#laughable-illusions

[surielbonecarver]

I would like to point out the difference between a choice and an ultimatum:

#nesta didnt have a choice #she had the illusion of choice but thats not really a choice #rhys saying she always had a choice was actually laughable #i seriously laughed out loud when he said that #like that gif of the guy smiling looking confused with question marks around his head #yeah that was me #anyway #whether it was an ultimatum made with her best interests in mind is debatable #whats not debatable is that it wasnt a *choice* #nesta was given an *ultimatum* #nesta #acotar #acotar thoughts #nesta deserves better

[qingxin-dream]

“Righteousness”

summary | in another timeline, kunikuzushi never redeemed himself. he took interest in a different kind of heart—not the Gnosis, not a Vision—but yours. (art credits: @/Shiqaruki on twitter).

warnings | lore, kidnapping, kuni calls you ‘little songbird,’ profanity, brief mention of physical abuse, manipulation, praise & degradation, pining, obsessive/possessive, smut [18+, MDNI], dubcon, female-bodied reader (wears a dress & lingerie), dominant kuni, choking, yandere jealousy, murder/arson threats, worship, slapping, finger-fucking, mirror sex, kuni receives oral, deepthroating, edging/teasing, orgasm denial, mention of breeding

genre | yandere, smut with plot, canon-divergent

word count | 4.5k

pairing | kunikuzushi/scaramouche x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

In a time all but forgotten, a young boy sat on his knees, caressing a hand-sewn doll in his palms and looking up with childlike compassion to his companion.

“There once was a puppet solider whose greatest wish was to be with a ballerina doll forever and ever,” he began, his eyes reflecting the scene of his storytelling imagination.

He gently squeezed the doll in his hands, as if to comfort his companion before the truth spills from his lips. “But the solider didn’t have a heart and didn’t know where his feelings came from.”

“One day, his owner didn’t want him anymore and threw him away into a fire. But even in the flames, his eyes never left the ballerina,” he continued with a more somber tone, drawing attention to the gut-wrenching ending of a tragic romance.

However, his voice shifted, offering soft words of wisdom and hope to his distraught friend. “The next day, the people found a tiny heart in the ashes left by the fire.”

Instinctively, the beautiful puppet sitting before the young boy curled his lip in disdain. “Probably ashes in the shape of a heart… but that’s not a real heart.”

He could hear the affectionate smile pulling at the corners of the young boy’s mouth. “Maybe, but what if… hearts can be born from ashes?”

“What a joke. It’s just ashes,” the lonesome puppet can barely conjure up a breath in his agony. “Nothing left but ashes.”

As his chest twisted and clenched with the wretched filth of so-called human emotion, the divine puppet came to a profound realization. His body merely served as a hollow shell, cursed by the ghost of mortal weakness—a living testament to the depths of an Archon’s visceral mourning.

In his naïveté, he had trusted the boy he thought to be his friend. He had believed that silly little fairytale, that maybe he wasn’t as empty and worthless as he felt. There was no heart to be found in the cold vessel of a failed god.

Kunikuzushi would have to claim one for himself.

Sin.

The ultimate temptress of mortals. The manifestation of human greed and desire. That which demands repentance and atonement for fear of eternal damnation. It is hinged on the human condition that death is inevitable.

Mortals are easily persuaded by morals and ideology if it means life after death in a paradise that is not guaranteed. Humans create false narratives to exercise the sick satisfaction of controlling one other. When all is said and done, the real struggle is for power—namely the power to control fate itself.

For those who are destined to roam the world with no such motives, imprisoned in an earthly purgatory, sin and salvation are laughable notions.

There is no reason to live, for you cannot die; Sin knows no bounds and comes with no price.

“The sooner you accept this, the better,” Kunikuzushi laments, his face just inches from yours. The bewitching twinkle in his lavender irises has remained all these centuries, a cruel illusion masking the abyss beneath. “Nothing you say will change my decision.”

You were really quite the picture, if he was being honest, all tied up for him. Kunikuzushi loathed that just the sight of you was enough to make the void in his chest cavity ache with longing. A reminder of his imperfection.

Anyone else would have died a violent death for such a transgression. But you presented a unique opportunity.

“Kuni, please,” you whimpered, your pleas falling on deaf ears. On the contrary, he loves hearing your voice, especially when you beg so earnestly. “I-I don’t know what I did wrong… I’m scared. Please, let me go…”

The puppet hushes you lovingly, his lips brushing against your delicate skin toward your ear. “Hey, now. There’s no need for that. You’re safe with me, little songbird.”

