#knifeworks

[ladyverdance]

mad respect for the writers of vincenzo who established him as an incredibly dangerous person in episode one and then spent seventeen whole episodes afterwards exploring every other soft and engaging aspect of him to the extent that everybody forgot he was basically head of the literal mafia. before bringing it home in probably the most satisfying way possible in the last few episodes that he is at heart a sadistic morally gray killer with absolutely no qualms about going all the way when he wants to.

like remember that he gets comments on his knifework remember that he shot a man point blank and tortured countless others and decided that the best way to destroy someone is to first strip them of everything they know and love. remember that he's actually been going easy on these people not because he's trying to be better but because it's a hassle. it's a hassle, guys. that's my gatto sazio btw that's the man who burned someone's livelihood in his very first scene and then just walked away.

[temperjoke]

Caravan Day

Alys was a simple girl. She enjoyed her work, she enjoyed her coworkers, and didn't worry about much in the world. She'd been born and raised in the area, a town over from Stonewood in fact. When Stonewood's fortunes had started rising, she'd moved to the growing city, determined to improve her lot.

Being a local had helped in a lot of ways. One, you learned the caravans and could easily guess what they'd be bringing by the time of year. More importantly, the troublemakers tended to leave the locals alone, as the troublemakers still had to live with their neighbors at the end of the day.

Of course, the increase prospecting and ceruleum mining brought new blood to the area, miners and the folks that profited off the miners. Like wolves tracking the herds, bandits and the like followed the money. These new thugs had no respect for the locals or their customs. Sometimes they raided the caravans, sometimes the towns, usually leading to a posse being formed to curb the troublemakers.

Of course, sometimes one or two of the vermin escaped the law.

----

Alys hummed to herself as she walked along the street. The latest caravan had just arrived yesterday, and word on the street was that this group had some books from back east! She was hoping that they had brought the latest novel in the series she had been reading with them this time. She just had to know if the doctor finally confessed his feelings or not! Ducking down a side alley that would get her to the caravan grounds just a little faster, she hurried along.

Unfortunately, she hadn't noticed a shadow step into the alley ahead of her, until she bumped head first into a thick, muscled chest.

"Oh! I'm sorry!"

"Hrmph, I think you owe me more than an apology, girl."

The brute moved in closer, causing Alys to instinctively step back against the building wall. The man slammed his hand on the wall, pinning her in.

Alys looked at the hand, then at the brute, letting a little fear show in her eyes. "You're not from around here, are you?"

The man barked a laugh. "What's that got to do with anythin'? How about you start with givin' me a kiss and we'll go from there." He ran his finger along her collarbone.

"Well, it's just a local would know better than to try anything with me."

As she finished her sentence, a blade suddenly appeared in her hand, and in a flash the edge pressed against the thug's neck. A thin line of blood seeped at the edge of the blade. She swapped places with him in a pivot, while pulling a second knife out in case he wasn't alone.

"Now, maybe you should think twice about messin' with us locals and get yerself outta town."

Alys sliced up with the knife in her right had, right through his belt, and down with her left, leaving him a scar across his neck to remember the lesson by. As he grabbed his pants to keep them from tripping, he ran back out of the alley. Alys watched him go while wiping off the edge of her blade.

Now, back to her shopping!

[ceslatoil]

Berserk 97 AU where they’re all chefs at a prestige restaurant. The Bear-Serk.

[cultofarfri]

knifework08

[kikunai]

i think people should randomly pick up twigs on the ground and just. idk. do knifework on them. peel its bark.

[cannibalisticskittles]

The pantry door is ajar rather than fully open today, so Rook raps twice on the doorframe before nudging it open and ducking inside. 

Lucanis is at his desk, charcoal in hand, diligently writing in his notebook. A single candle burns on the desk beside him. Not much of a meltpool around it, or at least, not enough for her to see one from here. He can’t have been at this for long, then. 

Rook glances down at the folded letter in her hand – another plea for action from Jacobus – before she speaks. 

“Lucanis,” she begins, “have you heard anything else from Treviso lately? New information from Teia and Viago?”

“Rook. Came. To visit?”

Ah, it’s Spite’s turn at the wheel. The voice – a little scratchier, a little deeper – leaves no question about that.

But… now that she’s really looking at him, she should have known that already. Spite has more of a hunch to his back when he sits, and his grip on the charcoal is – well, it’s a touch less careful than she would expect from Lucanis. She should’ve noticed as soon as she stepped in. If she wasn’t so preoccupied – but it doesn’t matter. Rook tucks the letter into a pocket. Next moves will have to wait.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s good to see you, Spite. What are you getting up to? Not too much trouble, I hope?”

“Making notes,” he says, and looks back at the notebook. “Documenting. Like he does.”

“Oh?” Rook crosses the room and comes to stand beside him. There’s a few scrawled notes, yes, but more than that…

“You have,” she says peering down at the geometric lines decorating the page, “the remarkable ability to create the straightest freehand lines I’ve ever seen.” Particularly given that he’s piloting the body of a caffeine addict running on two or three hours of sleep a night, if that. That this combination does not result in shaky, quavering writing is a wonder in itself.

“Is that. What makes his hands. Nice?”

“–come again?”

“Before. You said. His hands. Were nice.” Spite looks up from the page now, back at her. 

“Oh,” she says, casting her mind back and attempting to recall when, exactly, he is referring to. “Well. I don’t know that this was quite what I meant.” Really, she’d probably just meant that it would be nice for Lucanis to not wake up with burns covering his palms. 

“Then. What?” 

He leans closer still to her, as if searching for answers in her face. Strange to be under such close scrutiny and yet not feel the need to shy away, but Spite doesn’t mean anything by it. 

