymore. It doesn’t matter if we meet, either. I have made my peace with what happened. I just… I wanted to give you a chance.”

A chance to live; not just survive.

“You did it, Lexa.”

Lexa has made her peace with her role in Clarke’s death as well as the tragedy itself. The wound will always marr her skin, but it will no longer hurt when she touches it.

All she cares about now is for Clarke to be alive and most of all happy, even if it’s not with Lexa.

Several hours later, Lexa’s hand is once again resting on the doorknob, this time waiting to go back to her world — or whatever of it is left.

Clarke is staring at her, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. At Lexa’s questioning look, once-pink lips pull up into a rueful smile.

“Everything will be different.”

Clarke will be alive, her life will follow threads unknown to her till now. Lexa knows things will change. She also knows she will never see Clarke again in whatever shape or form.

Each time she remembers that, the ground beneath her quakes. She holds tighter onto the doorknob, determined to stay on her feet.

When she meets Clarke’s eyes again, they’re shining with unshed tears. Lexa nods, solemn.

Words would taint the moment.

“It was never about me, you know? I just wanted,” Clarke moves as to reach out, but catches herself. She clears her throat. “It was never about what would happen to me. I just- I wanted to lift the weight of guilt off your shoulders, give you closure. I-,” she chuckles humorlessly, eyes flitting to the ground for a moment before meeting Lexa’s again. “I need you to know, I’m still me. There was never… I never would’ve been able to help you if I didn’t put some distance between us. That’s why I behaved differently. But I was always still me.”

And Lexa knows this, knows what she’s saying. She always has.

“Your happiness is all that matters to me, Lexa.” Lexa opens her mouth, but a shake of Clarke’s head stops her. “Please don’t. Otherwise I’ll say something to make you stay.”

Lexa aches to touch her, kiss her, though she knows she can do neither, and her hands shake with the urge to close the space between them.

Instead, she turns the handle and opens the door. Before she can go, though, she turns to face Clarke one more time, needing to commit every single detail to memory, as though every line of Clarke’s face, every nuance, every emotion, isn’t already burned into her mind’s eye forever.

So she knows the broken words before Clarke speaks them.

“I love you, Lex. And I’ll always be with you.”

It’s with those soft words cradling her heart that Lexa crosses the threshold.

–

One of the first things Clarke told her, when they started, was that Lexa would remember everything, both her own memories and her new version’s, but the original ones — the timeline where Clarke died — would fade with time.

Clarke also told her things would change.

So Lexa was expecting to step into a different world and to be surprised at how much had changed around her.

She just wasn’t expecting her life to be quite so different.

Clarke’s friends are no longer her friends. She expected that, but the reality of it is overwhelming at first. She realizes, now, she often took them and the support they gave her for granted. Suddenly, having none of them to lean on, she feels crippled.

On the other hand, she has a different, better job. And as it turns out, her new self has left behind the concrete stuffiness of New York and embraced the free-spirited intellectualism of San Francisco, which isn’t just a different city — it’s on the other side of the country. Any latent hopes she might have had of somehow finding Clarke have vanished.

It takes her a while to adapt to all the changes, but a year later she’s back on her feet and the life she had before is now but a distant memory. She still dreams about Clarke, though the dreams are fewer and further between. Selfishly, she thanks the universe for the small reprieve.

Her old problems don’t haunt her anymore and, if not for the absence of Clarke, this would be a perfect life.

At least she’s doing her best to make it so.

She’s also learning to treat herself better than she did in her past life. Embracing the practice of being kinder to herself is refreshing. Freeing.

It’s the pursuit of one such self-indulgence that she finds a small coffee shop downtown, which she starts going to every day before work.

Today is no exception.

As she waits in line, Lexa distracts herself, noting down her to-do list for the day ahead. As she’s debating whether to go to the grocery store before or after her late afternoon run, she doesn’t notice her pen sliding down the page and falling to an early demise, until she feels a tap on her shoulder.

“Excuse me, you dropped this.”

Lexa turns around to thank her good Samaritan, a gratitude sat ready on the tip of her tongue, only for her breath to catch at the sight.

Because she’s as stunning as ever…

Clarke.

[kytcordell]

Why Do I Create?

Compulsion

I cannot stop creating.

In fact, I’ve tried--multiple times. There have been so many occasions on which the frustration and self-loathing associated with creative pursuits was psychologically crippling to the point where I did try and stop. But I never stopped inventing stories in my mind. I never stopped creating characters. I never stopped following artists I liked, basking in distant envy at the skills I believed I could never attain.

It has taken me a lifetime to really distill the true reason behind why I create. As much I would like to say that I’ve “always just loved drawing and expressing myself,” this simply wouldn’t be true nor an accurate representation of the relationship I have with art. At this point, I’m not sure if the word “passion” or “love” quite captures why I create. I would describe it more as a feverish need--a compulsion. I actually don’t even quite see myself as the “owner” of my works or ideas, but rather, as the vessel which serves them. Every ounce effort I put toward creative endeavors is a means of honing myself into a more suitable vehicle for delivering ideas into being.

For most of my life, I had an extremely pathological and maladaptive sense of self that resulted from nearly 26 years of physical and psychological abuse. It took me a long time to even recognize that what happened to me was in fact abuse. I used to shy away from the word because it seemed too self-pitying and dramatic. It still sometimes feels that way, despite the fact I objectively know that if anyone (let alone a parent) ever pulled a knife on me now, I would call the police without a second thought.

I won’t go too much into the details of what happened because it isn’t really worth delving into. But I was essentially raised as if I were an investment fund and not a person. My entire purpose was to be useful so my mother could stop having responsibilities of any kind. I was not raised with own personal well-being and future stability in mind. This meant that a non-lucrative career was unacceptable. My art was ever only appreciated in the context of bragging rights or winning awards. This of course, manifested in my relationship with creative pursuits.

Narcissism

My adolescent motivations for drawing were fueled mostly by pure, unadulterated narcissism.

I drew semi-seriously throughout high school. By that, I mean I quickly figured out what kinds of skills were considered impressive for that age group and did well at shows and competitions. I wanted to feel superior and adored at any cost, and while I embodied the external talking points of “being humble, always learning, etc.” deep down, I clung to the idea that I was better than everyone else. I couldn’t handle critique emotionally, despite acting receptive. I was completely consumed by the idea of being some kind of perfect, “talented” golden child.

I managed to get very good at copying photos and rendering, while neglecting all the skills that contribute to being able to design characters or draw from imagination. I didn’t really pursue art with any real level of personalized focus. I just liked feeling like I was better than people and knew more than the other kids. Honestly, every single aspect of my life revolved around this mentality.

I held onto the idea of “being good” as a trophy because that was the only mode of thought that my psyche could accept. It was easier to embrace narcissism and even just accept being a shallow social climber than to face the far more harrowing truth:

That I was afraid I’d never have the skills to manifest my ideas.

In fact, I talked myself into believing for ages that I didn’t care that much about my ideas. They would never amount to anything. And having self-indulgent, non-utilitarian attachments to my stories and OCs felt like a weakness. I needed to rationalize my own shortcomings with a guise of indifference.

Revererence

I stopped drawing for about seven years after high school. And even during high school, I didn’t do anything that remotely resembles the kind of ‘grind’ that I’ve put myself through the last 2.5 years. Frankly, I’m amazed I got as far as I did even with being a human copy machine that produced lifeless 1:1 images of candles. With each year I passed, I grew increasingly uncomfortable with the fact I always knew deep down--I just wasn’t that good. I mean, I was pretty good for a guy in high school. But my holistic sense of composition, invention, and execution was near non-existent. I went through a few attempts of returning to art, only to be so overwhelmed with my own incompetence that I would just go back to the “I don’t care that much about art” script I had gotten so good at conning myself into.

It was not until I had a complete mental breakdown due to my psychotic cunt of a mother threatening my safety and sanity that my long-con finally broke. I had a moment where I just accepted that I had no fundamentals, my skills were trash, and most of all--I was not okay with them being trash. From that point, I started desperately seeking out resources and practicing to improve. Receiving criticism (while I really appreciated it objectively) was psychologically devastating to me. Every single imperfection was a reminder of “lost time” and the years I had spent lying to myself.

It wasn’t until I discovered Loomis, Hampton, Draw-a-Box, Proko, and many other reputable art resources that I managed to start hitting the pavement and making the kind of gains I wanted. I drew sometimes for 12-16 hours a day even while I was homeless and living on a friend’s couch due to having to flee my home at the time.  Through all of this, I shed all my notions of “being talented” or needing to delude myself into feeling like I was good. No, I was dogshit and I needed to do something about. I think the biggest hurdle people face when trying to get good at anything is accepting that they are bad. You cannot improve until you fully and wholeheartedly accept that you have problems that need fixing.