You flinch, gasping and recoiling in fear, turning your head away defiantly. It’s not like you could push him away, your little limbs bound to a tall column in the kitchen nice and tight. Hot tears pricked at your eyes. It burns like hell.

“Untie me, Kuni!” you shrieked, squirming and struggling against the binds to no avail.

He snatches your face firmly between his thumb and two fingers, squishing your cheeks to the point you felt pressure on your skull. “Ungrateful slut. Didn’t I explain this to you already? Your heart beats for me from this day forward.”

Frozen in shock, your body stiffens involuntarily as fear floods your veins, rendering you utterly helpless. Even as he gazed upon you with an icy, detached stare, you couldn’t find it within yourself to fault Kuni for this act of desperation. He could never make sense of himself and the pain that came with betrayal after betrayal.

Why even try to embrace humanity if it would mercilessly punish you for not having a heart?

You still remember the day you found him, it was but a coincidence you both crossed paths. Kuni was a wandering traveler, or at least that’s how he introduced himself. He seemed kind enough. You were particularly taken by his appearance, so lovely it was almost inhuman.

It just so happened that you were willing to offer him a place to stay. It took a bit of convincing on your part, actually, but you were worried about the string of murders near your village recently. Someone must have had an insatiable vendetta against the blade-smithing arts, striking them down one by one.

A small knowing smile pulled at his lips, his eyes creasing slightly with amusement as he marveled at how you opened yourself up so easily. This was the first time he had talked to a human in who knows how long. Perhaps since the young boy’s passing many dreadful seasons ago.

Kuni found the void in his chest persuading him to entertain his curiosity about you.

He had to admit, once you both got to know each other, it was quite the impeccable arrangement. During the day, you provided the kind of mundane tranquility and domesticity he had always dreamed of. Thankfully, your residence was in a rural part of the countryside, which offered much appreciated security and seclusion from the world.

Once you were safely tucked into bed and sound asleep, he would lie restlessly in the guest room. Puppets have no need for sleep. On some lonely moonlit nights, he would entertain his own fantasies of you. In the absence of such desires, he was compelled to satisfy his blood thirst.

Though Kuni had long forsaken the human emotions that afflicted his existence with disappointment and abandonment, his burgeoning relationship with you had quickly proven to be the last remaining vestige of his innocent supplication for a purpose.

In fact, he demanded it, after witnessing you day in and day out slipping from his grasp. He was growing impatient, waiting for something more. You had always stopped short of taking a little leap of faith to hold his hand or kiss his forehead, leaving him yearning for your touch and attention. Why?

Even in your presence, he was not alleviated of his turmoil. A number of possibilities plagued him. Were you dissuaded by his artificial constitution? Did he make a fatal miscalculation? God forbid, was there someone else?

No matter how many times he twisted, folded, and bent reality in his mind, trying to make sense of you, he never came to an agreeable conclusion. By the time Kuni realized just how deep you had nestled yourself into the empty husk of his heart, it was too late for the both of you.

All of this mental anguish and pining was unbearable. Unacceptable. He loved you, yes, but needed you more.

The puppet’s chest fluttered as you willingly complied, tears staining your cheeks, but that’s okay. His soft pink lips brushed against your cheek once more, kissing away your precious tears. It was his first taste of you.

Kuni cradled you in his palms like a delicate doll, his thumbs ghosting your cheeks. He leaned in closer, indigo bangs tickling your face and his mouth parted with a breathless question. “Is your heart… truly mine?”

He had broken you, and you had no choice but to nod slowly.

“Say it for me, little songbird,” he encourages you with a warm intonation. His eyes were trained on your lips.

“I-I’m yours,” you replied weakly.

No sooner than you could speak were his plush lips pressed to yours, a breathy hum of relief exhaling through his nose. In turn, you muffled a whimper, overwhelmed by the sensation. He had untied you, knowing you couldn’t hurt him but he could certainly hurt you.

Kuni was gentle at first, relishing in his first kiss with you. He carefully took your wrists to guide your hands to his body, and he wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you against him. Still, you trembled in his grasp.

“There’s no need to fear,” he whispers between kisses, holding your face to his. “I will take care of you.”

He can’t bear to leave your lips. Guiding you towards him, he leans against the kitchen counter and tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. A small prayer barely escapes his lips. “(Y/N), hold me… touch me… please.”