“We-e-ell… he’s very precise with his knife – in and out of battle.” She’d thought she had passable kitchen skills before she met Lucanis, but if the others in the Necropolis could know what it was like to dice an onion with even a quarter of his skill, supper would have been a far more joyous occasion. “And he knits, too. So he’s as deft with fine details as he is with, ah, broader movements. Y’know.” She mimics stabbing the air. “And…”

And she imagines he would direct just as much care and fidelity into his motions if his hands were to find themselves cupping her jaw, or on her hips, or–

“Rook does this. Too.”

For one, brief moment, she forgets that it is not her head Spite can see into, and he is not referring to what she was thinking about. So, then, he means – 

She stifles a laugh. Spite does not seem to notice, or if he does, he does not take offense. 

“To a degree,” she agrees. “But I’m afraid I cannot match the dexterousness Lucanis possesses. My knifework suffices because I can send a mass of necrotic energy along with it, but it’s really just a focus to channel magic through. If I were to rely solely on a blade, I’d be hard-pressed to do any real damage, and my movements would be… a fair bit clumsier.”

Unbidden, she remembers those close quarters moments down in the Necropolis, pitted against Baron von Markham. The waving of arms and fluttering of fingers to evoke the image of some grand spell being cast. The look on his poncy face when she dropped this pretence and lunged at him with the snapped off pole that once held one of his precious, territory-claiming banners. The struggle; the scuffle; the ragged breathing as she exerted all her energy to thrust it into his chest and then slash and smash and shatter and crush until she was certain he would never move again. 

And the absolute mess of his remains in that urn… she’s certain that Lucanis has never made such a mess of a contract before. Not like that.

Rook shakes off her reverie. “No,” she concludes, “it isn’t quite the same.”

Spite’s brow furrows. “Are Rook’s hands. Not. Nice? Only Lucanis?”

“Mm, I don’t know that I would go that far. They’re different, that’s all.”

“What makes them. Different?”

“Practice?” she suggests. “Repeating the same motion or skill over and over again builds the ability to do it better the next time. Makes quicker mental pathways – and it can make a physical difference in the musculature of the hands. Or in any part of the body that’s used,” she adds. 

Spite looks down at his hands – at Lucanis’ hands – turning them over, then back. Then, his gaze meets hers once more. 

“Let me. See.”

His words are decisive, but it’s less of a demand than it seems on its face. She could decline easily. Not much he could do about it. But she will oblige. It’s good for Spite to have a safe way to test the constraints of this world, so different from the one he comes from. 

“Certainly.” She holds out both hands and Spite rises with haste, nearly knocking the chair back as he reaches for her. This time, she does not bother to muffle her laugh. “They’re not going to wander off,” she says.

Spite takes first one, then the other, until he is turning both of her hands back and forth, examining them from mere inches away. 

“The musculature is likely to have some distinct divergences, but it can be difficult to see that from the outside,” she says, suppressing the urge to point out the way her palmar interossei muscles engage with the gentle flexion of Spite bending her fingers towards her palm, or how his flexor digitorum superficialis and profundus allow him to take hold of her fingers now. “Far easier to see during an autopsy – which we will, ah, not be doing today.”

Spite makes a noise that is not quite a growl, but which nevertheless conveys no small amount of frustration. 

“You can still learn quite a bit while leaving the skin intact, though,” Rook says. “Look here, at these calluses.”

She tugs until he gets the cue to stop testing the flexibility of her fingers and loosens his grip, then turns both her palms up. 

“Thickened layers of skin that build up in response to repeated friction.” She rubs her right thumb over her index finger. “From writing. Used to be more prominent, but they faded a little after I finished my thesis, and after leaving the Necropolis, well… I haven’t had many opportunities to write more than the occasional letter home.”

Spite pulls the hand in question nearer and, for a moment, just stares and stares, then traces over the spots she’d touched much as she did. He repeats this a few times, light enough that she snorts at the ticklish sensation this elicits. Then, he drops her hand abruptly and stares at Lucanis’ right hand. He probes the index finger inquisitively. 

“The same,” he says. 

“Yes, very similar to mine,” she says. “No surprise there. Lucanis keeps diligent notes now, but… I don’t suppose they gave you – him – access to writing tools down in the Ossuary, did they?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Spite’s voice. A simmering anger that emerges at the mention of the place that bound and trapped the two of them. “Kept logs. In his head. Only.”

“Right,” she nods. “So, not too much time to build up since getting out, but if he keeps up the habit – and if you do, too – those may become a little rougher, in time.”

He pokes at this again for a little while, then turns his attention to the ones at the base of the index finger and just below it, on the palm, then to smaller calluses along the first knuckle of Lucanis’ other fingers. 

Spite looks at her. “These.”

She catches the unspoken question: explain.

“These, I’d wager, come from all that bladework,” she says. 

Spite looks at Lucanis’ hands a moment longer, then at Rook’s, fingers passing over her palms. Then, over Lucanis’ once more.  

“…more here. Than. Rook.”

“Yes!” She beams at Spite. “Very observant. You’re really getting attuned to physical senses.” 

Spite bares his teeth in a facsimile of a grin at her words, the mark of one who is a little unused to making such an expression. She wonders if he has a form that can smile when he’s not possessing Lucanis. She’s never seen a spirit of Spite made manifest before. 

“Been. Practicing!”

“I can tell!”

Space still seems to be oddly difficult for Spite, but up close, sound and smell and touch all seem manageable, particularly in recent days. She’d like to ask him how his ability to perceive taste has been developing, but despite her attempts to offer more suitable methods of testing that, he remains most drawn to things that would make Lucanis sick, if indulged; drawn to the allure of a magical candle more than a pilfered sweet from the catacombs. Best not to bring it up, for now. 

