#but it’s layered with her father singing to her

[probablygayattorneys]

Do I keep listening to My House from Matilda the Musical and picturing Kat and the professor?

Yes.

Does it make me cry when I do that?

Yes.

Am I going to stop doing it?

Hell no.

[anotherlongstoryshort]

Things about the Wisdom Saga that have plagued me all damn day

Legendary

Whether intentional or not, Miguel's Telemachus really sounds like a younger version of Jorge's Odysseus. And that hurts.

"If I fight those monsters, is it you I'll find?" The layers. Could he go out and hunt for his father? Could he find his 'legendary' strength within himself? Or will Odysseus be the 'monster' he finds?

"Somebody help me, come and give me the strength" And his call is answered T_T

20 years.

Antinous fully interrupts this bop. Rude.

Ayron sounds legitimately scary and Telemachus taking a stand is so O.O

Little Wolf

I wanna fight this guy. Love that Athena agrees. (The beat of the song and sharp bursts of vocals really emulate blows.)

The quaver on "I don't know how".

Athena is immediately charmed by Telemachus' enthusiasm. She sounds so fond.

The fact she sees heart in him as an advantage when it was Odysseus choosing heart over mind that drove them apart. Guh.

Did she tell him to bite Antinous? XD

"Oh, maybe I pushed you a bit too hard." The change in her perspective is already so apparent - she wouldn't have admitted a mistake or miscalculation to Odysseus.

We'll Be Fine

"I had a friend before..." A FRIEND? FRIEND?!?!

An admission that she didn't fully appreciate what Odysseus was going through, that she feels guilty for having "missed it all".

It's unclear to begin with if she's come to Telemachus for Odysseus, or to try and replace him. Both are equally heart-breaking.

"I don't know who your friend is, I don't know what he's like" UNKNOWINGLY ECHOING HIS OWN THOUGHTS IN 'LEGENDARY'. NO IT'S FINE I'M FINE.

"The best day of my life because I got in a fight and I didn't die! :D" Telemachus, child, please.

"We'll be fine" using the same run as "this is my goodbye" T_T

Him immediately offering up friendship to Athena, like Odysseus once did, must hit her so hard. "You're a good kid." Yes he is - because he's more like his dad than he knows.

Love in Paradise

"Old friend..." FRRRRRIIIIEEEENNNNNDDDDD!!!!!

10 years.

The memory fragments sounding so fraught and chaotic together, hitting harder because they're hitting Athena all at once. She missed a lot.

"She's my wife." "Anyways..." Calypso, girl, please.

Love that they're singing completely different melodies through the first half of this song for two reasons: because Odysseus is revisiting previous motifs, once more trying to hold onto the man he was, and also because it shows Calypso is not willing to compromise on what she wants.

"Last I checked goddesses can't die." We'll come back to this later.

Then Odysseus realises he is truly trapped and he sings along to Calypso's melody in muted horror.

POLITIES OUT HERE STILL HAUNTING THE NARRATIVE.

Just the words "open arms" are enough to confront Odysseus (again) with all he's lost. All he hears are screams.

And the one he screams out for is Athena.

"He needs my help." NO KIDDING GO GET YOUR BOY.

God Games

"Father, God, King..." There's a lot to unpack in that fun family dynamic.

"To untie apprehensions that were placed on that Greek?" Zeus is like, nobody likes that guy, why do you care?

The gods being called out like X Factor finalists is everything.

So there's a great contrast against the previous song - unlike Calypso, Athena is matching each of her singing partners with their tone and beat as she convinces them. She isn't winning by 'imposing her will', she's meeting them where they are.

Rational arguments work until Aphrodite, where Athena says "please" for the first time. She softens to appeal to Aphrodite, which is why Ares has to step in.

The way she says his name XD

Ares' lines sound like as much of a fighting chant as 'Little Wolf' did, which makes it all the better that the mention of Telemachus is what gets her to 'fight back'.

"His son's my friend!" YES HE IS. And Athena of all people declaring "a broken heart can mend" is fascinating. Can't help but wonder if she's talking about herself coming around to forgiving Odysseus.

"Never once has he cheated on his wife." Handwaving the source material is worth it for this line ALONE.

Zeus is so pressed by everyone openly knowing he cheats on Hera. Stop doing it then my dude.

Ares sounding genuinely concerned for Athena is doing things to me. Goddesses can't die, huh?

Her time motif flitting in and out like a weak heartbeat.

The soft piano of 'Warrior of the Mind', touching on a whisper of 'Legendary', then rising to a triumphant crescendo as Athena regains herself. I will be forever haunted by visions of Odysseus and Telemachus helping her to her feet.

And then, finally, she faces her own father and begs. Because Odysseus and Telemachus deserve a chance to be father and child.

The parallel, by the way, of Athena entering this saga to help an outnumbered Telemachus, and now closing it with him/Odysseus unknowingly helping her win her own battle too. JORGE HOW DARE YOU T_T

[vasilissadragomir]

one of the most heart-wrenching things about thg universe is that you feel the loss of who each character would be outside the circumstances of their birth almost as acutely as you feel the loss of the characters themselves.

sure, we know what lucy gray and her family would be doing in a different world; she’d be dancing and singing and making music which defines a cultural identity. but what about the others? would haymitch have been a hilarious, loving father with a family had he not been forced to survive 47 other children’s brutal deaths? would finnick have been a charismatic and beloved actor, bringing joy to immeasurable people on his own terms? would beetee and wiress have worked together to develop technology to make it easier to connect loved ones far and wide? what would reaper and annie have given to the world, or thresh, or rue, or even coral or cato or glimmer or clove?

if katniss wasn’t half-starving and forced to spend each day hunting to feed her family, would archery be her true passion? or if she’d been a well-sustained little girl with access to art supplies, would she have spent her time sketching captivating dresses? she picks up ropes and making fish hooks quickly—could her dexterity have lent itself to knitting, sewing, or crocheting with vibrant yarns and fabrics? there’s so much evidence that katniss finds clothing inspiring and empowering, even when she dismisses it as frivolous. she likes being pretty, she just hates the circumstances under which she’s made to look pretty. cinna shows her that beauty has its own power, and there are several moments in her interactions with cinna and his designs that make me wonder who she’d be if she had space for art and creativity in her life.

conversely, peeta has had art in his life since he was a small child, but for him, art has always been entangled with his trauma. he could bake and decorate well because he learned from his mother, a mother who beat him his whole life. but his talent grows, not only as a survival tool in the first games, but when he paints rue on the floor of the training center before the second games. his art becomes not only a symbol of his trauma, but a means of resistance and solidarity. in a world where peeta’s intrinsic kindness and loving heart had been nurtured and welcomed rather than abused, could he have been a painter, helping people find collective meaning in the simple realities of life?

could katniss and peeta have still found each other in another world, a world without the horrors they were raised with, and bonded over their love of art? could they have been each other’s muses?

maybe they find their way to share art, after the events of mockingjay, as part of their process of healing and falling in love with each other. when they’re finally safe and have been for a long time, maybe katniss fashions peeta an easel for him to paint in their living room. after months of watching him gaze out the window and paint the changing leaves, katniss takes to knitting on a rocking chair in the other corner of the living room to steady her restless hands. they work silently as the days go by, quietly exchanging the things they’ve made to give each other the reassurance and love neither could ever fully convey with words.

and maybe one day, when they learn there’s a baby on the way due in midwinter, katniss takes a page from peeta’s sketchpad and starts to plan a series of sweaters and hats and socks she can knit for the baby. and peeta goes to the little nursery upstairs and starts working on a mural, so the baby will have something beautiful to look at every day. they work together to design the perfect baby blanket for their child, to ensure they will always be wrapped in a layer of protection and love by their parents.

but even if they find creativity and beauty in their lives after the end of mockingjay, the art they make will simply never be what that art could have been had they not faced what they faced. art comes from suffering, yes, but the human condition has so much suffering as is, and we’d never know what kind of art they’d make if they hadn’t experienced trauma of a distinctly sadistic and inhuman nature. but maybe their children, raised in a better world with love and protection and safety and joy and creativity and expression, will be the ones to create the art peeta and katniss never could.

[rockpaperimpala]

So about Netflix's the Last Airbender....

I am literally so confused you guys. You made me think I would HATE this show. And I LOVED it. Me. Known perfectionist and hater.

Katara was lovely. Yes, she started as a more soft spoken character than her cartoon version, but she was still passionate and hopeful throughout, just visibly unsure of herself. I think people were thrown off by this actress' natural way of expressing herself, which is Different from animated katara for sure, but not bad. Then she spends the whole season growing in Confidence and Fire. I Adored her fight with Paku, it really did feel like a payout of the whole season's development, and the bending kicked ass!

The Bending Kicked ass!!! The martial arts was fun and fast and creative and exciting! It looked SO good. That alone would be enough reason for me to watch and enjoy any show.

Zuko's actor was fantastic. He really captured the rage and confusion of this 16 year old banished prince. And there were so many Added moments between him and Iroh wich to me enriched their relationship. Like YES! This is why I'm watching, to see more of them, to see things done a little differently.

Iroh facing the consequences of his actions at Ba Sing Se!! That's what I'm here for!

Zuko's relationship with the men on his ship! That's what I'm here for!

The Extra layers we get to Ozai manipulating his children!

Also no one is talking about Admiral Zhao, who I had SO much fun with. I feel like they slightly fleshed out his character in a really dramatic way, really developing the hubris and frankly insane grasping ambition of someone who would kill the moon. I completely enjoyed this wilder, less controlled version of him, who comes up through the season from basically nothing and no one!

I am OBSESSED with King BUMI and his anger and disillusionment with the world! Like this was SO real. Living a hundred years of futile war would do that!!!! It is one of my favorite changes to the whole series. This new layer of emotion and character depth is what I'm here for!

Sokka was SO funny. He literally had me laughing out loud so often. That actor GETs Sokka, and GETS the way his humor is delivered. And is also able to tap into the more vulnerable side of him. People said he was "obsessed" with leadership. WHAT? That is a young person trying desperately to do his best and to try and find his place in the world, to figure what he has to offer. I loved his pride at hearing the Mechanist say that he would make a good engineer, and the sweetness of the moment that Yue's father says that he can be a hero without being a warrior. Sokka does so much growth in this series, in understanding himself and life.

And his chemistry with Suki was adorable!! I even like him and Yue (who was a totally unexpected sweetheart, despite her terrible wig)!! Like he has that same ability that Sokka has in the original to Connect with people.

Aang was great! He WAS fun loving and sweet and funny. I don't know what you guys wanted. Cartoons are always bigger and more exaggerated than live action. People's eyes swell up an, birds fly around their heads, and there are funny sound effects. That larger than life quality is the strength of animation! You have to look for different strength in live action. Like the SUBTLETIES of the acting choices. This little actor brought so much kindness, innocence, and strength to Aang.

And I FELT his frustration at being asked to do this at 12, his fresh hope anytime it looked like someone more experienced would be able to help him and no one did, and that's why he didn't learn waterbending this season, because he kept waiting for an freaking ADULT to show him the way, to help him carry this immense burden, but every adult he meets asks him for help instead, asks him to carry it himself, and then the finale hits and he realizes that there won't be any adults helping, he does have figure this out himself, and he makes the hard choice, takes on responsibility more than his years and offers himself to the ocean spirit, and he might have been lost entirely if not for Katara!

And that counter running theme to the show pays off: that he doesn't have to do it alone. He may not have more experienced guidance, because the adults have let him down again and again, but his friends will be with him, and they will figure it out together!

This is there throughout the series! Katara tells him this about learning waterbending, when he says he still wants to wait. Bumi tells him this in the palace at Omashu, and Aang sees the faith he has in his friends repaid!

I like these changes! And the show still found time for silly fun adventures and character building moments.

