#morally gray giant

[tinycoded360]

Jack and the Beanstalk One-shot

Author note: You gotta do the Beanstalk story at least once, lol. My own spin and twist on a classic giant/tiny story. 

The sun dipped below the horizon as Jack Whittaker, a ten-year-old homeless boy with dirty blond hair and blue eyes, sat huddled against the cold stone wall of an alley. His tattered clothes barely protected him from the biting wind. Jack's stomach growled loudly, but he ignored it.

"Have you ever heard about the land of giants up in the clouds?" asked one of the boys, his eyes wide with excitement. "They say there's a whole world up there, just waiting to be discovered."

"Giants? In the clouds?" Jack echoed, his eyes sparkling with wonder. "What do they look like?"

"Massive! Bigger than any building you've ever seen!" replied another boy, stretching his arms wide to emphasize his point. "And they live in houses so tall, they reach the sky!"

"Imagine what treasures we could find if we could get up there," mused a third boy, his voice filled with longing.

"Treasures?" Jack's heart skipped a beat. The thought of finding something valuable enough to change his life, to lift him out of poverty, was too enticing to ignore.

"Of course! They're giants, after all. Everything they own must be worth a fortune!" said the first boy with a mischievous grin.

"Jack, you should come with us next time we go up there," one of the boys suggested, noticing the younger boy's interest.

"Really?" Jack asked hesitantly, torn between excitement and fear. The idea of climbing into the clouds to explore the land of giants was both thrilling and terrifying.

"Sure, why not?" replied the older boy, his grin growing wider. "I heard one of the older bandit guilds got their hands on some magic beans. They grew the giant stalk just north of the kingdom. It's still there; neither the giants nor kings men have cut it down yet. This is our chance!"

"Maybe...maybe I will," Jack whispered.

One day, Jack found himself surrounded by a group of older boys who were eager to embark on their next adventure

"Jack," said one of the boys, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "we're going up tonight. You've heard our stories, and I know you're curious. Don't you want to see it all for yourself?"

Jack hesitated, torn between the allure of the unknown and the fear that gripped him at the thought of facing the giants. He stared at the ground, scuffing his worn shoes against the cobblestones as he weighed his options.

"Come on, Jack," urged the first boy, slapping him on the back. "You've got nothing to be afraid of. We'll keep you safe."

"Alright," he breathed, his voice trembling with anticipation. "I'll do it. I'll climb the beanstalk with you."

"Welcome aboard!" the boys cheered, clapping him on the back and ruffling his hair.

The massive beanstalk loomed before them, its twisted tendrils reaching for the heavens like the arms of an ancient god. Jack's heart raced as he gripped the rough surface of the stalk, feeling the pulse of life beneath his fingertips.

"Remember, just follow our lead," one of the older boys whispered, his eyes shining with anticipation. "We'll have you up there in no time."

As they finally broke through the cloud barrier, a vast expanse of verdant green stretched out before them. The sight took Jack's breath away – everything was enormous, from the blades of grass that towered above him like redwoods to the insects that buzzed lazily through the air, the size of small birds.

"Come on," the first boy beckoned, gesturing toward a distant mansion that appeared to be carved from the living rock itself. "Let's claim what's ours."

As Jack tiptoed through the immense hallways, he couldn't help but marvel at the sheer scale of everything around him.

"Stay close to me," said one of the boys, noticing Jack's unease. "We'll find something valuable soon enough."

Jack nodded, swallowing hard as they pressed on, acutely aware of the danger surrounding them. What if the giants discovered their presence? Would they be crushed like insects beneath their enormous feet?

"Look!" the boy beside him hissed, pointing to a door slightly ajar, golden light spilling from its edges. "That must be where the treasure is!"

The door swung open to reveal a vast, glittering room filled with treasures beyond their wildest dreams. Jack's eyes widened as they took in the shimmering gold coins and precious gemstones.

"Quick, start grabbing what you can!" one of the boys whispered urgently, his voice cracking with excitement.

As they scrambled to pocket their loot, the ground beneath them suddenly jolted, causing Jack to stumble and drop a handful of sapphires. 

"Guys, I think we need to leave now," Jack stammered, his heart pounding.

"Too late," another boy replied, his face pale as he stared at the colossal figure that had just entered the room – the giant.

"Thieves! You dare steal from me?" the giant roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of his home. Panic set in as the boys realized they were caught, and they frantically searched for an escape route.

"Run!" Jack shouted, darting towards the nearest exit. His friends followed suit, scattering like mice before a cat.

"Come back here, you little vermin!" the giant bellowed, his massive footsteps echoing as he chased after them.

Jack's mind raced as he sprinted down the hallways, desperately trying to remember the way back to the beanstalk.

But in his haste, he took a wrong turn, finding himself at a dead end. The giant's thunderous footsteps grew closer and closer, and Jack knew there was no way out.

"Caught you, little thief!" the giant bellowed, reaching down to snatch Jack up in his massive hand. As the other boys continued their frantic escape, Jack stared in terror at the enormous face looming above him, knowing that he was truly alone.

The giant's eyes burned with rage as he stared down at Jack, his tiny form trembling in the grip of the massive fist. "What were you thinking, stealing from me?" the giant demanded, his voice thundering through the room.

"Please...I didn't mean any harm," Jack stammered, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at the gargantuan figure above him. The disparity between them was overwhelming.

For a moment, the giant's expression softened ever so slightly as he considered the fear-filled face of the human child before him. "You're just a kid," he muttered, although his tone remained harsh. "But that doesn't excuse your actions."

"Please, sir, I'll do anything to make it right," Jack pleaded, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew that the other boys had managed to escape, leaving him to face the consequences alone.

"Fine," the giant grumbled. "You will work off your debt to me."

Jack resigned himself to his fate as the giant's prisoner. He was carried to a small cage in the corner of an enormous room and locked inside.

The giant man leaned down so he could peer into the cage.

“My name is Argus. You can call me Sir or Master Argus. Now, if you listen well, we’ll have no problems, do you understand?” Argus gruffly asked his tiny captive.

Jack quickly nodded, not wanting to upset the giant man.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“J…. Jack….Sir.”

“Humph, I’d say nice to meet you, but considering you’re a little thief, it’s not.” Argus grumpily grumped. “Now what ever I ask you to do, I expect it to be done, or I will have to punish you.”

Jack nodded his head again, not wanting to gain his wrath.

“Good, now you’ll sleep here tonight. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

***

True to his word, the giant kept Jack busy, forcing him to perform various tasks around the house. Jack was often caged or leashed by a collar around his neck, the gold chain connecting him to the giant's wrist like an unbreakable bond. When the leash was on, Jack had no choice but to sit in the giant's palm, feeling utterly helpless and vulnerable. Argus wasn’t too rough with him. Seeming to take great pains not to crush him. He even made sure Jack got a bath and clean clothing. Jack hated to admit it, but the giant kept him well-fed as well. When Jack gathered the courage to ask about the leash and collar. Argus just chuckled, saying he'll take it off when Jack has earned his trust.

"Hand me that paintbrush," the giant ordered one day, sitting at his desk. Jack, for once not attached to the leash, was given free roam of the giant’s desk. Argus knew full well that the tiny thief couldn’t get down on his own.

Jack grabbed the requested brush with shaky hands and handed it up, his entire body quivering at the thought of accidentally dropping it.

"Good," the giant grunted, using the brush to add delicate details to his canvas. Jack couldn't help but admire the skillful strokes from such massive hands. "Now, hold still. I want to paint your portrait."

As Jack obeyed, he couldn't help but wonder if this was his life now – serving a colossal master, forever bound in servitude. His thoughts turned to the other boys, who were undoubtedly in their own world again, free and enjoying the treasure they stole. It was unlikely the other boys would come to save him. They probably believed his bones were ground up to make the giant's bread. Or they simply did not care enough to risk their lives for him, a simple street rat. Despair settled heavily on his heart as he realized there was no going back for him.

For a while, Jack was despondent, missing his freedom and his friends back home. But gradually, as days turned into weeks, his curiosity got the better of him. He started asking the giant questions about his people and their world. Though gruff, the giant seemed pleased by Jack's interest and would spend hours telling the boy tales of his ancestors.

Argus would often scoop Jack up in his colossus hands and place him on his shoulder as he talked to the boy. Jack felt like a parrot on the giant shoulder, perched there. He had no choice but to grip the giant’s shirt. While listening to Argus talk about his society and history, he felt less afraid of the giant man. Maybe the giant wasn’t as terrible as the stories made him out to be.

The sun was setting as Jack sat on Argus’s shoulder. The giant sat on the hill overlooking the breathtaking expanse of the world below. From this vantage point, nestled among the cottony clouds, Jack marveled at the beauty of the land he had only ever known from the ground.

"Um, excuse me," Jack whispered, tugging at the strands of Argus’s beard. He had scooted closer to the giant’s neck. "I... I need to tell you something."

The giant tilted his head, trying to look down at his tiny companion, a mixture of curiosity and concern etching itself onto his rugged features. "What is it, little one?"

Jack swallowed hard, steeling himself for what he was about to confess. "I... I'm sorry for stealing from you when I first came here. It was wrong, and I shouldn't have done it."

"Thank you for your apology, Jack," the giant said gently, a hint of sadness in his voice. "It takes courage to admit one's mistakes."

Jack felt a wave of relief wash over him. "I want to make things right," he continued, his voice barely a whisper. "And... I want to go home."

Argus frowned. “And what will stop you from returning to thievery? Can you even survive on your own? From what you’ve told me, you were a homeless child begging on the streets.”

Jack flinched at the harsh words. “I won’t, I promise. I’ve learned my lesson!”

“Boy, your human world isn’t as kind as I’ve been. I’ve heard they hang thieves, even as young as you, for stealing. Sometimes, they take their hands.”

Jack hunched his shoulders up to his ears. He found it hard to argue. When he saw it happen to other thieves in his group.

“So, I’m waiting. What will you do to survive on your own? Hmmm?”