“How. To tell?” Spite asks. 

“That you’ve been practicing?”

“No. Tell. Where. They come from. What makes them.”

“Ah. It can be difficult to know for sure, without outside context, as they can come from using various tools as easily as they can come from weapons – but you can generally tell how frequent the use is based on how numerous and how thick the calluses are.” She flexes her fingers. “So when you compare our hands, you can tell that I don’t handle knives to the same extent that Lucanis does.”

Spite’s gaze, faintly glowing, darts between their hands again, then back to Rook’s face. “What. Else?”

“Well… beyond external appearance and what can be gleaned by observing them at rest, you get the clearest idea of what they can do by… putting them to use – or watching someone else do it. Seeing them in action. How fast they can move, how strong their grip is…”

She laces her fingers together and presses her palms together demonstratively. Demonstrative of what, exactly, is unclear, but she’s not about to summon fire and kick off that whole debate again, so – something simple. A physical touchstone for him to reference. 

Spite does the same, watching her as though to confirm that he’s doing it right, so she nods encouragingly. Spurred on, he spends a long moment just staring at his pressed together hands, turning them about and looking at them from different angles.

“Mmm…”

She’s not actually sure how to interpret that noise. Not overly frustrated, yet not content. Contemplative, perhaps? He continues turning his – Lucanis’ – linked hands together, so she leaves it be. It doesn’t occupy him for terribly long, though. Soon, his eyes return to Rook and he separates his hands – and then reaches for her wrist. Again, she obliges, following until their palms are aligned. 

“You. Try.”

A comparison? Well, why not? She slots her fingers in the spaces between and squeezes lightly. 

Again, he makes a contemplative noise. “Now I go.”

Rook has only a brief moment to bask in the feeling that she is successfully assisting Spite in expanding his understanding of this plane – bonding, even! – before he clenches his fingers with far more pressure than is comfortable. 

“Ah–” She winces, but resists the urge to pull away. “Spite, my friend, you must remember that mortal vessels are fragile things; be gentle.” She squeezes back, a little firmer than she did before but still with markedly less force than he is exerting now. “You see?”

Spite grumbles, but the pressure does ease. “What. Is the point. If not. Testing limits?”

“Learning them, I suppose, if not exactly pushing them.”

“And?”

“And… not much else. I think I’m out of things to show you,” she says, “on this topic, anyhow. If you’d like to really suss out all the things they can do, perhaps you could ask Lucanis to show you some tricks. I’m sure–”

A noise outside the pantry breaks her concentration. Something falling? A log shifting in the fireplace? Or perhaps the dining room doors opening? Not likely to be urgent either way. Still, she makes a note to look into that later before looking back to Spite.

Only it isn’t Spite.

“Rook?”

Softer. Smoother. And unmistakably confused. 

“–Lucanis.”

He’s blinking heavily, as though awakening from a deep sleep – which he is, really. His body may have been active, with Spite at the wheel, but his mind was drifting in dreamland. 

“What are you… what am I…? Rook, what happened?”

Only now does she become aware of their proximity. It hadn’t seemed so strange before – Spite can’t really be expected to have the same understanding of personal boundaries among polite society with so little exposure to the idea, but now she realizes that they’re so close she can feel the warmth radiating off of him – so close she can feel his breath against her skin. Maker, they’re practically nose-to-nose – and they are still holding hands.

It’s a realization he makes a mere fraction of a second after she does, as his eyes take in the room around them, the candle on the desk, her, and then finally dart down to their joined hands between them.

Ah. 

She takes a step backward, chagrined to find that detangling her fingers from his is slightly trickier than she’d anticipated and she does not manage to do it in the swift, smooth motion she was hoping for. It takes only a moment, but that moment seems to stretch out for far too long. 

“Lucanis,” Rook says again. “It’s… good to see you awake again.” That… was not an answer. And she should probably not still be this close to him, even if she has let go. She takes another shuffling step back. “I, ah, came to ask about how things were going in Treviso, but when I got here, Spite was writing, and he had some questions. …about hands.”

“About hands?” Lucanis’ brow furrows slightly. “Again?”

Again?

“Oh, did he already ply you for answers? That… rascal. Ha.” What the hell is she saying? She’s veered too hard into trying to sound nonchalant. Pivot back, now, before she makes this even stranger. 

“He – nevermind.” Lucanis shakes his head. “He didn’t do… anything else?”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” she says. “I mean, I can’t speak to what he was doing before I came in, but… making notes and talking, that’s all I saw him do.”

“Good. Still…” Lucanis glances askance, sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks up at her then, and Maker but he has the most beautiful eyes. No, focus, he’s speaking now. “I am sorry. That he bothered you again.”

“No! No. It’s fine, really, it’s – I know what he’s like and he was only curious, and I… really should have just waited until you were awake and came back then, instead of… intruding.”

At that, Lucanis chuckles. “Rook. You’re not intruding.” The ghost of a smile that graced his lips fades quickly into something markedly more bitter. “If anyone is, it’s him.” There’s no heat in the words, though, just… exhaustion. Another sigh, and Lucanis swipes a hand over his face. “...no. It isn’t his fault, either. I just wish–” 

His words fade into a grumble she can’t quite make out, but… she can imagine how he would’ve finished it. The looming threat of a loss of control – of waking up somewhere else having done Maker knows what – lurking around every corner… well. It can’t feel great.  

“…hey,” she starts, “at least he stayed put, right?”

