#even demons are polite compared to these brutes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elsecrytt · 2 years

Note

Just in case my ask got lost, this is a Sandwich Saturday/Sunday ask. I realllyyy want to see Sandwich Satan/MC/Simeon. I'd think they make an interesting dynamic.

Nah, your ask wasn't lost, I've just got a few to go through, along with some motivation slumps, stuff getting busy on my end, etc.~

I've been kinda :/ about whether or not I can do a couple of these a day - I'll just have to see how it goes. But this is a VERY popular pairing (or u are just very eager,,, i feed u, rare sandwich liker <3) so!! I give!!

Anyways!! Satan/MC/Simeon it is~

[There is going to be a bit of a spoiler here regarding Simeon; it's something that's revealed in Lesson 24, regarding how he was able to give you a piece of advice in Lesson 4 for Levi's Quiz Battle]

So the first thing that comes to mind is actually that Satan knows that Simeon wrote TSL - and that he's a big fan of literature, himself! He respects Simeon's writing abilities, as well.

And Simeon... tbh Simeon is probably the most secretive person in the entire cast, besides maybe Barbatos. Satan's whole thing is that he wears masks, but that's nothing compared to what's up with Simeon.

Simeon may even be less aware of his wrath - or perhaps he doesn't even see it as something he needs to control more, unlike Satan. I feel like they could definitely understand one another.

They have similar temperaments. Plus, look at Simeon with Luke - he is supportive, encouraging, praises his efforts.

Satan puts a lot of work into being who he is, and I think Simeon would both respect that, and I think he would sympathize, if not empathize with Satan's desire for self-discovery.

(The fact that Satan is. Basically Lucifer's rebellious but beloved son, and Simeon lowkey yearns to befriend Lucifer again, probably doesn't hurt)

Moreover, Satan actually quite enjoys discussing literature and TV shows. The three of you could probably sit down with a book, movie, or plotline and chat up a storm about it for hours on end.

You would have just the most amazing debates. Character motivations, plot details, worldbuilding stuff - Simeon has an active imagination, Satan has a logical mind, and you understand the two of them so well it's like whole new worlds open up to you.

Group dates are fun, no problem; even where they lack a common interest, they're both quite respectful and considerate, although I think Simeon might have a touch of a spiteful streak that would take Satan off gaurd.

Tit for tat, though; Satan can get Simeon back a missed date or a stolen sleepover/night, and Simeon will just chuckle and call it even.

Satan can absolutely translate Simeon's typos and texting oddities with ease. He finds it fun, even. Your group chat is surprisingly active, because of it!

You may end up with a problem on your hands with Satan mentioning some facet of technology to Simeon offhand, and then Simeon using brute-force politeness on you to guilt you into helping him figure it out.

...You'll get him for this. Watch out, Avatar of Wrath. You're not joking. He better sleep with one eye open.

It's a lot and you're going to have several talks with Satan, eventually ending in retaliation. While Satan and Simeon can curb the cycle of revenge, you and Satan absolutely will not.

(Definitely not because, like, Satan's love language is playing pranks on people. And even if it were, don't you like Simeon? Hmmm?

"There's a difference between liking someone and wanting to spend three hours explaining how to attach files to a message!")

At one point Satan taught Simeon how to use a projector and sent him over to you to learn how to edit an excel spreadsheet.

(Simeon eventually takes you both in for a lesson on "Conflict de-escalation", to which Satan pointed out that he, as a demon, shouldn't really have to take such a class.

"Fine, then. I'll just spend the next two hours alone in this classroom with Simeon. Lock the door on your way out, would you, Satan?"

"W-What are you trying to imply?"

"Not that I'm opposed, but are you sure you can still listen to the lecture while we copulate?"

"Copulate? Who calls it that? And you're going to lecture them while you do it? I'll show you how to speak during sex-"

"During sex? Just say 'fuck', mister demon, as if you don't tell me you want to make love at night-"

Satan is on you in a moment, and Simeon soon follows.

Aren't they both so very lucky that you had the foresight to lock the door?)

They both have their possessive streaks, however rarely they show them, so don't worry; Satan will eventually grow grumpy over you spending so much time with Simeon and give up the game.

In any case, you have your ups and downs, but they're mostly filled with warmth and affection.

Honestly, I think each one would prefer to have you all to himself in the bedroom. Threesomes would be a matter of it being the right place and time; if all three of you are already together and in the mood.

Neither Satan nor Simeon is the type to intrude on you when you're having an intimate moment (they've got at least that much respect for one another, since you're openly with them both).

[nsfw under the cut - reader is penetrated, gives and receives oral (genitals ambiguous)]

Satan is more competitive; he'd rather be the reason you're reduced to a moaning mess, hearing you moan with every lap of his tongue and shiver as he presses and sucks in just the way he knows you like.

Simeon, unfortunately, is on the sneaky saboteur end of the spectrum.

He's quite all right letting Satan do all the work between your legs while he coos at you with your head in his lap, tells you what a lovely, sweet human you are for him - do you perhaps want a taste?

(And maybe it's because he's an angel, but by God, Simeon's cock is utterly divine on your lips; hot and smooth and imperceptibly sweet, his release being just the same)

You can feel Satan hiss against your sex as he watches Simeon pull himself dripping from your lips - all the sounds he missed from you when you had his cock down your throat ringing in his ears.

He crawls up your body and lays fevered kisses as he goes, his own cock dragging between your legs, heavy and swollen with promise as his fingers dig into your sides.

But Simeon is an angel, after all, he's not entirely mean, so he's fully willing to finger you open for Satan, right after, of course, he has you wet those fingers with your pretty, perfect mouth.

He's so sweet, so eager to sing your praises - you could lose yourself in those lovely blue eyes, the handsome dark face that stares down at you and smiles as he pumps his fingers against your tongue and then plays it between them.

And by the time Satan nips at your neck, growls your attention away as he tugs you into a kiss, Simeon has you stretched nicely and moaning into his mouth.

At that point Satan's quite ready to shove Simeon's hand away, but he's out quickly, and he can enter you with glorious ease, sliding fully home well enough for you to melt and groan.

Simeon's happy to pet your hair and kiss your cheek as the demon has his naughty, naughty way with you.

You find yourself moaning without reservation beneath Satan as he fucks you just right, and Simeon threads a hand in yours, whispering how well you're taking him, how amazing you look when you're like this, absolutely spectacular -

And of course, Satan snatches up the other hand for himself, biting marks into you in stings that blur away all the angel's lovely words into a pleasant hum.

#obey me #satan #simeon #satan x reader #satan x mc #simeon x reader #simeon x mc #satan x reader x simeon #sandwiches #dom!simeon agenda #listen i just... he just.. LISTEN IT'S JUST DOM ENERGY OKAY #lemon

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yostresswritinggirl · 3 years

Text

It is time. This took a while but I figured I should give you guys the closure you've wanted, even tho uh it's not really a closure lmaooo. Here's the first part for the new readers!

Xiao's Personal "Chef" Travel Edition

Xiao with a Reader who is not only his Personal Chef but assistant, adventuring together

General/Preparation

A visionless chef with an adeptus by their side, going in a routeless journey together to savor the world that had once been pulled away from their grasps.

It must be the cause of the recent ressurection and defeat of the Lord of Vortex, immobilizing him once more for thousands of years. And in the window time, there would be less worries for the Qixing and Liyue Adepti to worry about. Think of it as a day-off for the Adepti, and a vacation for you.

While you carry with you no traces of elemental blessings and an enthusiasm for swordplay, the blessed Sigil of Permission given to you by your adeptus (whom claimed it was created by Rex Lapis himself before his untimely death) grants you a special connection with Xiao.

Sadly a vacation from Liyue does not mean a break from the constant voices of demons within Xiao's mind. And you've prepared him the medicine necessary to soothe his mind even if temporary, three bottles to be exact, all of which can last him several months.

He looks at you with confusion and silent question, of which you waved away because you had prepared this batch in your room in the Inn to make sure he doesn't run out of stock.

He doesn't tell you this but lately the voices had been not intrusive while he gets distracted by your presence. Like a soothing balm, to numb the effects of the pain. It's still there but not as annoying.

Your adventure or journey usually lingers around Liyue for the first parts of it, looking around the nation to enjoy the sceneries without thinking about errands or protecting the villages from impending doom.

Xiao already uh announced his indefinite leave to the other adepti beforehand, but well, when you wanted to visit their domains, which you countered was PERFECTLY safe (almighty Sigil of Permission has lots of perks) it was a very awkward time for him upon meeting them again. It was inevitable because of the energy the sensed from Xiao and your Sigil.

"Hello again, Guardian Yaksha, were you not on leave?" "Y-Yeah... we're just... passing through"

Field trip with the Adepti!!!! Moon Carver and Mountain Shaper brought you around their domains as if to test you, like Ganyu's trials, while also flexing their achievements and who has the best domain. Humans are rare, but you are a mortal who carries the last blessed Sigil and you're tamed in the ways of the adepti because of your exposure to Xiao.

Cloud Retainer not only teaches you the glory of gliding, but she also has cute and embarrassing stories of Xiao from way back! Xiao is in the background trying not to scream or rage at the ensemble in front of him-

"He really likes collecting Qingxin flowers, always bringing one whenever he comes back from his exterminations. He even offers one to Morax everytime." "Yes, yes, such flowers grow common before, right?" "Wha- (Y/N), what do you think you're writing down in that book?!"

"The devoted that carries the last essence of Morax's powers. We've heard much about you from your adeptus, it is relieving to finally put a face to your name. Tell us, child, what is it that you seek in our domain?"

They pretty much just outted that Xiao talks about you to the others, and he- he's just so done. He's either going to hide, leave the area or pull you out of the conversation before someone *coughCloudRetainercough* starts embarrassing him in front of you.