The show was never going to be the animated original. That is already a Masterpiece, and it frankly did NOT need to be adapted at all. I did not WANT a live action adaptation. I was adamantly convinced I would hate it. But the changes that they netflix show gave are what I Iike most about it. If I want to see Zuko say "you rise with the moon, I rise with the sun," I will go watch the animated original, because that version is perfect. And now, if i want to see Zuko say "Lu ten would have been proud to have you as a father," and see iroh pull him into a tight hug, I can watch this live action version, which is very good too. I'm going to disagree with most of the people on here and say that the Netflix's Avatar: The Last Airbender, DOES capture the heart of what we liked about the original show. It's spirit, fun, excitement, and characters. And the changes made are the reason we should be watching.

[cordeliawhohung]

Soft Spot - Part 3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part thirteen of "soft spot"

taglist | playlist | dissection links

you're so used to the teeth that they don't even hurt anymore

warnings: childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse, mentions of past torture, threats and unkind language

wc: 4.4k

Some part of you always knew you’d see him again, but you never imagined it would be like that.

In your pitiful daydreams, you always envisioned things would be darker; scarier, even. You’d find him again in some dim corner where he would trap you and would lurk and stare until he was ready to pounce. In the version of yourself in your daydreams, you were stronger. You knew exactly what to say, how to convey how you felt, but most importantly, he would pay. He would pay for every single transgression he wrought upon you and your mother. You would never have to see him again. But it was wrong. You weren’t supposed to run into him there. Not on a perfect day like that. 

It would have been a perfect day. 

The warmth of the sun on your skin, the laughter of everyone around you; you had every right to enjoy that day. To bask in the beauty of the trees with their singing, fluttering leaves, and to soak up the fragrance of tulips and freshly trimmed grass. But behind it all, there was always something lurking. A second layer you hadn’t yet exposed. The rotting carcass of a bird nestled by the trunk of a tree. Musty hot car exhaust from the street on the other side of the park. A man too angry for his own good and his daughter petrified on the bench. 

The smell of cigarettes. 

Your eyes had no choice but to stay glued onto the man in front of you. So many years had gone by, and though his age caught up to him, that unbridled rage that festered within him was painfully distinct. It was his eyes, it always was. You could see every thought and intention that came to fruition in his thoughts, and though he smiled, you knew none of it was good. It alerted some primal instinct in the back of your mind that screamed at you to run, to fight. All you could do was place your hands on your stomach and hope Simon would return soon. 

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” The words flew out of your mouth of their own volition, like some sort of ghost had taken control of your body and given you the strength to say them. 

Your father snorted as he took a step closer to you, and you had no choice but to watch him sink down into the seat next to you. His movements were slow, frail even. There was something wrong with him, as if he rotted from the inside out. Perhaps all his wrongdoings had finally caught up with him, and you took an odd sort of comfort in the thought he looked too sick to properly hurt anyone other than himself. 

“Haven’t seen each other in years and you have nothing to say? Bullshit.” He coughed. It sounded wet, and you could make out the sticky sounds of it clinging in the back of his throat. “Though, the last time we talked you didn’t have anything to say to me but a threat.” 

He was right. A threat. A promise. Maybe both. Whatever it was, you had meant every word of it at the time when you said you would kill him if he ever hit you again. That felt like forever ago. Some other lifetime. Really, you were surprised he even remembered it at all. No, of course he remembered it. He would always remember the worst parts of you; the parts of you he could twist and use against you. 

“I still mean it,” you said. 

It was an empty promise. You knew that, and he knew that too. 

“Sure thing, darling,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll do a whole lot of damage in… this state.” 

No surprise bloomed in your chest at his comment, but disgust did. Having to see that vile man again was already bad enough, but seeing him while you were pregnant was a different form of degradation. It felt violating to be perceived in such a disgusting way, especially by the man who fathered you. Him seeing your mother pregnant hadn’t pulled on his heartstrings to save her from the terrible fate of his fury, and it certainly wouldn’t save you. 

“So, who’s the dad? Some rich American? Surprised to see you back here after you ran off to play school girl in the States,” he sneered. 

“You don’t have the right to ask that,” you snapped.

“Don’t I?” he challenged. “You’re my daughter.” 

“I’m nothing of yours.” 

A heavy sigh left your father’s lips as he adjusted his position on the bench. You hadn’t moved an inch since he approached you, and even your son seemed to know well enough to stay dormant inside of you. 

“You always have to be difficult,” your father huffed. 

“What the fuck do you want?” you bit. Intense eyes landed on the pathetic figure next to you, and you found your hands balling into fists in your lap. “We haven't spoken for years, and you think it’s okay to just stroll up to me in the damn park for a conversation?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a glare. “Remember, you were the one who cut contact with me, not the other way around, darling.” 

“Because you are a piece of shit, and you know it,” you retorted. “You’ve never been useful for a goddamn thing in your entire life. You beat my mother, beat me, and then left her to die when she got sick like she was a fucking toy you were tired of playing with. All that shit and you think you have any right to talk to me? To approach me and act like nothing happened?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, girl,” your father warned. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re knocked up, you don’t get to speak to me like that.” 

You weren’t sure what made your body move the way it did, but suddenly you were on your feet with your back facing him. Everything happened of its own accord. The way your feet moved along the pavement. How your heart thundered in your chest so violently you swore it would break your ribs. A sense of self preservation consumed your body and its senses as it did its best to get you away from the threat of your father. You were in no shape to fight, and you couldn’t afford to freeze, so you took flight. 

But you had never been very good at getting away. 

The brutal cycle of getting caught continued in the same way it always had; with a hand around your wrist. Your father’s grip was just as unforgiving as Bukin’s had been, and the same as Eric before him. Just like all the other times, you turned to face the aggressor with a bewildered glare on your face, incapable of holding back neither your fear nor your anger. 

“How long do you think you can keep running? Huh? Before your legs stop working? Before someone breaks them?” he asked, his tone all but demanding an answer from you. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Truly?” you questioned. 

“I’m your fuckin’ father,” he retorted.

Hot breath fanned across your face and you could almost taste the rancid tobacco leftover in his lungs. It was enough to make your stomach turn, and with the anxiety pooling in your stomach you nearly puked, but you held strong as you wiggled your wrist out of his grasp. 

“You are nothing to me. Not my father, not my family; nothing,” you spat. “I know you’ve got it in that thick skull of yours that you have some odd ownership over me because you fathered me, but that’s where our relationship ends. Do you understand me? I’ve lived my life fine without you. I’ll continue without you. I’ll have this kid that you’ll see no part of. I’ll get the life I always deserved while you die, alone and unloved, and nobody will fucking miss you at all.” 

A heavy silence weighed on your shoulders as you watched your father’s face morph in front of you. He was always an angry man, but his true nature was something your nightmares could never quite capture. They could never paint the twitch of his lips or the flexing of his jaw, or the way his fingers buzzed with anticipation. Your fuzzy childhood memories paled in comparison to the real, unbridled enjoyment your father experienced when instilling fear and pain in someone. 

Maybe that’s why you never learned. Not because violence wasn’t a good teacher, but because you could never remember just how bad it hurt. Not until you were there in the maw of the beast. 

Whatever you thought was there lurking in your father’s features vanished faster than it had formed. Your father’s eyes scanned every inch of your scowl and you watched them light up with something sinister and wicked the moment they landed on the corner of your lip. A grin replaced the anger on his face as he took in the sight of that unsightly scar that still plagued the corner of your lips even after all those years, and you almost flinched. As his quiet and sour chuckle sounded, you knew exactly what he thought. He hadn’t given you that scar, which meant you had never truly escaped trouble as much as you wanted to pretend you did. 

But you did. You climbed away from that life, fought tooth and nail just to live without violence, and you made it. Each night you were able to go to bed in the arms of a man who had never once caused you harm. In the mornings you would wake up to fresh air and a chaste kiss before you ever even slithered out from underneath the covers. The only bruises that tainted your skin were ones caused by unseen table corners, not the fists of an angry man. 

Yet you knew he would never believe you. Abusers always had to come out victorious, even if that meant dipping their mind into their own delusions. You would sooner turn to dust and bone before your words would ever reach him, and he seemed to hold himself with pride over that fact. 

He chuckled again, louder that time, and looked down at the ground for a short moment as he shook his head. His eyes landed on you again with humor before he shrugged. “Keep telling yourself that, darling.” 

A large hand settled on your stomach as you felt a looming presence gently pull you away from the monster of your childhood. You didn’t even have to look up at the figure to know it was Simon; you knew him by touch alone. Your body did not untense at all even with him there, and the distilled anger was palpable on your husband. Dark eyes glared at your father, who hardly bothered to look Simon up and down. 

All it would take would be one word. Something to anger your father, to get him to lose his judgment, to get him to lunge. A vile, dormant anger inside of you wanted to. Wanted to goad your father into attacking just to watch what Simon would do. You’d seen what he was capable of. Watched him break a beast’s arm and stomp on it just to feel the bone crunch under his boot. It was so easy for him to pull that trigger and end the life of a man simply for calling you darling. If only he knew half the things your father had said to you. 

How much would he have to bleed to make it feel better? How many bones would have to break? Would it ever be enough? Could more violence ever satiate the need for revenge that stowed itself away inside of you? Did that make you just like your father? Did you even care? No, it would never be enough. There was no penance he could offer you that wouldn’t just turn your stomach sour. 

He would get his turn. One day. If you were lucky, you would never even hear of it. 

“I never want to see or hear from you again. I mean it,” you said as your eyes locked on him. 

Your father’s eyes flickered up to Simon, where he finally seemed to understand the weight of the situation. He was old; a stupid drunk with nothing to fight with but a decayed body and rotten core — something Simon could shatter in an instant. Perhaps he finally realized he didn’t have as much power over his little girl like he thought he did, or maybe his self preservation instincts kicked in, but your father finally took a step back with a shrug. 

“Whatever you want,” he said. 

It wasn’t until you were halfway back to the car that you realized Simon tried to grab your attention. Your name fell from his lips hushed and even, yet no matter how hard he tried it was impossible for him to mask the worry it was drenched with. His pace was slow compared to usual, but then again it wasn’t like you could move as fast as you would have liked. You wanted to run — run to the edge of the world and never look back, yet you were so painfully present on earth. 

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Simon said, trying to calm you. 

“I’m fine.” 

Those were the first words you were able to choke out, and you hadn’t realized how tight your throat felt until you said them. Still, you continued to push ahead, chest heaving with anxiety as you got closer to Simon’s car. All you wanted to do was go home. It seemed that’s all you ever wanted to do. 

“Who was that?” Simon then asked, still trying to pull answers from you. 

“Your father-in-law.” 

There was no need for further explanation. Simon was well aware of the horrors you had to fight when you were a kid. A storm swirled in your mind so violently even he could feel the raging wind, and rather than try and fruitlessly fight it off, he chose to weather the storm with you instead. 

The ride home was a blur with your thoughts so full to the brim yet simultaneously empty. Numb. It had been a long while since you had felt that way, and it didn’t wane until Simon unlocked the door to the flat where you pitifully shuffled over to the couch. Boo beat Simon to your side, and he instantly attempted to climb up on top of your stomach as if it were a perch and not where your child rested inside of you. You wanted to smile at him, but all you could manage was a quivering bottom lip. 

“Sweetheart,” Simon tried again as you pushed your overly zealous cat off your lap. “Talk to me.” 

Instead of sinking into the cushion next to you, he crouched on the floor where his hands quickly found yours. Every nerve in your body felt fried, too hot for you to exist properly. It traversed up your body in painful waves until the pressure built up so much behind your eyes you swore they would burst from your skull. 

“I hate him,” you said, voice trembling. “I hate him so much. It’s been years and- and he shows up now? When everything is good? Wh- When I’m like this?” 

You paused for a moment as the rush of hormones nearly suffocated you. Eyes overflowed with tears as you sniffled back the snot that started to run in your nose. You wanted to take your hands out of Simon’s in order to rub at your eyes, but his thumb running along your knuckles was too comforting for you to deprive yourself of that feeling. 

“And I want him to pay. For everything. For all the years of bullshit he put mum and I through. But it feels so far out of reach because no matter what it’s not good enough. I just hate feeling like this, so fucking useless.” 

Simon’s hands moved up from your hands, across your arms, along your shoulders, and all the way up until he cupped your cheeks in his hands. Everything felt heavy, yet he held your head high as he shifted closer to you. 