Now he does smile wryly. “I asked Emmrich to put wards on the room,” he says, “after the last time Spite slipped out.”

“Ah.” That… makes sense, actually. Something about the pantry did feel different lately. She might be losing her touch, to not have recognized it sooner. “Nevermind, then.”

“You should rest easier now, knowing he won’t be able to wander as freely,” Lucanis says. 

His words give her pause.

While many outside Nevarra may call those such as Spite demons, the Mourn Watch takes a more… nuanced stance on such matters. Each spirit is unique, just as each living person is, and while there may be certain dangers or pitfalls associated with some, they must be taken as the individual they are to truly understand them – and, when considered this way, Spite just… isn’t a fearsome figure. There’s the risk of being caught up in a tantrum, she supposed, but she can’t say she’s ever lost sleep over fears of what Spite might do.

But. Lucanis does not share in this conviction. And it seems… uncouth to belabor the point. Again. 

“I suppose that explains why Emmrich hasn't been setting out an extra tea cup lately,” she says instead. “And here I thought it was just because he’d given up winning me over to the tea-loving cause.”

She cannot deny the flicker of satisfaction that sparks when her words make Lucanis’ smile widen. 

He breaks eye contact and looks around the room once more. 

“...at least he did not seem to cause too much havoc, except on my notebook.” Lucanis picks it up and narrows his eyes at the open page. “Mierda, what was he even trying to say here? And here, and…” He flips a page. “On my notes? The messes he leaves me to clean up…”

He sounds, as he ever does, tired. And perhaps her presence is not helpful in that regard. Waking up in strange circumstances likely does not help with that, and she… was the cause of today’s odd awakening. 

“Y’know, I should… probably… leave you to your evening in peace. Let you orient yourself again. …sorry about your notes.”

His mouth opens a half-beat before he speaks, as though he means to say something else but stops himself. “You are not the one that needs to apologize,” is what comes out. 

This… is something for the two of them to sort out; not much she can do to smooth this over. 

As she leaves, she hears faint muttering –

“What is ‘the infinite?’ And what do you mean by a ‘small shade?’ Spite, what–?”

It takes no small amount of effort to keep each step steady and even, but she concentrates on this task and this task alone until she has managed it. 

Only after the dining room door has clicked decisively shut behind her does she allow herself to lace her fingers together and remember the warmth of his skin again. 

Maker’s breath, she’s in trouble. 

[tom8o-pot8o]

Ghost walked with death as his shadow, but Johnny, Johnny, was life itself. To see those eyes sparkle with mischief when pranking Cap and Gaz. Ghost telling just another bad joke just to hear him chucke or scoff at him. And when Johnny sometimes told his own, Ghost could hear the smile in his voice, he would play it back in his head over and over again.

In some ways they were opposites, like yin and yang: loud and silent, theatrical and blunt, but at the same time, they were so alike. Reacting before the other even had to think on a mission, thinking the same thing, having the same plan. Both of them were equally eager to pursue Graves and Shadow Company when they betrayed Task Force 141. To them it was personal, whatever the book said.

And if things got a bit messy on the battlefield, the other was the first to praise their handiwork along with those big eyes of his in Johnny's case. What if Ghost started to choose his knife more often in front of him? Just to see the younger one look at him just like that, like he was a piece of art, painted in blood and dirt. As if Johnny wasn't scared of him, his violence, but appreciative of it, him. That he saw something in the dark depths of the mask of Ghost that was worthwhile.

So what if everytime the sergeant saved him a seat, he took the chance to just sit next to him. To bask in the life that surrounded Johnny "Soap" MacTavish. And maybe, maybe Simon felt a bit more alive then. Just maybe.

__________________________________

[Hello I'm just getting a feel for the characters and their relation to one another, like planning a fanfic but I'm just really enjoying the planning stage and might not do the actual writing, so enjoy this little thing about Soap (and I) being very appreciative of Ghost's knifework]

[cryptic-forge]

FAQ

there are a few questions i keep getting in asks & comments & reblogs, so i'm making a list.

what is the base doll in [post]?

i mostly post my own sculpts -> there is no base doll. if i use any doll parts i did not make from scratch, they will be named in the post.

is the doll in [post] for sale?

i don't sell my first prints. sometimes i make additional versions later & post them on my ko-fi. my print files are not for sale.

do you take commissions?

check the commission post. it will state whether commissions are open. if not, i probably don't know when they will be back; i do this only as much as my scrambled brain allows.

what do you use for sculpting/printing?

blender for sculpting, elegoo neptune 3 pro and various pla filaments for printing. mostly 0.1mm layer height, sometimes 0.2mm when i need to print a huge piece.

how do you post-process your prints?/various questions about sanding & smoothness

i go over the edges with a craft knife to remove any raggedness. i usually print on a raft to save my nerves, and that makes the downward edge of the print quite ugly. i don't do any post-processing beyond the knifework, because pla doesn't sand well and also because i don't want to. my dolls aren't resin-smooth, and for me they don't have to be.

how do you paint your dolls?

multiple layers of regular craft acrylics + varnish on top. sometimes i may use chalk pastels, but mainly everything is done with acrylics. i use makeup brushes to get delicate gradients.

can i use your designs in my dnd game?

yes. they're free to use for personal, private games, as long as you mention the source of the design at the table & credit and tag me if you post any art that uses them. you can toss me a coin on ko-fi if you feel like it, but this is in no way mandatory.

if you have any other questions, feel free to ask. i feel like i type like i'm pissed off at the world, but i actually enjoy interacting with people on tumblr.

[leyyvi]

part 2

pwasoi levi's social media feed (for the 2 mins he looks at it)

[badwritinghabit]

Wins and Losses | Chef Luca x Reader

A sort of prequel to Hello and Goodbye

No warnings for this one! Just cute flirty coworker vibes.

