#labyrinthine convolutions

[luc3]

0./ctrl.alt.sup”

1. you get your period again (3rd time in a month)

.

. 2. you learn that something in your apartment is causing water damage to the floor below.

.3.

(whispers & phone calls)

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4. then you see one of your walls literally crumble under the hands of the plumber, cause of the water underneath . it makes you feel a weird Coraline-thing

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5. /a wall as a cookiiiiiie

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6. (.)

enjoy

.

.

7.8

9. then, a friend asks you to give him some ‘techniques’ to *remove the evil eye*

10. the urge to recite 3 well-known psalms just by listening to the context. .

11.

ce qui t’a saisi dans l’ombre, rien ne te le rendra.

.see and be seen

.

.

12.13.14.15 

no.yes.no.yes

.

16. .soleil est si brutal - j’ai l’ombre portée des choses qui flamboie comme un bris de verre dans l’oeil.

.

Elle s’enfonce en moi 

Je descend en Elle.

-

17 

and the Crone knows that I am on the threshold of Her cave.

.

.

17 no more light on the landing ha!?

17 _still no light on the landing.

.

.

18.19

It blows like a Tiger's Wind.

something lurking, unsatisfied.

the clouds are low, heavy,

 a smell of storm, 

time is

fixed.

.

.

20.

you burn at the very thought like a wisp of straw.

.

.

21.

All light collapses / All chaos, comes.

-

[suppermariobroth]

In most 3D games, "out of bounds" is implemented in two main ways: -some games, like Super Mario 64, simply let the game automatically define out of bounds without human input, as any area that is not above a floor or death barrier polygon, -others, like Super Mario Galaxy, manually define out of bounds using large box-like shapes that surround the playable area.

However, Donkey Kong 64 has a bafflingly convoluted out of bounds implementation that covers the map in odd shapes, creating a labyrinthine map of in-bounds and out of bounds areas. In addition, the areas switch dynamically between the two states based on a variety of complex parameters.

The footage shows a custom-made radar that shows the out of bounds areas as well as Donkey Kong's position on it, showcasing how odd the out of bounds implementation is. Note how walking through a wall (using glitches; the same glitch is responsible for Donkey Kong's tilt*) does not mean that Donkey Kong is out of bounds. Instead, he can walk on air and still be considered in bounds as long as he does not touch any of the blue areas of the map.

*but not his blue color; that is another custom alteration.

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[x-rds]

[Lio] Ohhh my god..... I’m looking at Osaka-Umeda station on google maps....... I have to lie down I’m having a spiritual experience

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 14: Peril

Summary: Astarion remained a spawn after ending the reign of Cazador with your help. After defeating the Netherbrain, you and Astarion stay together, moving forward with your lives. You reside in a small house in the city. One night, after an awkward and concerning interaction with him, he disappears without a trace.

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.3K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Time itself moves sluggishly as the spawn descend upon the petrified, screaming miscreants that share your cell. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, fighting your ribs like striking bolts of lightning. You steel yourself against the rising panic, wrapping yourself in unflappable poise and watch for your opening.

As soon as the wave of spawn crashes and parts, you squeeze Hecat’s hand to signal her it’s time to move and bound through the gap. The corridor is a catastrophe, the stones painted in fresh crimson, bodies of guards ripped open, with their raw innards spilling out like gruesome garlands wreathing the walls. Hecat pales at the sight, dry heaving, but you’ve long become acquainted with such nightmarish affairs.

You tug Hecat along behind you, bare feet smacking the stone with such force it sends jolts of pain charging up your legs as your bones shudder with the impact of every step. That is nothing compared to the acute, explosive pain stabbing your chest with every inhalation.

Hecat stops, acquiring a shield and sword from a fallen guard. The blood makes the stone slick, and every step must be taken carefully. You cannot afford to fall. A stumble will almost surely mean death. Spawn that have finished their meals are starting to take notice. Hecat deflects them with her shield, stabbing with her sword when she has an opening and keeping you safely behind her.

The passageways are labyrinthine, confused tangles of convoluted twists and turns that sometimes double back or arrive at dead ends unexpectedly. Tears are creeping out of the corners of your eyes, dallying down your grimy, red cheeks from the agony radiating from your ribs with every expansion of your lungs. Panic starts to crumble the blanket of calm, surging through you as you frantically dart through the shadowy, disorienting hallways. The angry army of thudding footfalls of the spawn in pursuit echoes through the corridors.

Bounding up a dim stairway, the hilt of a dagger peeks out from between the joints of armour, nestled into the corpse of a guard. You yank it out with a quick tug, but time is not on your side this night. A spawn grasps your ankle, its clawed fingers sinking into your flesh and jerks you off your feet. Your head bounces off the stone slab stair, peppering your vision with black sparks of dazing pain. The only thing you can see through your muddled sight is those glowing eyes. You lash out with the dagger and sink it deeply into the socket. As soon as you’re released, Hecat is already towing you back to your feet, pulling you up the stairs and into the next room.

The milky eyes and pallor of bloodless bodies greet you. The undead in this part of the prison seem to roam, unsure of their orders, but as soon as the thudding of your heart is heard, their heads snap in your direction. They swarm around you like enraged bees. Despite Hecat’s exhaustion, she is unwavering. Her sword slashes through the air, shield deflecting the snapping fangs and shredding claws.

You feel the pangs of irritation at your uselessness. Your magic, once your greatest weapon, is now a prison in its own right. The vampires press in closer, surrounding you like a pack of ravenous wolves, their movements orchestrated by an unseen hand, but they don’t move to attack further as they corral you.

“What are they doing?” Hecat pants with wild eyes, frantically searching for an escape.

“I don’t know.”

A red aura shifts around the spawn, the same one Cazador used to control Astarion’s sibling during their midnight visit to your camp. They part for a tall, pallid figure that appears seemingly from the shadows.

“Nice to see you again, Sorceress,” it speaks. You recognize that voice, and your heart arrests in your chest, sinking into your stomach.

Aldous.

Your mind reels, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. No. He is dead. You watched the life be abducted from his eyes yourself. Yet, he stands before you, pale as death with glowing crimson eyes. His face splits into that repellent smile, and his cackling resounds off the walls.

“That one.” He points at you, “She is to be taken alive. The Tiefling matters not.”

“What the fuck,” Hecat breathes.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sorceress,” Aldous laughs, hysterical and bone-chilling. “And your fanged friend. I cannot wait to drain you dry in front of him.”

A harrowing scream tears from your throat, a melody of rage and sorrow as Aldous disappears in a burst of red, drawn home by his unknown master. Grabbing Hecat’s hand, you eye a door and dash toward it with renewed vigour. The vampire’s claws and fangs pierce your skin as you burst through the legion. You stab and slash with reckless abandon, sinking the dagger into anything that attempts to halt you.

Hecat and you stumble into the room and try to close the door on writhing arms and legs. Hecat lashes out with her sword, severing limbs from bodies obstructing it until it slams shut and locks.

“Help me!” Hecat yells as she throws a table over. You help barricade the door with whatever is available.

“They want you?” Hecat snaps, levelling the sword at you, “Who the fuck are you, dragon girl, and why the fuck do they want you alive?”

You’re doubled over, hands on your thighs, trying to inhale as much air as your lungs can possibly take, but the splitting pain in your side hampers your ability to catch your breath.

“I don’t know,” you retort venomously, eyeing the sword and Tiefling.

“That one knows you,” she hisses, shifting her stance and getting ready to strike. “Who the fuck is he?”

“A dead man,” you sigh, pushing your hair from your eyes. “I killed him. Apparently, it didn’t stick.”

“You’re a murderer?!” She gasps, bringing the steel blade to your neck.

“Yes,” you growl, unbothered by the threat.

Hecat laughs, withdrawing her blade, “I would not have thought you possible of such a heinous crime.” She winks, “I like you even more now.”

You cannot help but choke out a pained laugh, but it’s more of a groan than anything. You look around. Waxy moonlight floods the room from a small window. It’s the first window you’ve seen, but bars in a crisscross pattern make escape impossible, and the wood door is starting to splinter and crack under the barrage rattling it on its hinges.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere makes your skin prickle as the dam of suppression is released, and the Weave returns to you in an overwhelming deluge. You don’t have time to wonder why or how, and you don’t much care. The Weave causes the air to crackle, abuzz with powerful energy, and you fill yourself with it. You grip the iron and allow the potency of your draconic fire to spill out of you with a daunting laugh you cannot stifle. The bars heat, whine and wail, glowing white-hot and oozing, and Hecat thrusts her sword into the gooey mess of molten metal to clear your path.

The moon hangs high in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the building, and the air is brisk as you clamber onto the roof. You cast Shatter, crumbling the stone around the window to block the pursuing spawn.

“That’s some potent magic you have there,” Hecat grins. “I’ve never seen anyone melt metal with their hands before.”

Her words of praise float over you as you eye the raging war of the courtyard below. Some guards remain alive, fighting another horde of spawn descending on the grounds. From the height, you can see beyond the solid walls surrounding the compound, and your feet move unconsciously, eyes skipping over the landscape - searching, searching, searching…

There.

“We could jump,” Hecat says hesitantly, peering over the edge.

“No,” you bark with a smile. “We fly. Follow me.”

You cast Fly, taking her hand and soar into the air. Hecat yelps at the suddenness of your movement and clings to you. You cannot quite reach your target before your feet hit the soft, muddied terrain. Spawn trample the ground, careening toward you like a blight on the land. Hecat stands in front of you, but you are muzzled no longer.

“Detono!” You howl, and the wave of crackling energy bowls the spawn over.

You cast Fireball and rain blazing death, warping the fire into flames that burn blue, bending it to your will. Your fingers dance in the moonlight, under stars that envy how bright you burn. Hecat stands at the ready, prepared and reinvigorated, but with unfathomable rage, you don’t miss. With every step, every twitch of your fingers, every syllable that brushes off your tongue, you are violence, you are slaughter, you are death incarnate.