“I know it’s hard. It’s never easy running into monsters like him,” he said. “But he’s never gonna see you again. Never layin’ a fuckin’ hand on you either.”

“It’s not that, it’s just… he makes me feel like a kid and I hate it,” you said in a near whisper. 

“I know,” Simon shushed as he moved up to sit on the couch next to you. His arms wrapped around your body as he drew you as close to his chest as your body could comfortably contort. His warmth was all consuming, settling your frayed nerves as his hand traced along your waist. “I know.” 

His chin rested on the top of your head while you did your best to calm your breathing into something more manageable. That simple action — breathing — had already grown to be so difficult those days with the extra weight on your diaphragm, but the crushing feeling of being reduced into nothing but a scared little girl again was unbearable. 

“Family is bullshit, anyway,” Simon suddenly chirped. “Don’t have to keep anyone around that you don’t want. Could just be me and you, if you want. You, me, and our boy.” 

Our boy. Those words had your tears falling harder than they did before. Having a child wouldn’t fix all your problems, and you were very much aware of that fact. Children weren’t supposed to be the glue that mended old wounds, like so many people wished they would be. Yet still, an odd sort of excitement flickered at the thought that you could one day erase it all. Erase all the parts of your life, and replace it with something truly worth living for. 

Like Simon. 

Like your son. 

The prospect of no longer being your father’s daughter was an exciting one. Maybe your unfortunate conversation with him had been the universe’s way of getting you to say goodbye, though you could have very well done without one. Either way, none of it mattered. It was done. You would have a child to fuss over before long, and you didn’t need thoughts of a sour old man ruining that joy. 

You didn’t even think of your father that night as you and Simon settled in for bed. There was too much love to enjoy in the warmth of his arms as he held you close to his chest that there was no room for anything else. Simon’s hands roamed your stomach, as they often did those days, where they settled at the top of your abdomen as if waiting for a good kick. For a moment, everything was still as Boo curled up against your legs with a quiet purr, and a smile curled your lips as you felt Simon’s lips press against the back of your neck. 

Except, no matter how good things got, you always seemed to end up back in that basement. Some days it was difficult to tell if you left a piece of yourself there, or if a piece of it had clung to you even after so many years. Either way, it didn’t change the fact you stood in that room with its pale lilac walls that were still just as empty and bare as the first day you woke up in that cursed place. 

However, several items were missing from their usual spot in that room. There was no door to the bathroom in which you spent so many hours hiding in, or the bed with the quilt you had spent half a day bleeding into. In fact, an entire wall had all but vanished, giving you the perfect view of the ocean with its salty waves. A comforting freshness lingered in the air rather than the rotten scent of iron, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel scared. 

“He’s so handsome.” 

An old rocking chair creaked in the center of the room as your mother sat rocking a bundle of blankets in her arms. The back of her head faced you as her attention was soaked up by something else, something new, and your wavering feet shuffled closer to her. 

“Who?” you asked, attempting to peer over her shoulder. 

“My grandson,” she replied with a chuckle. 

Impatient eyes peered over your mothers shoulder as you tried to steal a glance at the baby boy, yet no matter what angle you tried to get, his face always seemed to be obscured by the blanket. He was so quiet, so much so that the waves crashing on the shore just beyond that missing wall drowned out each quiet whine and sigh. 

“He looks so much like you,” your mother cooed. “Good thing, too. I was worried he’d get Simon’s nose.” 

You laughed, and it was strange. You never thought you’d be laughing in that basement. 

“Simon’s got a fine nose,” you defended. 

“Oh, I’m sure he does. Underneath all the scar tissue, anyway,” your mother teased. 

Your laughter sounded in harmonious unison as she finally looked away from your son and up at you. Her eyes shined brighter than any other time you could remember in your dreams. She looked so real it was almost like you could reach out and hug her again like you used to when you were a kid. 

“Can I see him?” you asked. 

“Not yet. Just let me have this for a moment. You’ll see him soon enough,” she replied. 

She paused as her bottom lip began to tremble.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. 

“What for?” you asked. 

“Everything.” 

There was no need to ask for further explanation; it was written in her face. Despite everything that had happened to you throughout your life, there was the indomitable will to survive, even if that just meant more suffering. After so many years, your suffering finally bore fruit. You no longer had to go to sleep wondering if you’d wake up to shattered porcelain on the floor. Unlike her, you had escaped.

That’s all she had ever wanted for you — for someone to take care of you. 

Your mother’s attention wandered back to the missing wall in front of her, and your gaze followed. Fluffy clouds billowed along the horizon, and seagulls danced in the sky together while they sang to one another. That ocean was brighter than you had remembered it, like the sun had finally peeked through the clouds. 

“I think it’s time for you to go home,” she said. 

“Home?” you repeated. 

She nodded. “You don’t need to keep coming here anymore.” 

She was right. You were tired of that basement. Tired of the memories that haunted you from time to time. They would always be with you in some way, but you couldn’t wait to drown them with new memories. Better memories. 

There was no need for a goodbye, as you had said them years ago to that wretched place. Instead, your feet trudged forward until carpet turned into grass. Cold wind moved freely around your body as it beckoned you closer to the crashing waves on the sandy shore. When your feet got close enough to the water that it nearly kissed your toes, you turned around only to find the house, and its terrible basement, had vanished. 

That was the last time you ever looked back. 

Searing hot pain ripped through your body when you woke up. It rippled all throughout your abdomen in a wave so vicious it took your breath away. Boo, who had been by your feet when you had fallen asleep, pawed at your face as he purred and bashed his head against yours. The pain left you nearly incapacitated for a moment until the wave eventually waned, and it was only then that you were able to slowly push yourself up so that you sat with your legs over the side of the bed. 

Sticky sweat clung to your body with little remorse for your comfort, and you tried your best to calm your racing heart with a steady breath. In some poor attempt to assist you, Boo pawed at your aching stomach with an annoyed meow. You gently pushed him away, only for him to whine. Simon grunted, half awake yet still irked by the creature’s impressively loud demands for attention. 

Simon didn’t fully wake up until a second wave of pain hit you, and you were unable to hold back the squeaky wince that it forced out of you. The bed shook as Simon’s hulking frame tore the blankets off of his body and scooted so that he sat next to you. His hand rested firmly against your back, yet he almost retracted when he felt your muscles tense and nearly tear with the strength of your contractions. Had it not been for the little human in your womb blocking your way, you were certain you would’ve been doubled over in pain. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What do you need?” Simon urged. 

It was impossible to get any words out with the intensity of it all, and for a moment the only thing you could do was pant sharply as you tried to keep yourself from hyperventilating. You leaned your head to the side where it rested on Simon’s shoulder while your teeth nearly shattered as your jaw clenched. Eventually, the pain diminished once more, allowing your brain to clear just long enough to form a proper thought. 

“He’s coming,” you panted. Your hand reached up to wipe the sweat from your upper lip, and your entire body shuddered with a sigh. “Fuck, we gotta- gotta go.” 

“Okay, yeah,” Simon said. 

He slipped off of the bed to stand in front of you, hands quickly capturing yours in his. His voice was calm and even, and not even his grip trembled as he helped you to your feet. Simon was always strong. Never one to show when he was nervous. But even then, you swore you could feel his racing heart pulse in his fingertips. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

[dhampling]

sunburn dadstarion, <1k

She runs in with cheeks flushed, head wet with a thin clad layer of sweat. Remnants from some form of cool treat dry on her chin. Plaits - neat this morning - loose now with tangles and damp as she beelines straight for his workroom. 

Face scalding as she buries it in his abdomen. 

“You’re getting muck on my shirt, little one.”

She mimics his words with a cutting tone as she burrows deeper, wraps even tighter around him. Smells like cloves and hot paving and the dry-sweet musk of city dust. As he presses a kiss to her head he feels the sun lingering in her hair. Little white cowlicks brushing his nose.

If he stills he can hear you out on one of the cast-iron chairs with a glass of red in hand, talking to a friend of some parental variety in the early evening heat. 

“You’re so cold” 

His heat comes from woodsmoke and yours from the sun. Both familiar to her. He could light a fire but you’d moan at him for it.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pokes at her clammy arms with a fat laugh and she winces away, pulling a face.

“It’s hot.” She sneers. He quirks a brow.

“Sounds like a you problem.’

He lifts the last of her plaits and looks round at the ruddy blush beginning to bloom at the nape of her neck. She squirms at the ice of his fingers.

‘Run up to the washroom and get the cream. Quick.” 

You sit just beyond the window - he can hear your laughter, the muffled lilt of your voice by the climbing ivy. He imagines the ornate carafe - left to aerate all afternoon - rich and ripe as the wine within soaks on your tongue and darkens your teeth. Your loving grin. The little wave you’d do; the light clothes he’d spent all winter designing for you to sit out front and feel comfortable in, in spite of the sweltering sun. 

To throw a casual look through open shutters and see you out there again. A wink. A little sign that he’s thinking of you. 

Maybe he’ll head out, when the stars are newly minted yet the sun still lingers. Feel the iron sear his skin through his clothes. The warmth of your palm as it wraps around his forearm. 

It’s not until the youngling returns that his gaze shifts from the dark to her, a tired furrow on her brow. 

“I’m too hot.”

Her mouth hangs open in a wide pant. Astarion kneels before her.

“Have you had any water?’

No.

‘Right then.”

-

Hours pass and you shuffle back in with a thick-knotted shawl draped lazy over your shoulders, the singe of a giggle still whisper-light in your breath as your friend shouts their farewells.

“She burned today, you know.” 

He’s quiet as he stitches, merely an observation; thread between teeth. You sigh fondly in the doorway.

“She’s a child. It’s what children do.”

You bring your warm chalice to his mouth and he lifts his head to take a sip, humming softly. He looks up at you with a raised brow. 

“Get burned?”

“You morose bastard. Sun-burn. Children get sunburned.”

She’s lounging on his worn chaise, hair wrapped in towel, with a small bowl of plums at her side and a drawing pad atop her knee. Contented in new pyjamas and the cool dim of her father’s workroom.

The cream has seemingly worked. The cool bath you heard her splash about in not so long ago must’ve been some clever placebo work.

“Found some pretty beetles today, but wasn’t allowed to bring them in.” She speaks as usual with Astarion’s theatrical whine, riddled with fatigue. You roll your eyes affectionately.

“What were they like, darling?”

He’s preoccupied, stitching something small in the gilded embroidery he works at; but there’s the persistent glimmer of interest in his tone. The slightest tilt of his head as his eyes find her in the periphery.

“Really pretty. Different colours. All pinky and greeny.” She waggles her fingers and sighs with a start.

“Draw them for me?”

She looks at him warily as you watch on.

“Will you keep it if I do?”

At that, Astarion stops. A gentle halt. The needle and thread in hand gently tucked into the stitchwork. 

“I keep everything you do.”

You scoff. She looks at him with a tiny glare.

“Where is it then?”

“What?”

“All my drawings?”

“It’s where are they, darling.’ He chides, the smallest chit of his fangs.

You move to sit and your daughter lifts her head from the chaise, so it rests on your settled lap when dropped once more. The hint of a grin plays at his mouth.

‘And I keep them somewhere safe so when you’re old - like me - you’ll be able to look back on you now. You’ll be able to remember the beetles.’

He shuffles over to where you both sit, cross legged as he rests his chin on the chaise. Brings the back of a hand to her forehead and swears a sizzle as he pulls away.

‘Plus. I can’t see these beetles now, can I? My sunburn gets a fair bit more serious than yours in nature. I’d like to see them.” 

She pauses for a moment.

“Okay. But ONLY because you can’t go and see them for yourself.”

[ectologia]

TERNARY

TOMURA SHIGARAKI + FEMALE READER + DABI

WARNING: DUBCON/NONCON, CLIT TORTURE, GENITAL SPANKING, ANAL FINGERING, MALE MASTURBATION, THREESOME, CREAMPIE, HUMILIATION, MOCKING, SLIGHT GORE, MENTION OF TORTURE METHODS, PROFANITY, SLIGHT DABI X SHIGARAKI?