Summary: Luca helps you survive in a new kitchen and then takes you out to celebrate your recent success.

Word count: 1,859

Day two at Ever. 

Your first day started off well, Chef Terry had welcomed you and introduced you to all of the staff. Everyone seemed friendly and you were eager to get started. 

But you were nervous. And it showed. 

Your hands shook throughout prep. Carmen Berzatto, the chef that had started training you, was stern and intense. He wasn’t going to be training you for long, thankfully. He was taking over for someone who was out for the day. 

Your first day ended with Carmen sending you to clean, seemingly sending you out of everyone’s way. You were scared they’d fire you before you got a chance to really prove yourself. 

Your second day would be better. You got a half-caf coffee on your way, hoping less caffeine would make you less jittery. You knew you were good. You could do all of this in your sleep. You just needed to focus. You took a deep breath and walked in. 

Charles, another line chef who had been there for over a month greeted you with a smile. “Went to Forward? That’s my favorite coffee spot too.” 

You responded with a grin. “I’m still figuring out the area, good to know I picked the right one.” 

He eagerly responded with some recommendations and you felt relieved, at least not everyone was angry with you. 

You were assigned pea duty. You had to split the pea pods, leaving all of the peas on one half of the pod as a garnish for a gazpacho dish. It should have been easy, you’d shelled plenty of peas. And you’d always been skilled at intricate knifework. You liked small details and making things pretty. But the nerves had come back the second you felt Carmen watching over your shoulder. Your hand shook but you kept your head down and did the work. You slipped the tip of the knife into the seam, carefully sliced down without cutting any of the peas inside, twisted it around, and continued to cut a clean line down the other side. 

“Good. But pick up the pace,” Carmen said brusquely before stepping away. You did as he said. 

He kept coming by, counting, comparing you to the other line chefs. Your hands kept shaking, your nerves fraying. 

You were skilled. You knew what you were doing. You wiped away some sweat from your brow with your sleeve and then kept going. 

Slice, twist, set down. Only a few left. 

Carmen walked by again. “Faster!” 

“Yes, chef.” You kept working as he walked off. Only 9 more to go. 

8 more. 

Your thumb slipped a fraction of a centimeter and a pea rolled out of the pod and onto the floor. You set the pod down shakily, feeling tears build behind your eyes. 

You bent and picked up the pea that rolled away. As you stood, grabbing the ruined pod to put to the side, you heard someone ask, “do you know what we call a pea that fell on the ground?”

The voice was light but your heart was pounding too fast, anxiety spiking at being caught. “What?” you asked, tense, still feeling panicky from your mistake and unsure who this new person was. You turned to look at him and had to look up. He was tall, dressed in the same white uniform and apron as the rest of the team. To your surprise, a kind smile was on his lips. 

“An escapee.” 

You blinked. 

“Escape-pea,” he repeated, his smile getting the tiniest bit wider. 

You exhaled a small, shaky laugh, realizing he was joking. Your shoulders slumped in relief. 

“I’m Luca. Sorry I wasn’t here for your first day. But I’ve heard you are off to a good start.” You shot him a slightly suspicious look and he grinned. “You’re doing fine, really.” 

“You should have finished this by now,” Carmen interrupted, walking over. “We have more to prep.” 

“Give us another minute, we’ll be done soon,” Luca responded calmly. Something in his calmness gave you confidence so you grabbed another pea pod and got back to work. 

“Thanks,” you said to him, quietly, glancing over. 

“Any time,” he responded, grabbing one of the pods and helping you finish. 

And he meant it. He became your rock, buffering you from Carmen, teaching you but also interrupting your panicking with soft words and little jokes. You had never met anyone quite as warm and genuine. 

You’d developed a tiny crush. But you tried to put it out of your mind. He was – while not your boss exactly– still a sort of mentor. Your coworker at the very least. And dating in the kitchen was a well known bad decision. Besides, he was so kind and talented, you figured he must be in a relationship. Even though he never spoke of anyone. 

You kept reminding yourself he was too important for you to risk losing. He was a fantastic mentor. You’d learned more with him in three weeks than the year and a half you’d spent at your last job. 

His mentorship had helped. You’d had a dish accepted as part of a temporary menu. Chef Terry had all of the chefs, of every level, submit a dish and yours had been picked. Luca had cheered, seeming even more excited than you were. Then he cajoled you into going to the bar with him after work. To celebrate. 

He had lifted you in a hug as soon as you left the kitchen and you laughed along with him. He talked excitedly about your dish as you walked to the bar. 

“Just you two?” the bartender asked. You usually went with a small crew from the restaurant once or twice a week. 

“Just us today,” Luca agreed before regaling the bartender with your accomplishment. And then he ordered your favorite drink for you before you could ask. You blushed and fiddled with the little foam coaster nervously. You met Luca’s eyes and smiled, butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

The bar was loud, you usually avoided Friday nights to not have to deal with the commotion. But you appreciated it that night. Luca sat close to you, the warm smell of his laundry detergent reaching your nose as he leaned closer to speak into your ear. He’d reached an arm around the back of your chair and his thumb had started stroking up and down your arm. Your brain had slowed, your thoughts brought back to the gentle drag of his warm hand against you. You fought off a shiver and blinked up at him, realizing you missed a question. You forced yourself to focus on the conversation at hand. 

He smiled when you asked him to repeat himself but before he could, you jumped as you felt arms wrap around you from behind. 

“I thought we’d find you here!” Kit said, pulling back from the hug and sitting in the seat next to you. Charles followed after him, claiming the last seat at the table.  