It feels magnificent. Exhilarating. You are so wonderfully, splendidly fucking alive.

Whatever spawn remain have begun to retreat, much to your displeasure, disappearing in puffs of red mist, back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

“Kamena!” Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground, and pressing you tightly to firm, sculpted muscles. You would do anything to stay in this embrace but the pain in your ribs forces a pained cry from your lips, and Astarion jerks away from you.

Hecat screams, charging forward with her blade levelled at Astarion before you have time to explain. Astarion dodges swiftly and has one blade to Hecat’s throat and the other pressed firmly to her stomach before you can blink.

“Astarion, don’t,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “She helped me escape. Hecat, this is my friend.”

“Friend?” Hecat barks as Astarion releases her with a skeptical frown, and she reels back. “You failed to mention that your friend is also a fucking vampire.”

“Astarion is a person,” you growl. Without the adrenaline rocketing through your veins, your injuries and weariness have begun to take their toll on your body, and you stumble.

Astarion catches you, “You’re injured?”

“Her ribs are broken, I think,” Hecat replies for you. “The guards did not treat her well.”

“Shadowheart!” Astarion bellows and slightly lifts the hem of your shirt, revealing the edges of mottled blue, black and yellowing bruise expanding up your side. “Good Gods, my love.”

“I’m fine.” You bring Astarion’s eyes to yours, gazing into the scarlet sea you have longed to swim in. It almost makes it past you, but your brows furrow, “Did you just call for Shadowheart?”

A hand lays on your shoulder, and blue magic laves away the cutting pain in your side, “This was supposed to be a nice, boring vacation,” Shadowheart tuts, nose rising into the air with a snort. “I should have known better than to think you might be able to keep yourself out of trouble.”

“Shadowheart!” You pivot, wrapping your arms around her. “Gods. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” She drawls, returning the hug gently.

“Where is the wizard?” Astarion asks, “We should get her home. She smells terrible.”

Shadowheart chuckles with Astarion as you frown at them. “She really does. If I can smell her, I can’t imagine how bad she smells to you, vampire.”

“Be glad you can’t,” Astarion wrinkles his nose at you but sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing your forehead.

“Take her home,” Shadowheart instructs. “I’ll wait for Gale.”

The conversation between them starts to sound far away as lethargy drags at your mind.

“What do we do about this one?” Astarion gestures to Hecat.

“Leave her with me,” Shadowheart concludes with a tinge of threat. “She can bring me up to speed on exactly what in the Hells is going on around here while we wait for Gale.”

“She helped me,” you murmur. “Be nice, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart smirks, “Aren’t I always nice?”

“Wake up.”

“No,” you grumble, forcing your eyes open.

“Yes.” Astarion purrs with cold breath on the shell of your ear that sends delightful shivers down your spine. “You are not crawling into our bed smelling like a flophouse latrine.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body tightly to him. He tries to tug you away half-heartedly between his grunting protests, but there’s no real force behind his playful pulling.

“Now, you smell, too!” You chime as he sets you back on your feet and starts drawing a bath.

“Naughty girl,” Astarion smirks, chuckling.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror. Your hair is matted and dingy with grime. Filth streaks your face, dulling your complexion. Your shirt, once a pale blue, has been rendered brown, stained with dirt and blood that’s both new and long dried.

Movement behind you catches your eyes, whisking them away from your reflection. Bottles of oils float through the air, appearing to move on their own as Astarion pours oils into the water, and notes of lavender, sandalwood, and vanilla arise with the steam. This is something you’ve never gotten used to. Objects seemingly floating, as if picked up by a breeze and carried aloft of their own free will.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Astarion says, moving your hair and bringing you back from your contemplations.

“What?”

“No reflection.” Astarion’s cool fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, allowing him to peel the disgusting garment from your body, “Objects moving on their own, a ghost underdressing you.”

“A little,” you admit. “I just don’t understand how you always look so fucking perfect all the time.”

“Oh,” he giggles, turning you around, hooking his fingers in your waistband, and crouching. “Do go on.”

You put your hands on his shoulders, leaning some of your weight into him while he strips you, lifting one leg at a time, “I missed you."

“I missed you, too. Very much.” He says, taking your hand in his, “Come. Into the bath with you before it gets cold, and you chastise me.”

Climbing into the steaming water is like climbing into a sun-soaked dream. How very odd is it you can forget how your skin feels when it’s clean. As you slough off the dirt, blood and filth, the pads of your fingers do not recognize the buttery softness of your skin without the grainy texture.

“Tilt your head back,” Astarion instructs. He pours hot water over your head, fingers gently detangling your matted hair, lathering it with soap.

The bruise extending up your side is still faintly visible, staining your skin in hues of blue and yellow, and your fingers skate up, poking and prodding.

“What happened in there?” Astarion brushes the backs of his fingers gently down the marbled skin.

“The guards had a bone to pick with me,” you shrug, trying to cover the solemnity of the conversation with a pleasant smile. “I don’t wish to talk about it right now, Astarion.”

“Kamena…” Astarion sighs with a sullen shake of his head.

You press your fingers gently under his chin, bringing his eyes to yours. Gods. When he looks at you, it is not a glance. It is a song, a message, a constellation of promises wrapped in scarlet, and you never want to look away.

“I’m not running, Astarion.” You assure him, “I will tell you all about it, but tonight, can we just be us?”

Astarion smiles, nodding his understanding, “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Astarion’s fingers massage your scalp as he washes the soap from your hair, rinsing it until the water finally runs clear.

“Do we have wine?” You ask on a whim.

“Gale does,” Astarion grins momentarily, but his lips press into a thin line. “Is this celebratory drinking or “it’s better to forget” drinking?”

You wince at the question. You know it’s not exactly the healthiest way to deal with your problems. You are tempted to lie to him but force the truth from your lips, “A little of both?”

“I can live with that, I suppose,” Astarion nods, helping you stand and wrapping a plush towel around you, patting you dry. You smile as he dotes on you, “I know where the wizard hides the good stuff. I will go raid his cellar.”

Slipping into one of Astarion’s shirts, you light the fire with naught but a thought. It feels good to have your magic back after being deprived of it for so long. You grip the Weave, pulling the mystical essence from your blood and bones, and it feels like taking a deep breath after you didn’t realize you were holding it. Fire spurts out of your palm, and you fashion it into a ring, forcing the flames to move unnaturally as they chase each other around in a never-ending loop.

You lift the flaming ring above your head, hovering between your palms like a fiery halo, and force it to expand and contract simply because you can.

“Did no one ever teach you it’s dangerous to play with fire, Sorceress?”

“Perhaps for the untrained, Rogue,” you smirk, snap your fingers, and the halo bursts like a firework, pinpricks of fire whirling around you.

You let the fire ebb and die out slowly, relinquishing your magic with a sorrowful sigh. The Weave fills you with life, comfort and peace. Without it, you’re thrust back into a stark reality. Astarion hands you a glass, and you grab the bottle and wink as you drink deeply. The wine is a crisp white wine, buttery with hints of vanilla. It sparkles on your tongue and fizzes down your throat, and you cannot help but close your eyes at the pleasure of it all after drinking brown-tinged water for a week.

“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to keep standing in the middle of the room?”

“Gods,” you smirk, handing the bottle to Astarion and trotting over to the bed. You flop onto it gracelessly. “Let’s drink in bed! I’ve been sleeping on stone for a week, and this is lovely, but it’s missing something.”

“And what’s that, my dear?” Astarion cocks his head handsomely with a boyish smile that tells you he knows exactly what you think it’s missing.

“You!”

“In that case,” Astarion giggles and removes his shirt. He thrusts the wine bottle into your hands. Your fingers fumble to catch it, senses entirely possessed by him, “We might as well get comfortable, yes?”

“Yes,” you breathe, swallowing thickly.

Astarion saunters around the bed, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. He makes it look casual, unpremeditated, but it’s maddeningly slow.

“You’re a tease,” you mutter under your breath, sipping the wine and slipping out of your shirt.

“I am not!” He chuckles, “You’re just exceptionally impatient. Good things come to do who wait, sweetheart.”

“Do they?” You quirk a brow at him, “I’m not so sure about that. Do you have proof of this notion?”

“I waited two hundred years for you.” Astarion purrs as the bed dips under his weight, and he presses his body against your back, wrapping his arms around you.

“I love you,” you murmur, craning your head to look at him, slipping your fingers into his hair.

“I love you, too. I should not have let the wizard talk to me into leaving you in there so long. I—“

“Not tonight, Astarion.” It sounds like a whimpering plea, “Please."

“Right. Apologies,” he rasps, lips against your neck.

“Have you been eating?”

“Always so worried about me,” his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m fine.”

Perhaps he is fine, but you are most certainly not. Suddenly, you’re impacted with a deep-seated need to feel that intimacy, that descent through the branches of his veins. You want to bleed into him, your soul and his, intertwined as one. The intensity of the emotion catches you off guard.

Are you chasing the bloodless daze that his feedings provide? Are you hoping it will lay a shroud over the dread sinking your stomach? Is this another way to run?

Maybe.

But you are so good at running.

“Would you like a nibble?” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the hint of anticipation from your voice.

Astarion jerks his head up, pushing your shoulder until you’re lying on your back and looking up at him with an arched brow. He regards you thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea tonight.”

“Why?”

Astarion rifles his fingers through his hair, “You are well aware of the effect you have on me when I feed on you. I cannot promise that once your blood dawns on my tongue, your skin under my fingertips, I won’t lose myself in the need to make every inch of you mine.”

You wrap an arm around Astarion’s neck carefully, kissing along his jaw. You whisper in his ear, “So make me yours.”

Astarion shudders amorously as you ghost your lips over the ridge of his ear to the tapered tip. He grabs your waist with a low, rumbling growl, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. His desire for you pressed firmly against your already slick sex. Astarion looks deeply into your eyes, holding you still as if trying to figure out if you’re in your right mind.