“Come out, come out..” Shigaraki sing-songs, shuffling against the moist gravel. “Where the fu— Dabi!”

“Mm.” Dabi hums, hand lax in his pocket while the other occupies a smouldering cigarette, pinched between his ashen finger-tips.

Shigaraki snarls a groan from the back of his throat. “Stop stroking your dick and come help me, you moron.”

“What’s the fuckin’ point? She’s probably long gone by now.” Dabi shrugs, making no attempt to gather himself. “And does it really matter? It’s just one chick, what’s she gonna d—”

Shigaraki spikes, shoulders prickling as he lurches towards Dabi. “What’s she gonna do?” He scoffs. “Tell those fuckin’ bastardin’ heroes where our base is, that’s fuckin’ what! I’m starting to think I should reconsider putting you second in command if you’re just gon—”

Dabi throws his hands up, feigning an apologetic frown. “Alright, alright! ..Damn.” He brings the smoked pick back down to the seam of his lips, inhaling until a puff of smog rolls out of his nostrils. “I was just kidding, Boss.” He smirks from beneath his clutch of scarred knuckles.

Shigaraki eyeballs Dabi with a flat face. “Dumb-ass.” He swats Dabi on the back of the head, a bit to strongly for his liking once the cigarette previously perched between his fingers is flung onto the sludge-stained pavement.

“Nice one.” Dabi huffs with an audible breath, shuffling through his pockets for another. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to be a li—”

“Shh. Shut the fuck up.” Shigaraki hisses, pressing his index to the petals of his flaking lips. “I just heard something.”

The two stand, frozen in ear-splitting silence.

Both pairs of eyes meet, knotted and furrowed as Dabi’s arm suddenly darts out, snatching at the blackened void.

“Ah, now would ya’ look at that.”

You yelp once a mangled hand swipes at your neck, clamping down and holding you in place.

“You were right Boss, little shit was hiding here all along.” Dabi snickers, jostling your shaken form like a hunter vaunting it’s kill.

Shigaraki rolls his eyes at his comrades witty intimations, eyeing the tiny thing hanging from his clutches.

He clicks his tongue, re-adjusting Father’s thumb across his cheek-bone. “Sneaky little bitch.”

You’re bound and stiff, eyes wide and jaw locked in your shell-shocked petrification.

“What do you wanna’ do to her first?” Dabi drawls, tilting his chin down to look at you with a wicked grin. “Break her legs? Skin ‘er? Blood-eagle?”

“Hm..” Shigaraki hums, tapping a thumb against his chin. You’re spun once, twice to get all the best angles as they inspect your physique. “I mean.. It’d be a shame to let her go to waste.”

Dabi smirks, darting an intrigued brow upwards. “Oh, yeah?”

Shigaraki’s tongue slips out to wet his parched lips. “Yeah.”

“Mmh.. What a messy pup.”

Dabi coos, tracing the rim of your clit’s hood with his middle-finger. He has your nerves standing to attention every time the abrasive digit dabs against your stiff nub.

“Look how hard that little clitty is.” Shigaraki chuckles, toeing your pussy with the tip of his shoe, nudging Dabi’s marred knuckles in the process. “Could probably jerk it if you wanted to.”

“Yeah?” He tweaks the thin layer of skin surrounding the vulnerable dot, bending your thighs back further in the process. “Wanna’ try?” He swirls his tongue along the crevice of your ear, spitting into it as he croons.

“Please, let me g— Mmph!”

“Ah.” Your pleas are soon cut off by the wrinkled texture of Dabi’s palm. “I don’t wanna’ hear any cryin’ or whinging now, a’ight?”

Shigaraki sneers, squatting down to replace Dabi’s cold, stapled flesh with his own.

He pinches your clit between his crooked fingers, grinding and tweaking the tiny seed, while Dabi bounces you on his knee like a child to soothe your oncoming fit.

“See? this is what happens..” Shigaraki spits with a bitter smile. “This is what happens — when nosy little bitches like you can’t mind their own fuckin’ business.”

He pulls his arm back, tugging your tiny, quivering clit along with him until the stretched skin snaps back into place at the crest of your pudgy pussy.

Your raw cunt earns a sloppy, half-hearted spank from the hard heel of his hand, noticeably avoidant to catch you with his surely destructive finger-tips.

“Hey, woah, woah. Who said you get first dibs?” Dabi splutters, pressing your knees back together almost defensively once he sees the shimmering glare of Shigaraki’s belt buckle.

“I did.” Shigaraki grunts, clumsily rooting around inside the pouch of his stained boxers before pulling out the sluggish length of his pink-tipped cock. He’s flaccid, smooth layers of pale-porcelain skin wrinkled and folded against the chubby softness of his un-cut dick.

“You ain’t even hard yet, you shmuck.” Dabi sniggers, abiding his time by twiddling and flicking at your labia.

“Shut the fuck up. Just gimme’ a sec..”

“No way, I ain’t sittin’ here to watch you rub on your lil’ love-stick.” Dabi peers down at you through his leaden eyelashes. “We wanna’ have some fun, don’t we babe?” He smooshes the pudge of your cheeks, scrunching your lips into a pucker. He snorts, sticking his tongue out to engulf the cavity in a wet-hot kiss. “Mmh..” He swirls the leacherous muscle around and around your teeth, bobbing his head as though he was trying to suck out your soul like a dementor.

“Hey, knock it off. We’re not here to play house.” Shigaraki stutters through his raspy chokes, jabbing at his limply-hanging cock.

Dabi smiles as he retreats, smearing a muggy trail of saliva across your chin all the way to the tippy top of your nose, flicking off at the soft cartilage.

“Was just introducing myself, Boss.”

“You don’t need to introduce yourself.” Shigaraki bites.

“Awh..” Dabi coos. “Big bad villian can’t get his teeny weeny hard?”

He expects Shigaraki to explode into a feral ball of flames at this, only to be met with something much more mellow and.. down-right — timid.

“Do something..”

“What?”

Shigaraki clicks his tongue and huffs. “Do something.. Finger her or some shit..”

“Oh.”

Dabi’s struck dumb, but only for a short moment — before he’s bouncing back to his usual unperturbed and snarky demeanour.

“Well then.. let’s get down to business. What’re we feeling, you little rat? Twat or ass?”

You shiver in Dabi’s lap, the sporadic jolts of your spine spiking every-time the dewy humidity of his breath blows over your nape.

“Only kidding Babe.” Dabi smiles, a wide, wolfish, toothy grin, reaching no further than the dimples of his cheeks, half-lidded eyes set purely on the little patch of flesh below your navel. “I’m choosing.”

“Holy fuck!”

Shigaraki jerks his — now, fully erect cock. Striding up the sweaty length to halt just at the ridge of his pumped mushroom-tip, shiny with a sheen of smeared pre-cum. The tiny slip of pink peeks through his curled hand every time his fist bobs, fapping away at his chubbed up prick while his second set of fingers make themselves useful by rolling and fondling his tightened ball-sack.

“Yeah? You likin’ the show Boss-man?” Dabi’s nose crinkles from the force of his own boyish laughter, tapping your left ass-cheek for the 8th time, just to watch the squishy dough ripple around his stapled wrist.

The scrunched rim of your taught asshole barely has enough room to encompass all three of the fingers Dabi persistently tries to stuff in, shuffling and flexing the digits inside your gummy walls to engage you into a more flexible position.

“Fuck me, look at that butt.” He jerks his elbow forward, impaling you further on top of the jagged bumps of his torn knuckles.

“Ah!” It’s a guttural cry of pain that escapes your hoarse throat, bent at an angle with your stomach pressed across Dabi’s lap, consistently jouncing along his thigh at every attempted means of escape.

“Ooh, yeah.” Dabi croaks through his grit teeth, puffing from the back of his throat once he sees how the smooth curvature of your back arches as he prods at your asshole with a forth digit. “You bouncin’ that ass back for me?”

“Yeah she is, look at her.” Shigaraki can’t help but invite himself into the conversation, leaning back further against the porous red-bricks for support. “Stick her another one Dabi, I wanna’ see blood.”

“Another one? You want another one?”

“No!” You squeal.

“Yeah you do.”

Dabi hooks his left thumb around the puckered hole, stretching you open further to dig a fourth finger into the cramped space.

“Shit, yeah — I like that.” Shigaraki nods in approval as he pumps his massive dick, anchoring from his wrist to his shoulder as he squeezes his plump cock-head.

He thrusts himself off of the wall, waddling over to the scene with his jeans bandaging his thighs together.

“Uh oh.” Dabi mocks, almost giddy once he sees how frantic Shigaraki’s strokes become, huffing with humid cotton-balled clouds of steam.

“Mmh.. want..” He staggers, almost losing his balance before stationing his forearm next to Dabi’s streaked mane of ink. “Pussy.. lemme’ see her twat..”

Instead of directing your stance by your waist, Dabi deems it appropriate to use the hooked fingers clenched inside your back-pussy as a handle, pulling your little ass up into a painful arch by the tiny hole, almost tearing you through the middle on his metallic spikes in the process.

“She’s all yours.” Dabi hollers at his Boss.

“Shut your mouth, stupid cunt.”

A pair of grimy fingers slither down towards your puffed up folds, while a third taps away at your ticklish little clit. He’s no longer aiming the head of his dick at himself, but rather the penny-sized hole left unoccupied below your taint.

His hand drops in favour of clutching your stomach, clawing and grappling with the squidgy meat as he rubs his penis through the slicked up gash.

Dabi’s satisfied with just observing, perching his chin atop your shoulder to visualise how your tiny cunny is gonna take his Boss’s fat, steaming horse-cock.

“Agh! Mmh — Mmh — Shit!”

Or not..

He chooses not to mention the strings of semen shooting against the denim of his jeans, in favour of keeping his head.

Or the same blobs of pearlescent coating dribbling out of your fuckable pussy-hole, left to waste after being soiled by Shigaraki’s acerbic spunk.

Dabi makes no effort to move until he’s sure the low-hanging set of balls swinging against his knee have come to a slow waltz, rocking leisurely beneath Shigaraki’s girth.

“Was that good, you little freak?”

Shigaraki’s unsure if Dabi’s talking to you or him, uncaring enough to ask as he basks in the glowy state of his post-nut glory.

It’s surprising how long it takes for the two men to recognise the faint sniffling smudged into the leather of Dabi’s shoulder, opaque spots of crystalline tears seeping into the veined material.

Dabi juts his bottom lip out, mocking your timid warbling. “Awh, you made her cry Shiggy.”

Shigaraki rolls his eyes, swivelling as he stuffs his cock and balls back into the pocket of his ratty underwear.

“She’ll get over it.”

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The Beggar's Door: A Retelling of "King Thrushbeard"

Oh, yes, King Gregor had a temper, but in this case, it was more than justified. You see, the king had gone through all the expense of hosting an enormous ball so every eligible suitor on the continent could vie for the hand of Princess Dulcibella, and what do you think she did? Not smile and curtsey and thank them for the honor, that’s for sure. She rejected every man to his face! And not politely! The princess had a tongue like a whip, and she scourged those high and mighty men with every insult you can imagine before declaring she would have none of them as a husband. Some of them were on the verge of declaring war.

So none of us were surprised when King Gregor, in a towering rage, summoned Princess Dulcibella to the throne room the next morning.

Princess Dulcibella was a beautiful maid—fair and willowy—and she walked toward her father with as dainty a step and as innocent an air as any woman who ever lived, humming a traveling minstrel’s tune.

“Daughter,” the king declared. “I have brought you here to meet your husband.”

The princess stopped humming. “Tradition states that a crown princess may choose her own husband.”

“Tradition also states that if the princess refuses all her suitors, she is wed to the first man to come into the king’s presence.”

Princess Dulcibella’s lovely face paled. “You would not be so barbaric.”

“You have left me no other choice.” The king pointed to the grand doors through which the princess had entered—the only entrance that had been left unbarred. “Your husband—the man of my choosing—will enter through that door at the stroke of ten.”

Everyone knew who that would be—Baldric of Eldria, a brute and bore (and, some said, a usurper), but king of the wealthiest nation on the continent.