Jack felt his lip tremble. “I’ll get a job!”

“Will you know? With what skills…. what kind of job can you do?”

“I…... I’ll…. figure something out! You’re being mean!” Jack cried, feeling anger burn in his gut.

Jack yelped in surprise and fear as Argus reached for him. His humongous fingers curled around his tiny form, pushing him into the giant palm. The giant fingers curl around him, forming a fist trapping Jack there. Jack found himself pressed against Argus’s chest.

“Hmmm, I guess I’ll have to teach you then.” Jack could feel Argus’s words rumble in his chest.

“Really? Then will you let me go?” Jack asked with a bit of hope in his voice.

“Only if you learn well,” Argus warned.

Over the next few weeks, the giant man took it upon himself to teach Jack lessons that would prove invaluable in his world. Jack's days were filled with tasks ranging from cooking and cleaning to gardening and sewing. The giant observed him closely, offering guidance and gentle corrections as he worked.

When it was time for bed, Argus gently placed Jack on a pillow on the nightstand instead of the cage. Smiling up at the giant, Jack felt happier than he had in a long time. He was no longer a prisoner here but a friend.

After months go by Jack feels confident and comfortable. One night at dinner Jack decided to confront Argus, asking to be let go.

Jack felt like a tiny mouse sitting before a giant lion as it ate its meal. Jack was thankful Argus had no interest in eating him.

“Have I done well, Master Argus? Have I learned the life skills you’ve given me?” Jack asked once he got his courage. He tried to ask it politely, sweatily, hoping to gain favor from the giant.

“Hmm, you have. You’ve done very well.”

Jack smiles brightly. “So, does this mean you can let me go? And take me back down to the human realm?” Argus was the only one that could take Jack down there. The giant had poisoned the beanstalk, making it wither. No one could go up or back down. But Argus seemed to be the gatekeeper of sorts. He could plant a new one if he wanted to. Otherwise, Jack would have tried to escape long ago. But with the beanstalk gone, there was no point in risking his life in a giant world where giant animals could eat him, or another giant could find him and maybe live up to the stories and grind his bones into bread.

Jack's smile faded as the giant's massive fingers curled around him, enclosing him firmly but gently. He looked up, confused, as Argus picked him up and brought him close to his face.

"What are you doing?" Jack asked.

Argus regarded him solemnly. "I have reconsidered. You are not yet ready for the world below."

"But you said-" Jack protested, pushing against the giant's grip.

"The human world is filled with danger and temptation," Argus rumbled. "You are still a boy. I will keep you here until you come of age."

Jack's heart sank. "How long?"

"Eight years. When you reach eighteen, you will be a man fully formed and can fend for yourself."

"No!" Jack cried, tears stinging his eyes. Eight years as a prisoner, even a pampered one, was unbearable. "Please, I want to go home!"

The giant shook his great head. "My mind is set, little one. Do not fight your destiny." Argus gently smoothed Jack's messy hair out of his eyes. Jack tried not to flinch as the giant finger pushed back his hair. “Don’t look so sad. You won’t be a prisoner. You’re just a kid. Think of this as an apprenticeship. This is more than you would get down there.”

Exhausted, Jack slumped in the giant's grasp.

“How will I not be a prisoner? You’re keeping me here against my will!?” Jack asked, his anger getting the best of him.

“Hmmm, I promise, no more cages, collars, and leashes. I’m only keeping you safe as my ward, ok? I’ll even set you up with your own room in the west wing.”

Jack looked up in surprise at this, locking eyes with Argus. “Really? I’d get my own room?” Jack asked. He had trouble imagining it. He’d get his own giant-sized room. More space than he’d ever have on earth.

“Yes. It will be your own space. I’ll even make some tiny doors for you and other ways for you to get around.” Argus was looking at him with a soft look. Which was rare for the grumpy giant.

Jack relented with a huff and a warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad here. Argus had become like a father to him in some ways. He was stern, but he had protected and taught Jack a lot.

So, Jack would make the best of it. And when the day came that Argus unleashed him on the world below, he would be ready.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 317

IMAGINE THIS: Lil baby Damian, bored and being not quite old enough to start learning how to use proper weapons (curse these wooden ones, he wants true steel!) is wandering the base. This is not out of the ordinary, he’s the prince after all. What is out of the ordinary is that his shadow, his Akhi, is not here. 

Technically, he should be napping, but he woke up and neither his mother or his brother- who is quiet but gentle and isn’t a good speaker (mother said it was from a head injury)- is there. Which is how he finds his way to the Pit, which he’s not supposed to be at. Or at least not alone. 

But! His mother and Akhi are there! And- and Akhi is screaming and he’s never heard him scream like that, like he’s in agony- His eyes are green- they were blue, had, had Mother placed him in the Waters- 

And then the pool is bubbling- he should be running away, get assistance or something, he’s five, he shouldn’t be running towards it when everything is screaming to flee. But one moment he’s at the doorway, the next he’s clinging to his akhi as something writhes in the Pit, a mighty bellow echoing even as the Shadows take defensive positions. 

The water cascades, laps at their feet, splashes everywhere as a scaled form rises from the depths, wings like a bloodied sunset spreading as fur bursts into flames. Crimson eyes glare down at them all, pupils slits as they bare down at his Akhi. 

The creature- the dragon- dips its head down, its breath warm as it chuffs at his akhi, wings folding as though it is bowing. His akhi is clinging to Mother, shivering, several scars glowing as they fade and a burst of hair burned white. 

Oh. 

Oh.

@fairy-lights-and-blobs @f4nd0m-fun @hdgnj @radiance1 pspspspsps

[nono-uwu]

More yes

Again no deep reasons for why what stamp just vibesTM (also spreading the silly catgirl Chess agenda)

Also I have one more set of these and then I'll do something very silly with the respective franchises sanrio collabs >:)

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, prologue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

This is the beginning of what you wished had no end.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 See series masterlist for extensive a/n blurb and especially for trigger warnings. Tread carefully. Ily 🧡 Please be gentle, I'm terrified 🫣

Word count: 5.1k

[series masterlist] * [next]

Prologue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday. 

He gets in after dark. He is gone before dawn. 

In this shady motel on the outskirts of town, where no one will recognise your car. The curtains are yellow, and the carpet is brown. There’s a dollar store painting of the Appalachian above the bed, and the tap runs either trickling and scalding or high pressure and cold. 

You hated that in particular, in the beginning. Now you don’t care. You don’t wash him off your skin anymore. Not until you’ve got no other choice. 

Because he can’t mark you, you’d been firm on that point, he likes to come on your skin. 

When he’d finally spoke, that very first time, he’d told you he was Frankie, but you assume it’s not his real name. Which is fine, you didn’t give him your real name either. 

“Frankie” had been far subtler than you, regretful, perhaps, you like to entertain the delusion, when he’d hinted that you couldn’t leave any trace on his body. 

And, in the beginning, you couldn’t imagine that it would ever matter. 

You were wrong. 

You were wrong about a lot of things, in the beginning. 

—

Friday night. Again. 

The swinging door creaks on its hinges to let in the regulars at random intervals. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, mostly unshaven. Mostly clad in the working-class uniform of jeans, boots and t-shirt. Few of them sit around the round wooden tables. The bar isn’t large, there’s only four of those.  

When they come in small parties, the men favour the two pools on the right. They’re lined with blue felt. The casing is made of plywood. No one ever plays darts, no one ever feeds the jukebox. Its electric cord lays unplugged on the floor, coiled like a sad sagging tail. 

If they walk in alone, they tend to sit at the bar. Head turned toward the giant television screen hung on the wall to their left, where younger men in more colourful uniforms fight, run, kick or throw balls in all shapes and sizes. Its noise is at the forefront, the middle-aged men’s conversations a low humming sound that falls into the background. 

The long and angled bar itself takes up most of the rectangular room’s space. The counter is stripped-down to the bare minimum. Stainless steel, easy to clean, practical. Four beer taps and a gambling machine and beyond the counter, a large mirror with three rows of dusty liquor bottles. 

Food is served, occasionally, as evidenced by the paper napkins dispensers and the two yellow and red plastic condiment bottles on each table. 

The barman runs the place on his own. You drink here every Friday evening, and you’ve never seen more than six customers at once, you included. Admittedly, you might not be very observant. 

Being observant requires endurance, far more than you possess and are willing to deploy and direct towards others. You’re not selfish, not in the least. But you’re tired. You’ve been tired for years. There’s no rational explanation for your exhaustion. No honourable, awe-inspiring, valid ground. You don’t even know what wears you out. It might be sadness, disappointment, or boredom. Or all three in equal parts. All you know is that, come Friday night, your head needs the support of the gray wall behind you.

The creaking noise on your left signals the arrival of another customer, stomping in with a sure gait. Your eyes stay shut. You don’t come to the very aptly named Hole in The Wall seeking the company of other people, whoever they may be. 

You come here to hide for a few hours, between the styrofoam ceiling and the dusty carpeted floor. To drink your week away in peace, but not in nerve-racking silence. Alcohol, you found out at a young age, has interesting properties: it blurs out the sharp edges of your dark thoughts in just the right amount. 

Back in spring, when you stepped in here for the very first time, you looked comically out of place in your corporate attire, and you did raise quite a few eyebrows from the other patrons. Five months later, they must have learned to see past the charade of your overpriced clothes, because none of them pays you any mind anymore. It’s better than anonymity: it’s casual indifference.

You loosen your grip around your tall cocktail glass and let the condensation drip down onto the cardboard coaster. Reluctantly, you lift your weary eyelids to locate the square napkin lying somewhere on the table and dry your fingertips on it.

That’s when you see him taking a seat at the counter, directly across from your small table. 

Years from now, you will still remember the precise circumstances of your first, brief encounter, even though you’re not fully paying attention yet. Nothing indicates tonight will be any different. Nothing suggests you are about to live through a pivotal moment in your existence.