You’re trying to figure out the same thing.

He catches your lips in his, gentle at first but with progressively more ferocity. He groans into your mouth. It radiates down your spine, stealing your breath, and a chill rushes through you, settling in your core. Your heart flutters with desire, the increasing drumbeat of it making its way between your thighs.

Astarion’s hand grips your hips, undulating them, his cock sliding between your folds, brushing up against your swollen flesh. You have been so fundamentally deprived of his affection that every touch sends shivers over your skin, every slide of his tongue against yours makes you want to sigh, and every groan steals the air from your lungs.

His fingers tease the peaks of your nipples, and you throw your head back and gasp. Astarion kisses up the column of your throat, his free hand cradling the back of your head, fingers twisted in your hair.

There’s but a moment of clarity. You are running headfirst, barrelling into anything that might hope to make you numb - him, pleasure, alcohol, bloodlessness.

Astarion’s fingers glide between your lips and sweep over your sensitive pearl, and coherence is lost in a white-hot rush of pleasure. You melt, draping your arms over him and biting his shoulder to hush your cries. His lips trace along your neck, and you roll your head to the side. His fangs sink into your flesh, and he growls, deeply and lofty, his chest rumbling against yours as if thunder was rolling through it. Your essence trickles through his veins like a gentle rain as he draws in methodical sips, savouring every drop.

Your hips buck as he continues his ministrations. You yearn to feel that decedent stretch of your walls as they envelop his cock, and he knows it. Astarion encourages you to lift your hips, pressing the swollen, blunt head of his cock to your entrance, and you sink down his length as he rubs against all your ridges so exquisitely that it makes your vision blur.

You don’t even notice his fangs retreat from your neck as his lips mould to yours to dampen your unadulterated breathy moans. You close your eyes and fade in and out as your head spins around with pleasure so intense you cannot think straight. The woozy fog of blood loss only adds to your dwindling reason and logic. With every pump of his hips and every roll of yours, you are walking on the fine edge of paradise.

But there’s something not quite right in his movements. They are tactical, methodical, and too perfect. You drive your eyes open, blinking away that haze of ecstasy. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, he’s not looking back at you. He’s looking past you as if through you, but his body knows this dance well enough, and he continues to go through the motions even when he’s a million miles away.

You go rigid, halting all movement in a split second, and your heart seizes, bound by the flash freeze in your chest. It jolts him back to himself, and he blinks rapidly, almost confused.

“Astarion,” you purr, concealing the hurt in your voice. Why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he say something as he promised he would? “Let's stop.”

“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cradle his cheek, trying very hard not to move a muscle until he tells you, “Tell me when I can move.”

“I’m sorry,” he looks away from you, brows downturned, rubbing his eyes. “I want this. You. I was there, and then I just… wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”

“Healing is messy. Isn’t it?”

“You are a gift,” Astarion folds his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and you try to hug him back, but it’s admittedly awkward when he’s still inside you, and you’re trying your best to keep yourself still. He laughs, “You can move, Kamena. I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re still inside me,” you retort, almost as if to alert him to this fact.

“Yes, that’s considerably obvious, but thank you for pointing it out,” he chuckles as you relax slightly. “Do you think we could stay like this? Just for a little bit? I find it… strangely helpful.”

This is new. Not unwelcome, but definitely new, “You want to sit here with your cock inside me, and what, chat?”

“Precisely!” He chimes happily, leaning back with a grin, “I’m so glad you understand, darling. Hells. Do I have some stories for you! Do you know how hard it is to break into the government buildings here? They are locked up tighter than a patriar’s purse, but I do love a good challenge.”

You can’t help but burst laughing at his carefree attitude, the way he’s still rock hard inside you, talking about committing crimes as if you were sitting at a table sharing stories over dinner and drinks. This is not typically how you remember him reacting, but this… this is progress, and you will take it.

You groan, “Why were you breaking into the civil buildings, Astarion?”

“How do you think Gale knew where to find and nullify the device suppressing magic at the prison?” Astarion drawls, pleased with himself. “That man is terrible at stealth. Even worse than you. He complained about his knees the entire time! Gods. I am centuries older than him, and you don’t see me bellyaching.”

“How utterly annoying! I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” you giggle at how he smirks with a wily glint in his crimson eyes. He definitely considered it. “In that case, you’re going to have to take me on a date where we break into this government building that gave you a hard time. This is something I must see.”

“You cheeky little minx,” he laughs. “I would love nothing more.”

The murmur of voices, clinking of cutlery on the tableware, and smell of what is surely Gale’s cooking drift down the hallway as you approach. Astarion follows closely behind, his hand at the small of your back. He has not stopped touching you in some fashion since you returned, as if he’s worried that you might disappear.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see the back of Hecat’s head, sitting at the table, shovelling whatever gruel Gale provided into her mouth and nodding as he recounts tales of your grand adventure in the Underdark. It takes substantial effort not to tell Gale to shut his trap. He does realize that you met this person in prison, right?

Shadowheart sees you first, leaping from her chair and dashing over, sweeping you into a tight hug, “Gods. You smell much better,” she giggles when you groan and squeeze her hard enough to expel some air from her lungs, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you nod, but you haven’t been able to take your gaze, etched with skepticism off Hecat.

Shadowheart whispers, “She had nowhere else to go. Gale invited her.”

You snort, “Of course he did.”

“I’ve been watching her closely,” Shadowheart sniffs. “And I will continue to do so.”

You suppose the woman was instrumental in your escape, and perhaps, for now, you should give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Sit,” Astarion instructs, pulling a chair out for you. “I will get you some food.”

You arch a brow at him and give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head. Although anything will be better than the stale bread and dried meat the prison served, whatever Gale has fashioned resembles wet dog food, and your stomach, as hungry as it is, flops in your belly.

Astarion kisses your temple, “Trust me.”

You sit, and Astarion gathers fresh fruit from the fridge, cutting it up in deft, precise movements. He glares at the knife spitefully, assessing the edge and rolling his eyes. You would giggle, knowing he’s judging Gale for the state of his knives, if you were not so flabbergasted that Astarion is preparing your food.

Hecat’s voice breaks you from your astoundment, “You clean up nicely! I almost forgot what colour your hair was under all that crud.”

She, too, looks substantially different without dirt smudged on her face, “I could say the same about you,” you retort a little too sourly.

Hecat smiles, not catching the venom in your voice, “Your friends are very nice.”

“Yes,” you give Gale a sideways glance, and he looks bashful. “Gale is very generous and trusting.”

Gale’s face flushes red, and he clears his throat, putting a finger in the collar of his robe, and pulling it away from his neck like the garment is restricting his breath.

Astarion places a bowl of perfectly diced fruit before you. He sits, dragging his chair close to yours so he can keep a hand resting on your thigh. You don’t miss the way Shadowheart glares at him with unspoken bitterness.

“Dear Shadowheart already gave me quite the berating,” he shimmies his shoulders as if he enjoyed it.

He actually might have.

“Not enough of one if you ask me.” Shadowheart scoffs, her eyes narrowed and blazing with acidity.

Hecat arches a brow, confused at what is going on, and you’re not about to lay out your life story for some stranger you met in prison, so you push the conversation forward.

“Aldous is a vampire,” you say far too casually and are met with looks of shock and silence.

Gale and Shadowheart eye Astarion.

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my bloody doing. I am a mere spawn. I do not have the power to turn anyone. Gods,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe it possible. I disposed of him. Thoroughly.”

“Did you destroy his body?” You ask. Gale almost chokes on his tea at the indifference in your voice.

Astarion nods, “Entirely. There was nothing left.”

“Is that the man who was after you?” Hecat asks, but her eyes are not on you.

They are moored to Astarion, like a shipwreck lying on the ocean floor, irretrievably bound. Astarion doesn’t seem to notice as he typically does not, but these dew-eyed ogles always make jealously flare to life. You place your hand on Astarion, stop yourself from growling “mine,” and instead, settle on scowling.

Astarion is alerted to your discontentment by the heat radiated from your palm. He makes a show of kissing each of your fingers, slow and lingering, trying very hard not to snicker. He finds your jealousy endearing but equally foolish, and perhaps it is.

Hecat does not seem to care or notice. It drives you mad, so you crawl into his lap, placing yourself between him and her gawking orange eyes. You can hear Shadowheart chuckling under her breath. She knows your protectiveness of Astarion all too well.

Astarion remains casual about it as if it’s not unusual for you to sit in his lap during breakfast. He grabs the bowl of fruit you have yet to finish and shoves it into your hands, “Eat.”

You grumble curses under your breath only he can hear, at him and his bossiness, at Hecat, and shovel fruit into your mouth.

Astarion chuckles, kissing your cheek, and purrs reassuringly, “I only have eyes for you, thiramin.”

You know this, but it’s not his eyes you’re concerned about.

A knock on the door breaks you from your brewing hostility, and you nearly answer it as a reflex, but he holds you and shakes his head, “No. Not this time.”

“I’ll get it,” Shadowheart chimes.

Gale accompanies Shadowheart. All three of you are holding the Weave, ready to cast at a moment’s notice. There is an undertone of mumbling, and Astarion’s face transforms into a formidable scowl. His grip on you tightens, and he brandishes a dagger.

“Blackwell,” he growls.

Flames immediately jump to life across your skin, licking up your forearms and through your hair. Hecat is on her feet, her fists balled, stirred by your unease.

Gale returns, looking contrite, wracking his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, my friend, but we must hear him out.”

Astarion is the first to answer, his voice rough and grated in warning, “Absolutely fucking not! I don’t care what information he has or what he has to say, Gale. If you let him into this house, I will kill him. I promise you that. You would not want to get blood all over these lovely floors. Would you?”

“Information?” You ask, placing a hand on Astarion’s as he grips the dagger so tightly his fist shakes.