Once you've gotten the supplies you wanted to collect from Liyue's wild lands, like flowers or ores, your little party will start going further away from the familiar nation.

Comfort on the Streets

Being the chef in the party, a lot of the time, resource collection stops you short from travelling despite the many prepped ingredients you had carried with you. There's a lot of things laying around and you just couldn't let such opportunities go. Your adoptive mother Verr had taught you to indulge in your curiousities, as a mother, as a traveler, and as a cook.

Xiao takes the brute force, the frontline of being the tank and general fighter of your band. He indulges himself with unhinged strength so long as he was sure that you were perfectly safe from his own barrage of offense. You think in the back of your mind that he's enjoying the exterminations but in his mind he indulges himself with your cheers and praises after fending off some pesky slimes that strayed too close to your temporary camp.

Xiao does not need rest and barely breaks a sweat but you're quite fragile of a human being, you still need rest and consumables, things that you had the luxury of despite working in the Inn. Here you were alone to carry your own weight and care for yourself. You look up from the boiling pot that was settled over the bright campfire to see Xiao's figure coming into view, a freshly killed boar in hand as some kind of offering for your sacred stomach.

You guess now the caring isn't one-sided.

When taking things into careful detail that requires precision and undivided attention, it seems the voices of the demons and revelled gods in the depths of his mind disappears, more so under the presence of you.

So it was the perfect opportunity now that no other errands hold you back, to teach Xiao how to make the infamous Almond Tofu.

When you teach him survival he takes into consideration everything despite the bored/blank face he dons.

Oh but he still prefers your way of cooking, he can never get the same soft texture of the jelly that you easily make.

Xiao doesn't really need to eat but he's glad to be your taste-tester for the new dishes you cook from the random, probably edible, ingredients you find here and then.

The stew continued to boil with bubbles popping despite the fire under it extinguished for a while now. It was an unnamed soup you concocted from the various seafood you've gotten from the ocean paired with the meat the adeptus hunted.

It was delicious. Despite being a palette he was not used to, it was something he can stomach. And despite the different meat mixed in, the flavours didn't clash like he thought it would but instead blended the tastes quite well. Xiao hums as he sips the soup politely, tilting the bowl as he gulps down.

"It is manageable, despite your first try, I can see this being sold in one of the restaurants in Liyue Harbour-" he turns to you as he proceeds to hold out his bowl for seconds when he stopped in his tracks, eyes slightly widening a crack at the sight of tears free falling off your chin.

The spoon on your hand was slack, eyes distant yet dilated as you silently cried. When you felt the glove of his hand cup your cheek, tilting your head to make you face him, your expression cracked to that of grief melded with forced laughter. "It's... it's just like what mum used to make." You sob, and his hand wavered from its touch.

Travelling reopened old wounds. For you and for him.

Xiao doesn't NEED sleep nor does he WANT it, despite the many times you had caught him dozing off in the middle of the day during your work at the Inn. Such occasions usually meant that there was an event that needed his aid the night prior.

Your guardian yaksha usually stays up to keep watch and when you wake up, you would find him spaced out or in the brink of passing out, desperately holding himself together

But there are other times when he feels more restless and not content with just standing guard to make sure you are protected—

Those moments are when you are held in his arms, him resting against a tree and you resting against his lean chest, travel blanket laid over the both of you. When the terrain allows it, the sleeping bag would be under your bottom and legs for extra comfort.

When you can't rest, he whips out his flute to play you a soft tune hoping to lull you to sleep. If he sinks into the comfort of the mood, he'll continue playing much softer to prevent waking you up so early

But the guardian yaksha can buckle at the temptation of comfort, a humanistic desire fuelled by the assurance that in his arms you are absolutely safe-

And you two lay under the stars in peaceful slumber. Good night~

Combat-side of Travelling

Kicking the bottom shaft of the jade spear, Xiao swiftly catches it with his other hand, a small smile aimed for himself at the expert action before he raises his eyes back at you where you lay splayed on the floor. Drenched in your own sweat and desperately breathing. A long, wooden stick discarded by your side.

You pried your eyes open when the rays of the sun suddenly stopped invading through your thin eyelids, the shadow of the Yaksha looming over your form with a rare triumphant smirk. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you're gonna say-"

"I told you so."

"Oh hush you!"

His soft laugh was melodic and it made you break a smile despite the exhaustion.

We've already established beforehand that Xiao is your main dps here and you're just support/utility. But you've expressed your desire to AT LEAST pick up some weight, asking the man to help you hone your weapon proficiency, even if you knew he'd decli-

He accepts. Oh. But it's not about swords sadly, it's for polearms. Since it's the weapon he uses, it's the only thing he can teach you.

Will be CONSIDERABLY gentle in training you compared to his massacres, and will be ever so patient so long as progress is made. Surprisingly, Xiao is actually a really good teacher, and you'd find his points to be precise and on the spot.

He'll be there on the side as you try to fight off a hydro slime for the first time, with the aid of your cheap spear you both from the nearest town over. If you get cornered, he'll be there to instantly swoop in. Fortunately you managed, and he gave an approving nod.

Despite his acceptance to teach he's not gonna let you fight actual threats because he doesn't wish to risk your safety. And you're still gonna be a hundred feet away as he does his job

If he ever managed to hurt you himself, it's... it's not gonna be good, not good at all for the both of you... luckily that hasn't happened! Uh, yet lol

Just admire him from afar, he looks pretty anyways, although the black particles that seem to surround him before the end of the fight

But he'll always come back to you, with a slight limp you always notice despite his attempts to hide, and you'll be there to heal him up

Like a knight to his princess? Or healer, more so

And the process rinses and repeats at your generally peaceful trip

"Oh, oh, I see it! Uuup there!"

His honey amber eyes follow where your fingers point, high and up against the cliff until he sees the glimpse of the swaying violetgrass. No orders needed to tell him what the objective is, but as you place your hand on his elbow when he was about to leap, you had different plans.

"Woohoo!" Please be careful, he shouts in his head as you rode the tides of his Anemo currents, gliding over to where the violetgrass awaits for your plucking hands. When the glider retracts as you grip the cliff face, you broke the stem of the flora. A eureka in your voice as you held it up like a treasure before pushing yourself off the cliffside.

The wind on your back was not harsh, carefully constructed and maneuvered as you seemingly float down into the arms of the awaiting Yaksha, as per routine of your retrieval, "Thank you!"

"Is it in good condition?" It didn't bother you that he has yet to put you down, nodding with a grin as you gently waved the perfectly grown violetgrass in your hand. Satisfied, he turns around to go back to your route when

golden, brown and white silhouettes entered your peripherals among the turn.

"Eh?"

"Ah?"

"Traveler, Paimon and Zhongli?"

"Well, it is the most intriguing that we meet again this far out and in such a circumstance, Xiao and (Y/N)."

Party gained 2 ½ members!

I noticed upon writing that after you started travelling with Xiao, the formality in your tone of speaking started to dissipate. Easing into the comforts of your relationship with him, Xiao is relieved.

@kookieyachi @moaa @dandelion-dreams @zelos-simp @legionqueensav @snackgod @rxsalinee @cala-ran @wind-wheel @witchsungie

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #xiao x reader #genshin impact xiao #exile.goblet #exile.flower #sojourner specials #reeeee part twoooo #oh gawd this may not be good as i wanted it to be aww

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marchivists · 4 years

Text

not the place to fall in love: chapter one

read on ao3! [i didn’t format anything below the “keep reading”, so it’ll probably be easier to read on ao3]

Iwaizumi was stuck, perhaps perpetually, on level fifteen of Candy Crush.

Once, as a child, he’d dedicated an entire afternoon to climbing an unclimbable tree in his backyard. He’d grown quite a bit since then and a lot had changed, but the addicting taste of chasing a difficult victory bubbled in his stomach now just as it had under that tall tree so many years ago. The stakes were higher than they probably seemed from the outside; Iwaizumi’s honor waited at the finish line and his pride danced around the colorful screen, following his finger as it swiped left and right, up and down.

He’d had an audience that afternoon by the tree and he had the same one now. Oikawa leaned against Iwaizumi’s side, head resting on his shoulder. He seemed to understand how much rode on Iwaizumi’s performance; he oohed and aahed over each move, offering words of encouragement and advice which Iwaizumi would rather have done without.

Though Iwaizumi didn’t realize it in any way that he could express with words, a bubble of sorts had formed around the pair, as it often did when they were together. Passerbys skirted around it without consciously deciding to do so, as if they too understood on some unspeakable level that Oikawa and Iwaizumi, or more accurately, OikawaandIwaizumi, lived slightly apart from everyone else. Outside the borders of the bubble, the airport waiting area produced airport noises. Hidden speakers made booming announcements, feet clicked and clacked towards unknown destinations, babies voiced their dislike for the whole business of airports, and adults coughed and sniffed as they waited for time to pass and flights to arrive. Oikawa and Iwaizumi had claimed a corner of the airport waiting area, opting to relax picnic-style on the floor instead of in two of the many empty chairs nearby.

Iwaizumi made one final swipe before slumping against the wall in despair. You failed! flashed across his phone in bright colors.

“Ah well,” Oikawa sighed, giving Iwaizumi two pats on the shoulder. He slunk down too, crossing his legs and resting folded hands on his lap. “I’m pretty sure only old people are good at that game anyway.”

Iwaizumi glared. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, no. Just an observation. I can try again though if consolation is what you’re looking for.”

“Go for it.”

“Gimme a minute,” Oikawa looked up at the ceiling as though his thoughts were stuck to the plaster. “Alright. I’m pretty sure old people are terrible at Candy Crush.”

“I think you’re missing the point.”