“You two disappeared before I could ask where we were going to celebrate,” Kit continued as he took off his jacket and smiled at the bartender who walked up to take their orders. 

“We never go out on Fridays,” you say to defend yourself. “It was a little sudden.”

He hummed with a smile. “Well we need to do a toast at least. You won!”

“I’m really surprised to be honest. Your soup was so good. The sweetness with the spice. I wanted a bucket full,” you complimented Kit. 

Kit laughed and Charles rolled his eyes. “I haven’t heard a single comment about my dish.”

“Because it tasted like ass.” 

Charles shoved him and the two broke out into laughter. You laughed along but looked back to Luca, realizing his arm had left the back of the chair. The temperature seemed to drop with the realization. He was facing away, looking behind the bar. You took a moment to admire his profile, the arch of his eyebrow, the ridge of his nose, his lips. You blinked and inched your foot forward, kicking his foot gently. He turned to look at you and you smiled, rolling your eyes teasingly and nodding towards your new companions. His smile returned. 

Charles produced a pack of cards and you groaned but were convinced to join. The distraction from Luca was probably good as well, you told yourself. It was too easy to lean into him when he was close. To hope for more when his arm was wrapped around you.

Poker was a good diversion. 

The night ended after a few hands of poker. You were tired. You’d spent most of the night before anxiously making and re-making your dish. You bemoaned your lack of sleep and after you finished your drink, you hopped off the stool. Luca stood as well, saying he’d walk you home. He’d started doing that at the very beginning of your groups' nights out, even though you lived just next door. It was sweet. 

He was sweet. 

He stood at the bottom of your stoop as you climbed one step and then turned back with a small smile. 

“Thanks for tonight,” you said, quietly. “It meant a lot.”

“Your dish deserved to be chosen. You made the best food today.” His decisive compliment warmed your heart. You smiled. 

“You helped me. I’ve only improved so much because of you.” 

“I’m glad you think I’ve helped. But today was all you.” His voice seemed to get lower. The stair put you at almost the same height so you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him in a hug. He seemed to freeze for a second but then responded, his arms coming around your waist and holding you to him. 

“Thank you,” you murmured into his shoulder. 

“No more thanking me.” He pulled away with his familiar grin. His hands still gripped your shoulders. “It’s my job.”

Something about that reminder felt heavy in your stomach. You forced a smile. He seemed to realize something was off and quickly added, “I don’t spend time with you because of work though. We’re friends too.” 

“Yeah, friends!” The tension was still there and you jumped in to break it. “I’m just tired. I should head up,” you pointed your thumb behind you and stepped up another step. 

He nodded, hands sliding into his pockets and shifting on his feet. “Good night,” he said. Your name a soft ending to the sentence, always sounding warm in his accent.

“Good night, Luca,” you said with a short wave, before turning and closing the door behind you. 

“You absolute prat,” Luca muttered to himself, heel of his hand pressed to his brow. He took out his phone as he walked towards his apartment and clicked open his messages, scrolling to your thread. Your picture was one he took with both of you sitting outside the restaurant. You were holding one of his desserts, half-eaten, and smiling for the camera. He opened the text chain, staring at it, debating. Then he sighed and closed it.

He would see you tomorrow.

[the-rebel-archivist]

Illario Appreciation Week Day 4: Childhood Memories

Illario Dellamorte & Lucanis Dellamorte | 1111 words

Illario poked his way through cupboards and under tables, searching for any sign of Lucanis. He wasn't in any of the usual spots.

Ever since the Velardos had come and he had left home to live with his grandmother he had dogged his cousin's steps like a tall, dark shadow. House Velardo was gone, grandmother - Caterina, she said, since any grandmotherly aspect had been buried behind 'trainer' - had told them. Still, when Lucanis disappeared and left Illario checking hidden corners in the strange, large villa, he felt the choking nausea of fear clawing at his throat.

"Hide now, Illario, and wait. If anyone finds you you know where to put your knife. Use all your strength. Remember that you are a Dellamorte."

Mama, on her knees in front of him, enveloped him in her arms. His face pressed against her shoulder and he breathed in her familiar smells - leather, that all pervasive animal skin and tanning oil that he so associated her with, and metal, like copper, like knives. And underneath, nearly obscured by her dueling outfit, the cloying, tangy-sweet scent of cherries lingering from where she'd been picking them in the garden.

His brother was hiding in the next room. If he hadn't been doing the same and waiting Illario would have protested at the unfairness of it, that he couldn't follow behind Mama and Papa when he had been working so hard at his knifework - and he was better at target practice than his older brother too! But they had both impressed on him that this was his job, his position to hold, that he was to follow his brother if it came to it, and so he would do exactly as they asked, be strategic, conserve his strength until the right moment. "A Crow knows how to listen before they can lead," Papa had told them, and one day he was determined that he would lead.

Lucanis played the role of brother now. Lucanis, who could hit a target with half the practice Illario needed. Lucanis, who brightened the scowling eyes of Caterina when all she turned on him was the latter.

Lucanis, who had told him not to worry and sat with him until he could consistently hit his targets. Lucanis, who hadn't even been too cross when Illario'd pushed him in the canal over the last pastry. At least, not too cross after he'd offered to split it.

Lucanis, who had disappeared.

It wasn't the first time, or even the second. Every time Illario felt the ancient, gilded villa close around him oppressively, too quiet, its distant mothball smell acrid to his nose. There was no one to joke to, no one to laugh with, no one to be teased by or to follow behind.