I went from approaching things from a place of narcissism to a place of reverence. A lot of what instilled this change in me was observing people that I admire. Those that are highly competent (in any craft) tend to be realistic and humble about their shortcomings. The very process of attaining mastery forces you to realize that there is an infinite scale of improvement. This isn’t to say that people who are good can’t also get full of themselves. But at least among the individuals I gravitate towards, there is a general sense of reverence and genuine modesty. On the other hand, people who are mediocre frequently have very large egos. Unfortunately, there is a lot egotistical, irrational, whiny-bitch anti-progress behavior that is prevalent in art circles. I realized just how cancerous conceit and ego could be. It had destroyed my progress for years and I was watching complete hacks insist they were gods atop mount stupid. It was truly the Dunning-Krueger effect in action.

Many of the people I encountered in the art community early on were pretty mediocre and had a terrible sense of fundamentals. Again, this would be fine if they didn’t insist on acting like experts on the topic. (Plenty of people draw for fun and don’t care about being good and there is nothing wrong with purely pursuing something for leisure.) However, I unfortunately ran into quite a few extremely petty people had no idea of how to actually get good at anything, and were annoyed at the fact I had prioritized working on fundamentals. People that I engaged in good faith soon attempted to derail conversations and questions I had about technique and improvement. Crabs in a bucket bullshit, really.

Anyone knows me also knows that I have no tolerance for bullshit or “UwU bitches” making “it’s my style” excuses for being technically incompetent. (Which isn’t to say accuracy is always more important than style, but using “style” or “aesthetic” as an excuse for a lack of skill or competence is extremely common among mediocre artists). Likewise, I also encountered people who manifested narcissism in the opposite direction. The opposite of the “it’s muh style” camp were people who endlessly liked to talk about theoretical technical knowledge. Sometimes they were good at one skillset or another, but generally lack any kind of concept or actual artistic vision. It was like they had lost sight of expression goals in favor of shit talking and dropping advanced art vocabulary.

I realized that no amount of shit-talk, posturing, or external validation was going to make me good at art. I always knew that, but watching people descend into the abyss of self-sabotage just reminded me what was at stake. I would rather never “feel” like I was superior than run the risk of delusional overconfidence. Likewise, I broke out of the trap of thinking technical skill could somehow compensate for a lack of good ideas or artistic vision. Nothing matters more than the clarity of expression, and skill is but a conduit for said expression. I would rather feel eternally small and striving for a forlorn dream than run the risk of being 10 years down the road cranking out trashy, vapid content while thinking I’m some kind of omnipotent art god.

I draw because I cannot stop. It’s like being touched by fire that you cannot quell or erase. I work to improve because I want to depict my stories and characters with the finesse, nuance, and artistry that I admire in so many others. I truly feel there is no point in pursuing art seriously if you do not have a voice, a “vision” for why you create. Looking back, the motivation that kept me going through the hardest struggles was the desire to succeed in communicating my stories and concepts. I am but an acolyte eternally striving for even a brief glimpse of an ephemeral muse.

[elmidol]

Error: Program Not Found - Eight

Summary:  You are in charge of programming the droids that work most closely with both General Hux and Kylo Ren. Unbeknownst to you, each of these two men have it in their heads that your relationship extends beyond the workplace. This causes things to escalate quickly when your two apparently secret boyfriends compare notes on their respective partner who is far too similar for their liking.

Read on AO3

“If you convinced me and I convinced you, would there not still be two points of view?” - Richard Armour

Eight: Perspective

For the sake of your sanity, you sent TeeArr away on errands at the middle of your work shift. The droid had prodded you with more questions pertaining to your relationships, or lack thereof, with both Kylo Ren and General Hux. Granted the inquiries had focused on how dynamics would affect him, you were not in any mood to consider them. The programming that Captain Phasma required was simple enough, but it also demanded your undivided attention. One wrong input of data and the droids would not function as they were intended. There was no way that you were going to allow that to happen. Even without lives on the line, you were meticulous with your work and you prided yourself on that.

 TeeArr was not opposed to running errands and you knew that you could trust the droid to get the job done. He was to speak with Aelin regarding the TIE project for Millicent. You were requesting that the man swing by during one of his breaks so that the two of you could ensure the newly provided venue for testing was appropriate. This was something that you preferred to do face to face as opposed to over messages, largely due to wanting to make sure that both of you were on the same page. Misunderstandings over text were far too easy.

 It was just as well that you had sent TeeArr away, because less than two hours after his departure there were the sounds of some telltale boot stomps coming from the other side of the door. You huffed out a sigh while quickly typing out the last few characters of the line of coding that you had been working on. You were just tapping the save command when the door slid open. You slid the datapad that you had been typing on off to the side, crossed your arms in front of yourself, and looked up at Kylo Ren expectantly. He did not stop walking until he was directly across from you. The desk was quite likely the only thing keeping him from coming closer. You registered again just how tall the man was. It was not only his height that was so imposing either, but the manner in which he carried himself.

 “Sir,” you said after waiting for him to speak first. This man was not one to waste precious time that could be utilized training or on a mission to speak with workers on a personal level. Even if he did think he was dating said worker. The silence in the room was heavy. You could feel it nearly choking you, which made you cough into a fist. “Sir?”

 “You enjoyed his gifts.” An accusation despite the calmness in his voice. There was a threat behind it. Do not tell me the truth, do not say anything, you cannot deny it. You struggled to bite your tongue. You had enjoyed the gifts from General Hux, this was true, however it had not been from any emotional attachment to the man that you had done so. Arguing that point would do you no good. “Frivolous things.”

 On one hand, that might be so. On the other, your foot was healing more quickly from the blisters than if you had not been in possession of the lotion that General Hux had purchased for you. You squeezed your lips together more tightly in an effort to not speak. He was much harder to read than Hux, and you were currently not much of a fan of that mask he wore. Kylo gestured in the air with one hand, his fingers outstretched. That alone had you realizing that he was not as angry as you had believed. He uttered one more word: heels.

 You considered it, what he was implying. General Hux had been the one to require that you were the heels to the meeting with the senator. As far as you could remember, Kylo Ren had never insisted that you do as such. Therefore the accusation was that General Hux treated you poorly in comparison to how Kylo himself treated you. You could understand his viewpoint, yet there was the fact that he had damaged TeeArr. You wanted to say this, but opted to hold your tongue. It was not as though he had been any less delusional in thinking that the two of you were in a relationship.

 Kylo Ren extended a hand towards you. You stared at the palm, which was face-up with nothing upon it. What were you supposed to do? You decided to mimic TeeArr’s previous actions by prodding the center with the tip of your finger. A quick glance at his face allowed you to witness him tilting his head to the side.

 “The datapad.”

 Slag! You wanted to bury your face behind your hands, however those were necessary to grab the device and hand it to Kylo Ren. He moved the datapad into his other hand, tapped on the screen and brought up the information that he had wanted. He then extended his hand again.

 “Would you like to hold it?” Teasing you.

 You snatched up one of the datatexts to occupy yourself with something to read. Anything to help rid yourself of this embarrassment and the fluttering feeling in your stomach upon realizing that you enjoyed the teasing. Both of these men were exasperating. Trying your patience. Testing your limits. You wanted to focus solely on work. Kylo Ren resumed scrolling meanwhile you read through a section of the text that highlighted the disadvantage of shield usage in droids. The majority of them dealt with more sentient droids like TeeArr. In the case of reconnaissance droids, the shields were recommended, albeit by remote control. You would have to discuss this with Captain Phasma. Remotes could be stolen or accidentally pressed.

 Kylo Ren placed the datapad on the desk while giving the order that you make an extra droid with the same programming for the Knight of Ren to use. He was walking out of the room before you had a chance to answer. You had opened your mouth to utter a yes, sir then closed it, your lips pressed into a thin line as you watched the door sliding closed behind his retreating form. It was meaningful to you that your work had grabbed Kylo Ren’s attention; this was not something he would order purely for sentimental reasons or to gain favor with you. You only wished that you knew more of the missions that the Knights would require the droid for. The Knights of Ren and stormtroopers had similar goals in assisting the Supreme Leader, however they accomplished this in differing ways. The shields might need to be stronger in the case of the Knights. Or the droid would need to ensure that whatever information it gathered, it encrypted more thoroughly.

 Along with inputting more lines of programming into the datapad that you had been working with for the project, you opened up a similar system on a second datapad and duplicated the work prior to adding in some of those alterations that you wanted to toy with. It would not take the engineers much time at all to build two extra droids for Kylo Ren instead of a single one.

 TeeArr returned from the errands that he had been sent on, and you gave him a list of still more work that needed tending to. The protocol droid was seemingly pleased. He exited the room without a single word of protest. You narrowed your eyes to watch TeeArr leave. Was he listening to more gossip? Had the gossip grown worse? What, exactly, was being said about you?