“On the contrary, I’ve found the point. See, I’ve always suspected my Iwa-chan was secretly a grumpy old man in disguise,” he sighed dismissively, as though the thought was almost too disheartening to address. “I just wish you would have told me beforehand. Your tickets would have been so much cheaper.”

“I think sitting here has made you stupider than usual.” Iwaizumi elbowed his setter, and, ignoring Oikawa’s protests at being treated so unfairly, moved to put his phone in his pocket. He hoped the turn of his shoulder was enough to hide his blush at being called “my Iwa-chan,” or that, at the very least, Oikawa had lost at least fifty percent of his perceptive abilities after being trapped in an airport with no stimulation for so long.

Iwaizumi had always loved airports. They were big, loud, and full of hope and potential: the kind of place that, as a kid, you’d long to sprint through at full speed without consequences.

Oikawa had always hated them. Iwaizumi could see that hatred now that neither of them were distracted. It bled from the way Oikawa scanned the crowd of unfamiliar faces around them, the way his rigid shoulders and stone-statue-posture screamed I am untouchable. It was obviously convincing, as anyone searching for spaces to camp out on the floor scurried elsewhere when their eyes reached Oikawa’s proud, rigid form. The fear and hatred made Iwaizumi want to grab Oikawa’s hand, but for the moment he wasn’t sure if the untouchable part applied to best friends or not.

He checked his watch. They had an hour or so before their flight would be ready to board. Despite his aversion to the place, Oikawa had insisted on arriving unnaturally early, and Iwaizumi had complied with minimal complaint.

Oikawa mirrored Iwaizumi and glanced at his own watch. “Do you think we’ll be late?”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Only if it takes us an hour to walk ten meters.”

Oikawa huffed. Iwaizumi took out his phone again.

For the next fifteen minutes, their bubble was uncharacteristically quiet. Iwaizumi resisted the urge to perform a victory dance after reaching level sixteen. An incoming text momentarily stopped him from lining up five purple gummies.

From: you know who it is

iwa-chan~~

Iwaizumi swiped the notification away and watched with satisfaction as the five gummies disappeared. Level seventeen.

From: you know who it is

i can see ur phone from here :3 congrats on leveling up, old man iwa-chan

Iwaizumi flipped Oikawa off without taking his eyes from his screen, missing the strained smile he received in return. There was more silence. Level eighteen, then one more. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. He reached level thirty before receiving another text.

From: you know who it is

you know, there’s an 86% chance we’ll both die if the plane crashes

That got his attention. He turned to look at Oikawa, who sat scrolling through his phone, expression casual and bored, as though he’d run out of things to like on Instagram and was most definitely not worrying about dying in a plane crash.

Iwaizumi had prepared for this moment. Oikawa’s anxiety was a vigilant companion; it never took a day off and spent most of its time searching for something new to latch onto which it could then suck the rationality and safety out of. In the past, it had made the setter afraid of coughing fits, books with an odd number of pages, eating out in public places, opened drawers, and rooms with too many people in them. Comparatively, flying was an easy thing to demonize. To ward off any excess fear, Iwaizumi had scoured over research and data on plane safety, committing them to memory in case they were needed. He’d tried to put himself in Oikawa’s shoes, tried to image how anxiety would twist the safety of air travel into something horrible. He had imagined dramatic explosions, smoke pouring out of engines and catching flame. He had armed himself with information contradicting these imaginings, just in case Oikawa needed it. He opened his mouth to say something about how their chances of dying were one in seven million when his phone, practically forgotten in his hands, dinged again.

From: you know who it is

�� maybe we should go home. lol

Iwaizumi put his phone away. He scooted away from the wall until they sat close together, knees touching. He poked the setter’s leg. “Oikawa.”

Oikawa continued staring down at his phone.

Iwaizumi sighed. “Tell me the stats for getting into your school. For getting into the volleyball program there.”

Oikawa shrugged dismissively, like someone who hates bragging but can’t tell the truth without unwittingly doing so. The movement made Iwaizumi want to headbutt him.

“Only three percent of the applicants get in, remember? Three percent.”

“I know that.”

“Then tell me, why should we go home when our chances of dying are dozens of decimal points below that percentage?”

Oikawa looked up and his eyes were wide with questions he probably didn’t want answered.

Aren’t you scared, too? Yes, Iwaizumi wanted to respond, but not of the same things you are.

What if they just send me back? What’s the point?

Iwaizumi’s own eyes were impenetrable and knowing. He stared back, hoping he managed to get his own silent message across. You are amazing. You deserve this chance.

A few long seconds passed before Oikawa broke their staring contest, eyes jumping over stranger’s faces, presumably to see if anyone had noticed his sudden break in character. “I suppose I can endure the devastatingly long flight. Even though it will be practically unbearable sitting next to a brute like yourself.”

“Good.” Iwaizumi cleared his throat and moved back to his original spot. He looked Oikawa over, relaxing at the way his posture was no longer screaming as much as it was talking. The setter waved to a baby sitting with its mother a few feet away and earned tiny smiles from both parties in return, mother and child hopelessly charmed by his easy smile and fluid movements.

Iwaizumi was charmed, too, and had always been. He was amazed by Oikawa’s ability to quickly recover from anything, to go from scrambling to find purchase in reality to storming forward with quick, confident steps. For the second time that day Iwaizumi felt the urge to take his hand.

He stopped himself, running his hand through his hair to chase the feeling away. He’d sworn to himself, and to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, that he would not come back to Japan without confessing someway, somehow. A crowded airport didn’t seem like the proper place and right before a fifteen-hour flight didn’t seem like the right time.

He didn’t expect the feelings to be reciprocated. They’d been best friends for so long that it almost felt impossible to make the trek from platonic intimacy to the romantic kinds without falling off the edge somewhere in-between. Besides, Oikawa had received so many confessions from so many people, each much better than Iwaizumi in every respect. And he had rejected each one with a sad, polite smile and a few empathetic words of kindness. It’s the moments after that Iwaizumi feared the most, the switch from being someone Oikawa didn’t have to handle with intentional delicacy to someone on the receiving end of pity and a false smile. The gap the truth might create between them, the spacing out of OikawaandIwaizumi, made him want to run home and crawl between the sheets of his bed and never come out again. But, Iwaizumi Hajime hated cowards and liars more than most anything and he had felt like both for far too long. In a way, he imagined spilling his feelings would work like a sort of redemption. He could reclaim his dignity, live without fear, and push Oikawa Tooru away forever. He hoped to minimize the force and longevity of the last part with distance and time; perhaps, with thousands of miles between them, Iwaizumi could move on or Oikawa could learn to live and forget and things would return to normal. Maybe. Hopefully. Whatever the outcome, Iwaizumi would not let Oikawa go without telling him everything. As long as he didn’t have to sit next to his rejector for fifteen miserable hours, everything would be fine. Probably.

Minutes ticked by in comfortable silence and Iwaizumi reached level thirty-one. Oikawa stood, stretched, and announced his decision to mark the momentous occasion with a trip to the bathroom.

Iwaizumi slid a red jellybean to the right. “I’ll watch our stuff.”

“No, no,” Oikawa hummed, pulling Iwaizumi’s phone from his hands and putting it in the pocket of his jeans. “You have to come with me, Iwa-chan. It’s boring doing it alone.”

“Do you think you could sound more perverted if you tried?”

Oikawa stuck out his tongue. “So immature,” he held out a hand to pull Iwaizumi up and dragged him over to the woman with the baby. “Excuse me, do you mind watching our stuff for a moment?”

The woman assured them she could and the baby babbled pleasantly in agreement.

For reasons only his heart could explain, Iwaizumi allowed himself to be pulled across the airport into the bathroom. He only half listened to Oikawa’s chatter as they went, hearing bits and pieces about the memes Hanamaki kept sending him, and doesn’t that lady right there look ridiculous in those clown shoes? Iwaizumi focused most of his attention on the firm warmth of Oikawa’s hand in his own, the way stranger’s eyes glanced over them and flashed with assumptions Iwaizumi could only wish were true. And then, too suddenly for Iwaizumi to keep up with, Oikawa stopped moving.

Iwaizumi collided into him with a grunt. He moved to get a good look at Oikawa’s face, scold and insult primed on the tip of his tongue, just to balk at the painful grimace he found there. He followed Oikawa’s shell-shocked gaze to see Ushijima Wakatoshi standing in front of one of the urinals, doing what one does in a bathroom. His gaze was firmly settled downwards and their entranced hadn’t seemed to break his concentration. Iwaizumi blinked a few times to prove his eyes were really seeing what they said they were before turning to try to share a silent conversation with Oikawa, to ask what the hell? and set up a game plan.

Should they confront him, tease the shit out of him (no pun intended)? Should they walk out and go about their day, knowing that, at any moment, they could run into the second most repulsive person on the planet? Should they pull down his pants and leave him stranded, alone in the bright white airport bathroom? But Oikawa was staring at Ushijima and seemed too busy having a silent conversation with himself to worry about Iwaizumi.

The next few seconds moved like solidified grease making its way into the trash: very slowly, with moments of gag inducing repulsion and general disgust. Finally, Ushijima zipped up his pants. Oikawa tensed, squeezing Iwaizumi’s wrist. He was trying to communicate something, surely, but Iwaizumi wasn’t given enough time to decipher the message before Oikawa flew into action, turning around sharply. Iwaizumi stumbled over his feet, shoes squeaking as Oikawa practically pulled him out of the door. Oikawa flipped the light switch just as they hit the exit and the bathroom flooded with black.

“Holy shit,” Iwaizumi hissed as the door closed behind him, leaving Ushijima trapped in the dark.

Oikawa continued to pull him forward, heading in the direction of their belongings. His voice was hoarse with nerves and conspiracy. “What the fuck, Iwa-chan?”