Details will stand out, however. Mostly visual, surprisingly, given the dim lighting of the place. The back of his trucker hat, midnight blue plastic mesh, flattening the dark curls on his nape. The washed out denim of his shirt, worked-in, greenish in the diffuse artificial light, pulled taut across his back, as he sits facing away from you. 

The square shape of his shoulders is backlit against the bar’s mirror. Your empty gaze finds the solid slope of his broad silhouette, and you let it rest there, lazily following his movements whenever he picks up his glass. It’s the same comfort you find when you rest your empty head against the hard wall. It’s aimless, inconsequential.

Later, on different kinds of Friday nights, the sight of his muscles bunching as he tugs off his shirt will bring you back to this very moment. The thought will reshape into a sharp, wistful ache deep inside your heart. What would have happened, to you, to him, if he had chosen to stop for a drink at another bar, somewhere further down the road? What if you had done the same, back in April? 

For now, your mind is blessedly blank.

Does he catch your reflection in the mirror? Does he feel your gaze on the back of his head? 

After a while, how long, you cannot tell, he pivots slowly on his stool, grounded and dense. Slowly, like a mountain would if a mountain came to life and decided to walk into the ocean. He doesn’t turn around completely, just enough to look at you, one of his arms still propped on top of the counter. 

The right side of his face is darkened by the shadow from the brim of his hat, but you can make out the pronounced crease in his brow. His eyes are black, and unfathomable, like the ocean at night, but alight with a bright glimmer. They find yours instantly. 

Something shifts inside your rib cage, something close to the heart, close to pain. 

You feel exposed, entirely bare. Your breathing subsides, you cannot move, trapped in a nightmare-like stretch of time as he glares down at you, immobile, impressive, gigantic. Dark eyes boring into yours. You’re drowning in them. 

You don’t want it to end. 

Inevitably, he breaks eye-contact, and swivels back toward the mirror. He sits still for a few seconds, before grabbing his glass to finish his beer in long gulps. 

You watch him lift his hat and brush his hair to the side with a large hand, and he’s out the door less than a minute later, without so much as a glance in your direction, a conscious choice, given the minute proportions of the place. 

He leaves you sitting there, with your brow pinched and your empty drink, struggling to understand the rippling effects of his massive presence on your body and your brain.

You bring your fingers to your chest and rub them over your sternum, where the shifting sensation continues to prickle. 

Neither a second drink nor a third helps dull the feeling, but a fourth one is not an option if you want to get home without a DUI. 

It follows you into the darkness of the deserted parking lot, on the drive home and into the glass prison of your clinically clean apartment. It’s there when you get into bed, when you lie wide awake at 3am next to your sleeping fiancé, and it’s still there when you wake up, hungover and sore, four hours later. 

Nestled between your lungs. The memory of his cold hard stare. Of his soft sad eyes. 

It bypasses your most foolproof diversions of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain. Your attempts at hard work and your compulsive distractions. It robs you of your appetite, of your lucidity, of your ability to rest. It corners you in the first floor toilet of your office building on a Thursday morning, on the verge of a panic attack, until you consider calling your sister for help. 

Ava would figure it out. She’d get you out of that loop in which you’ve locked yourself up, she’d know what to say. With her crude words and her unforgiving formulations, she’d admonish your silly overreaction and dismissively rebuke your daydreams over a mundane interaction, probably throwing in something about your heteronormative fantasies. 

Dude, you’re all worked up because of a staring contest with a rando in a dive bar? she’d say. She’d toss the rhetorical question at your face, you can hear her as if you’ve already sweated through the conversation. 

She’s often harsh but she’s always right. 

And normally, you’d be seeking that out. For your little sister to bully some good sense back into your nebulous brain. 

But something has shifted. 

Dark curls, thick fingers, flexing shoulders. Solid arms. Cold, hard stare. 

He abraded something on the surface of your skin, and you don’t think you’re capable of withstanding Ava’s sarcasm in your current state. 

By the following Friday, you feel so vulnerable you consider going to another place, or not going out at all. 

Only, the alternative is worse. 

You walk into The Hole in The Wall convinced that your unsteady gait is betraying your apprehension, squinting to adjust to the dim light of the place. The bar is nearly empty, as always, save for a couple of bearded graying men you vaguely recall having seen here before. They all look the same to you, anyway. Another thing you hate about yourself.

The barman tells you to sit while he prepares your drink. The gesture is kind but uncustomary, and it only serves to increase your uneasy feeling. 

Within an hour of waiting, because that's what you've been doing, you register with an icy trickle of shame dripping down your sides, you realise he won’t be coming. 

That man’s presence here last week is the very definition of sheer happenstance. Nothing more. Nothing else. If anything, you’ve been a nuisance to him, ogling him while he was simply trying to unwind with an afterwork drink. 

You’ll never see him again. 

And it’s fine. You’ll move on, drift back into drifting, avoiding at all costs to process what happened to you when you met his gaze. The tree hiding the forest. 

When you walk up to the counter to order your second drink, the question slips away from you. 

“Can I have the same thing the man in the trucker hat had last Friday, please?”

The barman looks up at you from the tray of clean dishes he's pulling out of the dishwasher and he huffs. He’s handsome, by most standards, you notice for the very first time. Very tall, and broad, green-eyed with a three-day stubble. He’s probably a couple of years above forty. His head is shaved bald. He’s manly in a burly, albeit fatherly way. 

“Oh sweetheart, d’you know how many guys with a trucker hat I see here every day?”

It’s not meant to make you feel small, his tone is gentle. It’s a straightforward, factual answer. 

“What do you wanna drink?” he asks when you don’t answer. “Tired of that G&T yet? Cos I got good beer. This is a beer place, you know? Wanna try a light blonde, to start? Something stronger? An IPA?”

What do you want. You’ve been drinking gin all your life because that’s what your mother always has. Starting at 5pm in the afternoon. Would you, indeed, like to try a light blonde? Something stronger? An IPA, to start? 

It’s a brand-new world unfurling in front of you, a yellow brick road paved with what-do-you-wants.

“Sure,” you nod, “I can try an IPA.”

—

The barman goes by the name of Mark. He’s also the owner of The Hole in The Wall, you learn. Bought the place two years ago, after a painful divorce. A cliché, he adds, with a charming, self-deprecating smile.

The interaction’s short and altogether not unpleasant, and the beer, to your surprise, is fresh and enjoyable. It’s much tastier, in fact, than the cheap, tepid gin you’ve been sipping so far. It gets you drunk just as fast, but this time when you leave the bar, your mind is quiet, if not at ease. 

The following week, a heatwave hits the Tampa Bay. The melting asphalt sticks to your leather soles, like your sweaty clothes to your clammy skin, like your brooding mood to your dampened dreams. In a couple of days eventually, August will draw to an end, but the summer won’t end with it. It never truly does. It taunts you all year round, a sweltering reminder of how much you hate living here.

And if it wasn’t for the humidity, you’d be jogging the short distance between your car and the cool haven of the air-conditioned bar. 

You push the swinging door forward, eyes shut in anticipation of the blinding darkness and you stand in the entrance for a few seconds. The familiar and comforting smell of moldy dust mixed with beer yeast greets your senses as you take in the chill air grazing your naked arms. 

And then you reopen your eyes. 

He’s here. 

Trucker hat, blue jeans, gray T-shirt. Different clothes, same silhouette. He’s sitting at your table, his position a magnified echo of yours two weeks ago, hand loosely wrapped around his pint, seemingly asleep with his head propped against the wall. 

Mark looks at you and tilts his head in his direction, wiggling an eyebrow with a silent question of “Is this the guy you were asking about?”

Your breathing’s so loud you think everyone must hear it over the droning television. Mark’s brow furrows with incomprehension at the alarm widening your eyes, and you anchor yourself to his face, walking toward him in slow motion, climbing on the first high stool you reach.

“Hey. You ok?”

You stretch your lips in a wince of a smile.

“So? What will it be today? Wanna try a Free Dive? It’s local.”

You nod in silence, but then he grabs a large glass, and you ask tentatively, “Can I have only half a pint?”

Fuck, your mouth is so dry.

Behind you, to your right, you feel more than you hear the man shift in his chair.

Mark sighs, his left hand paused on the tap handle. 

“I don’t have beer glasses this small, sweetheart. Get a pint, the first one’s on me, okay?”

You reiterate your silent nod. He places the beer in front of you, and you swallow the first swigs too quickly. The back of your throat throbs with the fast flowing intake of the cold liquid, or perhaps it’s because of the frantic beating of your heart.

He’s getting up now, you can tell by the friction sound of the chair dragging on the carpeted floor, and your frightened expression turns downright pleading as you hear him close the distance between you.  

He’s at your back, sliding his thick naked arm past yours to return his empty glass to the counter. His movements are slow, deliberate. You get a whiff of his scent, a masculine musk, with a faint smell of laundry detergent, it’s wholesome, safety, comfort. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Looking at you with intent.

He’s so tall you have to lift your chin to hold his gaze. Hard cold stare, soft sad eyes, it’s swirling violently inside your exhausted chest and he’s leaving again already, walking toward the door like nothing just happened.

He pulls it inward and you watch him exit the bar into the dusk light.

Did he come back for you? Are you going insane? 

Sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds is the time it takes you to decide your next move. The one that’s going to forever change your life. The one that could be everything or turn out meaningless. 

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Mark, sliding your handbag on the counter and you stand up to follow him outside.

The sunset sky is a pink shade of orange. Shadows are stretching long onto the asphalt, drawing a distorted world upside-down. 

He’s not here anymore, you waited too fucking long. You quickly scan the parked vehicles on the other side of the road to your right, and the parking lot in front of you, but it’s empty, save for your anthracite sedan, a black truck and what you assume must be Mark’s old SUV, because you see it every week. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, pressing your fingers to your sternum. 

You look to your left, where the parking ends. There’s a white utility vehicle advertising a plumbing service and a dark blue city car. Beyond them, the lot extends into a narrow stretch of gravel behind the small rectangular building. There’s a pile of junk, and the tailgate of a red truck.