 Grumbling to yourself, you slouched and resumed working with the two datapads. You were on a portion of the project for Captain Phasma that would not require alterations for what Kylo Ren had ordered. The second datapad you were using to make notes on the anti-procrastination and physical therapy droids. Namely you were focused on pinpointing precisely which portions of TeeArr’s programming would be cloned for the project. Language barriers were not often an issue in the First Order given that Basic was spoken regularly, no different than in many areas of the galaxy. If one of the officers or stormtroopers working with a physical therapy droid was in pain or in any sort of altered state, though, there was a chance that they would slip into their mother tongue. It would equally be necessary for the droid to be familiar with prescription medications, drug interactions, and basic medical jargon. TeeArr was not well-versed in these latter subjects, although you did know that he had become familiar with scenarios that required bacta and/or rest for recuperation.

 Time was ticking on as you toiled away with your project. Only when your stomach growled did you realize that you had forgotten to instruct TeeArr to bring you lunch between the other errands that he was taking care of. You touched your abdomen with one hand, pouted, and continued to type one handed on the datapad. You were not at a point where you wanted to pause. Losing your place would inspire you to delete several lines in order to ensure that no mistakes were made. One wrong character would ruin everything and cause the droid’s basic systems to crash when a shield was raised. Stubbornness kept you from taking a break even after you finished that portion. You were in a groove. Your typing speed was at its best, and you were not going to walk away. Your stomach growled, protesting your decision, and you muttered under your breath for it to shut up.

 Officers and technicians alike entered then exited the room on occasion. Not one of them interrupted your work and soon you tuned out their footsteps. A mouse droid bumped into your leg. That you did take notice of, shoving at it with your foot to send it on a different path. It was not common for them to make such an error, however it was not unheard of either. You tracked its movements via listening for if it crashed again or not. When it did for the third time, you grabbed your comm, calling for maintenance.

 Warmth spread through you at the sight of Eddard. You had not wanted to deal with anyone else being in such close proximity while you worked until you knew how far the rumors had spread, however you found that you were genuinely happy to see this man. The tray of food that he brought along with him might have played a role in supplying you with joy. He set the tray down on the desk, careful to not spill anything on the electronics, and headed over to the droid. The bag that he had slung across his shoulders dropped to the ground with a thunk.

 You grabbed for the sandwich whilst you tapped for the program to save what you had done. “Eddard… Just how bad is it?” You nibbled on the edge of the sandwich, refusing to take a full bite until you received an answer. The food would be a choking hazard otherwise depending on what was said.

 Eddard hit the droid’s switch, shutting it down, and sat cross legged before pulling the droid nearer to him. He reached into the bag for his tools. You assumed that he, like you, speculated that the droid’s sensor was malfunctioning or off track. “It’s not as bad as you might think.” He began to loosen one of the droid’s bolts. “People know it’s a programmer, but many don’t know it’s you.” He twirled the tool in his hand. “I knew it was you because of the Millicent project.” You sank lower in your seat and took your first bite of the sandwich. “What’s been said is that some programmer is two-timing General Hux and Kylo Ren. Although pretty much all of us are baffled that someone would catch both of their attention.”

 Huffing, you decided to not answer that. It was a question that you had as well, although from what General Hux had told you regarding their conversation, you understood it to an extent. You were more bothered by the fact that the gossip surrounding this incident did not include the very important detail that you had not been dating either of them. After another bite, you said as much to Eddard. He lowered the hand that held the tool, which clinked noisily on the ground. That stung a bit. The expression of bewilderment on his face was not what you had even considered you would encounter.

 “Look…” Maybe you had been wrong about him. Clearly you had been incorrect in your assumptions as to how your relationships with General Hux and Kylo Ren were. “Maybe--”

 “Sorry.” Eddard shook his head. The expression had switched to one of panic. “I guess I assumed that they had, uh, asked you out?” You shook your head, throwing up both hands and almost fumbling with your sandwich. “Huh.”

 You had an entire rant forming in your head that you were not going to get into. Partly because you did not want anyone else overhearing, and partly because some of the details were not anyone else’s business to include Eddard. The next bite that you took of your sandwich was larger than the ones that you had been taking. You chewed and glared at the wall. The very fact that Kylo Ren and General Hux had not once properly asked you out yet believed that you were in a relationship with them bothered you more than you could properly articulate. With General Hux, you were under the assumption that his inviting you to work in his quarters might have been his way of solidifying the relationship that was occurring in his head. For Kylo Ren, that you were not sure about. At all.

 The drink that Eddard had brought for you proved to be one of the nutrition enhanced waters that you were not fond of. You scrunched up your nose, took a large swig, and swallowed. Eddard had his back to you when you drank so he missed the way you stuck out your tongue in distaste. The only way that he would have known whether or not you enjoyed the drink would have been had he asked or you told him. Likewise, if you wished to know what had led Kylo Ren and General Hux to believe that you were in a relationship with them, you had to ask. Your heart hiccuped at that thought. Your mind flashed to the way that General Hux had licked the rim of his thermos, had licked his lips. Thought, too, of Kylo Ren offering you access to his quarters then teasing you by offering his hand.

 Speaking to them face to face about this matter was out of the question for the time being. You were unsure if you wanted to ask at all. The wink-wink-nudge-nudge act that they might have taken as entering in a romantic relationship or partnership would skew how you perceived every action from them henceforth. Maker, you were already doing that. Second guessing. Growing apprehensive over the fact that eventually you would be in close proximity to them for an extended period. Not receiving the information could damage things as well, you realized.

 Slaggit.

 There were private channels that you had access to in order to speak with First Order superior officers in regards to projects that you were assigned to. The message that you would therefore be sending to General Hux would not be seen by any other eyes. Was this an abuse of the system? That was difficult to say considering it did have an impact on your working relationship with the man. You worked to be as polite as possible while also taking into consideration his personal feelings. This was a sensitive matter; asking how he could have believed that you were in a relationship was, in essence, hammering in the fact that you had not been, that you had been oblivious to his affections, that you had, in a way, rejected his advances.

 The one thing that kept you from losing your nerve was that his behavior earlier showed that he was not uninterested in pursuing you. That meant that he wanted you to understand him.

 You sent the message and acknowledged to yourself that it might take him longer to respond than with work related matters. He might opt to speak with you in person when delivering his answer. What you wanted to do while you waited, aside from making more progress on the project for Captain Phasma and her stormtroopers, was to find a similar means of contacting Kylo Ren. He was not one to answer to summons from inferiors. When news was to reach him, generally some unfortunate soul, who drew the short straw, was sent to him by General Hux to deliver the information. There was a tracking beacon on Kylo Ren’s person somewhere, one that only a select few were able to utilize. This was to provide assistance and was not something to be abused, lest the idiot who did so face Kylo Ren’s wrath.

 “I received notice that a new location for the TIE project has been selected,” Eddard said, drawing you out of your thoughts. You drummed your fingers on the desk and gave a hum of acknowledgment. “What’s up?”

 “Nothing,” you said quietly. I could have asked Kylo earlier when he was here. Why didn’t I think of it then? You grabbed hold of the other half of your sandwich, eating it much quicker than you had consumed the first half. “Actually...do you know where the Commander is?” Eddard whipped around so fast that you wondered if he hurt himself doing so. You sighed and told a half-truth. “I need to speak with him about a droid request he made earlier.” Eddard was not sitting quite as rigidly now.

 He patted the droid, which he had just finished putting back together. “I’ll send this fella to fetch him. It might take a bit.” You shrugged while nodding in agreement with this arrangement. It left you more time to wrap up what you needed to do. The one concern you had was that TeeArr would arrive before Kylo Ren did. 

 You puffed up your cheeks as Eddard exited the room with the droid, which zoomed in the opposite direction than where he began to head. You seized your datapad and began to input commands for TeeArr to remain away until evening meal; he was to make observations in medbay regarding how droid and human physicians interacted with patients. You would watch these recordings later. It was different to see how the programming for medical droids worked than to theorize how they were supposed to. It would narrow down what you could use for the new project. TeeArr sent an acknowledgement of the order.

 Picking up one of the texts, you resumed reading a portion that you had started before. You were currently enrolled in a series of courses that would begin in less a month that would offer more knowledge on the engineering portion of droid design. You had built smaller droids in the past. Getting your hands on high grade materials was generally the issue. Not to mention weaponry. A droid such as TeeArr or even the physical therapy droids, those you could technically do. It would take some time, yes, and that was why you enjoyed having engineers on hand so that you could focus on the actual programming--that was your passion.

 Stomping. For once, you were pleased to hear Kylo Ren stomping in your direction. You pushed aside your work and greeted him as he entered. “Hello, Com..man...der…” He was carrying the mouse droid. “Oh…”

 “It crashed into me.”

 You sighed, eyes running over the dent. At least he had kicked it instead of cutting it in half with his lightsaber. The downside was that this was programming error. “I’ll take care of it. First, though, if I could...ask you a question.” You furrowed your brow, having paused due to Kylo Ren walking completely inside and setting the damaged mouse droid on the desk in front of you. “Why did you think we were dating? When did you ask me out?”