There had existed an unspoken truth between them that the airport represented a doorway to another universe. When they’d bought their plane tickets and printed boarding passes, they’d solidified the plan to leave their old world behind in favor of something new and unknown. When they’d stepped foot in the airport, they’d left the past waiting at the doorway. And when they finally boarded the plane, the world they’d shared together for so long would disappear like leaves scattering in the wind. Despite the existence of this truth, a piece of their past seemed to have crossed the threshold with them. And it was not a piece either of them would have chosen to pack in their carry-ons.

They arrived back at their luggage in record time. Oikawa sat up their suitcases, forming a barrier between them and the rest of the airport. He squatted behind it, only the top of his head visible as he scanned the waiting area. Iwaizumi joined him just as Ushijima walked out of the bathroom.

“He’s hideous,” Oikawa whispered. Iwaizumi nodded in agreement. They watched with horror as Ushijima made his way towards them, closer and closer to the bubble they’d created.

“Holy shit,” Oikawa wheezed. The shocking boyish-ness of the sound pulled all the dramatic tension from the air. Oikawa’s eyes shone with delight and repulsion. “Iwa-chan, oh my god. Look, look! He’s wearing crocs.”

Iwaizumi looked and saw that it was so. The shoes, bright purple, looked out of place in the stainless-steel backdrop of the airport.

“Holy shit,” Iwaizumi breathed. Oikawa couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stop wheezing, and Iwaizumi felt compelled to cover the setter’s mouth with his hands as Ushijima sat in a seat only feet away from their hiding spot. Iwaizumi stared at Oikawa and Oikawa, trapped in place behind Iwaizumi’s hands, was forced to stare back.

“What do we do?” Iwaizumi whispered. Oikawa shrugged. “He’s right there.”

Oikawa made some muffled attempts at forming words behind Iwaizumi’s hand before Iwaizumi set him free. “We could go get some plastic knives from the cafeteria. There are plenty of places to hide a body in an airport. Probably.”

“You’re a really shitty guy, you know that right?,” Iwaizumi chastised, voice slipping from a whisper back to it’s normal volume. Oikawa, returning the favor from earlier, used both hands to cover Iwaizumi’s mouth with a loud shush! Iwaizumi licked them in retaliation. Oikawa screeched as he pulled his hands back to furiously wipe them on his pants.

The arrival of a third party popped the bubble. Ushijima’s form towered over them. “Oikawa.”

Iwaizumi and Oikawa shared a look. Yikes.

“Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa replied, voice cool and detached. Teenage, boyish, silly Oikawa had waved sayonara and disappeared in half a second, leaving confident, collected, not-a-genius Oikawa in his place. He did not dignify Ushijima’s arrival by getting up, but instead fell back on his hands and looked up, like a beachgoer relaxing in the sand and staring with distaste at the hot sky above. He waited in silence, inviting Ushijima to continue.

Ushijima looked between the pair for a moment before clearing his throat. “I would refrain from using the restroom. The lights do not work.”

“Or maybe you just really suck at going to the bathroom,” Oikawa sneered, voice laced with so much poison it almost seemed as though he was wielding a dagger instead of a flimsy, pitiful excuse of an insult.

Ushijima stared. “I don’t think that is the case.”

For another long, uncomfortable eternity, the three shared the same air in dumb silence. To Iwaizumi, it seemed like Oikawa was drawing Ushijima into a silent dueling match and was waiting for his opponent to make the next move. It also seemed like Ushijima had no clue he was a participant in any kind of match, nor that there was a need to host one in the first place. When enough time had passed for Iwaizumi’s legs to start cramping, Ushijima nodded a sudden goodbye and left.

The pair sat in stunned quiet for a moment before Iwaizumi looked Oikawa over and rolled his eyes. “Real smooth, captain.”

Oikawa sucked in a breath of fast, disapproving air. “I pity the person,” he started, standing up and offering Iwaizumi his hand. His posture screamed I am a weapon. Do not touch. “who has to sit next to that on a plane.”

Iwaizumi grabbed Oikawa’s hand without question. “And you thought you had it rough sitting next to me.”

#just remembered i never posted this. adlksfj #iwaoi #ushiiwaoi #haikyuu!!#oikawa #iwaizumi #ushijima #hq!!#mine #mads fics

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lassieposting · 4 years

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Hey I really love your headcanon of lucifer falling and becoming the leader and one of his brothers comes down to check and “HoLy HelL sAmMy?!?” WhAt if before the fall lucifer had like long limbs and couldn’t fight but now he’s built like a bloody Dorito. Also I love your work

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS FANDOM IS SO NICE AND WELCOMING WHAT THE FUCK IM CRYING

honestly i absolutely love gawky, awkward preteen lucifer who can’t fight for shit. he’s had the same training as michael, when he bothered to turn up to the lessons, but he’s got a soft heart, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. he’s got the attention span of a gnat at the best of times. he wasn’t listening. what he remembers is the bare basics and he’s always managed to get by on that and the fact that he’s got a big mouth.

but then he ends up in hell

he’s a pretty fast learner, but honestly the most appeal he has to maze in the beginning is that he’s got wings; a threat display makes him look quite a bit bigger than he actually is, which is intimidating enough to chase off the odd demon or two, and she can hide under them if she has to, and he’s not inclined to compete with her for (read: chase her away from) food. other than that, he’s a liability more than he’s a help. his wings glow, which is like shrieking “I’M HERE COME GET ME” in the abyss, and he’s naturally trusting and under the impression that anyone he meets is likely to be a) friendly and b) helpful. he talks, constantly, and she doesn’t even understand him, to her he’s just making noises.

but he learns. he learns from maze, and he learns from losing badly to bigger demons over and over and over again, and he learns from strong and powerful demons who take him in, wanting to turn him to their own agenda. he learns not to be soft, because he has no choice. he has to be cold to survive.

i want to do more detailed posts about his time in hell, but by the time his brother comes to look into those rumours, he’s scary. he’s not full grown yet, but he’s already in possession of a pretty sizeable army and honestly he’s more demon than angel at that point. he doesn’t have the humanity that he will have, when he’s older - he hasn’t even met eve yet. he’s feral.

angels fight with honour. amenadiel and michael have both been taught the arts of war, but where they’re brimming with brute strength and righteousness and holy fury, lucifer fights like a demon; he’s an opportunist, he’s sneaky, he’s vicious, and he fights dirty. he’ll fling dirt in your eyes or take your throat out with his teeth if it’ll win him the fight.

the visiting angel wasn’t expecting to see him anyway, because it’s been generally assumed for a while that he hadn’t survived either the fall or the subsequent millennia in hell, but seeing him alive and like that is even more alarming than not seeing him at all. the samael he remembers was stubborn and spoiled but ultimately gentle. lucifer isn’t the devil, not yet, he doesn’t have enough power, but he’s savage, and politically savvy, and alien. His brother barely recognises him anymore. He was young enough when he was sent to hell that he now speaks enochian with an infernal accent, which is especially jarring.

I just? Love how un-angel-like lucifer is compared to his siblings, and how he’s spent most of his life in hell, isolated completely from his own kind - it makes sense that he’d have soaked up demon traits from maze, from being immersed in her culture. he’ll never fully fit in down there, he’ll always be different, but he doesn’t fit in in heaven anymore either.

#lucifer on netflix #lucifer on fox #lucifer morningstar #lucifer in hell #THIS ASK IS SO SWEET ALSKDFHSDLKFHSADLKHSDLFKH THANK U SO MUCH FREN #the-queen-of-giving-up #lucifer headcanons

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demonprosecutor · 4 years

Text

OF ANGELS AND HEADACHES

“you’re quite... righteous.” the words simeon says, for a demon, goes unspoken, but nevertheless, pythos has heard it all the same. barely unruffled as he signs non-incriminating paperwork in front of the curious angel, his eyes flick upwards once before wandering back to the pages underneath his hands. his elbows were braced on the wonderfully-lacquered tabletop of his desk -- carefully arranged with his nameplate and notebooks, a small space for simeon to place his drink.

“for a demon, you mean.” pythos muses lightly, reaching into his drawers to write a little note on his notepad --- call Frightly on the Izzbanar case.

the silence that follows is telling, the slightest pause before simeon shakes his head. not quite floundering, but close to it. “i didn’t say that,” he protests, elegant fingers curled around the handle of his teacup, “don’t put words in my mouth, pythos.”

the demon huffs out a soft laugh, tapping his temple with a finger. “didn’t need to. i’m the prince of liars, i can tell. besides, i would be a terrible lawyer if i couldn’t read between the lines in conversation.” his headache is pressing against his eyes, once easy to ignore, but now insistent enough that he has to stop and set his paperwork to the side and place his fountain pen back in its case.

“finished?”

pythos sighs, rubbing his temples, “not of my own volition. this blasted headache decided to make its presence even more firmly known.” a huff, stirring the long lock of hair that framed the left side of his face and tickling the underside of his chin. the headache is aggravating enough that he wants to twirl a finger around the lock in a childlike gesture of comfort that he had yet to shed from his demon spawn days.

simeon tilts his head, blue eyes piercing him through and flaying him open. of course, in the courthouse, this manner of openness and weakness was unacceptable. but for now, this was alright. “perhaps i could be of aid?” light and gentle. framing the question not as if pythos needed someone’s aid (he was a demon after all), but if he could offer the demon assistance.

he’s tempted to deny, pop in some painkillers and wash it down with tea; however, he is curious. pythos knits his fingers together before inclining his head in assent.

the angel reaches out, hands framing his face, fingertips the only points of contact on his head. a glow emits from said points and the headache that had ailed pythos had eased into a tender warmth that traveled down his spine and ended at his toes, he shudders at that. simeon reels back, vaguely alarmed, “oh dear, did i hurt you?”