At his words, a door opened—but not the great door.

In a shadowed corner of the throne room, a forgotten, barely visible door swung open on rusted hinges.

The king whirled upon his chamberlain. “I said all the doors were to be barred!”

The chamberlain was deathly pale. “Tradition states that the beggar’s door can never be barred.”

An old tradition, the beggar’s door, one that said the poor must be able to approach their king for help in desperate need, or else the kingdom would fall. No one had used the door in generations—but the door had remained open.

Through that door came a ragged young man, tattered shoes on his feet and a lute on his back. With a smile, he bowed to the princess, as graceful as any courtier.

“My king and my lady,” he said. “If you can spare a coin for a starving minstrel, I would be glad to repay your kindness with a song.”

He had charm, that ragged clown, and probably a nice face somewhere under the layer of dirt.

Princess Dulcibella smiled upon him—men had crossed continents for that smile—and, in the sight of a stunned crowd in the throne room, the minstrel began to sing.

O, come away, my fine young maiden Though I’ve no place to call my own We’ll wander through the wooded valleys And make the wild world our home

You know the song, but you’ve never heard it as he sang it. He had a voice like love itself come to life—as if he’d come a-purpose for wooing. We all were spellbound. The princess was enchanted.

He sang a verse or ten, and when the song finally faded, the king was the first to remember the purpose of the day. For all the unexpected happenings, he hadn’t forgotten his rage. He’d lost his chance at an alliance, but his revenge upon an ungrateful daughter was still within reach.

“Minstrel,” he declared. “You’ve won more than a coin. According to tradition, you have my daughter as bride to wed.”

The priest emerged from behind the throne—intended for a far more royal wedding. In the sight of us all, the princess and the beggar were bound as man and wife.

“Now, be gone from my house!” the king declared. “You’re a beggar’s wife, now, and can have no place here.”

Dulcibella was stripped of her finery, but somehow she didn’t seem to mind.

The minstrel took her in his arms and carried her out the beggar’s door—gazing upon each other with as much devotion as if they were any ordinary pair of lovers.

With that, they disappeared. I’ve not seen either of them again.

But I’ve heard stories.

Dulcibella was clever, you see, and her maids tell stories of a minstrel who would sing near her window on moonlit nights.

Some say she told him of the beggar’s door.

Some even say that the minstrel was no minstrel at all, but young King Alaric, cast down from the throne of Eldria, living in exile until he can reclaim his throne.

I don’t know what to believe, but I like to believe she’s happy as a beggar’s wife, and I believe there’s no better woman to someday take a place as queen.

King Baldric had better take care.

[mintmatcha]

5 pm on a Friday night, Kita starts a video call with Aran, Atsumu, Osamu, and Suna. thinking this is a mistake, none of them answer.

Until he calls again.

And again.

Atsumu answers from a bar, shouting over the rising noise.

"Are you dying?" he bemoans, "What warrants calling three times?"

"This could have been a text." Suna is hoarding a squat rack in his gym, leaned against a suspiciously heavy load.

"Guys, cool it," Aran whispers. His daughter is curled on his chest, blowing bubbles in her bottle, "Kita, tell us what's up."

Osamu says nothing. He's busy working, ear bud in one ear. Every now and again he nods to show he's still listening.

"I'm sorry, it's not an emergency."

"Kita-san!"

"Atsumu, shut up."

Kita gives a shaky laugh as he fumbles with his phone. It falls a couple time as he tries to stand in up against a ledge, but once it's settled, he steps back.

"I have a date tonight," he explains, rubbing the back of his neck, "Do I look like...?"

The grey haired man gestures to his outfit; a striped shirt under overalls. "Like a rice farmer?"

"Yes."

"You are a rice farmer, so it's not really a bad thing."

"It's not great."

Osamu spares the screen a glance, then nods wistfully. Then, he fumbles with his headphone cord, encrusting it with dirty fingers as he lifts it up to his mouth. "You gotta change the pants."

The rest of the group agrees.

"Do you still have those jeans from high school? Those made your ass look so fuckable."

Suna groans. "Dude, shut up."

"What do you want from me? I'm gay for men."

Aran's baby coos, detaching from her bottle.

"I'm with Osamu." The proud father of the group handles both crisises easily. "Lose the overalls. Maybe a clean shoe, too."

"Yeah, the white rubber boots are killing the vibe," Suna says.

"I think we are ignoring the fact Kita has a date." Atsumu says in a sing-song voice, taking a sip from a martini glass. Another hand quickly snatches it away.

"Drink your own drink, Miya."

"Omi-"

Kita has peeled off his outer layer and has begun scrambling through a nearby drawer. He finds what he's been tasked to: an older pair of blue jeans that fit just right. It takes a couple of jumps to get into them, but once they button, the chorus starts again.

"That's better."

"You look nice."

"Sooo fuckable."

Osamu gives the screen a thumbs up.

"Thank you all," Kita hopes they don't notice how pink his cheeks are, "I appreciate it."

"I expect an invite to the wedding," Aran takes the tiny hand of the baby and forces her to wave goodbye. She's too focused on dinner to notice.

"I expect juicy details about the sex." Atsumu nudges his date's side conspiratorially.

"Kita isn't a sex on the first date kind of guy."

"He should be!" Atsumu nudges his date, "We all deserve a little wet on our dicks-"

"Atsumu!"

"Tiny ears are listening!"

"Gag."

Kita laughs, but he's not sure why. Nerves he didn't realize were tense have been soothed.

"Thank you," he says, "I appreciate it."

[sukunasun]

Thinking about Geto who would have never thought he likes to be called daddy. Outside of being a real parent ofc. It’s unexpected. As Reader tries to work with the recently adopted twins to ease their trauma and get them ready for school via play therapy, they attach themselves to her easily, hungry for a maternal figure in their life. Whenever Geto sits in the waiting area for the session to end, Mimiko and Nanako blast out the door and Reader somehow always refer to him as daddy in their presence. “Oh, look, daddy is ready to pick you up”, “Go, tell daddy how good you two were”, “Come on, show these drawings to daddy”. And it has him in a chokehold. The word just sounds so good from her mouth. So good he might try to rizz her up. And he couldn’t care less about that it’s unprofessional for reader to fuck a client’s parent. For him it’s a challenge. A challenge to hear that word again. Just for him and nobody else.

why it sounds so good has less to do with sex but necessity. the assurance that he—single father of two with no experience, no status, and not a dime to his name—is a protector, capable and conscious of his life. no longer the smart-talking teen or charismatic cult leader with plans for world domination.

he thinks it shouldn't feel this good to be relied upon when he's barely thirty and buckles under pressure to make ends meet. three part-time jobs and it's still not enough. the stress of juggling priorities and responsibilities is immense. his wants and needs set aside. which is probably why his self-esteem tanked and he constantly feels like a failure. making mistakes, trying again, learning and re-learning the basics. how to cook, how to clean is more important. ultimately, 'how to parent' isn't a step-by-step process.

despite that, you don't see him differently. in fact, you admire him for it. "it can't be easy but you're doing a great job, the girls love you so much," you say, with clear eyes and unwavering affirmation—then asking his daughters in a fond and friendly tone—"isn't daddy the best?"

there are so many meanings to a word and he's aware you're only referring to him as the father of his children because making that distinction is important. it helps the girls get accustomed to seeing him as a parent, not just the person who's saved them. he won't jump to conclusions. he respects you after all. sweet sing-song voice and a heart of gold are just a bonus, you've helped his girls, you've helped him.

still, the novelty doesn't fade, and neither does the sentiment. the pride that blooms when he hears it ringing in his ears, resounding in his chest. he's daddy. geto rarely seeks approval. only compliance, obedience, and maybe servitude on a rare occasion...but praise and recognition? it's too hard to pass up when it's from you.

although, the sexual connotation lingers. curse his dirty mind filled with filthy intentions. he'd only just gotten the hang of keeping his composure around you, carrying conversations with ease while pushing those obscene thoughts away. they beg for his attention as much as your instructions do, 'remember this and that...' gets lost while pulling himself together before you catch on. eye contact and all smiles as he memorizes your face.

he's going to need it later. or whenever he requires a little help. his imagination works wonders but he's also a stickler for accuracy. your lab coat hides modest sweaters and long skirts, maybe a loose-fitting t-shirt when you and the girls play outside. he can't picture your figure underneath when nothing is revealing. not the heft and weight of perky bosoms and a full ass, the dip and curve of a waistline, part of him—all of him—hopes he'd be the only one who gets to pry those layers off you, unveiling that secret side.

your glasses give it away, shielding the same lewd thoughts of your own. he notices your wandering eyes coveting his body, feels your rapid heartbeat on the side of his arm when you're pressed close. he's well aware of the effect he has on most women, but especially for someone like you who tries so hard to resist.

as weeks went by, his plans to tempt you were coming closer to reaching fruition. "daddy talks about you a lot," nanako whispers as she lets you in on a secret and mimiko nods in agreement, her voice lowered too, "mhm, daddy said you're very smart and pretty."

they wouldn't lie about him, so you smile and take their word for it. falling for giggling faces hidden behind tiny hands. you reply, "that's so nice of him, please do thank him for me," for confidentiality's sake, because you wouldn't want geto getting embarrassed.

besides, there are rules on keeping them at a distance, they aren't your only clients, growing attached would make things difficult and you're starting to see the effects of it as the days go by. for all that talk about 'being professional' you spend too much time thinking about their daddy outside of these walls.

"you shouldn't give him preferential treatment..." says the receptionist, not hiding her cheshire cat grin. she's been watching you like a hawk since he walked in and made an appointment—it wasn't his body, or his face that caught your eye, both beautiful and modelled after a dream but once the shock has set in and you observed him closely, the scene has stuck with you since. his daughters are twins, both dressed well for the weather and there are no signs of distress in their expressions. they look at him like he's their favourite person. wide, shining eyes and a giddy-ness in their steps. he keeps them close to him, "no wandering around, let's not get lost," he said, sounding assertive but gentle at the same time. they nod, holding onto his pant leg on each side. the way his posture straightened tall, his expression serious as he filled out forms, requiring no assistance should you add, with the details when often most don't even remember birth dates or blood types.

most do the bare minimum but he stood out then in a suit, "i thought it was important to make a good first impression," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. it's hardly a formal occasion but the thought is appreciated when he looks so stunningly handsome. the other single mothers who come by seem to think so too. some bring him leftover bentos and homemade curry. you always thought they'd charm him well enough given that he's single—a fact you're surprisingly way too relieved about—but he remains happy and perfectly content as a bachelor.

the receptionist continues, pointing out these tiny changes you make to your routine—fixing your hair, using a new perfume, your voice pitches higher around him, repeatedly checking your reflection in your compact before his arrival—it's just as evident to you, the woman who's always been unbothered with keeping up appearances. "aw...does someone have a crush on daddy?" she pouts childishly.

"i like all my clients equally," you correct her, "and i don't see him that way. if anything, i just think he's a great parent is all. he's always on time for sessions and applies what we've learned. he's shown exceptional effort."

she wiggles her brows suggestively, "i bet he's exceptional in other ways too...if you know what i mean." ugh. just when you think it couldn't get worse.

"that's none of our business and we shouldn't be discussing this, it's very inappropriate," you know better than to jeopardize your position. you've worked hard for this, spent weeks gaining the trust of two very sweet and adorable girls, it's not worth considering an illicit affair. yes, an affair, because that's all it'll ever be when he's got too much on his plate.