 “You propositioned me.” When? A strangled noise was warbled by the vocoder of his mask. Kylo Ren turned on his heel, curled his hands into fists, and started to stomp away. You had embarrassed him. Fan.Tast.Tic.

[btgalaxy]

Twisted

➳ pairing: yoongi x reader

➳ genre: mafia!au, angst, eventual smut, maybe fluff

➳ word count: 2.5k

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Chapter 2

        The room becomes deathly cold as time rolls onwards. The radiator emanates a meagre warmth that barely reaches the foot of the bed, so you busy yourself curling into the covers. They’ve left you nothing in here to distract yourself with. So all you can do is give into your mind burning with curiosity and putting together some of the pieces behind your relationship with Jimin- who you’ve now come to learn must’ve been extremely reticent about his… personal affairs.

You think back to all the dates he’d left. One in particular lingering on your mind.

“You have some cupcake on your nose,” Jimin interposes between your lengthy rant about how miserable work was.

You groan immediately rubbing at it, “I knew I could feel something.”

He laughs, deep and throatily, leaning over the sofa to place his lips over the tip of your nose and you scrunch up your face in response, the both of you chuckling to yourselves.

“You’re gross,” you remark, grinning with a mischievous glint, pushing at his shoulders to move him back, but he only takes this as a chance to whip your waist round onto his lap till your straddling him. In this position, he decides to lean in slowly, before licking an obnoxiously generous swipe of his tongue up the side of your face like a dog greeting its owner.

“Jimin!” You scream, laughing as you try to scramble from his grip while frantically wiping at the spit now dampening your skin.

“I’m stronger than you,” he points out among his amusement, holding you firmly in place despite your agitated thrashing of limbs.

“Yeah, well,” you groan out, simultaneously pushing at his arms locked tightly on your waist with a determined expression, “we’ll see about- that.” With a final push, his arms give way, only causing you to plummet forwards into his shoulder as another deep laugh reverberates through his chest. You cry out again as you feel his lips tickle your neck, while begging him to stop throughout hysterical laughter.

“Sorry? Did you say carry on?”

“No-,” but your pleas are interrupted as he goes back to nipping at your neck and squeezing your waist, bringing you back into an uncontrollable frenzy with your eyes brimming with tears at the fits of howling.

He suddenly turns you around, hurriedly yet controlled, and presses you down into the plush cushions of the couch, hovering above you with a playful smirk settled on his lips.

“You’re an arsehole. I thought we were having a movie date, not a,” you try to squirm free from him, “gross-Y/N-out date.”

“Oh, really? My bad. Must’ve got them mixed up,” he quips, leaning down to finally press a kiss to your lips gently and lovingly, rather than all sloppy over your neck and face. Your lips move harmoniously to the soundtrack of the film you are (not) watching, concealing the wet sounds of bringing your lips apart slowly, only to lean back in again as your tongues dance lazily.

One of Jimin’s hands holds him up so not to crush you beneath him, but the other is let loose on your anatomy as it wanders to places it perhaps shouldn’t. You moan into his mouth as he teasingly brushes up your top, allowing his fingers to trace over the revealed skin and leisurely walk up over your stomach towards your chest, but before he’s able to move any closer to your territory, his phone- his damn phone- starts ringing exasperatingly loud and brings Jimin immediately away from you.

“Ignore it,” you whine, bringing a hand around the back of his neck to pull his lips against yours, but he pays no heed to your appeal and is instead already off of the sofa and headed to the cabinet in the hall where you both ditched your phones in order to pay better attention to one another. So much for that idea.

You sit up with a sigh, raking a hand through your locks and reaching for the remote. Just as you curl up your knees to your chest, however, the sound of Jimin’s snarls increase your awareness of his sudden change in tone, and you turn down the volume on the TV to hear a little better.

“No, I fucking cannot come and help you with the dirty work I pay you to do. I’m with Y/N,” he pauses, and you quickly turn the volume up a bit so not to attract his attention, before he continues just loud enough for you to hear, “you aren’t supposed to call this number. This is my personal phone. I don’t fucking care if you-“ The sound of a door closing cuts off any chance of you eavesdropping on anymore of his call. You wet your lips, mulling over what you’ve just heard unsure what to think, dropping the remote on the cushions and encasing your knees in your arms.

“Sorry about that, gorgeous,” Jimin swaggers back in, a little more nervous than before, but nevertheless exuding his usual confidence and plonks himself back on the seat next to you. “Now where were we?”

The sound of a distant clanging brings you back to the present- a noise you could swear is accompanied by a human scream but it’s too quiet to distinguish clearly. It could easily otherwise be the churning of some kind of machine, or the scraping of something or other. It’s just too ambiguous to discern. But whatever the case it still makes you feel completely nauseous.

You aren’t sure how much time has passed when a lady comes in with a tray of food. It comes as quite a surprise to you that a little old lady is bringing you a home-cooked meal when you’re a prisoner in a mafia institution led by some cold-hearted, sadistic boss that watches over everyone and everything. She’s frail, and seemingly harmless, so you don’t dare try and ask her for help, or even say anything at all, as she places the meal on the chest of drawers ahead of the foot of your bed.

You notice a small book on the edge of the tray. Alice in Wonderland. And your attention is immediately captured, a grateful smile echoed on your lips as the woman nods her head to you, understanding your appreciation.

You stumble over rapidly to the dresser, disregarding the food and instead picking up the book, running your fingers over the worn hardcover that looks beautifully old. You want to ask the lady if its her own copy, or if there’s somewhere here where you could find even more books, but nevertheless you’re more than thankful to have this to preoccupy your thoughts so you’re no longer forced to mull over memories of Jimin. You settle yourself back into the bed with the meal at your side, only picking at bits as you’re too busy reading to really indulge in the food. You’re surprised by how relatable yours and Alice’s situations are; some particular lines standing out to you, to which you fold a corner of the page that they’re written, before continuing to give rein to the intricate plot, driven by its bizarre characters and wondrous concepts.

By evening- at least, you think it’s evening, the idea of time is somewhat redundant without any clocks or windows to see if it’s daylight-, the old woman returns. You’ve left the copy of the book on the edge of the tray with your still rather full plate, while you sit at the edge of your bed with high hopes of a second novel to devour, hopefully something a little more mature this time, but you’ll accept anything.

The lady instantly spots the little book, the dog-ears of all the pages you folded capturing her focus as her eyes soften, glancing over at you sat obediently like an eager puppy. You almost squeal when she pulls out a new book from the front pocket of her apron, sliding Alice in Wonderland back in its place. This act signals that what she’s doing must not be fully acknowledged by Yoongi or Taehyung or whoever’s in charge of her- but you’re grateful she’s doing so. Being stuck in this room with absolutely no intellectual stimulation whatsoever could bring you to the edge of sanity in no time, and by the looks of things it doesn’t seem as though you’ll be getting out of this God-forsaken room any time soon- so to say you’re indebted is an understatement. You’d probably lay down your damn life for this woman at this point.

As soon as she’s gone, you jump up, biting down on your lower lip as you read the new title. The Wind in the Willows. She must really enjoy fairy tales. With a grin you clamber onto the bed, laying on your belly and swinging your feet up while opening up the first page. 'The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home…'

Over the next several days, you are surprised you don’t fall into a depression from the lack of sunlight and human contact you experience. The only thing keeping you from doing so, however, is the absence of reality as you bury yourself into the characters of fairy-tales, and magic lands, and far off islands. You must say, Peter Pan was your favourite read over the hours you spent agonising over each line and how beautifully it was moulded to its infant audience.

The woman proceeds not to say a single word to you, merely leaving your meal on the dresser, taking back the book you’ve read and bringing out a new one in its place. It becomes an unspoken rule that you shan’t mention anything of these books as she leaves a new one at every meal. Eight or so books in, however, they stop. And you’re beyond disheartened when she takes the book and doesn’t leave a new one. Just as you go to speak- to finally say something to her- Taehyung saunters in, hands in his pockets and leans against the doorframe for the lady to slip past.

“How are you, duckie?” He inquires, smirking, watching the old woman with a scrutinizing gaze. You almost think you’ve forgotten how to speak, considering how little talking you’ve done these past few days.

“Could be better,” you retort, in a pitiful attempt to draw his attention away from the innocent lady.

“I can imagine,” he hums, with a light chuckle, “come on then. Boss wants to see ya.”

“Is he finally going to let me out of this hell hole?”

“Perhaps,” Taehyung shrugs dismissively, gesturing out of the door to the corridor- a far different approach to getting you about this place than he used initially.

It feels strange already, away from the room you have become quite familiar with over these past few days from every tear in the wallpaper to each mark on the bathroom floor. The place is also as busy as it was when you first got here; it’s bizarre that they were all here, training and living and doing whatever the hell else they do while you were imprisoned in that room.