“Kuni,” you choke out, tears forming in the corner of your eyes again. You are silenced with increasingly fervent kisses, one of his hands trailing down to your neck just by his fingertips, giving you goosebumps in the wake of his featherlight touch.

“You are going to give yourself to me. Your heart is my heart, and I will not have you hiding any part of yourself from me,” his voice grows a bit more insistent, closing his fingers around your throat as a threat, but not yet squeezing. “Do you understand?”

You give a feeble nod, unable to look at him directly. Every time your gaze locked with his, it sent a pang of terror jolting through your fragile body. He brings you closer by your neck, kissing you with more confidence than before. There is a little part of you that is worried you are unable to discern fear from excitement.

The puppet lets his hand slip further, fingertips finding the contour of your chest. He hesitates briefly, then allows his palm to feel your plump breast. The act was enough to elicit a little whine from you, and he knew right then and there that he had to hear it again.

“Do you… have any inclination of how long I waited for you?” he whispers hotly onto your lips, feeling down your waist at an excruciatingly slow pace. He smoothed each wrinkle of your dress with his thumb, tracing the silhouette of your figure down until he felt the hem of your underwear through the thin fabric. His breath caught.

You were still not as receptive to his advances as he would like, and suddenly he scoops you up to hook your legs around his hips, pressing your back against the nearest wall in the hallway. Kuni was beginning to reveal his desperation for you in more ways than one, breathing a little heavier. He was determined to have you submit to him and if you weren’t responsive to his soft side, then so be it.

“Answer me,” Kuni lowers his voice with a commanding edge, his lips just inches from your neck while his messy indigo bangs tickled your jaw. You whimpered, involuntarily moving your hips against him at the mere thought of his mouth on you.

At long last, you found your voice—delicate and decadent with a tinge of spine-prickling anticipation. Perhaps you had lost part of yourself, your humanity, in him too. “H-how long, Kuni?”

You shivered slightly, feeling his mouth spread into a satisfied smile against the sensitive skin of your neck. His voice deepens further, sultry and needy, “Lifetimes… I’ve been so goddamn purposeless for too many fucking lifetimes, just waiting for you.”

Without warning, the touch-starved puppet sunk his teeth into the crevice of your shoulder at the base of your throat, sucking at the weak spot to bruise the skin with his mark. A surprised yelp fell from your mouth, and you so nicely turned your head to offer him more. He clutched your curves tightly, as if he was secretly wishing your bodies would just melt into each other.

Ba-dum… ba-dum… ba-dum…

Your precious heartbeat echoed through his chambers of his chest. Kuni craved that little pulse of yours, chasing it up your neck in heated, sloppy kisses. All the while, you encouraged him with sweet little sounds of pleasure, softly asking for more under your breath.

“It’s mine,” he reiterated, perhaps to help immortalize the sensation against his lips. With a faint growl and yet another love bite, he added, “You’re fucking mine, you hear me?”

If only he could be bothered to pull back and catch a glimpse of how the puppet had unraveled you beyond recognition, equally as intoxicated by the heat of the moment. No matter. He will have his fill of you in due time.

“Y-yours, mhmm,” you capture his wet lips halfway, experimentally swirling your tongue with his passionately. You were clinging onto his shoulders, entangling your fingers in the soft ends of his pretty hair resting on the back of his neck.

With a faint moan against your mouth, Kuni lifted you once more by slipping his hands under your dress to feel his digits press into the soft flesh of your ass. It was light work to carry you, giving him the opportunity to squeeze and smack your ass with a smirk.

Slipping into your bedroom, he set you down and turned you around by your hips so that you were facing the tall mirror just a few feet away from the mattress. He leans over your shoulder from behind and you blush heavily at the image reflected by the mirror. Both of his beautiful hands traveled up your body simultaneously, one feeling your stomach, ribs, breast, and resting around the bottom of your throat.

The other, however, caught the frilly ends of your dress, sliding it up your skin at a painstakingly slow rate. Kuni’s violet irises shimmered with obsessive desire, admiring every inch of your body that was exposed to him. He bunches the dress in his fist as he raises it above your hips, revealing the most angelic lacy undergarments accented with cute little ballerina pink ribbons. Kuni chuckled, his breath tickling your neck.