"tsk, you're no fun," she swats you and your hardened face away, deciding then to finally get back to work, but not before she gets the last word in, sighing longingly, "i wonder if he'll ever marry..."

you admittedly do too. fantasizing about being his wife has become a habit and you like to think he'd make room for you, raising the girls together. there wouldn't want for anything because he gets shit done. so responsible and decisive. it's all about taking the initiative, unlike all the other lacklustre men you've dated before. he'll make plans and treat you to nice things. no excuses, no need to soothe bruised egos. it would be nice to be taken care of for once. so much so that it would be easy to relinquish control. all you need is a taste of submission.

geto isn't afraid of a challenge. not even if you play hard to get. how you'd like to step on his toes, a dominating figure who puts you in your place, you wouldn't make it easy for him when he doesn't cower at the sight of a well-made woman.

that night, you barely make it pass your door before your clothes come off. biting your lip and holding back a moan, feeling a heat rise in your belly. tonight isn't about getting it over with but to last as long as possible. or at least until you get to the good part without coming all over your fingers—imagining his weight pressing down onto you. legs folded up and resting upon broad, sturdy shoulders. feet lifted with no purchase, you can't do anything but take it as he thrusts slow and steady, feeling your tight walls clamp down. milking him for everything he's got.

your fingers slip in and the stretch barely measures up to the real thing as you mimic every drag and pull of his cock. you don't worry about size or shape because it belongs to him. how often you've thought about the weight of it on your tongue, dripping precum down your fist. you'd strip him out of his lame harem pants, his pressed trousers, those god-forsaken gym shorts that drive you crazy. taking him down your throat when it's hot out and he's just finished one of his many night shifts. you heard he's working at a restaurant now. oh he'd smell like grease and noodles but you couldn't care less. your mouth begs to suck him off. after all, it's the least you could do when daddy works so hard.

"shh, you wouldn't want the girls waking up," he'd warn, but doing just the opposite to keep you quiet. it makes your legs shake, craving it all the more. i'm sorry daddy, lies on tip of your tongue, you whisper it out into an empty bedroom. save for the sounds of the squelching, slippery mess you make.

he's vocal but not dramatic, he doesn't rush into things, and takes his time to talk you through it. "i know it feels good, i've got you, i'll make my baby come," his baby, you love the sound of it. his voice wraps around you like a cocoon. so secure you could let go, give in to him, submit. he'd tend to your pleasure more than his own. let him take charge, let him make full use of your pussy like he owns it. maybe he'll punish you if you disobey.

glasses askew, hair frazzled, resolve in shambles. your tears spill, they burn your cheeks. i can't, i shouldn't, you chant. it doesn't matter that his cock stretches you out deliciously, or that he sneaks a hand to wrap around your neck, you can't let this man make you lose all your inhibitions and better judgement. your mind races, wet and sticky fingers pumping faster, there's a ringing in your ears and you hear your own breaths huffing out, your pussy clenches and for a second, it feels like your orgasm might slip from you the more you hold back.

how real he appears in your mind's eye, "daddy, daddy, daddy please," you whine, cry, scream. a familiar wave builds and wrings a knot in your stomach, your clit throbs and your fingers jam themselves against that spot deep inside, wishing it was him prodding you with vigor. you're so close you think of his broad back, his sweaty neck, his veiny arms around you so tight. holding you hostage as he gently coaxes you towards the edge. "that's it," he groans and you swear you hear it above you— "come for daddy," and you're crumbling and coming undone at the seams, not the least bit sated or sure of facing him again the next morning.

[timesomewhere]

in honour of the West End's next to normal closing today I've finally proof-read my 'things I noticed/general thoughts' post that's been sitting in my drafts since I saw it earlier this month. it's very long I'm very sorry.

Act One:

it was really fun watching this show in September given that there's two references to it in the first song

I adore the monologue about the pills that Dr. Fine gives during 'Who's Crazy'. it's rhythmic and funny yet also unnerving. It's such a quick and impactful way to summarise what Diana has been through for the past 16 years

Gabe does a 'one of your French girls' pose on the kitchen counter under the cabinets during 'My Psychopharmacologist and I'

Jamie Parker made direct eye contact with me during the last part of 'Who's Crazy' and it was one of the most intense experiences of my life

I might just be dense but I don't get the point of the neon sign that says 'Fine' which drops down during the Dr. Fine scene. Initially I thought that then one would drop down saying 'Madden' during his scenes to help people differentiate between the doctors but then it didn't so it just feels like a weird extra prop

speaking of random props, shout out to the iPad on the table in the opening scene which Gabe pretty much instantly takes away after telling Diana that she shouldn't obsess over tragic news stories and is then never seen again as far as I remember

Dan in the flashback scene being such an optimist about Diana's pregnancy and the future they're gonna have together... soul-crushing

Caissie Levy's 'I Miss The Mountains.' Holy Shit.

I love how Diana and Gabe are the only characters who sing on/stand on the table. it's as though it's this extra dimension of the house that only they have access to and it's a really neat and subtle way to show that they relate to each other in ways other characters don't

'It's Gonna Be Good' is so underrated. Jamie Parker's somewhat genuine optimism becoming optimism-through-gritted-teeth is incredibly acted

The way Jamie delivers the first line of 'He's Not Here' is devastating. the heaviness of that moment as you feel the audience around you realising what's just happened is something I'll remember forever

Gabe body-blocking Dan from Diana during 'I Am the One' is such good staging. People talk about how Jack Wolfe plays Gabe with a lot of layers and a lot of simultaneous contradiction and this song is one of the best examples of that. how Jack manages to project a character who is goading his father and protecting his mother at the same time is beyond me

also Jack has maybe half-an-inch on Jamie which obviously isn't something the actors control but it does makes Gabe seem just that bit more threatening when he's getting in Dan's face

for the first part of Superboy and the Invisible Girl when it's just Natalie singing, Gabe is actively laughing. He's totally unperturbed by her efforts to make herself seen to her mother. it's only when Diana replies, particularly when she says "you're our little pride and joy, our perfect plan" that you see his face drop and you see him trying to figure out a way to stop her from getting Diana's attention which then results in him kicking her off the melody in her own song

"I'll hurt you" being directed at Dan and "I'll heal you" being directed at Diana as Gabe gently touches her face gets me so bad. but the most painful part of 'I'm Alive' for me is when Gabe looks at Dan as he says "I'm the perfect stranger who knows you too well." that's the first time you realise that perhaps Gabe doesn't just impact Diana, and there's something much larger at play

Caissie and Jack W's voices harmonising on 'Catch Me I'm Falling' was one of my favourite parts of the whole show. Their voices are so magical together and their mother/son chemistry is incredible

The 'I Dreamed A Dance' into 'There's a World' sequence is one of the most tragically beautiful things I've ever witnessed. I went into the show knowing what Gabe was trying to achieve during 'There's A World' and yet Jack's voice is so beautifully haunting you totally forget you're supposed to root against Gabe in that moment

Jamie Parker's 'I've Been' is some of the best acting through song out there. Interestingly my friend and I had very different interpretation's of what Gabe's horrified reaction to the blood meant. I viewed it as him being upset about what he convinced Diana to do - he doesn't like seeing her hurt. Whereas my friend saw it as him being angry at himself that she didn't manage to follow through, meaning that he has failed to regain control over her life

'I'm no sociopath, I'm no Sylvia Plath. I ain't no Frances Farmer kind of find for you' is one of the best musical theatre lyrics of all time. I genuinely don't know why I Miss The Mountains is the 'big song' known from N2N over 'Didn't I See This Movie?', it's just so good

Natalie's 'She trusts you!' line is heartbreaking, I was basically watching that entire scene through my fingers because of how high the emotion was

Act Two:

'Pfizer's woman of the year' will in fact be peak comedy every time. Eleanor's delivery is *chef's kiss*

Gabe having just one line in 'Wish I Were Here', and that line being 'Wish I were here.' Yeah. I feel very normal about that.

Natalie's line of "Can I hide my stupid hunger, fake some confidence and cheer?" being pretty much exactly what Gabe has done throughout the entirety of act 1

"And you're not a scary rockstar anymore" got one of the biggest laughs at both of the shows I went to

Dan's desperation during 'Better Than Before.' He is simultaneously trying to cajole Diana into remembering and get Natalie to be more positive. This one song really highlights how he's being pulled in a million different directions while trying to hold it all together and Jamie portrays that so well

Aftershocks. Wow. The way the last word of each line echoes throughout the theatre is great sound design. I've been in exam halls louder than the audience during that song. Holding a room that captive as a silhouette is quite the feat Jack Wolfe you will always be famous

"I don't know where the fucking pieces go" as Diana pushes things off the table as if there's a real jigsaw there that she's rage quitting and choosing to give up on is such a nice detail

"Have you talked of your depression, your delusions and your son?" The gasp in the theatre both times was sickening

the response of "good' in reply to "name?" when technically that was part of his name as they are the "Goodmans". I don't really have a point here I just think it's neat

The 'It's Gonna Be Good" reprise was one of my favourite Dan/Diana moments. Caissie and Jamie are really pushing each other to their emotional limits and they handle it so well

The first "Why stay?" is so fragile as Diana sits against the kitchen island. Also interesting given that Dan and Gabe will also sit against there later when they are at their lowest point in the story. The idea of the characters crawling to the 'centre/heart' of the home when they are at their weakest

"This is one old game that I can play so well" is the line that has stuck the most with me throughout the show. Jack's delivery of it while striding across the kitchen table - seemingly totally invincible - is crazy.

how Caissie manages to deliver "you shrugged and said that no one really knows" with humour and desperation at the same time is amazing

When Gabe and Diana stand on the table and if they let go of one another they'll fall. yeahhhhh.....

Gabe's realisation that Diana isn't going to give up on getting better. Totally collapsing in on himself and beginning to cry. How you manage to feel bad for him after all the destruction he's caused is wild

Diana's "maybe I'm tired of the game" relating back to Gabe's "this is one old game that I can play so well"

the lyrics in 'Hey #3' clearly reflecting things Diana has done, Henry cutting Natalie off at "bleeding in the bathtub"

"I am the one who'll heal you" being said to Dan not Diana this time

"Why didn't you go with her?" is the most devastating line in the whole musical I said what I said. Jamie's delivery of it is heart wrenching

the drums and bass kicking in for the loud part of I Am The One as Gabe becomes desperate to be seen once again

Jack and Jamie's acting in this moment is so intense. there's a moment where it's genuinely feels as though only one of them can make it out of the interaction alive

Jack's emphasis on the word 'loved' in the line "I am the one who loved you" nearly killed me on the spot. how somebody can deliver a line so desperately while remaining pitch perfect is unfair

Natalie coming in to kiss Dan's head at the start of 'Light' like Gabe kisses Diana's in the first scene. I'm such a sucker for a gut punching

the "And are they real?" line about Diana's parent's from Henry gets such a loud reaction from the audience. Some people laugh immediately, some people clearly get shocked out of their sobs. so good

In conclusion, this is my favourite musical of all time and I'm going to be so annoying waiting for the pro-shot to come out

[human-encounters-diary]

Day 8

Doubts regarding whether or not the Terran liked me where certainly and indisputably diminished at the beginning of the next cycle.

Quinn seemed to have predicted my intention of speaking to her as soon as possible, given that she sought me out shortly after the new cycle had begun. She was walking towards me in a rather strange manner, faster than normal walking, practically jumping with small flying phases in between taking the next step. I could not discern the purpose it was supposed to serve, but I was not given time to put too much thought into it.

She bared her teeth at me once again, although this time I did not recoil. One of her hands hit me languidly slightly above the juncture where my first pair of legs joined my upper body. I was uncertain what this gesture was supposed to convey. Was it an attack? Was she trying to notify me of an imminent danger approaching?

"I wanna show you something", she informed me. She waved her hand from my direction towards her body, which, if I inferred correctly out of the previous records, was supposed to signify me to follow her.

I trailed after her, letting her lead me to the emergency in question. As it turned out, there was no immediate emergency. The Terran came to a halt in front of one of the few windows built into the outer layer of the SIIR Noxos. She pointed to it as I joined her side, leaving a (as I aimed) respectful distance between the two of us. I followed her extended arm with my visual organs, ending up staring out of the window. 

I blinked. If there was an immediate threat outside the window in close proximity, I was not able to glimpse it. The human spoke up: "It‘s beautiful, isn‘t it?"

She had sunken to the floor, a rather alarming sight at first, but she seemed unharmed. 

I searched for an appropriate response, but in the end, I simply answered: "I suppose. Although my species does not linger in the beauty of transient things."

The human‘s face morphed into a grimace of displeasure. "Then what‘s the point in life?"