When you reach Yoongi’s office, the door is already opened, clearly awaiting yours and Taehyung’s arrival. He ushers you in, shutting it closed behind you and Yoongi looks up from a document in his lap, waving towards the chair ahead of his desk before even looking at you. You glance at Taehyung warily, then back at the seat to make your way over and rest against the cushioned surface.

“You’ve been the topic of much debate here, Miss Y/L/N,” Yoongi sighs, closing the file and placing it on the desk.

“I have?”

He nods, “indeed. Your worth is… debatable.”

“My worth?”

“To this institution,” he stands up and ambles round to perch on the edge of the counter, “I’m still not sure of the right choice to make, but one had to be made. We couldn’t keep you in that room forever. So I’ve decided to keep you on.”

“You make it sound like I have a choice in the matter,” you snap.

He glowers at you suddenly, “well I have a choice in the matter, and if you aren’t careful I could change it to having you tortured for information till you’re dead.”

“I’m sure Jimin would love to find that out,” your retort causes Yoongi’s demeanour to falter just for a second, before recomposing as he returns to his seat in front of his laptop.

“You’re exactly right. No matter what reason he broke things off with you for, I can imagine he still holds feelings for you. Which is reason enough for him to agree to my terms. Until then, I want you training with Jin, I’m going to trust that you won’t give him any hassle in the meantime. Or anyone else for that matter. You’re on strict probation.”

“You’re actually letting me out of that room? To train?”

“If things don’t work out with Jimin there’s no way I can let you back to your former life with the knowledge you have. You can either train and work for me or die.”

“I think I’d rather die.”

“If you say so.”

“I hope Jimin kills you when you kill me,” you lean forwards, practically glaring your teeth at the man smirking amusedly across from you. He mimics your movements, leaning in to you too.

“I’m not scared of your whiney little ex,” he speaks slowly, threateningly.

“He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.”

“I don’t know,” he falls back into his chair, “why don’t you come to my room later and I’ll show you how much of a man I really am.”

“I think my hand could do a better job than you.”

“Want to put that to the test?” Yoongi’s eager glint snaps you from the back and forth… flirtations? You scold yourself mercilessly. Get a grip.

“Boss, someone’s tryna get through to you.” Taehyung makes an impeccably timed re-entrance and captures Yoongi’s focus for long enough that you get up out of the chair to get out of the clogged up, heated atmosphere of the office, but he deciphers your escape plan immediately.

“Alright. I want you to take Y/N for a tour, she’ll be training with Jin as of tomorrow.”

Taehyung nods, escorting you out as Yoongi picks up the phone to instantly start barking down it as the door closes and ceases all noise from inside. You look at Taehyung, smirking down at you knowingly.

“Shall we?”

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[whispersafterdusk]

The Master’s Apprentice - ch 4

At his question she'd paused - she didn't seem...angry with him, or otherwise like she was going to try and lie to him, and in a way he found that somewhat comforting despite how his heart pounded.

"I was hoping you weren't awake long enough to notice anything," she said after a moment.  "-truthfully, whether you remembered it or not I was going to tell you regardless.  I did want to give it some time - to check if it functioned as it should with the changes, and of course so there'd be some measure of trust built between us...but considering one of the more obvious effects I suppose it's rather foolish in hindsight to have expected you to remain quiet.  Come along - let's sit and talk." ((Continued below cut))

At first he thought they were going to the Hall of Mirrors again but instead she continued on to the sitting room; by the time he caught up and got through the door she was already sitting in a chair at the fireplace.  She gestured for him to sit in the one beside her then lit the logs in the fireplace with a wave of her hand.  Onmund knew she'd probably just move him again if he didn't sit where she'd "told" him to so he walked over to perch on the edge of the chair beside her, sinking his fingers into the leather wrapped around the armrests.

She slumped comfortably in her chair, the soles of her boots propped up on the hearth.  "You are certainly not my first apprentice, of course," she started.  "Over my exceptionally long lifetime I have taught many, for better or worse.  The last apprentice I had, we grew close...very close.  And I had no desire to outlive him, nor would I dare turn him just to keep him with me.  We worked together on a spell meant to share certain characteristics between us."

"Such as?" he prompted when she fell silent.

"-such as," she went on, "removing your need to eat or drink, by sharing with you the fact that I do not need to.  Likewise, so long as I exist, you will remain immortal -- well, immortal in that you will not die of old age.  I can't protect you entirely from harm but I can from the passage of time."

Onmund's eyes widened - he was...he was immortal?  Impossible.  It had to be impossible.  He'd heard of mages extending their lives considerably with just the assistance of magic but there always seemed to be terrible consequences to go along with it... There were recorded accounts of these attempts and Onmund had zero desire to wither away to nothingness or have his sanity erode, nor did he want to end up like the Augur of Dunlain or something similar where he became tethered to something that, should it be disrupted, destroyed, or damaged, would mean he would suddenly cease to exist.

And of course there were the stories of mages turning themselves into horrific undead monsters...Kestrel was, after all, a vampire herself, though there was a tiny nagging voice in his head arguing that she her actions thus far weren't remotely monstrous.  And that voice was right in that she'd not tried to harm him (she hadn't even so much as raised her voice with him) and now she'd even...

"I'm...immortal," he repeated after a long pause.  "How?"

"It's part of the spell tethering us together.  You do not need food or drink, you will not age - this comes from me, from what I am sharing with you."

"That's - I can't..."

'I don't understand,' he wanted to say.  But he knew there wasn't much there to not understand in general...being immortal was fairly straightforward, and it DID explain why he'd not felt hungry or thirsty all this time.  It just seemed...impossible.

"Then what do you get from me?" he finally asked.

Kestrel shrugged.  "Nothing at the same level as what you are receiving... I look a bit more normal now under my illusions.  My heart is beating again, sort of, for the first time in about fifty years.  I'm fairly certain I was sweating earlier and I can't remember the last time THAT happened.   What I gain isn't important: this spell was created so I would not outlive my last apprentice.  That was the only singular goal, but I cannot give without taking it seems.  It wasn't intended but the spell demanded a balance."

For a long time he was silent, mulling that over; it was so hard to believe that he was immortal, supposedly...time was no longer an issue for him.  Something about that both excited and terrified him, as well as brought to mind a sort of sadness knowing that now HE was in Kestrel's position of outliving everyone he'd ever known, and she'd not even given him a choice in the matter.

"I...  Why would you do this?  Why would you do this to me?"  He looked up from his lap to stare over at her.  "You've forced this on me without even asking."

Her expression softened and she nodded.  "Not entirely without asking, but I know.  Believe me, I thought about it for some time...it was not a snap decision.  My pet's toxin had you unconscious for several days, and for several days I considered what I should do."  She sat up straighter, moving to sit on the edge of her chair while turning her knees (and herself) toward him.  "I want you to understand something -- after you became trapped in that webbing and were brought to me I found you had some magical talent - unguided and wasted but the potential was there.  If you had refused my offer to become my apprentice, or if you hadn't any sort of magical talent at all I would have been forced to enthrall or kill you."

"Why?"

She waved a hand, flicking her fingers toward the ceiling.  "Above us was once the Eye of Magnus, correct?  I know you must know as I felt its removal not long ago."

Onmund paused yet knew he couldn't lie about it if she already knew they'd taken it from the ruins.  "Yes, it - it was, yes."

"There is something far more dangerous than that here, and I was using the Eye's presence to mask it.  No matter how anyone comes to know of my home here my choice is either take them, one way or another, or kill them.  There can be no other choice...this place must be kept secret, and as you somehow fell down here when there should have been no possible way for that to happen then I already fear that unwanted eyes have turned toward me again."

"Wait wait wait," Onmund interrupted.  This was a lot to suddenly take in and it was giving him a sort of...panicky, restless feeling.  He was immortal, he was the captive apprentice of a powerful vampire who would have otherwise killed him, and now there was some nameless thing even worse than the Eye nearby -- trying to get it all in order made his head hurt.  "What's down here?  Why can't I just go home?  I won't tell anyone about you and if it's impossible to get down here what does it matter?"

"-it does matter, because you DID find your way down here," Kestrel said, quickly butting in before he could ask more questions.  "As for what's down here...you aren't ready to learn about it.  Now, don't give me that look-" she held up a hand as he spun toward her in irritation.   "This...this thing is powerful.  Very powerful.  And dangerous...you worried about ME enthralling you?  This would do the very same thing if you so much as looked at it unprepared.  You do not have the mental fortitude, not yet.  I'm afraid to even name it...  I mean it, Onmund.   You should not have been able to fall down here.  When I created this place centuries ago I sealed everything around me closed.  Do you know how difficult it is to move - not vanish - that much soil and stone?  It took me nearly a decade to dig this place out and close the way behind me.  I left everything solid - everything - and yet, you fell through somehow."

"I wouldn't have if I'd had the choice!" he huffed.  "I don't want to be here!"