Once, left on his own he'd managed to flood one of the too-large sitting rooms with soot from the fireplace. He'd had trouble sitting down for a week after but he'd borne it without a peep, refusing to give Caterina the satisfaction. It had been more of a struggle to hold his face steady after the next time when all of the potted plants in the hall had become unpotted, casualties of his lonely game.

Illario padded down into the kitchen, where delicious, spicy and sweet smells were beginning to waft from in anticipation of dinner. Inside it he found no trace of his cousin, only the servants, some with hands covered in flour, some stirring at pots on the stove. He managed to wheedle a cookie out of them and continued back upstairs.

Illario set his jaw and stood up straight, shrugging out of the tightness and desperation of his mother's hold and wiping his eyes with the back of one hand. Perhaps if he had known that it was the last time he'd see her he would have stayed longer. Perhaps he would have kept more than the smell of leather and iron in his memory. He gripped the handle of the dagger at his side, which on his small body hung more like a shortsword.

"My brave little crow," Mama said, kissing him on his forehead between his eyes. "Handsome and fearsome." Then she had disappeared from the room and he heard the tumbling of the lock from the outside of the door.

Illario did as he was told and waited. He waited while he heard fighting and screams. He waited through thuds and the clattering of broken pottery. He waited when he heard the triumphant shouts of House Velardo when they found his brother in the next room, and all the while he prepared, his dagger handle slipping in his clammy, shaking hand.

Rounding a corner, Illario very nearly bumped into his cousin padding quietly down the hallway and leaving a trail of wet, muddy footprints behind him.

"Where've you been off too?" he asked, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at him, a bitter edge to his voice.

Lucanis lowered his shoulders sheepishly.

"Nowhere," he said, eyes downcast.

"Nowhere smells pretty rank."

Lucanis met his gaze and stood taller after the insult as if to defend himself, though there was no defending the canal-silt stench on his clothes. His brown eyes gleamed sharply.

"I was in the tunnels," he declared defiantly. "Did you know-" he started to say, excitement creeping into his voice.

"That they're horrible and wet and musty?"

"Well yes, but I also found-"

"The secret ingredient in a stink bomb?"

Sighing deeply, Lucanis rolled his eyes and mirrored his cousins's crossed arms, leaning his weight onto one leg.

"Nevermind. If you get over your fear of standing water I'll show you."

For a moment Illario's heart jumped at the chance to be asked to follow after him, disgusting tunnel or not. The insult to his pride was too great though, and if Lucanis really wanted him around he would have asked before and not just when he was cornered. He wouldn't have abandoned him and left him behind.

"I'm not afraid of anything! Its more fun up here anyway. If you stuck around you'd know."

"Your kind of fun always seems to end with a sore bottom."

"Suit yourself," Illario said, plastering on an arrogant smile to cover any trace of quivering on his features. "You're missing out, you'll see."

When the door finally opened Illario did as he had been instructed, stabbing at full force, expecting a knife to the gut when his own blow was deflected as if it were nothing.

Looking into his grandmother's hard eyes, her face and clothes splashed with blood, he knew with a bone-deep intuition that he was alone, the last of his family.

[itsabouttimex2]

Saccharine Snacks

Platonic Yandere Sun Wukong Drabble

Something feels different about today. Not necessarily wrong… just a little off. Just a few seconds after you wake up, the feeling sinks in. Nothing is inherently off-putting or uncomfortable, but that gnawing pang persists. The air feels strangely thick, like it’s trying to restrict your movement. The brightness of the sun that streams in from the window feels almost artificial.

But nothing is different. Everywhere you look, and everywhere you check… it’s all the exact same as it’s always been. It almost feels like a challenge, your brain racing to find the reason for this feeling, searching for the smallest difference, some minute variation in your room that would justify the strange feeling plaguing you. Predictably, you turn up nothing.

There’s no new additions, nothing taken away without your notice.

Maybe you really are just being paranoid. Maybe the air is just off. Maybe it was something as simple as a bad dream throwing you off. Whatever it it, you can’t quite shake the feeling. Not even as you get dressed, grab your staff, and head out to meet your mentor to get started with your training.

As always, he greets you with a cheeky smile, waving you into the kitchen.

“It’s not often that I see you in here,” you very casually point out. Once, it had been a little strange to speak so openly to someone so revered and powerful. But it had been by his own request that you spoke to him as an equal and friend rather than a mentor. There was no need to be so serious, after all.

“Except when we’re training. Then you really do need to take me seriously, bud,” he had told you. “Cause what I’m teaching can be just a smidge… dangerous, you know? Don’t worry, don’t worry! Nothing that’ll kill a little mortal like you, I swear!”

Even his reassurances can be goofy and heartening, with the way he acts. Just another thing you’d gotten used to. He gestures for you to come into the kitchen, waving you to the chair across from him.

“Well, I wanted to try and make something special today! I was in a kinda… ‘cooking mood’, y’know?” He looks up at you, holding a knife awkwardly as he unevenly slices cores cherries into disks.

“That doesn’t look like cooking to me,” you lightheartedly point out. “And your knifework could use some practice.”

“Yeah? So could your staff-work,” he teases back, dumping the segmented cherries into a large bowl. He grabs a handful of strawberries and moves them to his cutting board, raising an eyebrow as he looks at you, only half-focused on his task. “And what would you call it, huh? Baking? Broiling? Grilling? C’mon, bud-“

“Preparing,” you somewhat smugly interrupt. “I’d call it preparing a salad.”

He chuckles at your semi-confident tone before sliding you a cutting board and knife.

“If you’ve got time to sass me, then you’ve got time to help me, bud. Take two of those peaches from the sack over there and slice ‘em up.”