Your hand drops to your side and you start walking toward it, going around the white van. 

He’s there. He’s waiting for you by the front of the red truck, behind the building. His hands propped on his waist, head down, hidden under his cap. 

You keep walking toward him, the sound of your shoes on the dirty ground grating your ears, but you stop short when he raises his head, fuck he looks even taller at this distance, with his elbows spread.

It’s like he senses your apprehension, or perhaps he shares it, because he folds his arms over his chest, hugging himself. 

For the very first time, you can fully make out his face. Strong features, a strong curvy nose, a patchy beard peppering a sharp jaw, and plush lips. Your gaze follows the solid column of his neck down to his suprasternal point peeking above the V-collar of his worn-out t-shirt, before it’s drawn back to his eyes.

He stands there perfectly still for you to detail.

Above you, the sky has turned a rusty blue. The humidity is stifling. It’s Friday the 30th, 2019, 8.17pm.

“What do you want?”

His voice is deep, and low, barely louder than a murmur yet intense, his words full and round. 

The question, however legitimate, hits you square in the solar plexus, right under your aching sternum. You fear that if you don’t speak fast enough, he’ll leave you again, alone with the memory of his soft sad eyes and his hard cold stare. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, and god, if it’s true, what are you doing here? 

He huffs, and it’s the very sound of disillusion. His eyes grow dimmer, you think you’re not the one darkening them. Unfolding his arms, he removes his hat and takes a step closer, then another. You could touch him, if you reached out with your arm stretched. 

He looks at you like he’s already seen how your story ends. 

You could back away. You don’t.��

He moves slowly, thick body thrumming with undiluted strength and unreleased tension, eyes searching yours, giving you the time to leave, should leaving be what you choose, should you turn around and run before the hanging threat breaks like dark stormy clouds and drench you soaked. 

He slowly moves forward until he’s towering over you, until his chest touches your breasts, until the pilled cotton of his t-shirt catches at the satin material of your blouse. His scent floods your senses, he leans down into the curve of your neck and inhales you there, long, deep, unhurried. You hold your breath, still, in turn, for his exploration, nails digging into your palms, heart tripping.  

And then, he touches you. With his lips, a feather-like caress over the soft skin under your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, your thoughts are suspended.

“This what you want?” he murmurs.

His words sink under your skin, they harden your nipples, raise goosebumps on your nape in the muggy evening heat.  

“Yes.”

The cap falls onto the gravel. His hands go to your hips. Clutching you there with a rough grip and he’s tugging you closer, flush to his chest. He licks up a broad stripe along the line of your throat, pivots with you in his arms and backs you into the side of the truck, you have to grab his forearms to keep your balance. 

A guttural sound catches in his throat, like a grunt he tries to hold back, for your touch, for the taste of your skin, for your pliant docility.

Your head rolls back, you’ve gone weeks without a skin on skin contact, and now this man is hunched over you, his body swallowing yours, this stranger who’s infected your dreams with his cold hard stare and his soft sad eyes, his mouth roaming the expanse of your throat, short beard prickling your skin, and the shifting sensation inside your chest drops to your core where it catches fire.

His kisses are lips, teeth and tongue, rough and scraping at you raw in all the right ways, they trail up along your neck, under your jaw, and when they find your lips, he presses you harder into him. He tastes like beer, unfamiliar, you want to get used to it. 

The seams of your blouse strain when he pulls it out of your skirt with an impatient tug. His hands slither under the hem and find the naked skin of your back. His palms are strong, rugged and scalding and his fingertips calloused, they make your skin sizzle underneath their pressing, crackle like snapping wood, like fireworks at a summer county fair, like sweet candy wrapping. 

You're leaking hot and sticky between your hips, responding with your entire body, opening up for him, letting his tongue in past your lips with pathetic grateful little moans, winding your arms around his shoulders, over the cording muscles of his back, musky sweat dampening his t-shirt. The thick, solid shape of him, that got etched behind your eyelids.

You’re a want and a need and an empty flutter, entangled with him, whoever he may be, his tongue swirling inside your mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, his splayed hands covering your back, his knee spreading your legs open. 

He’s voracious, harsh in his own need, snatching from you what you’re already willing to give, angling your head with a sharp pull on your hair to deepen his kiss, grunting his approval when you moan at the sting. 

Arousal keeps dripping down your fold where his thigh prods firm and brawny against the black material of your skirt that hinders the pressure. 

He growls, frustration rumbling low and menacing inside his throat. He grabs your ass and squeezes, thick middle finger pushing against the fabric of your clothes into the cleft between your cheeks and you jolt, leaping forward further into him. His belt buckle bites into the soft flesh of your belly, right where you're burning empty and wanting and shameless for him. You feel him hot and hard against your hip, and he tightens his hold, cages you within him. 

He’s big all over, larger than life proportions, you surrender to the fact with your lust-drunk mind, from the height of his frame to the girth of his sex, from his grip on your senses to the sorrow in his eyes. 

It blooms inside you like pain, blossoms of mahogany red spreading along your limbs in relentless waves, the power he already wields over you and you don’t even know his name.  

You buck between his arms, a first and very last attempt at freeing yourself, unconvincing with the scrap of your fingernails along the pebbled skin of his neck, and you press back into him again, squirming against his throbbing length, offering him some friction.  

He pulls out all of sudden, breaking the kiss, and you're left panting, ankles swaying, you’d drop to the gravel without the support of the truck, still sun-warm in the early evening, yet colder than his feverish body. 

He shakes his head with a silent no, his shoulders heaving, a wordless warning hissed through his clenched bared teeth. The simmering anger under the surface only makes you want him more, the unyielding restraint shining dark in his eyes.  

But it’s over. You know it. He gave you this, and took it back. With shaky hands, you smooth down the wrinkles of your blouse where he’s bunched it in his fists. You lick his taste off your trembling lip. You will not cry. 

He shakes his head again, you watch him through welling tears, confused, eyes flickering between his. 

Behind him, the city car’s engine revs up to a start, aggressive headlights backlighting him. His throat bobs up and down in chiaroscuro as he swallows hard. You know what you must look like in the crude white light. Supplicant, dependent, awaiting. Disheveled by his hand. Tires grate on the gravel as the car reverses away from you into the night, and with it the headlights, leaving you standing in the brown city night, urban semi darkness, and you see him shut his eyes. 

He smiles, a puzzling, sorrowful lift of his plush lips, and a new sort of ache washes over you. You raise forward on your tiptoes to peck a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His entire frame quivers for you. A muscle clenches in his jaw, the deepening crease in his brow redefines his traits in shadows. 

He leans into you, like he wants you but he doesn’t want to want you, like he’s giving in but not entirely, because giving in would be the end of him, of you.

The flat of his palm to the swell of your breast, and he kneads your soft flesh, slowly at first, growing urgent. The back of your head hits the truck’s window when he pinches your nipple, hard, with two fingers, and you bite down a moan. 

He’s engulfing you again, lips latched around your other nipple, tongue swirling and licking through your blouse and your thin bra and you hold on to him, you cling to his frame when he bunches up your skirt around your waist, leather boot nudging your foot to the side, cock throbbing on your hip, slick dripping down your walls. 

“Stop me,” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. It’s not a dare, it’s not a plea, it’s your last chance to back down before the free fall. 

Your pulse stutters, you arch into him without hesitation, but he pins you back against the truck with his chest, cupping you through your underwear and he curses into your neck at the sticky leaking mess he finds there.

Your naked leg hitches up rigid and tense against his leg, curled fingers, curled toes, and he hooks his index into the cotton of your panties. 

A brief stroke of his knuckles into the soft, smooth dip between your sex and your inner thigh, unexpectedly tender, before he parts your soaked lips with his two middle fingers, coating them in your sticky slick desire, and he sinks them inside your empty cunt. 

You crumble around the intrusion, forehead hitting his collarbone, slack-mouthed, a short exhale of a silent “oh.” He brings his left hand to the crown of your head and cradles you there, while his fingers pump in and out of your heat fast and rough. His thumb glides through your folds and starts rubbing at your clit, deft and precise, and you shudder between his arms, you slump into his hold. 

He keeps stroking your hair, gentle soothing sounds murmured into your ear as he fucks you raw with his hand, attuned to your moans and your every reaction, gauging what you can take before his fingers curl deeper inside your cunt, merciless, thumb pressing tight circles on your bud at an increasing pace.  

Your breathing comes in ragged and short while his intensifies. It’s pouring into your ear hot and overwhelming and you’re dissolving. Sweat beading at your temples, heat raising from his exerted muscles. 

You focus on the sensation of his flexing muscles under your clawing hands to stave off your building orgasm, it’s growing bright and blinding, searing and violent but it’s inevitable, and soon, too soon, your release flows hot and sticky into his hand. Your whines resound inside his chest but he keeps going, low husks of shhh, come on now, that’s it, until your trapped body trashes with the overstimulation.  

It’s like he can’t let go, pressing his nose heavily to the side of your face, and you struggle to resurface, blood thrumming in your veins, his angry cock pulsating against your hip. 

You let out a dry sob when he slides out of you and the rubber band of your panties slaps your sensitive skin. You don’t miss the flat drag of his tongue licking your taste off his palm, you furrow your fingers deeper into his arm with a short clench of your eyes. 

“Fuck,” your hear him quietly groan, and his fingers disappear into his mouth. 

You want to stay tucked up against him, curled up into his hold. You could live the rest of your life there, you think, between his hands and his scent, between his chest and his truck. 

You lock your ankles and your knees, hoping they will not fail you and you stand, pushing away from him and into the side of the truck. You readjust your skirt, slide it down, palm it smooth. Brush the damp hair from your forehead with the back of your trembling hand.

In your peripheral, he’s leaning down, picking up his hat from the ground and combing his fingers through his hair before he sets the cap back on his head.

You look up dazed and heavy-lidded and you brace yourself before meeting his gaze, cold hard stare, soft sad eyes, and he says,

“I’m Frankie.”