"My species believes that there is more to life than oneself, and that intelligent life is supposed to be dedicated to the exploration of science.", I eludicated.

"Hm. I guess y‘all aren‘t too different from some humans. Y‘know, we humans have the phrase 'Appreciate the little things'. I mean, the universe isn‘t exactly small, but…it‘s definitely nice to look at." "I suppose", I repeated.

I lowered myself onto the floor as well, as it seemed appropriate. I gazed upon the universe outside the window. I suppose there was something quite beautiful about it. 

Eventually, I broke the silence.

"May I ask a question?", I requested, careful not to be impolite. 

"Yeah, sure", she answered.

"I watched the video recording of your work in Sector 3, simply to control your work, and you…seemingly began to sing? While continuing to work? I am merely trying to understand the reasoning behind this. Does it serve a religious or cultural purpose?You were not bored by your task, were you?" My front pliers rattled quietly. Something about the thought of the human being bored made me…rather uneasy. Perhaps it was due to my mind imagining what the human might come up with to pass the time in case of boredom.

The Terran blew air out of her nostrils rather aggressively, but there were no other signs of irritation.

"Oh, no", she answered. "No, it‘s actually just because…well, my dad taught me everything he knows about handling machines, so when I used to help him out in the workshop in the afternoons, and we‘d be like…fixing a car engine or whatever, we always used to turn up the radio and sing along. It was kind of our thing. So nowadays, when I‘m working on something, I might start singing. Not out of boredom, just a habit."

"Your…dad.", I repeated, uncertain what that term was supposed to mean. 

She looked at me in a indiscernible manner. "Yeah, my father, my parent, whatever you wanna call it."

"I apologize. I was unfamiliar with that term.", I stated.

"Oh. Sure."

She opened her mouth once again to say: "Y‘know, um…I mainly just wanted to show you this and also thank you, y‘know, for…giving me something to work on."

"It was my pleasure. I admit I might have given you a rather simple task to begin with, but that was merely because, while the Vitrichl stated you were competent, he and I have…differentiating views on the word 'competent'."

She bared her teeth once again, although shortly, before raising to her full height and, for some inexplicable reason patting down her clothes as if to remove any dust, although her clothing was perfectly clean.

"Well, Cap wants to see me again today, so, I guess I‘ll see ya tomorrow."

"Indeed.", I retorted.

Without another word, she turned and waved one of her hands behind her as if to signal her departure.

[machineheraldbabe]

i made a flow chart of arcane's mastery of foils!

i think everything that makes arcane magical relies in their awesome use of foils that cross relationship dynamics/types/settings to make a plot that demands a lot of moral introspection. there's a key in the top left, but below i'll explain more of what i mean by the lines i've drawn.

simple enough, the colored lines represent the standing relationships. it's obvious that vi and jinx (red) are foils for silco and vander (purple), and so on. maybe less obvious/oblique is the comparison between heimerdinger and singed with silco and vander, but i think that speaks to the show's diversity in using this narrative technique.

the dashed lines are how i view the characters' morals and ethical codes throughout the show. none of them offer overly kind views, and maybe the vi/silco comparison is controversial, but if we examine the rhetoric in episode 3, much of what silco says to vander in the warehouse is mimicked by vi when she pleads with vander to understand her anger. this shared code obviously gets played out very differently and greatly informs the piltover/zaun divide.

the solid lines represent actions, or what i feel are defining instances of the show. jayce is really interesting in this regard! his attack on the shimmer plant accomplishes jinx AND vi's goals, despite those 2 being very distinct from one another.

the ekko and caitlyn comparison is interesting to me. they are very diametrically opposed - survival vs. naivety is a stark difference - but in episode 7, peace in the face of violence is demanded of them both.

overall, i think what this elucidated the most for me was a sort of "the sins of the father will be inherited by the son" motif. in their own ways, vi and jinx are playing out vander and silco's story, in much the same way that jayce and viktor are playing out singed and heimerdinger's past. but the bounds for comparison don't stop there - they layer on top of one another, and with wildcards like ekko and cait in the mix, it shows how complex a narrative the writers' have crafted!

let me know if you agree with these foils/comparisons or if i'm completely off base. i'm also excited to see how these ideas will develop in season 2.

[muddiedfoxglove]

actually, I'm not done.

Another thing I LOVED was the scene between Jace and Baela. The classic like "I hate my dad" vent to your boyfriend. And Jace being able to sympathize because he's been living with the man as his step-father for years, so he also knows what he is like. But without the layer of "that IS my father."

And then the way that Baela asked about Laenor, because she never knew him. Only from what her mother told her. And the way Jace smiles with fondness, and recalls only the good things about Laenor—teaching them to fish, sing sea shanties, eat cake. And then, she asks about Harwin....a bold move, a risk. But Jace trusts her, and shares with her just a small parcel of his mixed emotions about the man.

I love that the show acknowledged that while Harwin might be Jace's birth father, Laenor had just as much as an impact on him. Jace was SURE of Laenor's love, but he didn't know Harwin. Not beyond their stolen moments at the Red Keep.

And then, Jace being able to admit he misses his brother.

[sirdindjarin]

A Ghoul and a Vault-Dweller Walk Into a Bar

Cooper "The Ghoul" Howard x Lucy MacLean.

TAGS: Fluff, pining, introspection lol.

WARNINGS: Swearing, alcohol consumption.

Based off of this post ! I loved the idea and couldn't get it out of my head.

AO3 link 🤠

A few days after the events of the last episode, the Ghoul and Lucy take solace in a quiet saloon, only to find their dynamic is changing.

“Ain’t this a peach,” the Ghoul muttered, taking in the New Vegas saloon. It was a postwar attempt to recreate what no one still walking had ever experienced, but it was faithful enough to send the Ghoul back to the set of a movie some two centuries earlier. He could smell the burn of the stage lights, hear the staccato of studio executives arguing, and see PAs stumbling over cables in the background. 

His bittersweet reverie ended when - what else - the Vault Dweller opened her mouth. Again. 

Bouncing on her tiptoes, her wide smile was interrupted only by her exclamation, “Wow! This place is right out of a history book. Oh, gosh, look at that!” 

Hanging from the ceiling was a myriad of materials in various stages of rust and decay. Grimy, glaring patrons grumbled as Lucy rushed past their tables to examine some memorabilia plastered to the wall. She gingerly ran her gray forefinger over the rusted farm equipment. “See these? They used to pull these behind a tractor, or a horse, and it made furrows in the ground. That made it a lot easier for them to plant things like corn, tobacco, wheat -” 

The Ghoul ignored her lesson. Let the history buff have her boring version of fun, it’d give him some peace. After the past three days, he needed it. He strode toward the far end of the bar, spurs clinking.

Lucy had been silent after the revelation with her father. Downright catatonic, almost. The following morning, still in sight of the Hollywood sign, and out of the daggum goodness of his heart (truly, he’d been a saint to even think about it) he’d offered her a hit of an upper, but she’d curled her lip in disgust. No skin off his nose, he’d thought humorously, he would just let her stew. 

Before the sun had set that next day, however, the girl abruptly flipped from traumatized silence to her usual non-stop chatter. He hadn't asked what changed. The Ghoul assumed she'd come to terms with her father being an evil sonofabitch. He expected her trauma would rear its ugly head at some point, but that was a future problem. Once she started talking again, he had again been a saint - he’d only thought about shooting her once. And that only because she had asked him a stupid question. 

You mentioned finding your family. You have kids?

Sidling up to the bar top, his ragged coat slapping gently against the stool, the Ghoul’s attention was drawn to a jukebox against the wall to his right. Colorful lights flashed, dimmed by a layer of dust; but the old machine advertised it was ready to sing. He glanced curiously at some of the songs, felt a flicker of some emotion he wouldn’t put name to, and turned away. He drummed his gloved fingers on the wooden counter, impatient to have something to smother the spark of sadness. Here, the weight of the past was literally hanging over his head.

The Ghoul had directed his focus on the other end of the bar, where the barkeep seemed to be pointedly ignoring him, when a dull scraping sound alerted him to someone sitting beside him - between him and the mocking jukebox. 

“Hi! Barkeep?” Lucy beamed and motioned between herself and the Ghoul, “Could we get a drink, please?” 

The gruff man looked more like a patron than a bartender, all heavy gait and uninterested stare, but he raised his eyebrows at Lucy. The Ghoul laughed under his breath. 

“What?” She asked in a whisper. Grimacing, she worried, “Oh… is that not how you’re supposed to do it?”

“There’s a laundry list of things you shouldn’t be doin’, Vaultie, but flaggin’ down the bartender ain’t one of ‘em.” 

Lucy straightened her posture. “You know, we have established a mutual goal and I would appreciate mutual respect. I don’t think being laughed at is-”

“Sweetheart, I ain’t laughin’ at you; quit bein’ so sensitive,” the Ghoul stated flatly. “Don’t we make quite the damned pair? A Ghoul and a Vault Dweller walk into a bar…” he trailed off with another chuckle.

Lucy relaxed her shoulders, still feeling awkward. “Oh, haha.” 

“All we got is distilled water and tequila. Which’un you want?” The bartender interrupted, though he spoke only to Lucy.

“Uh, I would like to try the tequila. I still have some water leftover and it’ll be fun to try something new.” 

The bartender sucked on his teeth, turned, and left - resenting serving a peppy Vault Dweller and outright refusing to serve the arrogant ghoul seated beside her as though it was a person.

“They don’t much like my kind here, darlin’,” the Ghoul grinned lopsidedly. He tapped his holster with his new forefinger. “I’ll have to get my drink a different way.”

Eyes wide, Lucy nearly stood on the rung of the stool as she shouted to the bartender: “Make that two glasses of tequila, please.” 

The barkeep went still for a brief moment before deciding it wasn’t worth it. He’d seen some weird shit, but if this wasn’t the strangest duo he’d ever served, he’d eat a radroach. He sent the shots sliding down the well-worn wood counter with surprising skill, and they stopped directly in front of Lucy. She nudged one of the grimy glasses toward the Ghoul, who grunted. 

In those old movies, the characters often clinked their glasses together. Excited to perform a toast in a real saloon, Lucy raised her glass toward the Ghoul. Her eyes sparkled so earnestly that the Ghoul briefly considered indulging her. Instead, he tipped the shot glass into his parched mouth, eyes closing in satisfaction.

“Ah,” he hummed. This was nothing like the chems he used to stay sane, and tequila wasn’t his favorite, but damn if it didn’t feel like the alcohol stripped off some of the layers of the past week's shit.

Upon opening his eyes, he was surprised by the mix of amusement and regret in his chest at the way the girl’s face had fallen. It was childishly funny the way he could disappoint her so easily - as though they kept the same standards of behavior - but the pleasure of her disappointment only took the Ghoul so far. 

“Go on, sweetheart,” he goaded, his voice deep and persuasive. “It ain’t top-shelf but it ain’t lizard-piss, either.” 

“I don’t know what either of those mean,” Lucy mumbled as she brought the glass to her lips; she winced as fumes burned her nostrils. Abandoning caution, she threw the clear liquid into her mouth and swallowed as the Ghoul had. The liquid stung as it slid down her throat; her mouth puckered. Fighting the urge to cough, she cleared her throat instead. Lucy refused to let the Ghoul have anything more to bully her about.

Lucy blinked away the wetness in her eyes. The Ghoul was watching her. Lucy couldn’t discern the look in his eye, but it wasn’t one she’d seen before. The Ghoul had made certain of that. 

“That was, um, so good,” she grimaced. But the warmth in her chest and stomach was pleasant. “You want another?”

The Ghoul chuckled, “If you’re buyin’.” 

***

“No, I only meant it as a compliment,” Lucy slurred, blushing furiously. She was only four shots in, but the Ghoul was starting to get concerned that she would throw up on him. Lucy wobbled on her stool. “Really, they’re nice eyes. No, ‘m okey dokey. Wow, this stuff is strong.” She held her hand out in front of her and wiggled her fingers, fascinated by the way her vision seemed to be a half-second beyond reality. 

“Must be. You,” he pointed in her face, “can’t handle your liquor.”

"Hey, it’s my first try," she steadied herself. 