“Don’t be an idiot, Kamena,” Astarion snarls.

“My son,” you hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice as he sidles up behind Gale as if using him as a shield. Shadowheart has a tight clutch on his shoulder, bristling with fury, “I’ve made a grave mistake. I know I have no right to ask, but I don’t know where else to turn. I... I need your help.”

“Help?” You seethe, fingernails digging into the table to keep yourself from burning him where he stands, shoulders slumped, wringing his hat in his hands. “You want our help?! That’s laughable.”

“You killed him.” Mr. Blackwell mewls, “Didn’t you?”

You do not answer. No one does. Instead, you level him with a glower sharp enough to cut through mountains.

It is answer enough.

“I made a deal,” he continues. “No one would listen to me. No one cared. I was out of options, and then I was approached by a woman while I was at a tavern. She told me she could bring him back. She told me there was a spell that would return him to me. She said the only payment she would ask was that he would be in her service. I... I did not ask questions. I did not know what she was!”

“You godsdamned idiot,” you hiss, clenching your teeth so hard the nerves trill. “You made a deal with a vampire?”

“Nobles,” Hecat scoffs with a disgusted twist of her lips. “All wealth, zero intelligence.”

“I didn’t know!” Mr. Blackwell cries, slipping to the floor into a puddle of sorrow. “She said he would return to me the next night, and he did, but he was not the same. His mother let him in. She was so happy to see him she did not notice or care. She hugged him. He… He bit her! I could not get him to stop. He looks like you,” Mr. Blackwell says sullenly, nodding toward Astarion. “Red eyes, pale as a sheet.”

“I am sure he does,” Astarion beams a fanged, threatening grin at him, making Mr. Blackwell squeak like a mouse caught in a trap.

Questions are whirling through your mind. Why would a Vampire Lord take notice of you? Why would they waste resources – spawn, scrolls or otherwise? Why bother having you imprisoned, beaten, and weakened? There is always a purpose to their madness, but what could you have that they want?

“What could a Vampire Lord possibly want with you?” Gale echos your thoughts, fingers on his chin. “And why bring Aldous back? How did they bring him back?”

“Aldous is easy. Most likely a scroll of True Resurrection. I imagine they turned him because they knew his thirst for revenge would make him easy to manipulate. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Your brows furrow, tapping the table with your finger rapidly, “What I don’t understand is what use they would have for any of us. I can’t think of a single relic in our possession that would do a Vampire Lord any good.”

Hecat looks between all of you with a puzzled look. She knows too much now, adding yet another complication.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart prompts him, “You’re the resident expert on vampires. Care to speculate as to why they would go through all this trouble?”

Astarion’s brows furrow and he shrugs, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Vampires are territorial beasts, but I do not think they would go to such lengths when they could have simply attacked me while I was hunting if their concern was territory.”

You give the worn noble on the floor a once over, and you feel nothing but hatred for the pathetically snivelling man. Should you feel merciful? Gods. When did you become so callous? “Did Aldous say anything else?”

“He muttered things here and there.” Mr. Blackwell sighs letting his head drop into his hands, “Something about ruins being the key and a contract, but none of it made any sense. He seemed like he was in a haze, drunk-like.”

Ruins being a key and a contract? It's not much to go on at this point, but you suppose, it’s a start.

“Whoever this Vampire Lord is,” Shadowheart crosses her arms, “They will know exactly who we are. They will not underestimate us.”

“Indeed,” Gale agrees with a curt nod. “We must take precautions, prepare and plan for the worst.”

“Who the fuck are you people?” Hecat asks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“Adventurers,” you trample over Gale who is about to spill your entire story, looking him in the eyes with a warning. His mouth snaps shut. “Nothing more.”

It seems your adventure in Waterdeep is just beginning.  

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Shadowheart ❤️

I'm dying to hear all your theories on why a Vampire Lord has taken an interest! 😁

Are we trusting Hecat?

Fucking Aldous 🤬 Hopefully we get the chance to kill him... again.

[pinchofhoney]

You know I can't stay away from your writing for long so here I am againnn....angst prompt 5 and fluff promt 10. Besties to loverss plsssss.....with either Sirius Black or Kaz I can't choose

No angst...I can't take it rnnnn 😭

take a hint # 200 followers special event

» prompt event » special events masterlist

angst prompt five: “please leave before i lose myself to madness and beg you to stay”

fluff prompt ten: and it was when A watched B look at someone else the way they wanted to be looked at. does A realize how much in love with their best friend they were?

gif is not mine, credit to the owner

kaz brekker x fem!reader

word count: 3.8k

warning: kaz has no romantic feelings for inej in this one, it doesn't have a specific time in the canon, i made up one of the characters, best friends to lovers (between the lines), mention of murder

summary: It seems that Kaz always expects you to read between the lines, even though you are a thief and not an expert in interpreting written texts.

a/n: whenever i see notifications from you, i feel like a happy golden retriever puppy, hello!!<33 i feel that writing anything with sirius would be easier for me in almost every way, especially since that character has been my favorite since childhood, but i wanted to try something new and i was thrilled with the chance to do so! (it's a mess)

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

As you stepped out into the gloomy, rain-soaked streets of Ketterdam, you could felt the weight of the city's bearing down upon you. It was a place where danger lurked around every corner, where crime and corruption were the norm, and where only the strongest and most cunning survived. The city's winding, labyrinthine streets were treacherous and difficult to navigate, with slimy cobblestones that seemed to shift and writhe beneath your feet. The stench of sewage and decay hanged heavy in the air, a reminder of the filth and squalor that permeated every inch of the city.

The people of Ketterdam were a rough and ragged bunch, with sharp tongues and even sharper knives. Every interaction was a potential threat, every stranger a possible enemy. It was a place where trust was hard to come by, and betrayal was always just a heartbeat away. And yet, despite all of this, you couldn't help but feel drawn to the city. It was the only place where you've ever felt truly at home, where you could be yourself without fear of judgment or rejection. It was a feeling that both comforted and terrified you, and you knew that you'll never be able to escape it, no matter how hard you try.

You hated Ketterdam with a passion, yet you found yourself unable to imagine living anywhere else. Maybe it was because you hated yourself too, the mere thought of being ordinary filled you with a deep-seated loathing. You had no talents, no skills that could make others look at you with admiration, and to make matters worse, you weren't your parents' favorite child either. That distinction belonged to your older sister, the Grisha who had always been showered with adoration and affection, even when she was away in the Little Palace, thousands of miles from home.

Your parents had always compared you to her, highlighting your shortcomings and making you feel like a disappointment. Even when she was gone, they treated you worse than they ever had before, as if you brought them shame just by existing.

Yet, in Ketterdam, your ordinariness was a blessing. As a member of a gang of thieves, you were the perfect fit. Your lack of beauty and grace made you unremarkable, allowing you to blend into the shadows and avoid attention. You moved with ease through the convoluted streets of the city, navigating its twists and turns, always keeping your wits about you. Of course, there were a times of doubts, where you couldn't help but think that perhaps being strikingly beautiful would be an asset to your profession, especially when robbing wealthy merchants who came to Ketterdam seeking to indulge in its illicit pleasures. But even then, you knew that such a gift would come with its own set of complications, and in Ketterdam, complications were the last thing you needed.

You pulled the hood of your dark cloak over your head, lowering it slightly to obscure your face. You didn't want to be recognized by anyone, but at the same time, you needed to keep an eye on your surroundings and react quickly if needed.

You hastily tucked your frozen hands into the pockets of your coat and quickened your step as you saw two men who were part of the Dime Lions. Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized them. Lately, you had been avoiding these people more than usual, ever since you got into an unnecessary street fight with several members of the gang. They had made it clear that they weren't happy with you, and you knew that they wouldn't hesitate to attack you if given the chance.

But it wasn't just the Dime Lions that you were avoiding. Some people in Ketterdam knew about things they shouldn’t. It was no secret that rumors spread like wildfire in this city, and often found their way into the hands of those who would use them for their own gain. But in a world full of terrible people, you had to be worse.

You walked with no clear destination in mind, driven by the need to distance yourself as much as possible from the Crow Club. It was only moments ago that you had found yourself in a heated argument with the one person who mattered the most to you. His stubborn pride had come between you once again, making you curse his name to the heavens above.

The tension in the hallway was thick enough to cut with a knife as you and Kaz stood facing each other, both seething with frustration. His eyes glinted in the dim light, anger etched deep into the lines of his face. What had started as a minor disagreement had quickly escalated into a full-blown argument, fueled by the unspoken feelings that both tried to hide.

“You don't understand, Y/N,” Kaz growled, his voice low and scratchy. “You never do. You're always off on your own, thinking you know what's best for everyone. You can't keep taking unnecessary risks. It's not just your life on the line.”

“I know that,” you snapped back, your eyes flashing with anger. “But we can’t just sit back and do nothing. We need to take action if we want to survive.”

“Of course we need to take action,” Kaz shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I'm not saying we should do nothing. But we need to be smart about it. We can't rush in blindly. That's why I'm in charge. I know what I'm doing.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “Sometimes being smart means taking risks. That's how we get ahead.”

A heavy silence hung in the air between you, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the rustle of your clothes. Kaz's gaze bore into you with an intensity that made your skin crawl.

His jaw tightened, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Fine,” he said, his voice icy. “Do whatever you want. But don't expect me to follow you blindly into danger.”

You took a step closer to Kaz, your eyes blazing. “I don't need you to follow me, Kaz. I can take care of myself.”

His eyes narrowed, and he took a step back, his hand on his cane for support. “Then go ahead and do that. But please, leave before I lose myself to madness and beg you to stay.”

Your chest tightened with hope as Kaz's words registered in your mind. Could it be that he actually wanted you to stay? But your hopes were dashed as you saw him turn his back and begin walking away. The urge to call out to him, to make him admit his feelings, consumed you, but you knew it was pointless. Kaz Brekker was not one to bare his soul.