****

Bonus (having déjà vu? that's normal 😝 Gonna use this gif at the end of every first chapter I manage to yank out of my crazy in love brain):

Taglist (thank you 🧡 if you don't wish to be tagged anymore, just drop me a DM 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @nicolethered @littleone65 @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks @its-nebuleuse @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @all-the-way-down-here

[chaoticbardlady99]

Could you please do some comforting fic? Like, Tav is crying because of stress (or maybe a painful memory) and Astarion has to console her being an absolute emotional support vampire?

Dying Star (Astarion x GN! Reader)

Your wish is my command!

Synopsis: While exploring the Shadowlands, you run into Arabella and she asks you to find her parents. Unfortunately, you don’t have good news to deliver and Astarion tries to navigate your feelings with tips from Karlach.

Character Class- Cleric of Lliira

 (I’m really obsessed with this concept because I’m a Social Worker and I refer to myself as the “positivity police” so this is a character type I have grown fond of)

TW: Grief, Trauma, Parental loss, PTSD, Panic Attacks, mentions of violence and gore.

*I really like the nickname Little Love (I know it’s for Ascended only but…..) so I will be using it as a pet name that Astarion uses for the reader.

Companion song: Dying Star by Ashnikko (feat. Ethel Cain)

     It was supposed to be easy. You had an extra skip to your step as you headed in the direction Arabella told you her parents went. 

 Finally, you had thought, I can do something good for someone. I can reunite a family. No morally gray bullshit to navigate.

 You were grinning the whole way there despite your argument with Astarion before sending him with Arabella.

 “We don’t have time to go parent hunting.”

“There is always time to go parent hunting.”

  He had expressed his disdain about finding Arabella’s parents. He told you it’s a waste of time- they were probably dead anyway. Arabella had whimpered and teared up. That was enough for you to lose your patience and you ripped into him for saying "something so awful and in front of a CHILD, nonetheless!"

You sent him back with Arabella and Wyll, telling him that if he had no desire to search and rescue, he didn’t have to. He had looked hurt and insisted he go, that he needed to be there, but you were fed up and a little girl was crying.

Dejected, Astarion had gone back to camp. The guilt sat heavily at the bottom of your stomach, but you had a personal mission to complete and nothing was going to stop you.

  You were orphaned as a young child. The nightmares had gone away (for the most part), but you still remember your father dragging you away from your mother’s cold body as Loth Drows ambushed Silverymoon. They had had a whole army and their druids had control over giant creatures from the Underdark. You remember losing your father in the haze, an arrow to your back, running and slipping into a river. Then nothing. Until a nearby Cleric of Lliira (Leer-uh) had saved you, taking you to Selgaunt (SELL-GAUNT) on the coast of the Sea of Stars. Lliira had healed your heart and saved you- you hoped to pay that debt forward and help Arabella have a better outcome than you did. 

  No one in your party knew your past and you hadn’t brought it up to Astarion. It feels so long ago and it was a topic you preferred to bring up in a more hospitable place than the Shadowlands and after you help Astarion kill Cazador. You wanted to prioritize his joy and help him finally be free, so why would you burden him with your past while he is suffering far more from his?

 It didn’t take you and your party long to locate Arabella’s parents. You found them in the House of Healing- dead.  Along with your hope and joy. 

  You had erupted in a tearful rage and you stabbed the Sister who killed them over and over. 

  You didn’t care what the Joybringer would do if she saw how senselessly you mutilated the sisters and Malus. You had made them suffer as you saw fit. Mutilating them, using more painful methods of killing (stabbing in painful, but not lethal spots), and your crying came out as painful, angry screams. 

   Gale, Karlach, and Shadowheart eyed you with concern as you walked back to the camp. Usually you were singing or whistling a tune, cracking jokes to relieve the tension. 

Instead, you were focusing on how you would break the news to Arabella that her parents are dead and she is all alone. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

   Astarion paces around his tent, trying to distract himself from the pit of fear in his stomach. You had never snapped at him that way- usually you just roll your eyes at him and give him a chaste kiss with a soft, “I understand if you don’t want to go, but I would appreciate it if you would come along.” 

He wasn’t sure why Arabella and her parents had been a sensitive subject or why you had insisted on looking for them when they were likely already dead. No one survives the Shadow Cursed Lands without a light source and mediocre tactical skills.

That didn’t stop him from rooting for you though- he hopes he is wrong and that you come back victorious. He wants you to be happy. Astarion enjoys seeing you succeed because that’s when you flash that brilliant grin that he has (silently) adored since the moment he met you. The reason he protested in the first place is because he knows how destroyed you would be if Arabella’s parents are dead. He doesn’t want you to hurt- for your heart to lose it’s optimism. 

 He hears you, Karlach, Shadowheart, and Gale come into camp. He steps out of the tent- hoping that you were able to achieve the outcome you wanted, that you would come parading into camp victorious.

He sees you talking to Arabella in a quiet whisper and he watches as your face contorts to hold back your own feelings as Arabella screams at you. He watches you take it- as she punches you in the stomach over and over. You just let her before she runs off. Withers says something to you quietly before you walk into your tent, closing yourself off from everyone.

 Astarion feels stuck in the entryway of his tent. He doesn’t know what to do.

 “Hey fangs,” Karlach says, offering a sad smile as she walks up to him, “you should probably know- they went over the rails after seeing Arabella’s parents.”

A look of confusion spreads across his face. What does that even mean? You were barely capable of hurting a fly!

 “Like they became upset?”

  Karlach nods with weary eyes,“They became upset and… well very, very, very violent.”

    The tadpole behind his eyes begins to squirm as he allows Karlach to show him the scene.

He didn’t think you were capable of that much destruction.  He saw angry tears slide down your face as you destroyed everything in your path. His gentle, joyful Cleric had broken in the House of Healing.

How ironic, he thinks bitterly.

He feels his own tears begin to prick his eyes as he watches you suffer through the battle- screaming and crying. He should have been there for you. He should have gone and let you be mad at him for disobeying. He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“She really needs you Fangs,” Karlach says to him, interrupting his train of thought.

Of course Karlach would say that as if it was the easiest thing in the world- like he hadn't been tortured and unloved for the past two centuries.

“I don’t know how to be what she needs right now,” he says in a soft voice.

It was true. He had only just expressed his feelings for you and he barely felt confident doing that to begin with. He spent two centuries seducing and manipulating whoever he could to survive. How could he be what you need right now? When he is just as much of a monster as the individuals that killed Arabella’s parents?

  Karlach contemplates this, searching Astarion’s face as if the answer to all his problems would be there. 

  “You don’t need to do anything other than being there- tell them you are sorry. Tell them you were rooting for them because I saw it in your head. Tell them that they aren't alone,” Karlach pauses before saying, “And remind them that they are a good person- that Lliira wouldn’t abandon her in her suffering.”

Despite his fear and reluctance, he thanks Karlach for the advice and walks towards your tent. 

   ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

    Your body is shaking violently as your chest tightens and painful, silent sobs come out of your mouth. You are trying (and failing) to use your hand as a sound barrier.

It’s not about you, it’s about Arabella, you remind yourself, stop being so selfish. 

Except the images are back, you are small again, helpless again, alone, and afraid. Despite your effort, Arabella has been given the same fate and in the same breath, you turned away from your Goddess. You lost yourself in the fight, you were aware of this while it was happening. You just didn’t have it in you to care anymore. 

You hear footsteps approach your tent- you do the best to rub away the tears and snot.

 It’s not about you. 

You hear Astarion’s voice on the other side of the tent flap. 

 “Little love,” he says softly, “can I please come in?”

You laugh, your voice hoarse, “Come to tell me ‘I told you so?’ To gloat and laugh? If that is your intention, then no. You will need to wait one to five business days before you can do that.”

   You don’t hear him laugh at your humorous response as he usually does. He enters the tent and you feel him sit down behind you, his legs on either side of yours. He’s tense as he puts his arms around you from behind, pulling you in between his legs. He slowly relaxes against your body, putting his face in the crook of your neck. 

 “I’m sorry Little Love. I wanted to be wrong. I just knew how much it would… hurt you if the outcome wasn’t… well.”

 You sniff, choking back a sob as he begins drawing shapes on the back of your shaking hands. 

“It’s okay my love. You can let it out. I’m here for you. You aren’t alone.”

 Despite how clumsy and awkward it was said, that sentence alone broke whatever composure you still had. You cry and scream into your hand as Astarion holds onto you as if you are about to fly away and he is your anchor. Your breath is shallow and it’s hard to breathe as you suffocate on your grief and panic. You feel him ask for access to your mind, wanting to know how to help. So, you show him and you let all your grief pour into your cries. You feel his own tear mix with yours as he cries into your neck as he endures how you feel with you- as he watches your whole life fall apart because of one ambush over and over again.  

  He continues to trace patterns on your hands, asking you to focus on him and what he is doing, reminding you to breathe as you do for him when he is distressed.

  You begin to calm as you focus on his voice, focus on his delicate fingers tracing your skin, and for once, you don’t feel so alone. You scoot forward, gently removing his arms , and turn around to face him, your tearful eyes meeting his.

He grabs your face gently and kisses your forehead as silent tears roll down both of your faces. You look down at your hands before speaking.

“I thought… I thought I could help Arabella be reunited with her family,” you say in a gravely whisper, “I had hoped she wouldn’t be alone like I was, but now…”

  You suck in a harsh breath and look at your hands, “Gods, I am naive and stupid.”

 “No- you do not get to talk about my favorite person that way,” Astarion says sharply.

 You look up in surprise at the intensity of his words. He matches your eyes with a look of adoration, guilt, and a ferocity you have never seen before.

 “Little Love, you are not naive and you are not stupid,” He pauses, to kiss one of your hands and intertwines your fingers together, “you are so good without trying because that is who you are. You experienced hardship and you didn’t let it destroy you. You didn’t become a monster.”

 He looks at your face to gauge your reaction. You sit quietly, letting him continue to speak if he chooses so he does.