The fruit is soft and plump, fitting snugly in the palm of your hand. With two in tow, you return to the cutting board and slice them lengthways, splitting them in half and prying out the pits.

“Those are good peaches,” he explains unprompted. “Took me a while to get ‘em, actually. So I wanted to share with you.”

Sun Wukong is a good friend. He likes to dote on you when he gets the chance, and always works his hardest to keep you in good mood. He’s taught you a lot about martial arts, and never seems to get impatient with your progress, even when you find it nearly impossible to keep up with him.

Sun Wukong is a good friend.

So you trust him without hesitation when he snatches up a chunk of peach and lifts it to your lips- he shares his food with you all the time. This is nothing new for either of you.

The peach is soft all the way through, fuzzy pink skin unblemished by marks or spots. The white flesh is perfectly saccharine.

“It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” you say with a smile.

Your friend doesn’t answer. He’s too busy smiling. It’ll take you a while to figure out why, but there’s no need to worry.

You’ve got all the time in the world, now.

[hellomehlo]

Rue Aldwir • Veil Jumper • Spellblade

Lore under the cut!

FINALLY getting around to doing a proper lore post for my girl because it’s been SO long and I promised myself I would way back when!

So, without further ado…

Born an only child during the bleak winter of 9:26 Dragon, Rue's early life was lived almost entirely within her tiny Ventus alienage. Her mother, a runaway mage from the Dalish clan Oranavra, often stayed hidden, due to the recognisability of her vallaslin. Rue's father, an informant for and loose affiliate of the Antivan Crows in his youth, taught her much of what she now knows about knifework under the guise of self-defence.

By traditional mage standards, Rue's magic manifested late - close to her fifteenth birthday (and was quite a surprise - by then, Rue was under the impression that she had no magical ability at all). Her mother grew all the more paranoid about being discovered by the 'wrong people' - sheer dumb luck had been on her family’s side thus far, allowing them to slip between the cracks of society to avoid enslavement. Rue was sequestered away even further for a number of months following her magic’s manifestation - almost never allowed outside, and kept under close supervision in the handful of times she was. However, following an altercation with a Senior Enchanter involving singed coattails and wounded pride, and following the news of the dissolution of Circles in the South, Rue was snatched from her alienage in favour of honing her magical abilities to strengthen Northern Circle ranks.

Elves are generally unwelcome in the prestigious ranks of Tevene Circles of Magi, and during the four years she spent in the Carastes Circle, Rue was made all too aware of this prejudice. Her only saving grace was the tutelage of Senior Enchanter Juliana Tenutos (whose coattails recovered from being set aflame). Tenutos, who believed in equal opportunity for elven mages, kept up appearances by claiming Rue was a slave, while secretly providing her with resources to hone her craft. Before Rue's training could be fully completed, however, Tenutos' breach of the rules was brought to light, and her swift execution prompted Rue to flee the city in the hopes of reaching Antiva, as Antaam forces had begun to lay siege to Carastes, following the fall of Ventus.

Naturally, an outdated map and limited knowledge of the specifics of the terrain of Arlathan Forest set Rue up rather poorly for navigating her way successfully, and she soon became lost, saved only by a scouting party of Veil Jumpers, who instead led her toward their camp.

The rest, as they say in the classics, is history...

[wishforhome]

language of hands

285 words | oneshot | lucanis/rook/teia/viago

Lucanis’s hands are broad and firm. Rook likes to trace the faint lines that cut across his knuckles, the ridges of the callouses at the top edge of his palm. She likes the way his hands engulf hers when they twist their fingers together, how small and protected they make her feel.  

Teia’s hands are even smaller than Rook’s, as quick and sly as her humour. Rook loves them for their deftness, for the clever way they touch her. They are a contradiction, manicured and gently cared for though still calloused from sharper aspects of her work.  

But it is Viago’s that she is most fascinated by. She sees them only rarely, usually hidden beneath the supple leather of his gloves. Like hers, like Lucanis’s, like Teia’s, they bear the toughness borne from knifework. His fingers are long and delicate, and she loves the precise way he moves them, like anything he might touch with his bare skin is a fragile thing.

She often finds herself entranced by the old scars that extend up his forearms – patches of glossy skin that catch the light. By his right thumb, a series of radiating cuts where a vial once broke. The inside of his left wrist, a small, perfect circle from acid measured out, as if intentionally applied. Other marks abound – burns and splashes, the result of years of work.

Mistakes and miscalculations, he might call them, but Rook sees them as the things he’s survived. Stories she will never ask to hear. It is enough, that sometimes at night when Teia and Lucanis have fallen asleep next to them, Viago will let her trace her own fingers over his marked skin, and does not pull away.

[sparklestheunicorn]

WAIT as far as we know, Kevin day was not born into the mafia lifestyle. He was raised by his mum until... he wasn't. Sure he was raised around tetsuji and riko. But as far as we know was not a part of the cult/mafia lifestyle until kayleigh died.

Do not think about his transition period. Hugging his knees as he tried to get to sleep in a black and red room. Wishing for his mum so badly it feels like he's dying. Realising the 1 and 2 are more than just a little bit of fun to do with the number on their backs. And then - I like to imagine it happened slowly - becoming riko's punching bag, maybe a bit of knifework.

[sorenphelps]

an apple a day can keep the gay thoughts doctor away

a random little scene from The Bodyguard AU again featuring Peter getting traumatized by Sirius’ knifework. This one is actually sooner in the timeline than the other one. Also we just discussed with @goldenlionprince that Peter is actually the only normal person who has normal reactions to stuff happening in this AU, which somehow makes him the best comic releif 😅 mandatory tagging of @neverenoughmarauders, @lovelymasks and @diamondmeadow