With a frustrated growl, you clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug painfully into your palms. Without another word, you turned and stormed down the stairs. Ignoring Jesper's questioning gaze and Wylan's confused expression, you burst out into the rain-soaked streets of the Barrel, letting the cool droplets wash away your anger and frustration.

Your mind was a chaotic mess of emotions as you walked, all directed towards the one man who had the power to make you feel so much. Kaz's words echoed in your head, spoken in his rough voice, which usually sounded like the most beautiful melody to your ears, but now it was a curse that tormented you and did not allow you to find peace.

“I don't need you, Kaz. You're the last person I want,” you muttered under your breath, and as if fate was playing a game, you bumped into the very person with whom the whole argument began. What a coincidence.

You lifted your gaze, and your eyes met with the one who infamously called himself Ketterdam's most dangerous person. Although he didn't know you, you were familiar with him well enough to know that he would want to have you with him despite your undistinguished appearance and lack of special skills.

In a rush of panic, you lowered your head, feigning humility to mask your face. “I apologize, sir,” you began, trying to hide the hint of fear you could sense in your voice. “I should be more careful.”

The man smirked, his eyes scanning over your form. “It's no problem, sweetheart,” he said, his voice oozing with arrogance and entitlement. “But you should watch where you're going. It's not safe to be wandering around these parts alone.” His hand brushed against your arm, sending shivers down your spine.

You flinched at the touch, trying to pull away from him, but then he grabbed you. You knew what type of man he was, and the last thing you wanted was to be alone with him in a dark alley. You tried to think of an excuse to leave, but before you could say anything, the gravelly rasp of a familiar voice interrupted.

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” Kaz's voice was calm and controlled, but there was an underlying threat that made the man release his grip on you and take a step back.

“None at all,” the man replied smoothly.

Kaz stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “I suggest you leave the lady alone then.”

The man scoffed. “I suggest you mind your own business, boy.”

Kaz's hand, covered with a leather glove, tightened on the crow's head ornamenting his cane. “I'll make it my business if I see someone harassing a woman in my city.”

The man sneered, clearly not intimidated by Kaz's threat. “Your city?” he asked with a hint of derision, studying Kaz more thoughtfully. Suddenly, as if he had just connected the dots, he added, “Last time I checked, it was still called Ketterdam, not Dirtyhands's kingdom.”

Kaz's expression didn't change, but you could sense the tension in the air. “Believe what you want, but if you don't leave now, I'll make sure you regret it.”

The man seemed to consider his options for a moment before finally releasing a grunt of annoyance and walking away, oblivious to the inevitable fate that awaited him regardless of his decision. Death was the only possible outcome and the only variable was who would carry out the execution.

Finally, the man was out of sight, and you released a breath you didn't even realize you were holding. Kaz turned to you, and you met his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and anger. Despite feeling indebted to him for his intervention, you couldn't help but feel frustrated by his interference. “I didn't need your help,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Kaz raised an eyebrow. “It sure looked like you did.”

You glared at him, feeling embarrassed and exposed. He had seen you in a moment of vulnerability, and you hated yourself for it. “I could have handled it,” you insisted, although you knew it was a lie. You couldn't have handled the situation on your own. You were a skilled thief, but you lacked the physical strength to overpower a man twice your size. You were not armed with revolvers, nor did you possess the abilities of a Corpsewitch. You were just an average person, with quick fingers and the ability to pick locks, nothing more.

“How did you know where to find me?” you added.

“Did you think I wouldn't follow you? I had a feeling you'd get yourself into trouble, but I didn't expect it to happen so soon.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small part of you was grateful that Kaz had your back. “And what about-”

“Inej will take care of him,” he said, cutting you off, signaling that he didn't want to discuss the matter any further. “Let's head back to the Slat. You're soaked.”

Kaz started walking away, disappearing into a dark alley without waiting for you. You sighed and followed him, feeling the dampness of your clothes sticking to your skin.

The walk back to the Slat was silent, with only the sound of raindrops hitting the cobblestones to fill the air. As you entered the place, you immediately noticed the curious looks of your crewmates. Jesper was there, even though he usually preferred gambling at the Crows Cub and Matthias stood at the top of the stairs, watching you with his arms crossed. It seemed like everyone was waiting for you to return, and you couldn't help but feel uneasy.

Ignoring the greetings, Kaz announced, “You'll never guess who Y/N met.” The room fell silent, and Kaz removed his hat as if to emphasize his point. “Antoon Beudeker.”

A hum of surprised sounds ran through the room, and all eyes turned to you. You felt uncomfortable being the center of attention. You had been trying to track down Beudeker for weeks, but he always managed to slip away from you, as if someone in the Dregs was tipping him off about your plans.

Nina spoke up, breaking the silence. “What do you mean by that?”

Kaz looked at you, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “A talent for stealing isn't Y/N's only skill. As you can see, the talent for trouble far outweighs it.”

You shifted uncomfortably under Kaz's gaze, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. You knew you had made a mistake by bumping into Beudeker, but it wasn't even your fault. All you wanted was to cut yourself off after the argument with Kaz, and now he was the one who was right again.

Wylan's voice carried through the quiet room, breaking the tension. “What are we do with him now?” he asked, but no one answered, assuming that it was up to their missing Wraith to handle the situation.

Jesper's frustration boiled over, and he jumped up from his seat. “It's not fair!” he exclaimed, pointing his revolver at the wall. “I was the one who wanted to put a bullet between his eyes.”

Matthias stepped forward, before anyone reacted to sharpshooter's words, his expression serious. “We need to figure out who's been leaking our plans to Antoon. This could be dangerous for all of us.”

“I agree,” Nina added. “We need to find out who's been betraying us and deal with them.”

Wylan's voice piped up, “What if we set a trap?”

Kaz nodded, considering the idea.

“We could feed different information to each member of the Dregs and see which version gets back to someone who will claim to be Beudeker now. That way, we'll know who we can trust and who we can't,” you suggested.

Nina grinned. “I like it. And if we catch the traitor, we can make an example out of them.”

Jesper's eyes gleamed with anticipation. “I'll provide the entertainment.”

Matthias shook his head. “No, Jesper. We can't take the law into our own hands. We'll handle the traitor according to our own rules, but we won't kill them.”

Jesper shrugged, disappointed but not arguing. “But killing is our rule, Helvar.”

Matthias's expression darkened, but before he could reply, Kaz spoke up. “That's enough. We're not discussing this any further. We need to focus on finding the leak first, not arguing about how to deal with them.”

Jesper and Matthias both looked at Kaz, but neither of them said anything. The silence in the room was heavy with tension, and you could sense the frustration emanating from Jesper and the anger radiating from Matthias. Kaz's tone had effectively shut down the conversation, but you knew that it was far from over.

“We'll start investigating tomorrow,” Kaz's voice filled the room again. “For now, let's all get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us.”

As Kaz's words faded away, the tension in the room dissipated, and everyone began to go their separate ways. You hesitated, still reeling from the events of the evening, unsure of what to do next.

Sensing your unease, Kaz approached you, his expression serious but not unkind. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he said, his voice low. “But we have a job to do, and we can't afford to let our emotions cloud our judgment. I need you to be focused tomorrow, do you understand?”

You nodded, feeling a bit guilty for today’s argument. “Yes. I'll be ready,” you replied, determined to not let him down.

Kaz gave you a small nod of approval before turning to leave. You watched him go, listening to the rhythmic tapping of his cane on the panels. The weight of his words settling on your shoulders. It was true that you couldn't afford to let your emotions get in the way of the investigation, but it was easier said than done. The events of the evening had shaken you to your core, and you weren't sure if you could push them aside so easily. Life in Ketterdam has been hard, but never before has such danger reached you directly.

With a heavy sigh, you made your way back to your room, hoping that a good night's rest would help clear your mind.

You were surprised to find the Antoon's spy so easily, feeling foolish for not discovering it sooner. Despite the setback, the mood in the Crow Club remained peaceful as the days passed. The seventh of you sat together, planning your next move and gossiping about Ketterdam's richest people. Kaz seemed more relaxed than usual, and even Jesper and Matthias were on their best behavior, seemingly content to simply enjoy the moment of peace.

As the night wore on and the group's conversation continued to flow, you couldn't help but notice Kaz's eyes on you. You caught his gaze a few times, and each time you felt a jolt of electricity run through you. It was a feeling you had been trying to ignore for a while now, but it was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day.

As you turned to look at Jesper, who was recounting a funny story, you noticed Kaz's expression change slightly. It was a subtle shift, but you could tell he was suddenly distant, lost in thought.

After a few minutes, Kaz stood up and motioned for you to follow him. You looked around at the others, confused, but they simply shrugged and continued their conversation. You followed Kaz up the dimly lit hallway to his office.

Once inside, Kaz closed the door and motioned for you to take a seat. You sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, feeling a bit nervous. Kaz took a seat opposite you, resting his cane on the desk, right next to the chair and leaned forward, his elbows on his desk.

His expression was serious, but not unkind. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he began, his voice low. “I've noticed that things between us have been a bit... different lately.”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Different how?” you asked, not sure if you really wanted to know the answer.

Kaz leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I think you know what I mean,” he replied, his gaze fixed on yours.

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized what he was talking about. “Kaz, I...” you began, but he cut you off with a wave of his hand.

“I just wanted you to know that I'm aware of the situation,” he said, his tone even, then he paused for a moment. “You know, Y/N. I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to care for someone. To really care for someone,” he looked directly at you, his eyes intense, emphasizing the weight of his words. “And I've come to the conclusion that there's no one I care for more than you.”

You were completely taken aback by Kaz's words. You had never heard him express his feelings so openly before. Your heart raced as you searched his face for any sign of insincerity, but you found none. You were overcome with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and joy.