 “You… you are amazing and a bright light in the darkness. You are my moon, my compass, and you have shown me parts of myself I didn’t know existed,” he clears his throat before continuing.

 “ I hate to see you hurt, but I promise I will be here to help you through your suffering,” He stares into your eyes intensely, “for as long as you will have me.” 

  You pause, taking in everything he has just said to you. You felt like a star dying, exploding in the cosmos. You feel evil and wrong for the violence you inflicted on the Sisters and Malus in your need for revenge. Your actions were not of Lliira's will.

 “I don’t know if that’s who I am anymore, Star. I engaged in senseless violence… I don’t think Lliira will forgive me- and if she does, it won’t be easy to obtain her forgiveness,” you say glumly. 

 He grabs your other hand in his and offers a soft smile. 

“Then we will work together to get you back into favor with your Goddess and I will remind you everyday who you are until you believe in yourself again,” he says before leaving a chaste kiss on your lips.

You smile despite yourself, your chest glowing with warmth as you stare into his eyes. You know Astarion detests the Gods, but the fact that he was willing to help you made your eyes tear up again. You are horribly desperately in love with him and as much as you want to tell him that, you practice restraint. There is a time and place- that time is not now, not when the relationship just began.

 “And what if I need it everyday for the rest of your Immortal life?” You say half-joking and half-afraid of his answer.

 A wide, genuine grin spreads across Astarion’s face as your words register in his mind. 

They want me to stay. They want me to be by their side-even when this is all done.

    Astarion pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling his hips as he pulls you into him and presses a soft kiss against your neck before laying his head on your shoulder. 

“Then I will stay by your side. Forever.”

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Gay wrongs tournament, semifinals of the minor bracket

Propaganda:

For Lord Hater and Commander Peepers :

Lord Hater is the self-proclaimed "universe's awesomest evil-doer", an immature, attention-seeking manchild with electric powers and a short temper. He rules the Hater Empire with Commander Peepers as his second-in-command (technically third, after his beloved pet spider-xenomorph, but who's counting), however it soon becomes *very* clear that the cunning, remorseless, hardworking Peepers is the *real* brains behind the empire. Peepers might be frustrated at Hater's incompetence at times and isn't above manipulating him to reach an end goal, but he'd never dream of usurping him because, well, he's really gay and in love with him (as much as he can be in an early-10s Disney cartoon, anyways). Hater might take Peepers for granted a lot of times, but as his oldest friend and closest confidante he's the one who Hater is closest to. Whether it's invading other planets or kicking puppies for fun, these two are *delightfully* terrible jerks and the epitome of gay wrongs. 

Commander Peepers is both Lord Hater's right hand man in villainy AND his jilted stay-at-home-wife-guy (Also in villainy. Hater is really good at getting distracted from productive and efficient villaining.) Lord Hater was the greatest villain in the galaxy thanks to how well he and Commander Peepers worked as an evil team to run the Hater Empire!

Lord Hater conquers planets and is such an edgy bastard. Peepers is the actual brains behind the operation. Peepers is often pushed aside by Hater, they are besties and yet Peepers is always pining for this guy who will never notice. Peepers is so horribly gay for him if you watch the show he wants his stupid boss so bad. Peepers is so scared of him season 1 but then starts yelling BACK in season 2 and has to deal with him like a babysitter or something and yet STILL idolizes him and that’s just such a fun dynamic. His password is H8RNP33PRS43VR (Hater and Peepers forever). They are so evil and everyone fears them and they are villains and they are gay and the side of the fandom that draws them as a married couple that needs counseling is absolutely correct. The fanart of Hater openly liking him back is wonderful but I swear you don’t even need that. They are so gay and villain you have to love them they are

Villains that conquer planets and do evil stuff, my favourite characters, not really canon but they are the best :)

For Wu Zetian x Gao Yizhi x Li Shimin: (propaganda from previous poll here)

They are in a poly and are so morally gray and I love em. The triangle really is the strongest shape

They're gay because they're all bi (literally in Shimin and Yizhi's cases, kinda more implied for Zetian). Zetian and Shimin tortured a man for information (and also because he tortured them first) while Yizhi cooked back in their apartment. They made a plan to destroy their government and take over instead. Yizhi killed his dad because he was talking shit about Zetian and trying to sway his trust in her (it didn't work lmao). Instead of a love triangle (it REALLY seemed like that was what it was heading towards) they all love each other and would (and have) committed atrocities for each other. There's a whole thing about how they're stronger together (like, metaphorically and on the battlefield (Shimin and Zetian pilot a giant mecha together and Yizhi balances them))

They're a canon polyship who are all a bit deranged and down to kill for their goals and/or to protect bae. Two have tortured a man to death together and came home to the third making celebratory cookies for them. 

What's more gay wrongs than trying to take over your country and torturing a man together

[daydreamodyssey]

We need more evil and morally gray female characters but also more gentle giants who are women

[catindabag]

TBOSAS on Crack short take (49)

*When the Mentors lied about their Tributes’ skills on LIVE TV*

Lepidus: Welcome back to the ✨Table Talk✨! I’m your host, Lepidus Malmsey-

Casca: Booooo!

Lepidus: Ugh. Who let Highbottom sit with the audience again?

Felix: Just ignore him.

Lepidus: And why does your school want me to do another round of interviews?

Vipsania: To gain more sponsors-

Gaius: For money.

Hilarius: We love money.

Coryo: I need money.

Sejanus: To proclaim my undying love to my Coryo-

Coryo: Not now, Babe.

Sejanus: But-

Coryo: I’ll give you a kiss if you shut up.

Sejanus: Can you kiss me now-

Casca: Booooo! Get a room-

Felix: Back to you, Malmsey!

Lepidus: Um- okay. So here we are again with our favorite Mentors-

Festus: Yo, Leppy! Leppy, why do I have to wear this stupid paper bag?

Lepidus: It’s Lepidus.😑 And your Class President was the one who asked me to cover your face.

Festus: Why?!😫

Felix: Creed, just wear the bag.

Coryo: That’s what you get after you forced us to bail you out from juvenile jail, Bestie~.😊

Festus: I did nothing wrong-

Coryo: You trespassed and dumpster dived on private property.

Festus: I did not!

Felix: The President of Panem would disagree.

Festus: But I’m not even a fugitive!

Lysistrata: Not yet~.☺️

Festus: But-

Felix: Lepidus, please continue.

Lepidus: So my first question is for-

Livia: Just spit it out, Leppy. We don’t have all day.🙄

Juno: Yeah~. I even have an important appointment with my chiropractor after this.

Lepidus: Fine.😞 What are your Tribute’s strengths and weaknesses?

Livia: Excuse me?! Weaknesses?! That’s incorrect. My new bestie from ✨District One✨ doesn’t have weaknesses.🙄💅

Lepidus: That’s impossible-

Livia: Facet with his tasset can even stop a freaking bullet just by looking at it.

Lepidus: That’s a lie-

Livia: I’ve seen him do it before, Leppy~.

Palmyra: Just one bullet? That’s so lame, Livia. Velvereen the Wolverine can melt bullets and spit acid.😌

Vipsania: Ha! Both of your Tributes are nothing compared to mine. My Tribute, Treech the Leech can suck your blood out in seconds.

Pup: Well, my Tribute, Lamina with her stamina can drown anyone with just her salty tears.

Apollo: Bro, shut up. My Tribute, Otto from the Grotto can kill a grown man with just one punch.

Diana: Just one punch? My Tribute, Ginnee Houdini can turn you all into dust-

Juno: That’s so unoriginal, Ring. My Tribute, Bobby-

Hilarius: Bobbin.

Juno: Bobby Corn Poppy can lift a thousand grown grizzly bears with just one arm!

Hilarius: But my Wovey with just one knee can make you run for your money!

Gaius: You be lying, Hilari! My Tribute, Panlo with his hands low can kick all of your asses!

Androcles: That’s all you’ve got, bro?! My Tribute, Sheaf the Chief can strangle you with her eyes!

Io: Andie, stop with your nonsense! My Tribute, Circ with his quirk can fly you to the moon and back!

Urban: That’s all?! My Teslee from Mississippi can break a giant’s neck with her thighs!

Persephone: Do better, Urban! My Mizzen The Gremlin can break your bones with just using his zen!

Festus: Lol. My Tribute, Coral No Morals can knock you all out with just her profanities!

Dennis: Creed, sit down! My Hy So High can fly faster than a fly!

Iphigenia: Suck it, Dennis! Sol Aerosol can burn you all with just her sweat!

Domitia: Lame! My Tanner with a hanger moves faster than a spider!

Arachne: That’s just so and so! My Tribute, Brandy Sharp Candy will slice you to bits!

Clemensia: Little Crane is just jealous because Reaper The Sweeper has the strength of a thousand wild zebras.

Felix: And Dill with the drill has the agility of an eel!

Florus: Boring! My Tribute, Sabyn So Keen has the eyes of an eagle, speed of a cheetah, and the strength of a thousand flamingos!

Sejanus: But they won’t stand a chance against my friend, Marcus Spartacus!

Lysistrata: Wrong! My Tribute, Jessup with his getup will crush Marcus Spartacus like a bug!

Coryo: But they will all surrender to Lucy Gray and her army of Mockingjays!

Everyone:. . .

Festus: What’s a mockingjay?

Lepidus: What the duck and buck are you guys even saying?!😫

*Meanwhile, at the Zoo*

Lucy Gray: Sheaf the Chief-

Sheaf: Don’t even start, Baird.

Lucy Gray: But-

Sheaf: Do you want me to strangle you with my eyes?

Lucy Gray: Nevermind.😞

[showrunnerihardlyknowher]

Any advice on how to write overprotective giants or other large monstrosities? How do I make them strongly morally gray, know when to limit the dehumanization and adoration of tiny person of interest, and how the giant seems to believe they are in the right with detaining a tiny person? Asking for a friend! Definitely not me, a lurker questioning if I should start writing on tumblr or any other writing websites....

Ooooh, fun!!