“no, no. it was, ah, pleasant.” pythos pulls back first, rolling his shoulders and delighted to find that the stiffness that coiled muscles tight was gone and his body felt light, as though he had been massaged for hours on end and left to sleep. “thank you.”

simeon smiles at him, beatific. “i’ve never met someone so polite.”

his eyes remain steady and when pythos stretches, his bones pop and in a rare show of inelegance, he slouches in his seat -- padded for comfort and created solely for his body. “i find now appeal in acting like a ruffian.” there’s a meaningfulness in his words, referencing towards a certain second-born demon prince, and it seems that simeon understands; for he chuckles against the rim of his cup.

“it’s endearing.” simeon admits softly. pythos arches a brow and wonders if he’s lying, but all of his senses do not point to any hint of lying. how strange. “angels don’t make it a point to lie.” pythos’ scrutiny seems to not have been as subtle as he had hoped, but he’s not one to hold back his words, sharp of wit and tongue.

“generalization. i have met plenty of lying angels in my time.” a flick of a wrist and a playful teapot and a dancing cup comes to pour himself a cup of tea and tops simeon’s off before settling onto a nearby tray. another flick and the gramaphone in the corner starts to play Gymnopédie No. 1 softly in the air. “some like to prey on the stereotype that they can’t lie and then lie.”

a sip and expression contorts to consideration: “oh? is that so? give me an example.”

the teacup is placed back on his desktop, steam wafting upwards. “let’s see. this was one of my more older cases,” older meaning eons ago, but simeon did not need to know that, “but it was about an angel that murdered another angel out of jealousy and blamed it on the demon. it was severe enough that i had to be called as the prosecutor to indict the angel because it was fairly evident that it was the angel who did it, but the defense kept on trying to protect the angel.”

it wasn’t a particularly difficult case, but the paperwork and the politics behind it was astronomically headache-inducing. “i won, of course, but nevertheless: the angel is now kept jailed or dead. who knows how the celestial realm gives out punishment.”

all the while, simeon kept quiet, watching him with interest. “did you feel a sense of accomplishment that you got an angel found guilty? that is not a feat many could accomplish.” there’s a measure of truth to that. angels dealt with angel cases and demons dealt with demon cases, it just so happened that pythos dealt with both.

but there was a reason that he was considered the best.

��be it angel or demon, i will find the truth regardless.”

his boastfulness amuses simeon, judging from the smile he does not bother hiding. “you are very driven with your goal.” he observes, plucking a biscuit from the tray and nibbling on it.

“of course,” pythos responds, scandalized at the thought of not being wholeheartedly driven to pursue the truth. to jail the guilty ones and ensure that peace reigned in all three realms. “who could i be if i wasn’t?”

“i like that,” simeon decides, “i could be anything, but you would always be a prosecutor, a truth-seeker.”

pythos rolls his eyes, curling his fingers around his cup and sipping it. he doesn’t mean it maliciously, but it’s amusing to see the angel try to discern his motivations. he liked to keep certain things secret. as far as pythos knows, simeon is only aware of the fact that he’s a prosecutor, he’s a demon and he works both angel and demon cases and he’d like to keep it that way. “consistency is key,” pythos intones playfully, crossing his legs underneath the table, “although a wise lawyer knows to keep his cards to himself until it’s the right time to reveal them.”

“a wise lawyer or a good gambler?” the angel challenges with the same brand of playfulness, “you sound awfully like a certain demon.”

he sticks his nose in the air, affronted, “how dare you compare me to that brute!” pythos is still seething over the fact that mammon had stolen his prized ivory snake statue from the shelf and he knows that it’s making its way into the human realm. “hmph!”

simeon laughs loudly, sounding like crisp bells and joy, ringing in the spaciousness of pythos’ office. “please forgive me, pythos. i couldn’t help it.”

despite himself, pythos pouts, crossing his arms, “very rude, take it back right this instant or i will be so cross.”

the angel waves a hand, attempting to stem the irritation that creased his brows, menacing expression downplayed by the pout that refused to leave no matter how hard the demon tried. “ah, ahhh, i apologize. you are not like a certain demon. i promise you.”

pythos eyes simeon for a few long moments, long enough for the angel to squirm, before he decides that he is forgiven. “and don’t you dare forget it.”

once more, the smile is hidden behind the rim of his cup, eyes flicking to the clock and widening. “oh dear, it seems that i have overstayed my welcome. luke must be wondering where i am right now! i promised to help him with his homework.” for the first time since his arrival, pythos sees simeon be flustered as he stands up, setting his cup to the side, “where do i...?” he trails off, allowing pythos to gesture to the tray.

“please don’t worry about cleaning up, i shall do it.” his mouth creases in a slight smile, hands folded carefully on his desk, “hurry on home and please stay safe on the walk from here to purgatory halls, there are hooligans that like to prowl around.”

simeon tilts his head, eyes glinting slightly, the corner of his mouth deepening in the faintest sign of a smirk, “oh i won’t worry about that too much. i can handle myself.”

pythos rolls his eyes at the subtle posturing, dear hells, is this a commonality among all three realms? “nevertheless, it cannot hurt to err on the side of caution.” a nod of his head and the door opens, allowing them both to exchange their goodbyes before it closes behind the angel with an inaudible click.

the demon stares at the door for a while, suddenly feeling exhaustion creep up on his shoulders, deciding that it would be wiser to get some rest and look at the Izzbanar case with fresh eyes and a fresh mind. he tugs at his tie, the blinking eye at the center of his necktie blinking up at him judgementally. “oh, shut up, i’m going to rest.”

his appearance is a tad more disheveled than he likes, with the darkness underneath his eyes more apparent once he leaves the soft illumination of the floating candles and enters the nearby executive bathroom, bathing him with harsh light. but at least pythos was not an outright mess.

the tap turns on, the perfect temperature, cupping his hands underneath the flow to splash water onto his face. just so that he can be a bit more cognizant on the walk home. as he passes his desk, he grabs a hold of his cane -- the handle being a gold encrusted head of a jackal and the rest being an attractive black wood. “hm, i should invite simeon for another cup of tea,” pythos muses, as he leaves his office, the candles winking out of existence and bathing the room in darkness.

a chuckle, “one day.”

#obey me #my writing #aku writing #LOLOLOLOLOLOL #obey me simeon #aku oc: pythos #this was more of a writing exercise tbh #and a way to get pythos under uhhh #like to get him more #IDK!!!!!

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sheepish-uwu · 4 years

Note

if u take requests, could you write a small bit abt lion reacting to docs death?

of course, and merry (early) christmas anon! i hope this is to your liking!

i gift to thee: 2.2k words of pure doc/lion angst! rated for MATURE audiences as it deals with dark themes :). enjoy! you can also read it on a03!

Death was a demon that had once held an inescapable clutch on his soul - as it tends to do with many - for the elusive afterlife was intimidating to most. It was a trampling force that held no remorse for those caught in the aftereffects and was one of the only things Olivier could not run from other than God’s judgment. All he’d known how to do was run; run from responsibility. Run from his family’s advice. From the people he loved. From his son. From his lover.

Olivier had sworn he’d gotten over the fear of death. The moment he’d been exiled from his own family and girlfriend, he’d considered himself better off as dead then. He had been a shell of a human being back then, constantly wishing for death’s release despite lacking the willpower to go through with any of the treacherous thoughts that had plagued his mind. He often sends thanks to the divine force that kept him from that horrendous fate. There must have been a reason for keeping him alive even when he was practically six-foot underground in his own alcoholic and drug-induced misery.

Death had become a common factor in his work field to a point where he’d never bat an eye at the miscellaneous casualties if there was a purpose. It was the main cause of his and Gustave’s disagreements whenever they’d argue, their differentiating philosophies and viewpoints remaining on very shaky ground that he’d squint to say was common - so they ignored it the same way they ignored each other’s politics. In his defense though, life was just so fragile. Mortality has kicked him in the face multiple times. Like when he was barely an adult and hospitalized for his toxic obsessions, he’d had a lot of time to think about how close he had been to death and, more bitterly, how many had died to something he hadn’t. He’s held the hand of sickly dying patients and carried heavy corpses of civilians and colleagues to a point where any shock, fear, or emotion has dissipated.

In Rainbow, the only deaths he’d witnessed were the ones of recruits. It was always upsetting to lose a member of their organization, yet their losses had never really phased Olivier - at least not in the way it affected people like Gilles who’d worked and trained with them more personally. They had yet to lose an actual operator though, whether it be through sheer luck was unknown to Olivier - yet they’d always managed to keep a clean streak even when missions went haywire. It was common to joke about dying on the job otherwise the lingering fear would eat them alive, and despite the teasing nature, there was always a truth to their words. It remained unspoken, yet drifted through the atmosphere whenever anyone laughed about their possible fate in an upcoming mission. Despite the mirth in their teasing voices, Olivier saw the flash of uncertainty and fear in their eyes - the feeling being reciprocated by everyone else in the room.

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? The lead up was unbearable, someone had to die eventually - right? It was all a matter of who and when. Everyone secretly expected the more reckless operators to be the ones to die first; after all, they were the ones who joked most about dying and were more prone to life-endangering endeavors. It’s what made the most sense, right?

So why was it that their doctor - the one who preached the most about caution and safety - died first? Why hadn’t it been someone like James - who jumps headfirst into the fray without thinking? Or Elias - who practically gloats about willing to dive right in front of bullets to save lives? Often times, Olivier thinks he’s the butt of a joke the entire world is playing on him. Right when he gets complacent, comfortable, and happy with the way his life is heading, life throws a curveball that sends him tumbling back down the steep rocky mountain he’d been so desperately trying to climb. It’s what happened when he was a teenager and thrown out to the streets, it’s what happened when he almost lost his rank from his relapse into toxic behaviors, and it’s what’s happening now.