“It’s gon’ be your last if you paint my boots. You look a little green, Vaultie.”

Her big brown eyes refocused on the Ghoul. “Okay, well, distract me. I know you won’t tell me anything about yourself.” 

He tensed. 

“And that’s okay. But I don't even know your name." Lucy threw him a frown, "What if I have to call for you - what am I supposed to say?” 

The Ghoul chewed at the inside of his cheek, tearing away some skin as he considered. He’d had twelve shots. She wasn’t asking anything too revealing; and she had saved his life. And maybe all her “Do Unto Others” bullshit wasn’t bullshit, but he still wasn’t about to crack open like a can of biscuits. The Ghoul gazed down into her doe eyes, then he and the tequila made a decision.

“Cooper,” he answered after safely looking away, his voice rough over the word.

Something scratched at the back of Lucy’s brain. Tipsy as she was, she knew this was important - she did not want to ruin whatever progress they seemed to have made. She nodded and replied politely, “That’s a good name. Cooper.” 

Lucy watched the rainbow of lights as they reflected off the shiny bar. She slid off the stool and leaned over the jukebox, flipping idly through the songs. 

Cooper held his thirteenth shot in his gloved hand as he stared ahead at the blank wall of the now-empty saloon. After they had collectively purchased nearly twenty shots, the bartender had lost all sense of distaste for either of them; he now sat in a chair, dozing, waiting for the Ghoul and the Vault Dweller to ask him for more. 

A gasp came from Cooper’s right. His stool groaned as he turned, and he saw Lucy grinning up at him.

“Look at this song: I Walk the Line. It’s from one of my favorite movies -” 

Cooper's stomach lurched. 

“A Man and His Dog.” Lucy selected the song. “And the main character’s real name was Cooper. Used to watch those old Westerns with - with my dad all the time. The best ones are the ones with him. With Cooper Howard, I mean. He was always the good guy. He never hurt anyone. Well, unless he absolutely had to, of course.” She began to wax poetic about ethics, and her audience of one tuned out. The gruff croon of Johnny Cash filled the otherwise silent building.

Cooper Howard debated whether or not he should tell her the truth. He didn’t know how much she knew about his life as an actor - some of her questions about his family could be answered if she knew about his widely-publicized, definitely-public-record divorce - but seeing her face when she learned that her favorite cowboy movie star was the radiation-ravaged monster sitting beside her would be hilarious.

I keep my eyes wide open all the time

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds

Well, would it be hilarious? Cooper wasn’t so certain anymore. Lucy’s disappointment in him was rapidly losing its luster. Her cowboy had fallen a height that would’ve killed anyone else - had killed almost everyone else. The good man she idolized was dead. He wouldn’t resurrect him just to kill him again in front of Lucy. 

For the second time that afternoon, she pulled him abruptly from a reverie. 

“I wonder what it was like. Everyone in these saloons… with a jukebox playing while you dance with a handsome stranger,” Lucy gazed out at the empty room. “It must’ve been incredible.”

Cooper didn’t correct her about jukeboxes and saloons. Instead, he took his thirteenth shot, allowing it to burn away what was left of his judgment. 

“Well, come on down, darlin’.” He held out his hand - the one that was one-fifth her.

Dubious, distrustful despite their fledgling partnership, Lucy’s eyes darted between his outstretched hand and his dark eyes. This man had cut off her finger less than a week before. He’d tried to sell her. 

But this wasn't a desperate game of cat and mouse, and he no longer believed she was a lying murderer. (That conversation had been a hoot. One of the few times he’d asked her a question, Cooper had wondered what possessed her to cut off Wilzig’s fuckin’ head, and, after she told him Wilzig had left her no choice, she tearfully described the sound of his spine severing and nearly vomited. The Ghoul had laughed.) She was here of her own choice. Lucy chose to follow the Ghoul - Cooper - into the Wilds and the Wasteland. She trusted him now, and he her.

“It’s alright, Vaultie. Y’know I won’t bite,” he drawled with a smirk. “Of the two’ve us, which one has bitten the other?” 

“Wh-?” Lucy started to ask, then decided better of it. Cooper had given her his name and his trust. He had been as kind as summer by Wasteland standards, and she would be damned if her manners were the poor ones. She took his hand.

As sure as night is dark and day is light

I keep you on my mind both day and night

The room was spinning, and Lucy wasn’t sure if the blame should be placed on the tequila or the Ghoul who held her so gently. This was a far cry from the lasso he’d thrown around her last week. She opened her mouth, fully intent on telling him See, the Golden Rule is golden for a reason. But when his hand slid slowly from the curve of her waist to the small of her back, she found that the words were missing. 

He guided them in a small, slow circle. Cooper’s chest was pressed up against her own, and it was though his centuries-deep layers of leather and cotton, and her pristine, thick Vault-Tec suit were non-existent. The vulnerability set his teeth on edge, but it relaxed Lucy. She let the music, the alcohol, and the Ghoul take her. Uncharacteristically shy, and somewhat nauseous, she laid her head on his shoulder. 

Cooper hummed along with Johnny Cash, letting himself feel a modicum of peace in this improbable, inexplicable bubble. He could feel Lucy’s heart beating rapidly beneath her garish suit. His own heart felt like the tattoo of a horse’s hooves. Cooper’s jaw tensed as he wondered how she’d feel to know that. He found himself hoping. 

Hope and contentment were as foreign to him as a nose and hair, now. Yet he felt the gnaw of yearning. Lucy was a reflection and a time machine. Maybe that cowboy - the one who deserved both hope and contentment - could live again. 

And happiness I've known proves that it's right

Because you're mine, I walk the line.

[animestsstuff2]

A dragons beauty

Barbarian Katsuki x reader

Content warning: dysfunctional family, mental abuse, reader is slightly anxious/quick to upset over outbursts due to endeavour being her father

Also! Any dialogue like this “words words words” with a strike through it is Dragon-blood togue. I dont have any special font for it lol and i also feel like this makes it harder to read since technically you! The reader dont understand it and obviously bold words/sentences are your thoughts!

Part 3

Masterlist

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You sniffled as you packed your clothes into the leather trunk on your bed. The past three days had been the worst of your life, you spent day and night crying and when your tears finally dried up and you felt you could accept your new life thoughts of leaving your family made you crumble all over again. You closed the trunk up. You looked around your room wiping your dry eyes as you grabbed the trunk and sat it on the ground. It was early morning, birds singing. you weren't even dressed yet, wanting to delay your departure as much as possible. You slipped your dress, it was quite cold this morning so you made sure you were layered up with your white cloak.

Your maid Hana entered your room and came round, tying the lace backing of the dress as you stared blankly ahead ill never see Fuyumi again, or Natsuo or Shoto again.

Hana finished and excused herself. you grabbed your smaller more delicate belongings, like your sketch book, hairbrush and other hygiene and accessories and packed them into your leather satchel.

A knock sounded at your door and you sighed, looking at the large clock opposite you. Your father was here, going over and opening the door you met his gaze, curtsying quickly and then looking away. You watched as two servants moved into your room and grabbed your packed belongings.

"lets go Kya and I don't want a scene, everyone is waiting at the gate" He informed and you nodded staying silent as yous headed to the outer gate. You seen as everyone was already there. The Dragon-blood clan ready on wagons and horses, some on foot. Your siblings stood off to the side and you looked up at your father who gave a small nod and you ran over, allowing yourself to be pulled in by their arms as they embraced you tightly. You pulled away feeling fresh tears prick the corners of your eyes as you looked at them all. "ill write every day Kya, don't worry and I talked to father about visiting and he said we could soon" Fuyumi reassured you. you nodded smiling at her, she was always so optimistic as if father would let her travel to see you in the mountains. Natsuo just kissed your forehead as he ruffled your hair. "Kya, I want you to have this" Shoto spoke, you looked over to him and seen he held an item wrapped in leather, bound by twine. You looked at him curious, taking it and going to untie it when he stopped you. "no, don't open it here. it'll keep you safe, only use it when you feel you need to" You stared at your brother, brows slightly furrowed. he was always so..so cryptic never fully explaining something. you only nodded and he gave you a small smile. "Come on Kya" Your father called and you gave your siblings a small smile. Fuyumi broke down, tears falling from her eyes as Natsuo wrapped his arm around her pulling her into him. His eyes pricked with tiny tears as well. You headed over to your father who stood by a wooden wagon covered by a tarp, hiding what was inside. he pulled back the opening and your eyes widened seeing Bakugou inside. Your father helped you as you climbed in on trembling legs, scared to be alone with him, especially after last night. You settled on the small wooden bench beside him, annoyed there weren't more seating areas, keeping your eyes trained ahead. you seen that same red-headed man jump up in the drivers seat. He flashed you a small grin which you returned.

He raised the leather straps bringing them down on the horses back in a quick movement as he shouted something in his language. The horses marched on and the sudden movement caused you to lose your balance. You fell back and bumped into him. His arms came to grab your waist as he helped you sit back up, whipping your head round you met his narrowed red eyes. your cheeks an obvious red. "Im ever so sorry!" you squeaked out as you tightened your grip on the leather clad item still in your hand. He only chuffed at you and rolled his eyes, your eyes widened as your nose subconsciously crinkled at his disgusting attitude. You turned back around, watching the scenery change. how rude, it was obviously an accident I bumped into him.

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You yawned as you leaned slightly against the tarp behind you. You had been travelling for hours now, well you assumed. Your satchel with your pocket watch was nowhere to be seen but it was now dusk and the sun had just rose when you left. The journey had been quiet the only speaking was done between Katsuki and his friend who drove the cart, of course you understood nothing they said. You yawned again, eyes hooded slightly as the rolling of the wagon lulled you. You turned, pulling your legs up to curl around you as you leaned further against the wooden brace the tarp wrapped around. I'm sure we'll be there soon.

Your eyes closed as your head leaned further against the wooden brace of the tarp. The wrapped item in your slipped from your lap, alerting the men up frontKatsuki turned and seen you curled up, eyes closed as your chest rose and fell softly. He only rolled his eyes at you, turning back to face the path ahead.

"Shouldn’t you check on her chief?" His red headed friend asked, the blonde only rolled his eyes at his friends question.

“No, its not my responsibility” he scoffed, the horses plodded on. The path now becoming more bumpy as they entered the higher mountains, close now to their base. You groaned softly as the wagon rocked more roughly. Bakugou turned his head once more seeing your body shuffling closer to the edge of the small wooden seat.

“Bakugou! Shes going to fall” his friend scolded. Bakugou grumbled at his friends insistence and got up, moving back he arranged yous both so that your head lay in his lap as he held your body; his hand sitting on your waist.

He looked down at you, brows furrowed as he stared at your peaceful face. He was still furious with you for refusing to kiss him at your wedding. He didn’t understand you knew for months of the wedding like him and even so it was just a kiss. He supposed anyone would be nervous to kiss him, he is well known.

The wagon came to a halt and Bakugou looked up, recognising his home. Their small wooden gates opened allowing them to enter. The large campfire inside nothing but embers showing everyone had returned to their tents. He lifted your head up as he stood and reached under you, lifting you in his arms. You stirred lightly as he got off the wagon and walked towards his tent informing his friend to gather your belongings and bring them to the tent.

His house was far in the back of the settlement, away from everyone elses. A large round circle made of wood with a tarp roof made of animal skins and leather. He pushed the tarp door aside and entered, going over and laying you down on his bedding of animal fur and skins. His bed made of wooden logs making it slightly higher than the ground. He undressed himself, leaving himself in just his briefs looking at you and wondering if he should undress you.

He decided against it and instead got in beside you, pulling the fluffy pelt over you both as he turned and closed his eyes, hearing your stir and move he grumbled and grabbed your waist, pulling you into him. You settled pushing against the warmth of his chest and quietening down.

He heard his friend Kirishima enter and place your belongings somewhere before leaving. He tightened his hold on you as he let out a sigh and fell asleep

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Oh yeah, i wasn’t sure how to describe it but Bakugous house is a yurt. If yous want to search that up to have a better idea of it, some other characters also have these like his parents and higher ranked people in his tribe.