His heart sank as he watched you gaze at Jesper with a look of admiration and affection earlier, even if you two were just friends. It was then that he realized how deeply in love with you he truly was. He had been trying to ignore his feelings for you for so long, but seeing you look at someone else with such tenderness was too much to bear.

Kaz carefully chose his words, wanting to express his feelings without being too direct. “I've been thinking about our friendship,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I value our bond more than anything else in the world, and I want to make sure that nothing ever comes between us.”

“Why are you bringing this up now?” you asked genuinely confused by Kaz's sudden openness.

He shifted in his seat, looking almost uncomfortable, “Well, I just wanted to make sure that you know how much you mean to me,” Kaz said, his eyes meeting yours. “There's no one else I trust or care for more than you, Y/N.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the sincerity and depth of emotion behind them. You knew that he was a man of few words, and when he spoke, it was always with a purpose. It was hard to reconcile this Kaz with the cold and distant one you had grown accustomed to over the years.

You couldn't help but feel that there was an underlying message in Kaz's words, something that he wasn't explicitly stating. Your intuition was telling you that there was more to the story than what he had let on. You couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that something was amiss.

“Kaz,” you began, your voice hesitant. “Is there something else you want to tell me? Something that you're not saying?”

Kaz's expression remained neutral, but you could sense a hint of discomfort in his demeanor. You knew that he wasn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so you weren't surprised that he was hesitant to open up to you completely.

“I've said what I needed to say,” Kaz replied, his voice flat. “There's nothing more to it.”

His reply felt like a dead end, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. You knew that he was a complex person, with layers that even you couldn't fully comprehend, but you couldn't shake off the sense that he was still holding something back. Nonetheless, you tried to put on a brave face and show your gratitude for his honesty.

“Okay,” you said, rising from your seat. “I appreciate you telling me how you feel. Our friendship means the world to me too, Kaz.” You couldn't help but wonder what his true intentions were, but you knew that you needed to be patient and let him come to you when he was ready.

[nomelwelloy]

Alhaitham & Kaveh drabble | light angst

It's a quiet Friday night. Kaveh is draped over the back of the sofa, transfixed on his sleeping roommate’s face.

The dim glow of the crystal lamp dusts a soft yellow glow across Haitham’s face. Even in his sleep, he is largely expressionless, save for the occasional movement under his eyelids and the briefest twitch of his brow. His book rests on his chest with his finger still between the pages of where he’d stopped before sleep stole him away.

Despite his alcohol-hazy and fatigue-fogged mind, Kaveh recognises the title as one of Haitham’s newest reads, picked up at the start of the week- amongst three other titles. Was he a speed-reader? How many words did he capture at a glance? Kaveh wonders, when Haitham reads, if pictures form in his mind, or are abstract ideas contained in the shape, weight, and sound of the words.

He touches his forehead with his fingertip, as though he can connect to his thoughts and reach somewhere beneath his stony facade. Alas, there is no way to read Haitham, no matter how hard he tries; He is a blueprint Kaveh may study ten thousand times, but never be able to figure it’s labyrinthine layers, always stuck at sharp angles and convoluted diagrams that lead to nowhere.

Kaveh’s eyes trace over Haitham’s lips, and his hand follows in its wake. His finger trails along his cupid’s bow, thumb sweeping over the swell of his bottom lip.

Kaveh bites down on his own lower lip, teeth worrying the already broken skin as an undeniable ache to press his own against Haitham’s blooms in his chest.

It’s a familiar feeling, one that has not surfaced for a long time- deadened by the belief that Haitham did not see him as anything more than a broken bird he saved out of pity; the snuffed out Light of Kshahrewar now crawling in soot and ashes.

Albeit this, the old flame flickers to life in his chest, weak but alight. And it is that which forces him over the edge of the sofa, leaning in as close as he dares to. A lock of hair comes loose from his ponytail and it gently sweeps across Haitham’s cheek. His trembling fingers are digging into the sofa seat and he struggles to balance on the balls of his feet.

Without warning, Haitham stretches, his eyes fluttering open in slow blinks. Kaveh falters and fails to recover in time, and he teeters over the sofa.

A series of grunts and curses and more groans follow as Haitham is pinned under him and tries to get Kaveh’s elbow off his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?” Haitham hisses, struggling to breathe with Kaveh’s knee still on his stomach.

“Shit, sorry,” Kaveh mumbles, scrambling to get off but his limbs have turned to jelly and he’s not doing much except fall over Haitham again.

“Stop moving,” Haitham tries to grab him by the elbows but Kaveh isn’t listening and accidentally knees Haitham in the groin. Haitham hisses with a low curse and tightens his grip on him. “Stop,” he growls, the flash of irritation in his tone reflecting in his eyes.

Kaveh’s tongue turns to stone and all he can manage is wordless gaping. He’s perched atop Haitham and straddling his lap, and Kaveh’s cheeks grow hot at the realisation, but he’s bound by that single word that forces him to remain obediently still. “Sorry,” is all he can manage.

Haitham breathes sharply, brows furrowed while he regains his composure. “If it’s that game where you try to walk the shortest possible distance from the door to your room, I swear-”

“Can I go now?” Kaveh asks, vaguely aware of how distant his voice sounds form his body- disembodied, he recalls the word to be- his mind is elsewhere too, trying to distract from how close they are. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and all he can feel is that warmth radiating from beneath him, separated only by a few layers of fabric.

Kaveh manages to stand, swaying unsteadily even with Haitham’s help, before he quickly shuffles away from him. He’s halfway to his room when he realises his hair tie has come loose, and he glances over his shoulder to the sofa for it, but his mind goes blank when their eyes meet.

Haitham drops the hair tie in his hands on his way to his own room, but not before shooting him an odd look. When Kaveh refuses to meet his gaze, however, he eventually bids him goodnight and disappears behind his door.

Kaveh grips the hair tie in a death grip, teeth worrying his lip as he wills himself not to cry. What had compelled him to attempt a kiss of all things, he could not fathom- least of all Haitham’s serious lack of reaction. Had he actually read him wrong this whole time, or was it just in his head?

His colleagues often touted liquid courage as a supposed help with matters such as these, but perhaps it was that Kaveh lacked any at all in the first place.

[jasminewalkerauthor]

Trope chats: Time travel

Time travel, a concept that has captivated human imagination for centuries, has been a recurring theme in literature and media, offering endless possibilities for exploration, reflection, and speculation. This essay delves into the rise and fall in popularity of time travel narratives, examines its use as a literary tool and symbol, and discusses the pitfalls inherent in its portrayal.

The origins of time travel in literature can be traced back to ancient myths and legends, where characters journeyed to distant pasts or futures through supernatural means. However, it wasn't until the late 19th and early 20th centuries that time travel became a prominent theme in fiction.

One of the earliest examples is H.G. Wells' seminal novel "The Time Machine" (1895), which popularized the notion of a machine capable of traversing through time. Wells' work laid the foundation for future time travel narratives, inspiring countless authors and filmmakers to explore the concept further.

Throughout the 20th century, time travel narratives flourished in various forms of literature and media, from classic science fiction novels like Ray Bradbury's "A Sound of Thunder" (1952) to iconic television shows like "Doctor Who" (1963-present). These narratives often served as vehicles for exploring philosophical questions about causality, free will, and the nature of reality.

Despite its enduring popularity, time travel experienced a decline in the latter half of the 20th century, as audiences and creators gravitated towards other speculative concepts. However, the genre experienced a resurgence in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, fueled by advancements in science and technology, as well as shifting cultural and social dynamics.

Films like "Back to the Future" (1985) and "The Terminator" (1984) revitalized interest in time travel, blending action, humor, and intricate plotlines to appeal to wider audiences. Similarly, television series such as "Lost" (2004-2010) and "Doctor Who" (2005-present) introduced new generations to the complexities and possibilities of time travel storytelling.

Time travel serves as a versatile literary tool, allowing authors and creators to explore a myriad of themes and concepts. It enables narratives to transcend temporal boundaries, weaving together disparate timelines and realities to craft compelling stories.

One of the most common uses of time travel is as a metaphor for exploring personal or societal change. Characters journeying through time often confront their past mistakes, grapple with unresolved conflicts, or seek redemption for past actions. In novels like Audrey Niffenegger's "The Time Traveler's Wife" (2003), time travel is used to explore themes of love, loss, and the passage of time.

Furthermore, time travel can function as a symbol for the human desire to escape the constraints of mortality and the inexorable march of time. In Jorge Luis Borges' short story "The Garden of Forking Paths" (1941), the protagonist embarks on a labyrinthine journey through time and space, reflecting the complexity and ambiguity of human existence.

Despite its narrative potential, time travel storytelling is fraught with pitfalls and challenges. Maintaining internal consistency and avoiding paradoxes can be difficult, as altering past events can have unforeseen consequences on the narrative's coherence.

Additionally, time travel narratives run the risk of becoming overly convoluted or relying too heavily on contrived plot devices. The temptation to use time travel as a convenient solution to narrative problems can undermine the emotional resonance and thematic depth of the story.

Moreover, time travel can sometimes be used as a crutch to evade meaningful character development or thematic exploration. Instead of grappling with the consequences of their actions, characters may simply "reset" the timeline or escape to a different reality, diminishing the impact of their choices and experiences.

Time travel remains a perennially popular and endlessly fascinating concept in literature and media, offering writers and creators a vast playground for exploration and experimentation. From its humble origins in ancient myth to its modern incarnations in blockbuster films and bestselling novels, time travel continues to captivate audiences with its promise of adventure, mystery, and philosophical inquiry. However, navigating the complexities and pitfalls of time travel storytelling requires careful craftsmanship and a deep understanding of its narrative and thematic implications. As long as human curiosity persists, time travel will remain a timeless trope in the literary and cultural landscape.