And it hurts - so much more than all those experiences combined - to a point where Olivier wants to scream. Rip his hair out and peel off his own skin in a valiant attempt to shake off all these layers of pain and anguish. And this loss shouldn’t hurt him so much. He - he thought he’d gotten used to death’s company. And death wasn’t the final destination, there was life for Gustave after his earthly one - even if he wasn’t a devout believer in heaven or hell. For Olivier’s own sake, he held onto the notion that Gustave was with his heavenly father despite his lover’s religious doubts. The thought of Gustave being permanently gone tore at Olivier’s chest and applied an emotional pressure that made his sternum feel like exploding.

Even still, despite knowing Gustave is in a better place, Olivier despises every second without the other French man’s company and guiltily relishes in this selfish desire. He misses Gustave and desperately searches for ways to keep his lover’s presence lingering, even if it wasn’t physical. He’d already gone through a phase of replacing all of his pillowcases with Gustave’s clothes, inhaling the poignant scent of his lover; outrageously expensive cologne, aftershave, and home. The day the scent wore off had been soul-crushing, and instead of being comforted by the pacifying smell of his deceased lover, he was met with his own depressing stench of sweat, tears, and desperation.

The love he shared with Gustave was resurfacing into a loneliness that made every tender memory sour and turned every night alone with his right hand into a pathetic display of grief - any kind of pleasure received being reduced to a vigorous lust for what he couldn’t have anymore. The night his anger, grief, and desire merged into one amalgamation of self-loathing sent Olivier on a rampant self-destructive course, seeking out the artificial love of strangers for a taste of the past.

Except it was superficial and each impetuous touch from the men couldn’t compare to the way Gustave’s careful nimble hands had once explored his body. Where Gustave was attentive, loving, and selfless in the way he reduced Olivier to a babbling mess, they were rough and selfish. Greedily taking from Olivier - though he’d be a hypocrite to be modest and say he hadn’t initially been doing the same thing - and the realization that this wasn’t Gustave, and he’d never find a suitable replacement for the love he’d once shared with the man, hit him like a freight train and sent him barreling down into a pit of despair. Any sound of pleasure he’d once emitted was obscured, all there was was pain - his cries being muffled underneath sweat-laced skin and the sound of the once euphoric activity. When the brute realized his sobs weren’t of pleasure and asked a concerned “shit, are you alright mate?”, Olivier merely nodded despite how much his soul screeched at him to say no and spill out the cesspool of his inner demons and unrelenting heartache.

His church had been helpful and alleviated the unbearable torment of his wistful thoughts. The people he confided in supported him through his mourning, promising to keep him in their prayers. Their intercessions helped ease the nagging thoughts that he was completely alone in this particular struggle, and the distractions from his time volunteering kept his mind away from the distress in his empty home. Gustave never went to church with him despite how adamantly Olivier tried to convince him, and he never would’ve imagined he’d ever be grateful for it. Everything and everywhere reminded him of Gustave, but not his church. The only place Gustave refused to accompany Olivier to, and the only place that didn’t overwhelmingly remind him of a certain presence he was missing.

He tried to find solace solely on his religion, and oh how he tried to find respite and healing through prayer and guidance - but old habits die hard and the sudden influx of emotional turmoil dug up everything he’d fought so hard to control. It felt like he was constantly on a malfunctioning autopilot mode - he couldn’t control his actions that progressively got more and more destructive, exacerbating his situation without a care in the world as he let his inner demons take over. Thought and inhibition were completely thrown out the window every time he took a swing of Gustave’s once treasured expensive wine. A sight that’d surely make him fume and retch in his grave, he’d think guiltily, forlorn gaze cast down at the half-empty glass bottle.

He dreaded to imagine what Gustave would think of him if he saw him now, and remembers vividly the disappointment and hurt that’d paint his handsome face in the beginning of their relationship when Olivier would oftentimes turn to alcohol to deal with the stress.

“We’re a team now, anything that bothers you bothers me. Tell me please, don’t push me away - I know I’m not the most emotionally available person in the world, but I care. I don’t want to see you like this again, please.” Gustave had exasperated, crouching down next to Olivier’s huddled figured hugging the toilet - spewing out his regret from the night before.

It took him a while to trust Gustave with his anxieties and problems, and though he had always been distant with his comfort compared to someone like Gilles - who’d embrace Olivier in a warm hug and soothing words - it worked. Gustave offered Olivier a shoulder to cry on and tentative back rubs, though the hesitant physical touches couldn’t compare to his words. They held advice - a logical merit that kept him grounded and resilient with a promise that these problems he faced had solutions so long as he put the effort to solve them.

“But Gustave,” Olivier whispered, voice hoarse as he stared at the soul-shuddering marble tombstone that did very little to dignify who Gustave Kateb was and all of his humble accomplishments. It made Olivier distraught to see the altruistic man who worked so hard, every single day, reduced to a few words. “How do I get through this? Without you?” His voice was breaking on every syllable, body oscillating back and forth on his heels in a desperate attempt to contain himself.

Olivier was met with nothing but the sound of wind rustling through the willow and oak trees and the soft shrill chirping from the thrushes and the songbirds, a hurtful reminder of how ultimately his loss was meaningless to everything but him. The world would carry on unforgivingly and leave Olivier behind to rot in his despair while trying to grudgingly trek through life, all while carrying the heavy solid weight of grief on his back. Nobody was going to wait on him to catch up, nobody truly cared or was impacted as much as Olivier was, and Olivier was sure that right when he’d returned from his leave in Northern France, the majority of Rainbow would have moved on. Perhaps they’d already found a replacement for Gustave. Olivier grimaced, the thought embarking a shrewd feeling of dissatisfaction that boiled in his blood.

“I can’t do this, I don’t want to go back without you there. It’s unbearable please, I-” his pleads cut off abruptly into a sob that tore through his chest and throat, leaving behind a tingling sensation that kept his breathing uneven. “I miss you. I-I can’t… I don’t know what to do. Please, help me.” The blonde French man crumpled on the cold ground, the maintained grass damp and chilled from the icy dew-heavy morning.

“Help me,” Olivier reiterated, body slumped downwards as he fisted handfuls of the surrounding flora carelessly - a ravaging tick surging throughout him to destroy whatever he could get his hands on. “Gustave help me. Help me, help me,” Olivier repeated uncontrollably between breath-stealing wails, his repetition a painful reminder of the birds that surrounded him in the desolate graveyard - only able to repeat rather than speak.

“I’m sorry. For everything. I shouldn’t have spent so long fighting you, you’ve brought me so much joy. It was a waste, and I wish I could go back and spend all those hours we wasted arguing about something stupid and petty and just.. Kiss you instead.” Olivier heaved out once he finally caught his breath, eyes glazing over the dirt and grass that now contaminated his pale hands.

A bubbling emotion surged throughout him, its force overwhelming and warm that induced a trembling in his fingertips. A phrase came to mind, the only way to explain this feeling that had been eating him alive throughout the past year. Three words contributed to this almost rapturous feeling that Olivier had stubbornly avoided saying unless he deemed the time acceptable. How idiotic he had been to hold himself back like that because now there was no more time left to share this revelation he’d been holding inside of him selfishly.

“I love you.” Olivier whispered, voice hushed as if admitting these three words was a crime - but the only thing that was crime-worthy was how long he’d kept it to himself.

And so, he was met with nothing. Just as he had been earlier, and would be forevermore.

#r6s #anon #ficrequest #doc/lion #r6s lion #thank you for the request :) it kind of helped me out through a writers block i've been having!#wrote 2k words in a few hours goodness

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jewish-privilege · 5 years

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When Adolf Hitler came to power in Germany on Jan. 30, 1933, he gained the authority to implement his racist ideology toward Germany’s Jews, who then numbered 535,000 out of a general population of 67 million. After the Reichstag (parliament) elections on March 5, the new German government removed the constraints on violence against Jews, and assaults and vicious beatings of Jews in the streets of major German cities by Nazi thugs became commonplace. Within months, the Nazi government issued numerous decrees and regulations that effectively removed Jews from German economic life and the professions, the goal being to force the Jews to leave Germany.

German Jews reacted to these developments with shock and disbelief. Diaries and memoirs record their distress and utter bewilderment. Another primary source is the private letters that German Jews sent to relatives living abroad. These letters express the reactions and emotions of men and women to the horrifying events unfolding around them daily. One rarely used such resource is the letters written by German B’nai B’rith (Sons of the Covenant) members to relatives in the United States. Many of these letters were forwarded to B’nai B’rith’s international headquarters in Cincinnati, where they remain part of the organization’s archives.

Jewish men established the German B’nai B’rith in Berlin 1882 to combat a rising tide of anti-Semitism among the populace and in fraternal organizations. From 1882 onward, most German B’nai B’rith members belonged to business, industry, and the legal and medical professions. In general, B’nai B’rith members represented the most influential element within European Jewish society, and many of the leading personalities in Jewish life were members. At the time of the Berlin lodge’s founding, the largest and wealthiest German Jewish elite lived in Berlin and occupied an important position in the city’s cultural and intellectual life. By 1925, Germany contained 107 B’nai B’rith lodges with over 15,000 members.

While all German Jews reacted to these events with alarm and incredulity, the elite of the community experienced an especially deep dismay, having assumed that their economic and social position and contributions to German life and culture would shield them from danger. B’nai B’rith members came from this class, and many of them wrote personal and emotional letters describing the nightmare they found themselves in to family members living in the United States. The letters movingly express the consternation and terror the writers felt as the world they knew collapsed.

...On April 2, 1933, the wife of another Berlin physician and B’nai B’rith member wrote to a relative in the United States movingly describing what she witnessed during the April 1 national boycott against Jews in Germany and her reaction and emotions regarding what she saw.