“Do me a favor, darling,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, kissing it lightly. He takes his time to unveil your breasts, each one perfectly shaped with lovely nipples begging to be pinched. “Open your mouth.”

You comply, watching yourself in the mirror with curious fascination, before Kuni stuffs the thin, light fabric of your dress into your mouth. He nibbles your ear playfully. “Hold that for me.”

His eyes marvel at your body. If you told him you were a goddess, he would believe you without hesitation. Divine or not, the puppet was hell-bent on worshipping you like he had been dreaming of. Kuni played with the intricate lace of your snow white lingerie, his thumb brushing your pelvis teasingly.

Instead, he takes two fingers and caresses your folds outside of the undergarment, pleased to feel your panties dampened with excitement. You quiver at the touch, moaning faintly. Kuni is enthralled by the sweet noise, taking the tiny lingerie by his thumbs and sweeping it down your pretty legs.

He immediately sits down on the edge of the bed, quickly pulling you into his lap and spreading your legs apart with his knees. There it was in the mirror. Your glistening flower framed with the loveliest soft petals.

Kuni couldn’t possibly restrain himself when you were presented so exquisitely, wasting no time to slide his fingers over your pussy. You groaned in pleasure, muffled by the dress in your mouth, relaxing against his chest as the puppet focused on rubbing circles around your clit. He kissed your neck and shoulders endlessly, admiring your reactions in the mirror and whispering lowly, “So good for me. So, so good for me, aren’t you, (Y/N)?”

Your thighs trembled. You desperately wanted to close your legs as his movements became faster on your clit, the stimulation swiftly overcoming you. Breathy moans soon evolved into incoherent pleas. Kuni held you steadfast with his legs, keeping you spread all nice, admiring how you twitched beneath him.

“What did I tell you?” his tone is one of warning, groping your right breast and littering your skin with a few more marks. “There are consequences to hiding yourself from me.”

The puppet suddenly swipes his middle finger over your leaking hole—causing you to moan lewdly—before slapping your pussy. It was a light but firm slap, sending an addicting concoction of both pain and pleasure through you.

After a brief moment, he returns to your folds to trace and admire it, then continuing his ministrations on your clit. Occasionally Kuni would let a finger slip to tease your entrance, finding that it drove you crazy.

“P-please, please, Kuni,” your words quivered like your body, bending easily to the pleasure he was so kindly bestowing you. It had to have been the hundredth small cry for relief tumbling from your throat, you were on the precipice of your climax. “I-I need it. Something, anything… fuck me.”

“You better not cum on my fingers,” the puppet orders, gathering your slick and gently inserting two fingers into your warm walls. You whined in frustrated pleasure as he stretched you slightly, pumping his digits in and out of you barely an inch but keeping you stuffed.

“I c-can’t, I’m…” you babble. Kuni knew you were on the brink already, but he wanted to at least try to prepare you for his cock. He suddenly pulls his fingers out, and with it escapes your climax. Tears were almost pricking your eyes. You could definitely feel them beneath the surface.

He slaps your pussy again as punishment for not listening to his commands. “Greedy sluts are not rewarded.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you mumble and he grunts, pushing you off of him and to your knees in front of the bed. Kuni makes quick work of his clothes, tossing his shirt aside and pulling his pants down enough to spring his throbbing cock free. You had certainly felt his hard length while you were in his lap, but seeing it rendered you speechless.

No different from the rest of the puppet’s beautiful body, Kuni’s cock was perfect. A few veins wrapped around his hard member, bulging under the flesh. Towards the tip, it was gradually flushed pink with hot need, a pearl of precum on his slit. You took him in your hand, butterflies swarming your stomach with the realization that he had more girth than you expected.

Kuni grabbed a fistful of your hair and shoved your face toward his cock with a simple demand. “Suck.”

You experimentally drag your tongue underneath his cock, licking your lips, and working your mouth on his tip to lubricate him first. Kuni’s eyes roll in the back of his head, resting one hand behind him on the bed as he moans deeply. “Fuck, (Y/N)…”

The sensation of you smiling with his cock in your mouth sent warmth through him. You eagerly fit more of him in your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue just the way he likes it when you received praise. Yet, Kuni needed more.

“You can do better than that,” he scoffed.

His grip on your hair tightened, pushing your throat completely down on his cock just to feel it once. The puppet twitched in your throat, letting out a seductive growl of pleasure. You gagged slightly, before pulling back with a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. You coughed a little, but he cupped your chin and wiped it from your mouth sweetly.