"We can't change that now," Kestrel said softly.  "I absolutely will kill you if I must, Onmund.  But I would much rather have you alive, awake, and learning under me.  Look at what I've already shown you in a matter of days.  Imagine what else I can teach you."

"That's not the point - I don't want to be here.  I want to go home.  I don't care what you can teach me."

She was silent, studying him; her expression was so neutral and unchanging it was somewhat uncanny - like he was looking at a wooden doll.  A feeling of dread was beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach and before he was really aware of it he found himself standing and taking small steps backward from her; without a word she turned to face the fire again -- he suddenly felt foolish (where was he going to run, exactly?) as well as irritated she could dismiss him so easily.

And then...

"If that is how you truly feel, then there is only way one to end this."

Her voice was soft and the dread intensified, followed by a sudden sharp pain that started at his stomach and began to twist outward; after the sudden sharpness it faded to a deep burning pain and a heat flooded him, head to toe.  A glimmer of light, like a flame, flickered across his arm and caught his attention and he realized with some horror that the runes he'd half-dreamed being etched into his body were beginning to light up and were burning all the way up his arm and down across his chest when he yanked his shirt up to check.

"Wait-"

The pain spiked again and dropped him to his knees with a gasp, then his entire body felt like it was on fire; he writhed in the floor, slamming his head into the edge of the hearth, gasping then screaming as the agony kept growing.

"Wait, wait-"

 WAIT.  PLEASE.

-----------------------------------------

For a second time Onmund woke when he wasn't expecting to.

He felt sweaty, shaking, and weak; every bit of him ached and when he shifted his head a tiny bit and his skin pulled it felt as though he had a sunburn across every inch of him.

But he was...alive.  He was breathing.  And he wasn't in the sitting room anymore but had been returned to his bedroom; there was only a single lantern on his desk that was lit and next to it was a familiar silhouette bent over a book, reading.

He went to sit up and a pain shot through his head then began to throb; with a whimper he shut his eyes and waited for the throbbing to subside, and could head the scrape of a chair and the rustle of cloth somewhere beside him.

When he finally felt strong enough to open his eyes again he found Kestrel at his bedside; she'd brought the lantern over and had it sitting on the short table beside the bed with only one side of it open and aimed at the wall -- the indirect light didn't illuminate her enough for him to clearly see her face and that troubled him.

"Awake, I see."

Though she'd been barely louder than a whisper it send another round of throbbing through his head; all he could manage was a grunt in response and after a breath or two she rested a cold hand across his forehead.

"You asked me to wait, so I have.  It is now up to you to determine whether I have made a mistake or not."

She had actually tried to do it...she'd tried to kill him, because he'd...

'What is down here that is so dangerous?' he found himself thinking. The thought surprised him -- here he felt that he should be furious at her for coming so close to killing him or for having tortured him, or even being fearful of her wouldn't be amiss, but instead his mind fixated on the singular thought of what could possibly be down here that she was so adamant about hiding.

'The Eye of Magnus was dangerous in the wrong hands,' his brain went on.  'Look what happened with Ancano.  And here is this woman protecting something even worse.'

...and if he was trapped down here with her then technically HE was guarding it too, if indirectly.

'What is down here?' he repeated over and over in his mind as he stared blearily up at Kestrel's darkened face.  He couldn't muster the strength to talk or move and could barely keep his eyes open; her cold hand on his forehead was soothing and his eyes slipped closed again into a fitful sleep.

When he woke again he felt considerably better.  Kestrel had moved back to his desk to read and again returned to his bedside when she noticed him stirring once more.

"How are you feeling?"

"Alive," he croaked.  "Though I don't understand why."

"Because I've spared you a second time.  There won't be a third," she said - her tone was soft but firm and now, after having suffered through burning from the inside out, Onmund knew better than to think she was bluffing.

"I...I understand."  He struggled to raise up on his elbows and felt the familiar sensation of Kestrel's magic extending out to effortlessly lift him upright to sit; his head swam and his stomach turned and in the dim light he squinted at her uncertainly.  "I..."

"I have explained as much as I'm willing to at this point.  I will not share more until I feel we trust one another...I have done a great deal more for you than I have for any other.  Do you understand?"

He nodded and immediately regretted it as it sent a fresh wave of nausea over him; he heaved a bit and then, right before he vomited into his own lap a clay bowl seemed to pop into existence from nowhere and he spewed into it -- it was thankfully just bile inside his gut as the last thing he'd eaten was days ago and had been only a pair of apples and the bowl was more than large enough to hold such a pitiful amount.   Once he was emptied he squeezed his eyes shut again, feeling a deep sense of embarrassment, but Kestrel calmly sat the bile-filled bowl on the floor at her feet and removed a handkerchief from somewhere within the sash of her robes.  She conjured a small globe of water in one hand and wet the handkerchief with her other then patiently wiped his mouth clean, and then used a clean corner of the cloth to wipe the sweat from his face.

Onmund was torn between being insulted at being treated like a child and also a sort of gratitude at the tenderness -- in that moment she reminded him of his own mother and not of the vampire that had just tried to kill him.

"I'll...I'll stay..." he whispered, slowly easing himself back down onto his pillow.  "I'll stay...I'm sorry."

Kestrel nodded slowly and reached out to smooth the hair back from his face.  "Then I too am sorry, apprentice.  But now I hope you understand how serious of a situation you have literally fallen into. Rest now - you'll feel better soon."

She got up and went to return the chair to his desk, then blew out the lantern and silently moved to the doorway in the pitch dark; when she was framed in the doorway Onmund half rolled toward her.

"Wait - please...please just tell me what's down here."

She paused - he couldn't see more than her silhouette again - then sighed, shoulders slumping.  "In time.  We will work on strengthening you so you can see it for yourself."

With that she silently shut the door behind her; feeling frustrated and sick Onmund settled back into his pillow, actually grateful for the comfort of the bed he lay in and, as he drifted back to sleep, wondered what stuffed both the mattress and pillow to have made them so plump and spongy.

This was, whether he liked it or not, home now...this was his bed, his room.  He should probably get used to that.

[andromeda3116]

title: strays rating: so g. so, so g. word count: ~850 summary: “You went for water and came back with a stray.” a/n: this is so, so, so, so, so stupidly fluffy. like it is 850 words of pure, unadulterated family fluff. takes place roughly ten years post-war. written for rebelcaptain week prompt one, “family”

.

.

They’re… probably safe from the storm, in the palace of Naboo’s capital, but it doesn’t sound much like it. The palace was designed with an open plan and many windows, balconies, and courtyards, so not only are there plenty of loud surfaces for the rain to thrash on (and transparent places to really showcase the lightning storm) but there are also plenty of narrow places for the wind to scream through and wail like a banshee.

But it’s a sturdy building in spite of the chaos outside, so they’re probably not in any real danger. The native Naboo don’t seem worried, at least.

Jyn, already disinclined to sleep at the moment, is not comforted.

For a long time, she lays in the bed – on her back, because nothing else is remotely possible, ugh – and watches the light show, weighing her thirst against the superhuman effort of getting up. She hears rather than feels Cassian stir; the bed they’ve been provided with is so soft that she’s reasonably sure it could swallow her whole.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmurs, and she lets out a long sigh.

“Of course not,” she replies. “I don’t know if it’s the storm or the baby or both.”

It’s not that she hates being pregnant – she kind of liked it the first time, until right around the seven-month mark, when she’d expanded beyond the point of reason or sanity. This time, she’d hit that point at six months, and still had another two months of aches and sore feet and exhaustion and…

Two is it. No more. End of discussion.

“Anything I can do?”

Rewrite human anatomy so that pregnancy doesn’t suck so damn much? Or else go back in time to when we discussed this and talk me out of it?

“Water?” she asks instead, and he plants a kiss to her temple as he gets up to get it for her.

(There is that aspect of being heavily-pregnant, at least: the husband waiting on her every beck and call. It’s nice for now, but she knows it’s only a matter of rapidly-diminishing time before the difficulty of getting around and doing for herself starts to just really piss her off.)

The storm must be getting closer – the lightning and thunder are practically simultaneous, and it’s that sharp cracking kind of thunder that sounds like the world splitting apart – and Cassian is gone for long enough that she starts to get concerned.

This palace is so huge that it’s entirely possible that part of it is currently being destroyed by a typhoon, and she would be none the wiser.

Just as she’s about to start heaving herself out of bed to find him, he returns with a glass of water, and…

“You went for water and came back with a stray,” she says, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t even look ashamed.

“The thunder woke her up,” he replies, using his free hand to help Jyn into a sitting position. Lenna, half-asleep on her dad’s shoulder – the only place she has ever fallen asleep without difficulty, she’s only been slightly offended by this for three years – whimpers at the lightning and buries her face into Cassian’s shoulder. “She was crying.”

And Cassian, for being as hard-edged a spy and calculating an officer as he is, cannot say no to his crying daughter. It is absolutely going to become a problem.