I will try to give you an idea of my experiences of yesterday—Saturday, April 1st….I have had many experiences in my life, but nothing I have ever gone thru can compare with this Nazi boycott in retaliation of “the atrocity propaganda” against Germans. No blood was shed, that is true, but the humiliation to the Jews—the absolute helplessness of their position—the cowardliness of these brutes in carrying out to the last vestage [sic], the most intimate details on orders from above (Goebbels and Goerring [sic]) beggars description.

I wanted to see for myself just what was happening and so went down the Kurfurstendam [sic]–a street much like 5th Ave. in N.Y.—very long, block after block of both large and small exclusive shops interspersed by large coffee houses and movies. Here on a Sat. afternoon it is a sort of promenade and window-shopping, but the site that met one’s eyes yesterday! On the large windows of all shops bearing even the semblance of a Jewish name these brown shirts had pasted plain colored posters about 3 feet long bearing the words, “Deutsche Whart Euch—Kauft nicht bei Juden” (Germans beware do not buy from Jews). On office buildings where Jewish lawyers, notaries, or doctors have their small signs … they smeared over the signs of the Jews and pasted smaller placards. “Jews—geht nicht hier” (Jews—do not enter)….

These young devils like a lot of hungry wolves let loose … with buckets filled with red paint and with large paint brushes, rushed from one shop window to another and not satisfied with having put huge posters against the Jews thereon, printed in huge letters at the side of the posters JUDE [underlined in the original]. These were followed by other troops with white paint buckets who hastily painted a large Shield of David [underlined in the original] on the same windows. It was a concerted action, completely organized so that one atrocity followed upon the other. Up and down these devils flew, across the wide streets over to the opposite side while the crowds of people (there was scarcely a Jew to be seen on the streets, they were mostly at home, being afraid to venture out), looked on, some with serious faces—many (and mostly the bourgeois type, the kind of women one could imagine in France during the revolution) grinning and smiling approvingly as though it was a huge joke! Can you imagine my feeling? Large shops and small ones, shops that no one ever knew that they were owned by Jews… lace houses that have been in the same shops for 50 years—coffee houses and fine restaurants. Hundreds and hundreds of stores, delicatessen shops, the finest Berlin has, were all, without exception smeared up in this way. And what a sight! And what deep misery in the wake of this dastardly, cowardly outbreak. On some stores which from the name one would never think owned by Jews they had smeared “Geborener Jude” [born a Jew]. And on many, oh so many, in large white letters they printed “Ich bein Jude” [I am a Jew]… Well, my dears, my heart ached and bled and it was all I could do to keep the tears back. … Throughout the entire breath and length of this long, long, Kurfurstendam [sic] we never saw one single policeman [underlined in the original], not one officer of the law to protect any outrage that might have occurred. … Can you imagine a civilized land condoning such atrocities? Can you imagine in the twentieth century that troops of young snips should have the right to perpetuate such horrible deeds as the smearing of respectable shops with all these dirty epithets? Juda-Juda everywhere. Kauft nicht bei Juden-kauft nur bei Deutsche. (Don’t buy from Jews buy only from Germans).

...And then, when one thought they had finished with their dirty work—to see them wild with glee and victory heaped upon helpless Jews, (and oh how helpless) this handful of people is against the infamous mob backed by the government of tyrants and Jew haters—to add the finishing touch—the Shield of David painted in white on all the windows. Well, that Shield has led Jews throughout centuries and protected them from greater atrocities than those that are being heaped on them today by this barbarous country…. God has never left us yet and my faith in Him has never been shaken.

The blood-thirsty army which Hitler and his cohorts have been building up have had their first outlet. … The protests of the Jews in the foreign countries played right into their hands and they used their already prepared and fully organized “boycott” as THEIR protest to the lies [underlined in the original] about Germany which, as they claimed, the Jews [underlined in the original] over here broadcast. These demons say, “this is your own work—now take your medicine.” … I am now worried until Pesach is over, for I can’t help thinking, in the face of the placards announcing that the Jews need Christian blood for the Passover feast, that some horrible thing is brewing. Let us hope not. I also am afraid now as many others are, of confiscation of the property belonging to the Jews… I doubt if anything I have written you in such minute detail will come into the press, and that is why I have written my personal account of it.

...As all the letters indicate, by the end of April 1933 few Jewish members of the middle and upper middle classes had any illusions that conditions under the Nazis would improve. With hindsight, we know that the Jewish situation only worsened. But none of the letter writers could have imagined that in 10 years they or their families would be reduced to ashes by a state-run industrial killing machine and that the long continuum of Jewish life in Germany would be broken.

#shoah #holocaust #kristallnacht #'many...grinning and smiling approvingly as though it was a huge joke!'#antisemitism

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grimscale-mercenaries · 5 years

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Midnight Madness

Written by: Thaelea Solarsphere

So much had happened this night. It began with a rather cordial conversation with Svarr, then to a few tense moments with Covie, and finally tears, again with Covie. The Grimscale Collector had abruptly resigned from the company. No one saw it coming. Daegan was shocked, and poor Dusty nearly succumbed to a panic attack. Thaelea, upon hearing of the outrageous event over the comm line, set off to talk some sense into Covie. Or, failing that, slap some sense into her.

Things between Covie and Thaelea had been tense since the latter’s ejection from the company. Even after her return, matters had not settled. There was stubbornness and pride on both sides, as well as a bit of awkwardness, given the open and admitted affection the Elf held for Covie. But when the news of her resignation from Grimscale came, Lea abandoned the ‘game’ that the two had been playing. Some things were more important than who was right or who apologized first.

Daegan informed the Ren’dorei that Covie had retreated to Tol Barad, her favored locale of late. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lea followed, meeting Daegan at the inn on the island. After a few snippy remarks in the form of Daegan blaming Lea for this mess, and Thaelea resenting it, he led the woman across the island to a predetermined location. There was some magic at work, as Daegan placed on rune on the Elf’s hand before allowing her to go after Covie. Once found, Lea discovered Covie toying with Blood magic, as evidenced by a poor rabbit that exploded, showering both of them in blood and gore. Such an affair would have been shocking...any other time. For now, more important matters.

Thaelea, ever her entitled, fiery self, demanded answers, going so far as grasping the collar of Covie’s dress. At first dismissive, Covie eventually made reference to Lea’s firing, which only enflamed the Elf further. After a heated exchange between the two regarding what had happened, who betrayed who, and whose hurt was greater, the standoff came to an end after Thaelea tearfully apologized, eliciting an apology from Covie as well, albeit an unnecessary one. With the tension rapidly disintegrating, Lea felt certain that Covie would come back to the fold. But to her horror, the woman refused to return. She assured Lea that she would not leave her, which admittedly, is what the Ren’dorei was most concerned with, but Covie still refused to return to Grimscale. Why?

In the moments after Covie’s refusal, Thaelea’s mind raced with thoughts. So many emotions raging within. Why is she doing this?

Is this my fault? Another burden to bear?

Why now?

What could be-

And there it was. A single thought took hold in the Elf’s mind. Covie had been spending a great deal of time with Svarr, the ‘barbarian’ as Lea called him. He’d been showing her things, teaching her things. Rituals, visions, ideology, who knows what else? Yes, that must be the answer. Grimscale was Covie’s life, her family. That bond was the very thing that had enraged Covie so much at Thaelea, the elf having called the company ‘treacherous’ and ‘unreliable’. Yes, this explains it all. Svarr twisted and warped her. It’s his fault.

After their emotional exchange, Covie politely suggested that Thaelea leave. The Elf was reluctant to go, but she did all the same. There was nothing more she could get from Covie tonight. But as she turned from the woman, she already began to simmer with rage. An idea had taken root in her mind. Svarr had to pay. This was all his fault. His teachings, his rituals, his damned visions. At no point did Covie even suggest a connection, but so desperate was Thaelea to explain what had just happened, her mind latched onto the only thing that made sense. A wretched barbarian had manipulated Covie into doing something horrible. This could not stand.

Walking through the woods of Tol Barad, Lea’s blood boiled. A trail of dead animals, mostly stags, deer, and assorted small creatures, but no cats, of course. The poor things looked shriveled and lifeless. Thaelea had been draining their life essence right out of them. In her rage, she did to each of these things what she wanted to do to Svarr. Even a few stray demons, escaped from the prisons below, were drained of their essence and left to rot. Any living thing larger than an insect that had the misfortune of crossing the woman’s path at that time was felled by her magic. This proved most unfortunate to a particular group of Orcs.

Tol Barad had largely been abandoned by the Alliance and Horde. No longer of strategic significance, the island was vulnerable to raiding parties, from both sides. One such raiding party, Orcish outriders, stumbled across Thaelea as she wandered down the main road. What easy prey she must have seemed. A singular Elf, alone on the road, with no apparent means of defense. They must have thought themselves fortunate. They were not. Thaelea was a woman easily underestimated. She herself said frequently that she was no fighter, and she wasn’t. But she didn’t need to be.

The leader of the Orcs approached her, shouting something in Orcish. The language was familiar to Thaelea, thanks to her time with the Horde, but she paid him no heed. He shouted again, dismounting from his riding wolf and placing himself in Thaelea’s path. Only now did the Elf acknowledge this brute’s existence. The green-skinned beast smiled at her, flashing large, rotting tusks. Lea just stared back with half-lidded eyes. There was no expression on her face. She was totally blank. It didn’t seem to trouble the Orc, any. He reached for the axe he kept on his back, preparing to cut down the Elf without a second thought.