[incomingalbatross]

Nowadays people feel like they have to come up with all these convoluted labyrinthine rationales of terribleness for their YA Dystopian Protagonists to grow up with, and back in the 60s John Christopher was just like "what if aliens came to Earth generations ago and stole humanity's free will" and knocked it out of the park with the Tripod trilogy.

[onlyprincey]

Growing Pains

Grunting, the weary piglin hybrid trudged through the crimson forests of the Nether, his tattered golden armor clinging to his worn frame. Evidence of the countless battles he had faced and the perilous trade negotiations he had undertaken adorned his attire. The weight of acquired treasures jangled in his satchel, serving as a constant reminder of his successful dealings with the formidable piglins.

However his path was not driven by a desire for riches. Instead, it was a duty that brought him to the piglin community located a little ways from his isolated crimson hill. Amidst the desolate landscape, he found companionship and a sense of belonging among his fellow piglins.

The community nestled within the claustrophobic confines of the Nether, contrasted starkly with the idyllic landscapes of the Overworld. Its labyrinthine maze of red stone walls twisted and turned sharply, seemingly designed to disorient even the most experienced traveller. The suffocating atmosphere combined with the omnipresent shade of red created an oppressive ambiance, challenging every moment there spent within.

The air resonated with a cacophony of grunts, snorts, and echoes of the crowd, bouncing off the unforgiving walls. It was a constant assault on the senses, amplifying the inherent stress of navigating the congested space.

The piglins, rough and rugged in demeanor, displayed little inclination for camaraderie, their expressions bearing the weight of their hardships. A growl warned any who ventured too close to keep their distance.

Despite weariness and the overwhelming environment, the piglin hybrid pressed forward. He knew his visits to the community were necessary for survival, and he had earned a reputation through fair trades and honest negotiations. Respect and camaraderie, as much as their culture can show, had been bestowed upon him by his fellow piglins.

Yet, deep within him, memories of a past lingered.

As a child, he had witnessed the horrors unleashed upon his village by creatures from the Overworld as they destroyed everything and left nothing but destruction in their wake. His mother, in an act of self-preservation, had whisked him away through a glimpse of the Nether portal, sparing him from the same fate that befell their kin.

That portal, a doorway to a world unknown to him, had become a haunting symbol of loss and the pain inflicted upon his people. It stood as a stark contrast between the chaos of the Overworld and the harsh reality of the Nether, reinforcing his decision never to return, resonating with the memories that resurfaced whenever he encountered the remnants of the ruined gateway.

As the weary piglin hybrid navigated the convoluted paths of the piglin community, gratitude and bitterness mingled within him. Gratitude for the sense of community, support, and the opportunity to forge a new life amidst the chaos. Bitterness for the memories that surged forth whenever he caught sight of the ruined Nether portal— a constant reminder of the world he had lost.

Aware that his place was in the Nether, among the crimson forests and the unforgiving beauty of his surroundings, he found stability and purpose within the flawed piglin community. With each step, he continued his journey, the warrior spirit burning within him, fueled by battles fought and scars earned.

His footsteps carried the weight of battles fought and taken lives in the Nether. The piglin hybrid was not just a trader; he was a warrior, a survivor. His golden armor, battered and worn, bore the marks of countless clashes with hostile creatures. The crimson forests echoed with the whispers of his triumphs, and his battle-worn weapons were a testament to his prowess.

Each encounter in the Nether had been a dance of life and death, a delicate balance between striking down foes and evading their lethal blows.

He had faced the fiery wrath of ghasts, their explosive projectiles threatening to consume him in flames. He had clashed with fearsome magma cubes, their searing touch capable of melting even the strongest armour. And in the depths of fortresses, he had confronted the relentless onslaught of blazes, their fireballs igniting the air around him.

But it wasn't just physical battles he had endured. The Nether itself was a treacherous realm, where the very environment posed a constant threat. The oppressive heat, suffocating ash, and volatile terrain demanded a resilience beyond mere combat skills. Survival in the Nether required cunning, adaptability, and the ability to navigate its hostile landscapes with unwavering determination.

The piglin hybrid had honed his instincts and reflexes through these trials, emerging stronger and more capable with each encounter. His fellow piglins admired his combat prowess, their grunts of respect a testament to his status among them. They saw him not just as a trader but as a guardian, a protector who ensured their safety in the face of the Nether's dangers.

Yet, even amidst his battles and triumphs, the allure of the Nether portal beckoned to him. The flames that danced within its depths whispered of uncharted realms, of untold wonders and mysteries waiting to be unraveled. The warrior within him longed to venture through, to explore the Overworld and experience a world beyond the crimson forests.

The uneasy feeling of curiosity tugged at his heartstrings, gnawing at him relentlessly. The desire to know, to witness the landscapes that existed outside the confines of the Nether, grew stronger with each passing day. It whispered promises of new adversaries to conquer, new battles to fight, and the chance to uncover truths that could reshape his understanding of the world.

But for now, he suppressed the call of the portal, knowing that his duty lay in protecting and strengthening his piglin community. The memories of his past fueled his determination to ensure that no other piglins would suffer the same fate as his village. And so, with each step he took, he carried both the weight of his battles and the yearning for the unknown, a warrior torn between his responsibilities and the unquenchable thirst for adventure.

[shikantazaart]

The Gonzo Gallery Game: A Mind-Bending Trip through Occupy White Walls

In a realm where conformity suffocates creativity and mainstream games become vapid echoes of their predecessors, emerges a digital hallucination that defies categorization and sends you hurtling into uncharted territories of the mind. Brace yourselves, fellow seekers of artistic liberation, for Occupy White Walls is an acid-soaked journey that will leave you questioning the very fabric of reality.

This game, my dear readers, is no mere diversion. It is a technicolor kaleidoscope of imagination, expertly crafted to shatter the constraints of mundane online gallery software and immerse players in a psychedelic experience like no other. Developed by an enigmatic band of visionaries, it empowers you to curate your own personal art sanctuary, transcending the boundaries of the virtual realm and unlocking the dormant genius within.

Occupy White Walls is a gateway to artistic nirvana, offering an arsenal of tools and an extensive library of masterpieces spanning epochs and genres. From the hypnotic strokes of the Renaissance to the rebellious spirit of modern avant-garde, this game plunges you headfirst into a bottomless well of creative expression. Choose with care, dear reader, for each artwork you select becomes a brushstroke in the tapestry of your digital sanctuary.

But it is the game's visuals that will hijack your senses and ignite your synapses with a fervor unmatched by the banalities of the gaming mainstream. The graphics here are not mere pixels dancing on a screen; they are a feast for the eyes, a sensory orgy of colors, shapes, and textures. Every brushstroke, every gradient, every nuance breathes with life, transforming the virtual art space into an electrifying conduit between the tangible and the ethereal.

Yet, it is not the game's technical prowess alone that seduces the mind; it is the immersive nature of the experience that sends your consciousness soaring. Prepare to wander through labyrinthine corridors that twist and turn like the convolutions of a fever dream. Engage with a community of kindred spirits, fervent in their pursuit of inspiration, and find yourself swept away in a tempest of collaboration and artistic synergy.

But the ride doesn't end there, my friends. Occupy White Walls is a carnival of pure joy, replete with quests, challenges, and puzzles that unfurl like riddles in the cosmic fabric. Embark on a journey of discovery, unearthing hidden treasures, unraveling mysteries, and expanding your artistic dominion. This game is a testament to the power of curiosity, beckoning you to venture deeper into the recesses of your own imagination.

Occupy White Walls is an audacious rebellion against the mundane, a psychedelic escapade that defies conventions with its wild, untamed spirit. It encapsulates the essence of artistic individuality, casting aside the shackles of the gaming industry's homogeneity and thrusting players into a maelstrom of self-expression. Surrender to the chaos, embrace the madness, and let your creative muse break free from the chains of conformity.

Dear reader, I implore you to take the plunge into this swirling vortex of unadulterated imagination. Occupy White Walls is a testament to the transformative power of art, an invitation to transcend the boundaries of reality and embark on a mind-bending odyssey. Strap in, for this gonzo gallery game will propel you into a realm where the limits of possibility cease to exist and the infinite expanse of artistic wonder unfolds before your very eyes.

Check it out here:

[pyrokineticwarrior]

What were some of the trials and challenges that Elysia faced during her journey in the Underworld? || @mythosisms

During her arduous journey in the Underworld, Elysia faced numerous trials and challenges that tested her strength, resilience, and determination. Here are some of the obstacles she encountered:

The River Styx: To reach the heart of the Underworld and confront Hades, Elysia had to traverse the treacherous River Styx. The dark waters were filled with malevolent spirits and swirling currents that sought to drag her down. She had to navigate the river's depths, evading the grasping hands of lost souls and overcoming the overwhelming despair that permeated the air.

The Guardians of the Underworld: As she ventured deeper into the Underworld, Elysia encountered formidable guardians that sought to impede her progress. These guardians, ancient and powerful beings loyal to Hades, tested her combat skills, cunning, and resourcefulness. Each guardian presented a unique challenge, requiring Elysia to find creative ways to overcome their strengths and exploit their weaknesses.

Labyrinthine Mazes: Within the Underworld, Elysia faced intricate and labyrinthine mazes that twisted and shifted with every step. These mazes were designed to confuse and disorient any intruders, leading them further into the depths of the Underworld. Elysia had to rely on her intuition, problem-solving abilities, and inner resolve to navigate these convoluted paths and find her way forward.

Stygian Shadows: The Underworld was plagued by dark and malevolent creatures known as Stygian Shadows. These elusive beings thrived in the shadows, preying on the life force of lost souls and any intruders who dared to venture into their domain. Elysia had to confront these formidable adversaries, using her combat skills and the remnants of her divine heritage to overcome their insidious attacks.

Emotional Trials: Along her journey, Elysia faced emotional trials that tested her resolve and ability to confront her past. She encountered illusions and manifestations of her lost memories, forcing her to confront painful experiences and make peace with her fractured identity. These trials challenged her emotional strength and determination to reclaim her true self.