It definitely all boils down to what your giant views their brand new tiny as and whether or not they can understand each other. You can take Edix and Jacob, for example, where Edix solely sees Jacob as a pet which is heightened by the fact Jacob cannot verbally stand up for himself to disprove that. Of course Edix loves him and would never intentionally hurt him, but that love is only as strong as that for a puppy at best. It's pure adoration at the cost of being a plaything and because Edix assumes that Jacob is so weak and helpless, he fully believes he's in the right to do whatever he feels is necessary to protect him.

Comparatively, you have Ben and Milo, who can perfectly understand each other and have a tentative parent-child relationship. The problem is that Ben doesn't know how to be a legit parent, especially to something so small and foreign to him, so he has to rely on what he knows as an exterminator to keep Milo safe (trapping and caging). He's not trying to be cruel on purpose or upset him, but he can only use what limited knowledge he has at his disposal until Elysie can put him on the right track. In that case, the dehumanization can't really be helped, but Ben still recognizes it for what it is and feels guilty all the while.

Then you have someone like Taiyo who is more morally grey. His mission is to destroy all the parasites festering on Earth, which will in turn save humanity, but if humans also happen to get caught in the crossfire of a fight, well...oh well. He doesn't go out of his way to hurt them, but he's not too pressed if they are, and the only human he actively protects is Kumiko for his own personal reasons. He respects her boundaries for the most part, but that doesn't stop him from grabbing her, moving her, or shielding her when she's in immediate danger, despite what she might protest. That's an example of balanced adoration and dehumanizing, in which he'll give her some of the space she asks for to keep her content, but he'll be damned if he ever lets her try to hold her ground even though she's more than capable of doing so.

All in all, it really depends on how the tiny is first viewed by the giant. A pet, a toy, a friend in need, a crush at first sight? What kind of love are they blinded by that would make their morally grey views shift in favor of keeping this tiny from harm, and is there any real harm to begin with? Do they think the tiny needs defending simply because they small and weak in comparison to the giant, or is it because they're young, or injured, or recently defenseless?

Can the tiny ever sway their opinions that they don't need to be coddled either by telling them or showing with their actions, or will there always be some reason that the giant won't budge on despite conceding on other points? Does the giant feel guilty for their behavior, are they able to imagine themself in the tiny's shoes and knowing they'd also detest the same kind of treatment, or is it still a necessary evil in the grand scheme of things? Are they worried for the tiny's safety, or are they just possessive and want them all to themself?

If the tiny is deemed a pet or a toy, the giant probably isn't going to care much, maybe even joke about how much tiny puts up a fight despite living a new life of snuggled, babied luxury. If the tiny is something of a platonic or romantic interest, the giant might be more willing to meet them halfway on some treatments, even if they can never fully give in on leaving them totally alone in fear or something happening.

[isekai-crow]

The Witch and the Beast / Majo to Yajuu Episode 1

Overall Score So Far: 9/10

WE'VE GOT A HOTTIE LINE UP OF ALL GENDERS!!

Guideau on the left, Ashaf in the middle, and Genderless Hottie on the right :3

HOW ARE THEY ALL SO PRETTY.

Anime, now with more CROW BAIT. This time it's literal!! :D

OF COURSE the Goth With The Coffin on his back can use CROW MAGIC. AHHHHHHH.

Also, Guys. You guys. Fucking TOSHIYUKI MORIKAWA is voicing Ashaf.

THE VOICE OF SEPHIROTH. GRIFFITH FROM BERSERK. DANTE FROM DEVIL MAY CRY. TYKI FROM D. Gray Man. We get THE KING OF THE DARK AND BROODY SEXY MAN VOICE.

And Guideau is voice by Taichi, You - Jousuke from JoJo, Suphia from TenSura, Saya from Dead Mount Death Play, and Dorothy from Princess Principal!! A great rough and tumble voice perfect for Guideau. (1st Epi Spoiler: I can't tell if she's voicing Guideau's true form.)

More Episode 1 Spoilers Below!

I don't really know what I was expecting except for Hot Goth Dude with a Coffin Boyfriend, and a badass punch-em-up beauty with a nasty mouth from the PV on youtube, but that's what I got and more, and I am so very pleased about it.

I was SO EXCITED ABOUT THE CROWS YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Hottie Mage whips out a spell covered arms and MY BABIES ARE BURSTING FORTH IN A MURDER OF ADORABLE!!! I might have woken up Capybara's deaf elderly neighbors in my excitement.

What I was not expecting was a giant Zom 100 Shark to show up in the middle of the city lmfao.

Zom 100 Zombie shark on the left and Big Buff Giant Shark Dude on the right.

It's just a dude whose turned himself into a shark with magic, who immediately gets dispelled by a witch, and that THIS IS A NORMAL OCCURANCE??? People are like, oh noooo, there's a giant shark, Ione will deal with iiiiit, no worriesssss.

The implications this gives of a mixed soft/hard magic system tho.

I'm really looking forward to learning (or maybe not learning and discovering through negative space) the rules that don't get broken (which is necessary for a magic system), but also hope that they'll be playing hard and fast with what's possible. Cause seriously, wtf is this shark. Delightful, lol.

They mind games played with "Are Witches Bad or Not?" in this episode is fun, because as a viewer going in blind, we could have had some lawful good protagonists or we could have had some chaotic anti-heros, and I would have accepted either outcome. We kind of get both and that's even better!

Trying to include a speech about the morals of getting revenge with Ione as she tries to justify her actions for removing the lock on her grandmother was interesting, but I'm still not sure if her Grandma was the one to cause the fire and people 300 years ago killed her, or if her getting blamed for the fires and then killed just so happened to lock the fire away, but either way...

Along with this I'm not surprised by the coven of would-be witch's nor the attempts by them to claim that witches aren't bad, "you're just like everyone else," when you can tell from the art that the stereotypes in this world hold weight, lol.

However, I don't know WHY I was surprised by said witches getting their hands and feet removed as part of a ritual summoning of hellfire.

How... how is there not blood E V E R Y W H E R E ??!!?? Some heavy duty arteries have been cut, yo. I guess there kind of is but there should be MORE.

Ashaf finally figures out what's going on and gives in to Guideau, letting her go wild, and HELL YES I love it when we get a beast gremlin on a rampage!

Witch Laser Beams! Sure!

I also LOVE when Characters get the shit beat out of them and then Keep. Standing. Up.

The very purposeful listing of the two ways to lift a Witch's spell at the very beginning of the show, True Love's Kiss or A Change of Heart),was such a great Chekhov's Gun that I knew there was probably going to be another (secret) way to deal with it.

Fuck yea, angry kiss!! Let Guideau feast on your soul!!

But the most surprising thing that has me fully on board and ready to rock and roll is Coffin Boyfriend.

What gender is Coffin Boyfriend? We don't know.

However.

Coffin Boyfriend is not a third character like I initially expected.

Coffin Boyfriend is Mother Fucking Guideau Y'all.

Everything makes so much sense now. Ashaf carries coffin boyfriend's true body around in his backpack like it's no big thing.

And Guideau, with all that rage packed into a tiny little body, has to go around kissing witches to switch from her current body back to the original to then proceed to beat the shit out of said witch.

I fucking here for this. I'm so hype.

Hot Bois, Crows, Body/Gender Swaps, Witch and Magic Fuckery. I'm here for it all, y'all.

(I might even go read ahead in the manga for this one cause OH MY GOD MANGA ASHAF IS ALSO VERY GOOD)

This ART STYLE.

But also... Chrollo? Is that you?

Ashaf on the left, Chrollo Lucilfer from Hunter X Hunter on the right.

I love this. I love their vibe. After Apothecary Diaries, this might just end up being my favorite this season. I'll save that judgement for a few more episodes in though.

ep2 ep3 ep4 ep5 ep6 <- these will eventually become links

[moebiusx9]

One of my fav things about Hakuno is the fact that the Heroic Spirits that have the highest compatibility with them are the ones who are seen as evil or morally gray in any sort of way. Anti Heroes.

Nero

Tamamo

Emiya/Nameless

Gilgamesh

All four fit this. Nero and Gil are tyrants, Tamamo is a disastrous yokai who toppled multiple kingdoms, and Nameless was a man who killed for what he deemed as right.

Then in Extella you get Altera, the Hun that destroyed civilizations (and is also a crazy alien giant) and Charlemagne, while probably the most morally correct of Hakuno’s servants, is still someone who conquered his enemies ruthlessly if they didn’t conform to Christianity and his rule.

It’s why I’m so particular about Hakuno’s servant choices in Dread:

Lancelot

Nobunaga

Edmond Dantes

Billy the Kid

Enkidu

Daji

Daji has the same reasons as Tamamo, Edmond is a man falsely accused of a crime he didn’t commit and dedicates most of his freedom after his imprisonment to brutally punishing those responsible out of vengeance, Lancelot is at heart a good person who committed an act of treason so substantial that it toppled his entire kingdom, Billy is a famous feared outlaw, killing many men by the time he was a young adult, Nobu’s conquered Japan through fear and forced it’s people to bow to her or they would die, and Enkidu is an inhuman weapon made by the gods who abandoned their purpose and in turn, humiliated a goddess, resulting in their death.

I love this pattern as each fit Hakuno very well to different degrees as someone who they themself view as an evil person, with most of their choices and actions stemming from their own selfishness. 

I could ramble about this forever but I also think servants like Morgan, Cu, Arjuna, and perhaps even Artoria to a certain extent could also sync with them well.

(Granted Artoria doesn’t really fit the criteria at all but I can see some similarities in her and Hakuno’s lives)

[moreespressoformydepresso]

This is maybe kinda out of nowhere, but…

Reaper x Treech

Treaper, if you will. I’m not sure how exactly this happened, but I think they look cute together.

Reaper is this giant of a guy, but a true gentle one. Someone who is angry at the capitol not for what they’re doing to him, but rather for the fact that they’re doing it to others as well. The one who fought the Capitol by refusing to fight to the very end in the movie, and who only fought when someone disrespected the tributes he tried to give the respect and honor they deserved in the book.