“What are you gonna do when the new baby comes, and they both cry?” she challenges, but softly, since Lenna seems to be on the verge of falling asleep.

“Suffer,” he answers shortly.

“Suffer?” she repeats, and he nods, laying Lenna down between them and crawling in after her, wrapping his arm around the both of them.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve already accepted that I’m never sleeping again.”

“And you’ll make me suffer with you?” she challenges, and she hears him laugh a little bit.

“You’re the one who said you wanted another.”

“And you didn’t talk me out of it, you jerk,” she grumbles, but with no force. He snorts.

“I kind of like the process,” he says quietly, and she thumps him on the arm.

“Kind of?”

He snickers, but she can’t maintain the aura of false outrage, and is in fact starting to fall asleep, herself. It’s warmer with Lenna in the bed, just the right amount to take the edge off the chill in the room; and, all right, she knows it’s wrong and she’s trying to do like all the parenting advice articles tell her and wean her kid off sharing a bed, but she likes having her baby girl close to her. For someone who has spent most of her life losing people, the only time she feels truly safe is when the people she loves are close enough to touch.

He places a kiss on her temple, and murmurs something in his native language – which she herself barely understands – to Lenna, who mumbles in her sleep and snuggles closer to him.

In spite of the loud storm and her own heavy pregnancy, she falls into a deep and contented sleep.

[tfrohock]

HOT SHOTS: AMULET, RELIC, LA LLORONA, THE LIGHTHOUSE, GANJA AND HESS, AND VAMPYRE

I keep seeing people requesting recommendations for horror movies, so I thought I’d round up a few of my recent favorites. I know people usually give these lists the stink-eye, because they’re not into torture porn, so I’ll go ahead and alleviate your concerns: neither am I. Just like with my favorite horror novels, I look for unique and cerebral horror in the movies I watch. That doesn’t mean they’re not fun to watch … it just means there a lot of cool layers to most of these films.

Presented in no particular order:

Amulet (2020)

This is a British horror film written and directed by Romola Garai (in her directorial debut) and starring Carla Juri, Imelda Staunton and Alec Secareanu, and was just released in the United States on July 24, 2020.

Blurb: An ex-soldier, living homeless in London, is offered a place to stay at a decaying house inhabited by a young woman and her dying mother. As he starts to fall for her, he cannot ignore his suspicion that something sinister is going on.

Sinister is a good descriptor for the undercurrents in Amulet. It’s a revenge tale that kept me off-balance throughout the whole film with the feeling that something isn’t quite right and nothing is as it seems. Tomas is a down on his luck ex-soldier, who seems like—on the surface—a nice guy. When a kindly nun offers him a place to stay with a mysterious young woman named Magda, who needs help with her dying mother and crumbling house, he discovers the truth about his own nature. Men might be perplexed by some of the behaviors and imagery, but women will see the clues exposed in Tomas’s actions and words. Even so, the ending took me by surprise, and I found the overall production to be enjoyable. I’d say more, but this is the kind of movie that the less said is better.

Relic (2020)

Directed by Natalie Erika James (in her directorial debut), from a screenplay by James and Christian White. Relic stars Emily Mortimer, Robyn Nevin and Bella Heathcote and is the story of mothers and daughters and aging.

Just as The Babadook used the demonic presence of the Babadook as a metaphor for the stress of dealing with grief, Relic takes us deep into the fear of aging and death. When Kay’s mother, Edna, goes missing, Kay and her daughter, Sam, travel to their remote family home to find her. They call the authorities and multiple searches turn up nothing, and then one day, Edna simply returns. Seemingly suffering from dementia, it appears there are darker forces at work, and with some genuinely spooky moments, James guides the viewer through a house haunted by the mind.

La Llorona (2019)

Written Directed by Jayro Bustamante, La Llorona is a Guatemalan film, starring María Mercedes Coroy, Sabrina De La Hoz, Margarita Kénefic, and Julio Diaz.

Blurb: An aging paranoid dictator, protected by a witchcrafting wife, faces death and the uprise of his people in Guatemala.

Forget all the other La Llorona films you’ve ever seen, this one is unique. Rather than the weeping woman of legend, director, Jayro Bustamante refashions La Llorona into a ghost story that entwines with recent Guatemalan history with a mother’s revenge. The movie begins with the trial of the Guatemalan dictator, Enrique Monteverde, who was responsible for the brutal genocide of native Mayans during the 1980s. Suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, Monteverde is found guilty, but his trial is overturned on a technicality, resulting in massive protests outside his home. When most of his staff quits, the family hires Alma.

The horror within La Llorona is more about Monteverde’s crimes than the weeping woman herself, but María Mercedes Coroy plays Alma in beautifully subtle scenes that leaves the viewer simultaneously in empathy with her and uneasy about her presence.

The Lighthouse (2019)

Directed and produced by Robert Eggers, who co-wrote the screenplay with his brother Max Eggers, The Lighthouse is billed as a hypnotic and hallucinatory tale of two lighthouse keepers on a remote and mysterious New England island in the 1890s, and golly, but you should believe the hypnotic and hallucinatory part of that description.

Still, Willem Dafoe is one of my favorite actors, and Robert Patterson is fast becoming another, so I eagerly anticipated my chance to see the movie when it streamed. The story (if you’ve been living under a rock) is about two lighthouse keepers and one of them is mad, or maybe both of them are … It’s a real toss-up at times. But as the story progresses, the film becomes one of psychological horror that enables the viewer to watch another person become undone by the environment and his own guilt. Eggers uses the sea and the lighthouse almost as if they, too, are characters in the unraveling of the men’s sanity, and it all blends together to make for intense viewing.

Dafoe never puts a foot wrong, and Patterson gives an outstanding performance of a man driven mad by his conscience … and a pesky seagull.

Retro flicks you should see:

Ganja and Hess (1973)

Written and directed by Bill Gunn, the film stars Marlene Clark and Duane Jones.

Blurb: After being stabbed with an ancient knife, a doctor's assistant finds himself with an insatiable desire for blood. Anthropologist Dr. Hess Green, who becomes a vampire after his intelligent but unstable assistant stabs him with an ancient cursed dagger, falls in love with his assistant's widow, Ganja, who learns Green's dark secret.

I loved everything about this film, probably because I grew up during the ‘70s—yeah, I remember seeing men in those polyester suits—but mainly because Ganja & Hess is a vampire story told within the framework of Black and African mythology. At times, it feels like the actors are improvising their dialogue, which makes them feel more genuine. Clark is beautiful and magnificent as Ganja and gives a stellar performance as a woman in control of her destiny. If you love vampire films, this one is a must-see.

Vampyre (The Dream of Allan Gray) (1932)

Written Christen Jul and Carl Theodor Dreyer and directed by Dreyer, the film starred Nicolas de Gunzburg under the pseudonym Julian West.

Blurb: A drifter obsessed with the supernatural stumbles upon an inn where a severely ill adolescent girl is slowly becoming a vampire.

Jul and Dreyer based elements of the film on J. Sheridan Le Fanu's 1872 collection of supernatural stories In a Glass Darkly to produce a surreal work that fell flat with audiences in 1932, but has become a classic due to its atmospheric scenes.

I’ve seen snippets of Vampyr from time to time, but I’d not had the opportunity to sit down and view the entire film until recently. The haunting shots lend foreboding to each scene, and Gunzburg walks through is role as if truly is in a dream, leading us from one horror to another.

Looking for more? Check out more Hot Shots right here.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Watching Looney Toons

At first, there is only the breaking of stillness in my periphery, a blur felt or sensed and yet, when turned upon, unseen. I stare at the spot then back to the TV. Little flicky things in the brain, sometimes they misfire.

But then there it is, crawling about the screen, a black speck illuminated by the waves, the rads, and I think why is there a cockroach in Looney Tunes?

It scurries from lower corner to top middle before slipping around the bend and descending into the unknowable--a whir at the end of consciousness and nothing more. I sit, bong in lap, eyes on screen, pretending to see nothing.

See the room: strewn about the floor are a number articles: three beer cans, an empty smoothie cup, a bottle cap, clothes out the wazoo, cigarette ash, marijuana ash, a tissue, a tissue coated in blood. There is no bed, only a couch. The walls wear stains of substances unknown

Yes, the room called for adjustment, but day approaches and fades and it always happens quite slowly, always drags and teeters and bores, always provides time for cleaning, later, but before the going begins the night takes shift and everything that could happen doesn’t, or didn’t, and you, or me, is left watching the sun sink below the window, having not shared its waves nor rads that day and perhaps the day before.

Day says Get up, clean your room, and I stare at screens, pretending to see nothing.

Exterminator says no water. Place stays bone dry, roaches feed off water. Says totally necessary, no still water, no liquids of any sort, matter of fact. Cannot be done. He scowls and cracks his neck and exhales hard as he walks out of the room. Says Jees’ Christ.