Hades' Manipulations: Throughout her quest, Hades relentlessly attempted to manipulate Elysia, exploiting her insecurities and doubts. He whispered lies and doubts into her mind, seeking to break her spirit and bend her to his will once again. Elysia had to develop mental fortitude and inner clarity to distinguish truth from deception and resist Hades' insidious influence.

Through each trial and challenge, Elysia grew stronger, both physically and emotionally. She honed her skills, discovered hidden depths of resilience, and tapped into her divine heritage. These trials shaped her into a formidable warrior, preparing her for the ultimate confrontation with Hades and the reclamation of her freedom.

[vf-thompson]

Book Review: Lolita is Not Her Name

Her name is Dolores Haze. Let's start with that.

Nabokov's Lolita is a difficult book to categorize, criticize, discuss and dissect. In the popular imagination it persists, for whatever reason, as a tale of taboo romance, a red flag analysis that should probably spur an investigation of your hard drive. If there is any lingering doubt that we're living the Bad Place left, it should be erased the fact that this book's legacy is one of lascivious titillation and not as one of the tautest, tightest crime thrillers ever written. How that happened is a convoluted tale, one laid out for any interested listeners in Jamie Loftus's unabashedly excellent Lolita Podcast—my in to the novel, after over a decade of a desire and reluctance to engage with the text.

Like Loftus, my first acquaintance with the work was Daniel Handler, better known as the real fellow behind the Lemony Snicket persona, dropping the book in interviews as one of his favorites and listing it among the influences of A Series of Unfortunate Events. i was a preteen at the time, and was busy myself being sexually abused by predatory adults in online spaces, and when i looked into what Mr. Snicket was talking about, i was repulsed and intrigued, and the story stuck in my brain. Later, when i went through a bit of a Kubrick phase in high school, it was one of the ones i skipped. For years Dolores Haze and Humbert Humbert were ghosts at the edge of my life, mirroring my own tortured upbringing and occasionally checking in via their sublimating effect on pop culture.

While one may debate the ethics of a popular children's author recommending a book like Lolita, having finally tackled the novel, i can absolutely see the thread of connection. Indeed, The Bad Beginning in particular feels almost like Handler's attempt to deliver the justice Dolores never received, Violet Baudelaire able to gain the upper hand over her own predatory guardian. Like Handler's saga, Lolita is, far from the eroticized romance it is often recalled as, a story of childhood resilience in the face of a monstrous existential threat. Though the story is Humbert's and as such Lo herself is often little more than a prop, the sparkles we get of her character throughout the novel are of a survivor, not a victim—even if the prologue tells us that survival will not be a permanent affair.

The prologue tells us that Humbert is a vile and villainous liar, and the next few hundred pages act as something of an acid test for one's resistance to be taken in by a charismatic abuser. To call Humbert a monster is to distance him from his all-too-present humanity, his manners and mannerisms, his erudite European sensibilities and the necrophilic pathology he masks as a polite interest in pubescent girls. He is doubtlessly a compelling narrator, a poetic hero—but a classical hero in that he's an absolute scumball garbo heap. i'm not saying that everyone who treats Lolita as a romance novel harbors paraphilic sympathies for children, but i am saying that everyone who has ever characterized the book as such is a useful idiot for those who do.

Listening to Loftus's Podcast was the thing that finally allowed me to admit that my own childhood abuse had not been self-chosen, that i had been used by adults who had a responsibility not to exploit a child for sexual labor, and so on her recommendation, and the recommendation of my best friend who is never wrong, i decided to finally delve into the story. What i found was a ripping crime novel dressed up in indelibly crafted language, a tense psychosexual game between a predator and prey. Though Lo is often reduced to a victim by the nature of the novel's framing, her fire and resistance to Humbert's machinations are vibrant enough to shine through his narration. In her story, i found a certain absolution for my own girlhood self, my own inner child who once upon a time lost herself in the labyrinthine rooms of the Enchanted Hunters Hotel, whose curiosity once branded her the toy of those who saw her body as a disposable mode of dispensing pleasure.

It is perhaps unfair to remove a star solely because of the book's pop cultural influence, but it is undeniable that the text has been misappropriated and misused by actual predators, and while it is arguable how much of that fault lies with Nabokov himself, his (admittedly limited) choice of publisher for the book and its questionable history of sanitized adaptations certainly didn't help matters. As a reading experience, Lolita itself is a five star affair, but unfortunately the metatext around the book is a murkier affair, and i tend to evaluate the discussion around classics as part of the text itself. i can not fault those survivors who view the book as part of the problem, even as many feminist critics would argue it is much more complicated than that. Certainly, if you do decide to join in on this road trip from hell, consider yourself suitably trigger warned for graphic depictions of child rape with heft amounts of victim blaming.

For the better part of a decade, i was afraid to read this book, afraid of what i might find out about my own abuse through vicariously witnessing and playing party to that of the Haze girl—but the last few years have been a tornado of confrontations with my own past, and in finally confronting this text, the hurt child inside of me was able to find a certain solidarity with the little kid who has been so slandered by the aesthetic she inspired. i can not recommend enough pairing the book with Ms. Loftus's excellent analysis of its legacy, and i am grateful that i was at last able to meet the ghost of the girl who has haunted me for so long, telling me i was not alone. In the end, as persuasive a writer as Humbert is, it is her testimony i will remember.

[lacrimalis]

in the endgame of The Sexy Brutale (so, spoilers,) mirrors function as portals. and for what? somd kind of Jungian shadow self allegory? as you come to know yourself, you gain access to heretofore unventured corridors of the labyrinthine casino (which serves as a metaphor for the convoluted mind of its proprietor)? self-knowledge?? clarity of vision??

but then the places you access through those mirrors are the most abstract in the entire game—topsy turvy, funhouse mirror, through the looking glass type shit. so do the mirrors have a distortive effect? or a clarifying effect? spoilers again—the game's world is an illusion! so while the realistic areas of the casino are only a reflection of their real-world counterparts, maybe the vortex of cards and the tree in the prison cell and the operating theater in the basement are all, by VIRTUE of their distortion, closer to the reality of the situation

(it should be mentioned that using the mirrors as portals creates a visual effect not unlike a funhouse mirror)

so by distorting what appears "real", The Sexy Brutale's mirrors bring the player closer to the truth

[kobzars]

Two paintings "Pink Parandzha", artist Vadym Mykhalchuk

With dimensions of 100x80 cm (39.4x31.5 inches) for each painting, the large-format canvases command attention and immediately elevate the aesthetic of any space they inhabit. However, it's not merely the scale of the works that astonishes but also the intricacy of execution and the emotional resonance they carry.

Mykhalchuk captures the sublime beauty of the female form in audacious compositions, revealing a blend of boldness and vulnerability. The women in the paintings are portrayed without upper clothing, a deliberate choice by the artist that functions as a celebration of innate beauty and individual uniqueness, rather than objectification.

The use of the pink Parandzha—covering the faces of the women—is an ingenious element that injects layers of complexity into the work. It transforms the painting from a mere visual experience into a narrative expedition. This veil becomes an emblem of both concealment and revelation, symbolizing the labyrinthine complexities of the human psyche. By juxtaposing the daring with the demure, Mykhalchuk invites you to undertake a journey into the ineffable, to probe into the enigmas of identity, desire, and human emotion.

Beyond its aesthetic and narrative merits, this diptych represents an outstanding investment opportunity. Vadim Mykhalchuk is an artist on the rise, and works like "Pink Parandzha" are increasingly gaining international recognition. This acquisition would not only be a focal point of any art collection but also holds significant promise for future appreciation in value.

The "Pink Parandzha" is not merely a work of art—it is a statement, a question, and an invitation all at once. It challenges us to delve deeper, to look beyond the obvious, and to engage with the convoluted layers of human existence. It's more than a painting; it's an experience that enriches the soul and intrigues the mind. Wouldn't you like to be a part of that exploration?

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: The Last of Sheila

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

A great mystery requires a certain degree of misdirection.

The Last of Sheila, for example—a 1973 whodunnit penned by Broadway composer Stephen Sondheim and Psycho star Anthony Perkins (apparently, neither man decided to quit his day job: this is the pair’s only screenwriting credit)—begins with a fatal hit-and-run. Naturally, the audience assumes that the remainder of the movie will revolve around identifying which member of the sizable ensemble cast (a colorful assortment of Hollywood hotshots, has-beens, and hangers-on) was responsible for the tragic accident. In a subversive twist, however, the opening scene is a red herring (albeit not totally irrelevant to the story)—for both the viewer and the characters. The murder that actually motivates the plot occurs a little more than halfway through the narrative. And once the guilty party is exposed, the fun still isn’t over; indeed, there are approximately thirty minutes—comprising multiple shocking revelations, a whole additional climax, and enough expository dialogue to capsize a luxury yacht—left before the end credits roll. This intentionally convoluted, labyrinthine structure—which Rian Johnson acknowledges as having inspired his own Knives Out franchise—makes the film a delightfully unpredictable thrill ride, even by its genre’s usual standards.

Imaginative, unconventional, darkly comic, relentlessly witty, and savagely satirical, The Last of Sheila is a largely forgotten masterpiece that deserves to be rediscovered. Watch it immediately.

[luc3]

The slap of reality in my face (hence my silence)

Lapland > Reality > Ouch.

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+ (I am on a job this summer, in a trauma rehabilitation department, and in comparison with the public hospital, I do not have much to do, I do not complain I finally have time to discuss with my patients, but they are all there, telling me "my poor you must be overwhelmed, it's so complicated at the moment...", and here I am, not knowing what to answer, twisting my hands, "no, not really, in fact, I miss the public hospital, I say with a sorry smile.)

Labyrinthine convolutions.

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You'll have some more Fjords? Toundra? Permafrost ? Reindeer ? Mosquitoes ?

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😭