Treech, meanwhile, fights to win the games. He kills Teslee (in the books), stands by while his district partner Lamina is killed by his own alliance (in the movie, although he does appear to grieve her death) and attempts to kill Lucy Gray, but in both the movies and in the book he’s killed by her cheating. I like his book version better, even though the movies give his relationship with Lamina slightly more dept, because he’s sneaky, he steals and he hides. Clearly, his focus is survival. While it may be less virtuous than Reaper, it’s equally justifiable because, in the games, anything that isn’t victory is death. His approach to the games is smarter than Reaper’s even if it’s less “moral”. Who can blame him? Morals mean nothing to a corpse, in the end.

That kind of dynamic, I think, would work perfectly for romance. Reaper is the one who will stand up for what’s right, and proudly show the consequences his middle finger, whereas Treech is the one who makes sure that they’re still taking care of their own well-being. Also, I headcanon Treech as a sassy sweetheart, which would work nicely with Reaper’s canon personality as gruff but caring sweetheart.

[onemustalwaysbecarefulofbooks]

My Problem with SJM

I’ve been reading Sarah’s books for about 7 years now. There are things I genuinely love about them. I’m not going to sit here and trash every single thing about them or shit all over her as an author. Her books have brought me a lot enjoyment and credit is due where it’s due.

However, if you asked me, point blank, “What do you think of Sarah as an author?” I’d probably sit there on the verge of an aneurysm because I genuinely don’t know how to answer this question.

As much as I enjoy reading her books and genuinely love parts of them, I’ve been growing more frustrated with them over time. This kind of all came to a head in reading ACOFAS and ACOSF. I used to think that these were mostly isolated little incidents involving random different characters. I used to think it was about Chaol, or Tamlin, or Lucien, or Nesta. I’ve come to realize that it’s really not. It’s about Sarah herself and the bizarre way she has chosen to portray her characters.

Every single one of Sarah’s characters do bad things. ALL OF THEM. There is not a single significant character she has written in any book who has not done something shady, or morally gray, or wrong, or hurtful, or whatever. I seriously challenge you to try and find me a character who has not. This is completely normal and understandable!!! No one wants to read about a perfect and utterly flawless character. It makes them uninteresting and unrelatable. ALL good books should feature nuanced characters.

The issue I have is this: while every single character in her writing does bad things, only SOME characters are DEFINED by these bad things. No matter what else they do or say, they are deemed an irredeemable piece of shit who will never deserve anything good. Even if other characters aren’t openly hostile towards them anymore, the narrative will always find a way to subtly remind us all that these are “bad” people who did bad things to others. Any criticism they receive is justified and right. It does not matter how many good and/or heroic deeds are carried out by these characters. Often times these very characters will end up expressing how awful and unworthy they are, either internally or to other characters.

At the same time, there are other characters who do equally bad things (if not worse or significantly worse!!!!!) and have every single one blatantly ignored or explained and justified by the narrative or other characters. They are treated in the exact OPPOSITE way. No matter what they do, they are right. No matter how hypocritical, cruel, or just plain wrong they are, it will never ever be acknowledged by anyone. They will never be made to hold an ounce of responsibility for any of it. Other characters, themselves, and the narrative will turn an absolute blind eye to any wrongdoing and will gush and fawn over them instead.

This would be enough to be incredibly frustrating. But it doesn’t end here!!

Not only will these special select characters have every single blatant wrongdoing ignored, they will also walk around smugly judging the characters who are less fortunate (aka less favored by the author). Despite the majorly shady acts of their own, they will walk around highlighting all the bad things others have done while self-righteously proclaiming their own moral superiority. The narrative and the thoughts and words of other characters will support this. Sarah will beat you over the head with it. An opportunity will never be lost to tell us (not necessarily SHOW us) what a morally good person they are in comparison to someone else.

It honestly makes me feel kind of insane when I’m reading it. It makes me stop and sit there and wrack my brain going, “Does Sarah know she is doing this????” Does she realize she is a giant hypocrite of a writer?? Does she know she makes giant hypocrites of her characters?? It’s honestly hilarious to me because in writing the way she does, she takes the characters who she clearly wants me to adore and favor and makes me end up hating them and makes me end up rooting for the characters who she clearly wants me to dislike. I never liked Chaol until I read Queen of Shadows, when he is irrationally blamed for every one of Aelin’s problems. I was never really that invested in Lucien until he started to get shit on by absolutely everyone in the Inner Circle. I was never a Nesta stan until I read ACOSF, where she is bullied and mistreated by her “family” and gaslighted into thinking that they are right and she is deserving of all they say and do to her. I never had any true passionate feelings about Tamlin until he became a personal punching bag for every single character in ACOTAR, despite the majorly important good things he does that everyone ignores. It blows my mind how Sarah seems to fail to realize that the people walking around with a Holier-Than-Thou Attitude toward these people have a laundry list of majorly questionable actions of their own that never gets addressed.

In short, Sarah essentially self-sabotages as an author and I don’t understand it. You wouldn’t see me and tons of other people posting essays with word counts in the thousands defending the actions of certain characters so strongly and passionately if her little favorites were made to hold even the tiniest bit of accountability over their own wrongdoings and weren’t crapping all over the less favored. It makes her faves come across as the stereotypical “favorite child” in a family who everyone secretly resents and rolls their eyes at. If you’re going to have characters who constantly judge and scorn others for their perceived wrongdoings, it would be smart to give them a spotless and crystal clear record themselves. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

No one enjoys reading about hypocrites, Sarah. Gain some self awareness and start holding ALL characters to the same standards and accountability.

[entomolog-t]

I'm thrilled to pieces and terrified to have my G/t tropes psychoanalyzed 😍 I have several but this is a big dramatic one lol

I'm obsessed with the thought of a sweet giant having to pretend to be cruel to tinies. It's for the tiny's immediate safety in a dangerous setting-- if that sweet giant didn't have a hold on the tiny, an ACTUAL bad giant nearby would. The cruelty is all for appearances until the giant can get the tiny alone and safe.

And of course, the tiny thinks they are in very real danger. I'm such a sucker for the reveal at the end that the giant is actually a good (or perhaps leaning morally gray) person who was secretly being protective. The tiny doesn't believe it right away, leading to some fun lingering fearplay and eventual trust building 🥰

HELP 🌸

Welcome to my office, lets have a seat.

Protectiveness is a trope I haven't had a chance to deeply explore yet in these sessions. The very typical G/t themes of trust and power can merge to form a subtype of the Giant Archetype; The Protector.

Now this fantasy has some key elements,

The Giant is established as sweet

The purpose is noble

There is fear involved

The Giant being previously established as sweet allows for a certain level of safety in the fantasy (as well as angst with the set up of breaking trust). The purpose being noble also establishes that unlike accidental fearplay, the giant is in control of their actions and emotions and understands how they are perceived, which reinforces the idea of safety through competency. They have made a judgement call and are willing to sacrifice their image in order to protect those they care about, demonstrating that they put the tinys safety and well being even above their friendship.

The tiny being scared in the moment and then the reveal being that they are in fact more safe with this Giant than previously assumed is a huge emotional payoff. It may suggest that you have a desire to understand and be understood, not jumping to conclusions and looking for the best in others, hoping that actions that seem poor taste in the moment can be better understood with time and context.

Now if we look for signs of projection, there may be some subconscious implication that the Giants actions may reflect your own, and that you act with others wellbeing in mind and yearn for them to understand the context or reasoning to which you act.

In the role of the tiny, we can assume their is an intense internal desire for safety and security in a relationship, a want for a partner with a strong moral compass, at least when it comes to care towards you.

The after thoughts are interesting to explore as well, seeing the initial lack of belief, lingering fearplay and trust building. This would likely have a lot of projection what you seek in terms of trust. I would recommend analyzing the specifics of this part of the trope;

What does the Giant to do prove themselves?

What type of fearplay is ongoing?

For example, perhaps the Giant is teasing, noticing the tiny is still scared of them, nothing cruel, but pushing the line a little. They might make embarrassing comments about the tiny's reactions, or directly comment on their size difference. Perhaps the loom over the tiny, or touch them despite knowing the tiny is scared. Yet despite these intimidating actions, the Giant is trying to embarrass the tiny, not scare them, using humor (embarrassment as a form of absurdism) to point out how silly their fears of their friend are. Now thats a much more fearplay dominant example than most situations we see in this trope, but hey, who doesn't like a little teasing fearplay now and again.

In this example it could show that you either subconsciously know, or that you hope to discover that your fears/negative feelings are not as serious as you may consciously perceive them.

----

My secretary will be waiting for you outside the office. We accept cash, credit and shiny objects as form of payment. I will see you at your next appointment

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Gay wrongs tournament, round 2 of the minor bracket

Propaganda:

For Wu Zetian x Gao Yizhi x Li Shimin: (propaganda from previous poll here)

They are in a poly and are so morally gray and I love em. The triangle really is the strongest shape

They're gay because they're all bi (literally in Shimin and Yizhi's cases, kinda more implied for Zetian). Zetian and Shimin tortured a man for information (and also because he tortured them first) while Yizhi cooked back in their apartment. They made a plan to destroy their government and take over instead. Yizhi killed his dad because he was talking shit about Zetian and trying to sway his trust in her (it didn't work lmao). Instead of a love triangle (it REALLY seemed like that was what it was heading towards) they all love each other and would (and have) committed atrocities for each other. There's a whole thing about how they're stronger together (like, metaphorically and on the battlefield (Shimin and Zetian pilot a giant mecha together and Yizhi balances them))

They're a canon polyship who are all a bit deranged and down to kill for their goals and/or to protect bae. Two have tortured a man to death together and came home to the third making celebratory cookies for them. 

What's more gay wrongs than trying to take over your country and torturing a man together

For Lizzie and Jane:

They are time travelling murder lesbians. They kill people. That's their whole thing

They are awesome and I am eepy <3