When the Orc reached for his weapon, Thaelea immediately began muttering something. It was...demonic? The Orcs took it for gibberish and ignored it. That was a mistake, for they failed to realize that a portal in reality had ripped open behind them. They also failed to realize the twelve-foot Wrathguard that stepped out of the portal, summoned to Azeroth by his mistress. The Orcish leader seemed poised to strike Thaelea, but was interrupted by the frenzied howl of one of his comrades. The other Orcs turned back to see Khillikad holding the rear-most Orc up by his head. The remaining two Orcs readied themselves for a proper fight, though not soon enough to save their comrade. The massive demon crushed the Orc’s skull in his grasp.

Two of the three remaining Orcs howled in rage at the loss of their friend, charging forward without a moment’s hesitation. Had they been a bit more caution, they might have noticed two more portals opening. A pair of felhounds lunged at the Orcs from the flank. They missed the first entirely, but successfully tore the rightmost Orc off his wolf. The felled Orc roared, intent to fight on, but he was lost as soon as the hounds had him. The creatures had no eyes, but a sense of smell that almost equated to vision. Their powerful jaws and jagged teeth snapped repeatedly at the Orc, biting, slashing, gnarling his forearms as he frantically tried to block. In the end, one of the felhounds scored a fortunate strike to the Orc’s throat. The strike, and the following rapid loss of blood, stopped all resistance. The demons devoured the Orc while he was still partially alive, but powerless to save himself.

Meanwhile, the Orc that had avoided the hounds went straight for Khillikad. The demon swung its massive axe. While the Orc managed to dodge, the wolf beneath her was split in two. Thrown from the beast, she recovered quickly and made another run at the titanic demon. Khillikad, for all his strength, was not invincible. But to most races of Azeroth, he’d be close to it. To an Orc, who favored frontal attacks that emphasized strength and ferocity, Khillikad was a near undefeatable foe. The Orc could not hope to overpower the demon, nor would her axe, small compared to the demon’s, have a chance at inflicting deep enough wounds. Yet, she charged all the same. For a fleeting moment, the Orc seemed as if she had gotten through, that she could slay the demon. This hope was dashed when the beast whirled around, striking the Orc with its spiked tail and knocking her into a tree. Khillikad did not even get close to her to finish the woman off. He hurled his axe towards her, imbedding it deep into the tree, as well as splitting the Orc’s skull from jaw to scalp.

Now, only the ring leader remained. With the arrival of Lea’s demonic defenders, he had forgotten the Elf, focusing his attention on the savage creatures. But Lea had not forgotten him. With his attention focused elsewhere, she raised her hand and touched her palm to his back. An eerie, green glow enveloped him; his life essence was being ripped out. It didn’t take long to incapacitate the Orc. By the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late. He fell to his knees, then onto his side. His once impressive physique began to dwindle. Thaelea stepped around him, approaching the Orc’s face, and crouching down beside him. “Shh.” She says, just above a whisper. “You cannot die so long as your soul endures.” The woman spoke in Thalassian, while the Orc likely did not speak. “You’re a barbarian, like him.” She continued. “You look different, you fight for different things, but you’re just like him. You have your own ideas of honor, would infect others with your vile ideology, turn good women against their families…” The Elf’s hand fell to the Orc’s exposed chest, gently pressing her palm to him as the creature struggled to breathe. “You’ll never harm anyone ever again.” Her hand began to glow a pink-violet. The Orc, already weak, struggled, in vain, to move away from her hand, but it was no use. “And when I’m done with him, neither will he.” Lea pulls her hand away from the Orc slowly, tendrils of energy stretching between the two. It’s clear the Orc is suffering as he writhes. But a moment later, the energy stream stops, all light centering around Lea’s hand. The Orc? Motionless. No movement, no breathing. In the Elf’s hand was a gem, pink-violet in color.

Thaelea looked down at her memento with a strange sort of smile, almost unhinged. “Yes, that’s the only way to deal with people like him, isn’t it?” She didn’t speak to anyone in particular, only musing openly to herself. “You did this to Covie, Svarr. You made her abandon us. I will never forgive you.” Her fingers closed around the newly-acquired gem as pale-violet eyes turned towards the sky. The little smirk grew into a wide, positively cheerful grin. “You took Covie from us. Now I’ll take your soul.”

#grimscale mercenaries #member writing #thaelea #svarr #covie #destruction #warlock

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wonderwomancharacter · 3 years

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Day 1746: Peggy Norris

Accounting executive working for Davis, Davis, and Soren. Peggy Norris was a specialist in tracking down numbers and making things add up, following the paper trail wherever it goes.

However while Peggy was talented in her work, she was not a very charismatic individual. On top of being discriminated against for her gender, Peggy spent more time actually working than talking about how great she was. Giving her a blatant disadvantage compared to her peers as people who were far less capable were moving up the ladder because they could smooth talk the higher ups.

Realizing that no matter how hard she worked her achievements would never be acknowledged in favor of nepotism, Peggy Norris did the only rational thing and summoned a demon so she could trade her soul for being office savvy, in the hopes of moving up the ladder.

However the demon Peggy contracted with just so happened to be entirely brute force and muscle with no comprehension as to what the words savvy, charisma, or politics even meant. But registering that Peggy wanted to 'be at the top' the demon proceeded to turn her into a demon, figuring since might makes right, she could claw her way up the corporate ladder across the bodies of her enemies.

Transformed into a horrifying dragon furry, Peggy blamed her boss P. Rockford Quipe for her current state and would attack the firm, determined to kill Quipe and get her revenge~ However just when she was within moments of ending Quipes life, she would be stopped by Artemis who sparred with the transformed Peggy Norris.

Artemis recognizing Peggy as a human transformed into a demon, spoke a spell she knew that would sever the connection, returning Peggy to her true form, destroying the contract between her and the demon.

Peggy would curse Artemis for interfering, but the Amazon was hardly one to care.

#Wonder Woman

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sargenthouse · 7 years

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‘The Endless Shimmering’ Review // Spectrum Culture

And So I Watch You From Afar are as exuberant as their name is ridiculous. Once upon a time, these frenzied lads’ best known song was a little ditty named “Set Guitars to Kill” which wasn’t just the first song from their first album, it also acted a mantra. But they got decidedly more—“happy” isn’t quite the word—euphoric. They indulged in “Adventure Time” fancies and smiley shout along choruses. It was math pop for lack of a better term. Sugar packed, major-key abusing, pure joyous energy delivered by smashing drums and hyperactive guitars. They were Slint obsessed with Cartoon Network rather than Nosferatu. It was best summed up by the first song on their last album, Heirs. “Run Home” was the sonic equivalent of a million pack of Crayola markers strapped to the sides of a rocket. But they’ve injected some darkness back in for their newest The Endless Shimmering, avoiding binging on shininess and producing one of their finest efforts.

Though there was plenty of muscle on their last two records, it often took a backseat to the fluttering, crazed riffage. They were dealers of rainbows and glitter covered guitars, here they’re much more likely to bring out curb stomping brute force. Opener “Three Triangles” lays out the thesis, a thumping drum beat and a screeching guitar lead are soon joined by an oceanically huge bass growl, one of the few times it feels appropriate to compare ASIWYFA to ISIS. And oh boy, the break down on this is a beast. It lives up to the title’s angular name and creates a mad math rock samba. It’s darkly danceable, a sinister edge to the raving guitar duel. You’ll probably look like a fool dancing to it, but it’s one of the most invigorating tracks of the year and a gnashing, proper opening salvo.

For those who got on ASIWYFA’s mad rollercoaster ride during the sheer sweetness era, there’s still plenty of colors here. The gleeful “Terrors of Pleasure” rides a bite-sized riff and “All I Need Is Space” even has some xylophone tossed in for a more whimsical feel. In this category, the title track comes away as the finest bear hug. Xylophone pops up again to reinforce a delicious guitar line that simply radiates warmth. The opening few minutes has the dudes creating a fireside atmosphere. You certainly wish that one campfire guitar noodler that comes along for every outdoor trip could play this well. For all their moshing tendencies, ASIWYFA could write lullabies, if they weren’t contractually obligated to end every song with a face-melting solo. And, of course, “The Endless Shimmering” does end with one of those, though it repurposes the main melody line, giving the original feeling of comfort a superhero-sized boost.

Meanwhile, their re-found brutality excels. “A Slow Unfolding of Wings” which, yes, does in fact unfurl from its thrashing start into a worship worthy solo, is magnificently heavy. No clue what god they’re praying to, but sign me up for that holy scripture.

The hyperventilating riffage of “Mullally” is right up there with their best metal-god excursions. There are at least two albums worth of guitar work just on this song, from an intricate duet, a speed demon lead and a solo that would have Yngwie tearing his luscious locks out. “Mullally” plays out an instrumental adventure of riding dragons, eating an ice cream Sunday and punching god in the face.

It’s also stunningly well-produced. The individual strums of some solos will ping across headphones, giving a tasty percussive feel to lines that once were much lighter. Or the sudden withdraws and additions of reverb and echo that make “I’ll Share a Life” crunchily dynamic. So guitarist Rory Friers’ claims that the band recorded and mixed the whole dang thing in nine days seems, to put it politely, batshit insane.

Hell, for a lesser band, “Dying Giants” would have taken nine days on its own. It carries on the ASIWYFA tradition of one seven-plus minute track and it is possibly their best since the glorious “K is for Killing Spree.” It’s got Tyrannosaurus-sized weight to it, but also a surprising amount of agility. Drummer Chris Wee brings the pain on the low end, giving a four to the floor groove that allows the spiraling guitars to Hulk smash even harder. “Dying Giants,” better than any other song, asks “How the hell do these guys not pass out after every song?” But the metal gods have smiled fondly upon ASIWYFA, blessing them (and us) with another furious, life-affirming collection of mathy madness.

youtube

Label:

Sargent House

Release Date:

October 20, 2017

#Sargent House #And So I Watch You From Afar #ASIWYFA #The Endless Shimmering #Spectrum Culture

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