I divert eyes from screen to smoothie cup; consider bending over, grabbing cup, bringing it to trash can; consider giving shape to day, giving definition to time, giving them hard edges like the storm off a remote coast.

I stare at the cup and look away. Light falls from the window, slicing downward to the floor, fading till tomorrow. Day has run its course.

Time to watch Looney Tunes, to wait till morning, to think whimsically about the opportunity which would present itself upon the sun’s ascent, to wind down after a day long endured.

Tomorrow will be acted upon, yes. This I promised myself was true. I will pick up the smoothie cup, I will walk it to the can, I will open the lid, I will drop the cup inside. I think perhaps I will throw out the beer cans as well but reason this to be unrealistic; the exterminator says don’t do this. Says, stay in your lane, do the little things of which you know yourself capable. This is good for the mind, he says, good for the spirit.

I obey the commands of the dark, watching Looney Tunes, cross-legged, bong in lap. I unwind. I load the bowl for maybe the twenty-fifth time that day.

It would be my last for a while. The final sack. Finish the weed, give the bong away, say ah, tolerance break, you know the drill. Say, action looms out of reach when the pot is available. Say, tomorrow will come and I will wake with energy. Say, energy will be there, yes, and I will dispose of the cup.

A cockroach scrambles up the wall, out from behind the TV, and I light the bowl, sort of half-glancing its way. Think, weed has to be smoked tonight, has to be finished, every milligram. The bug situation won’t improve until weed is charred black and silver.

Looney Tunes ends and I’m left without distraction. Flashing across the screen comes a program bright and animated and altogether unrecognizable. All I see are the blues and reds and greens of the pixels firing as my eyes glaze over in exhaustion.

Click--Click. Click

I return to the reds, the greens. Watch for an hour, smoking, before remembering that nothing is on.

Click.

T.V. goes off. A joint remains, a throbbing develops in the throat. I feel the palpitations or maybe I hear them. I look around the entire room to see it all—the books unread, the puzzles not started—for the first time today, although it is day no longer for the clock has ticked into tomorrow. I look out the window where a soft light has surfaced to see a tree that I had not known existed.

How to Fix It sits on my dresser, a book on maths by the Hungarian professor George Ploya. Maybe it could teach me, but not today. Instead I will wait for the necessary hush to arrive, that which can only be provided by a clean room. I will wait until tomorrow.

Click.

HBO showing Jaws for the second time this month. Think, why not; with the joint nearly finished and my eyes feeling heavy and bored, what else was left to do? I inhale until the smoke of paper is in my lungs. I roll over across the bed--TV sounding, sheets smelling of ketchup and sweat--and doze off to the sounds of water thrashing and people screaming.

Dreams take mornings to wake from, but sometimes even mornings don’t do the trick. The tomorrow of promise and opportunity was half over before I brushed my teeth.

See the clock, see the little hand breaking two. The energy had not arrived, no, but I had promised myself that yesterday was not to be repeated.

Without turning off the television, a sock over just one foot, I walk into the living room.

Why am I in the living room?

Answers obscure themselves so I stare into the wall, absently, waiting for the distance between me and it to shrink.

The invitation of the day hums in my ears. Says, put cup in trash. Cup still not in trash, you’re up, cup’s in room. On the floor, not in trash. Says, do it now, man, quick work.

This is what she tells me: I will walk into the bedroom, I will approach the television, I will press the big button, I will watch the screen flash white before going black, I will watch the pixels squirm and I will listen to the machine simmer--then I will resume my life.

But to the day I say, Piss off. I make coffee first. Activate the senses. Then watch the screen crackle and settle into dim static buzz.

That’s all, folks.

I walk into the bedroom and look at the bed before approaching the television. With the touching of the button the screen collapses into itself, and, for the first time that week, I hear the radiator’s soft, lowly hum.

I sit on the bed, my hands running over the naked, oily skin of the mattress, wondering what had caused the days to pass like hours, and then those hours to minutes; wondering why the sickness of the room hadn’t seemed so sick before; wondering why, even now, I was ignoring the pleas of sanity.

Then I listened, I suppose, to that thing from within that causes the body to move. That libidinal shove. And then I’m up, legs churning, cup in hand--I walk into the living room, I press my foot against the pedal of the steel can, I watch the top jut upward ninety degrees, I drop the cup inside and see it disappear under a large, mostly unused wad of paper towels.

And then nothing had changed at all.

I retreat to my room. Rays bleed through the windows. I see the book and think: later, for the fatigue of the night had returned, and rest was in demand. Without it I was sure to limp through the day, a shell of whatever I was.

Click.

Looney Tunes on. Just an episode, I think. Then I start my day. Yes. But first I make a bowl of cereal. I watch the episode, and then another, and then for good measure a third. I look at How to Solve It and then back to the screen. Little hand hits the six. I ignore a roach that rests on a wall; I watch a seventh episode. Dealer replies, Where you at? I watch the show and shake the sleep from my eyes until the light is no more.

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[zcbp5]

I can’t recall ever feeling quite as devastated by the results of an election as I was by the election of Trump. I sure wasn’t happy about Bush II, either the first time or when he was re-elected in ‘04, but even that didn’t knock the stuffies out of me quite like this one did. 

And I’m white, and male, as straight as they come, and relatively economically privileged. 

I can’t even imagine what this must feel like if you’re female (at least female and really thinking it through), brown, gay, or part of an otherwise marginalized group. 

I was always fearful of the worse, but still, I was mostly confident that Clinton would pull it out--so much so, in fact, that I was quite worried that Trump’s supporters might not easily accept a Clinton victory, especially with the way he stoked rumors of illegitimacy. I was genuinely concerned that a Clinton victory might stoke violent civil unrest or even another civil war. But whatever the consequences, I was still fairly sure she’d win. In the weeks before, my boss and I spent a lot of time looking at polling, checking the methodology on expert forecasts, and looking at different scenarios, and no matter what way we looked at it, it looked as though a Trump victory was well-nigh impossible. And in fact, early on election day, he found some model that suggested that Clinton was already cruising to an insurmountable lead in key swing states like Florida and North Carolina, based on the demographics of known turnout. When I checked on things after I first got home from work, it looked like it would be a short night with comfortable leads appearing to build in Florida.

And then everything fell apart.

I was watching the returns with my mother and my girlfriend, and state after state went red. They didn’t understand, at first. What about California, they asked? I had to explain that places like California are already a given for Democrats in the current climate, and that what you have to worry about are those big eastern and midwestern states. By 10 o’clock, it was pretty well over, I knew. I felt enervated by dread. My girlfriend and I went to bed, and I lay awake feeling miserable, dismayed, and frankly, terrified. About two, I got up and turned on my computer to check the final results. 

So, he’d won.

The only mild consolation was that in his victory speech, he’d seemed a little more moderate in his rhetoric than he had in his campaign. Still, back in bed, I lay awake to visions of bright flashes and mushroom clouds. My boss and I had been joking a lot about “Dr. Strangelove” recently, but I don’t think either one of us really expected it to suddenly leap back into relevance. 

At work the next morning, I was a zombie. Most people looked like zombies. I couldn’t stop myself from making some remarks about the bombs starting to fall. Even the other people who looked worried seemed to think maybe that was a bit much.

It took the entire rest of the week before I began to feel anything approaching normalcy. I tried desperately to look for any sign that somehow Trump had been fucking with us all with his campaign and that really he was planning to govern as a moderate, technocratic Democrat. I was ecstatic when Jamie Dimon’s name was mentioned as a possible cabinet pick. And like pretty much everyone on this side of the election, I held our forlorn hope for a miraculous recount or an electoral college revolt. I wrote a long essay on things I think that left-leaning people need to do going forward, which I posted here. Alas, no miracles, and very few people--if any--bothered with my essay, for whatever it might have been worth. 

So here we are, with only a few days to go before one of our finer presidents yields his position to a coarse, vulgar man who has shown no sign of being anything remotely resembling leadership--let alone presidential--material. 

Just for the sake of my own sanity, I’ve had to take a pretty big step back from consuming political news and analysis and thinking about this stuff. I am privileged that--at least for now--I’m even able to do that. Others aren’t so lucky.

Maybe Trump will surprise me. Maybe he’ll turn out to be better than his campaign would suggest. That wouldn’t be hard, and I’d settle for that.

Really everything, from Trump’s rise and election to the way people who are broadly on “my side” have reacted to it, is making me uneasy. Actually, a whole lot of trends everywhere in the world are making me uneasy.

In one of the later chapters of “The Magic Mountain”, a sort of fevered madness overcomes the inmates of the sanatorium. People are on edge and tempers flare into violence, symbolically culminating in a duel between the humanist Settembrini and his Jesuit antagonist, Naphta. I cannot even recall the precise outcome of the duel, and the whole business is fairly obviously a symbolic representation of the European mood leading up to World War I. 

That is how everything feels to me--volatile, and everywhere a potential for even seemingly trivial things to spark into violence.