“That’s my girl,” Kuni coos, guiding you up on the bed next to him and pushing you down onto your back. As much as he’d love to see you taking him in your mouth all evening, he had a prize more tantalizing waiting for him. Clothes on the floor, moonlight pouring over you both, the puppet vowed to never forget how you mewled as he dragged the pulsing tip of his cock along your wet folds.

Gasping, you achingly bucked your hips in tandem, utterly drunk on the delicious sensation of his thick length parting your pussy lips. You loved to be teased, that much was for sure and Kuni ate it up—the desperate crinkle of your brow in pleasure and how your breath became short.

He presses his tip at your warm hole, but never pushes it in.

You groan dramatically, sweat already forming on your forehead and you haven’t even began. Every bit of pressure he applies has you smitten, imagining the moment he finally fills you. “K-Kuni…”

The smug puppet smirks down at you knowingly, grinding his cock against you repeatedly, rubbing your clit just right. “Yes, my little songbird? Have something to say?”

Before you can speak, he kisses you to muffle your answer. You grow even more impatient, using your legs to keep his hips locked close to yours. Kuni peppers your jawline and neck with kisses and little playful licks of his tongue. “I’m listening.”

“Please,” you beg.

Kuni’s tone is unreadable. “Please what? Use your words.”

You give him a flustered look of desperation and he pins your hands on either side of your head, interlacing your fingers with his. You reply, biting your lower lip, “Fuck m-me, Kuni.”

A smile graces his face and his eyes soften, thumbs caressing your hand comfortingly to brace you for his length. “Is this… your first time, (Y/N)?”

Though you were a shy and kindhearted person, he should’ve known from the way you deepthroated his cock earlier that it wasn’t your first. He wasn’t your first. That means someone else was. Someone else defiled you.

Kuni’s electric purple eyes darkened like an impending storm as you shook your head.

“Indulge me,” the puppet asks. “What other men have been in my position?”

You are not in the right state of mind, still insatiably yearning for your climax and grinding your wet folds on his length. However, Kuni doesn’t accept your nonsensical mumblings and half-answers. His hands tighten around yours, pushing his cock into you with a guttural moan inch by inch until he bottoms out completely.

“Oh my fucking god,” you sputter out, sighing in sweet relief and a bit of pain. Your pussy is filled to the brim with his cock, stretching you out good. You try to turn your head away and close your eyes, but Kuni refuses to let you.

“That’s right,” Kuni’s voice is nothing short of alluring in the most raw way possible. “Treat me like your god and fucking look at me while you take my cock.”

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t also utterly euphoric as he sinks his large member into your tight walls. Gritting his teeth, he’s taken aback by how you squeeze him unknowingly, even your subconscious is unable to deny the pleasure he’s giving you. It took you a few seconds to adjust to his girth, your eyes drifting down his muscular chest and toned abdomen in admiration.

With the first drag of his cock out of you to his tip, hushed hum of pleasures are murmured by each of you, until he buries himself all the way back into you. Kuni continues in this rhythm with a few thrusts, unable to his stifle his own moans. He was no better, his climax already building within.

Pulling back, the puppet releases your hands to push your legs against your chest by your thighs to get just the right angle and perfect view of your folds. He hovers above you, fucking just his hot bulbous tip into your needy hole. In mere seconds, you cursed to yourself at how good it felt when he brushed against your sensitive entrance.

Your clit pulsated for attention. How could he not press his palm onto your pelvis and drag his thumb across the slightly swollen bud? His half-thrusts became shakier as you unexpectedly tightened around his cock—moans freely and loudly erupting from your throat. The feeling was beyond exhilarating and convinced him to push you to your limits.

“You think I’m going to let any other man put his hands on you like this?” Kuni sneers with jealous envy reflecting in his irises. “I’ll fucking snap his neck. I’d kill him.”

Impulsively, the obsessed puppet roughly plunges his entire cock into your soft pussy. He relishes in your loud moan of shock at the pleasure and slight discomfort in splitting you wide open. His cock pushes against that wonderful spot deep inside you, incredibly sensitive after all his torturous teasing. You were seeing more than stars.

“I bet they couldn’t fuck you like I can,” he scoffs, possessively pulling your closer by your legs and holding your ankles on his shoulders as he fucks you mercilessly. “Make you scream like I can. And—nghh—breed you.”

You were finer than a work of art, truly, in all your fucked-out glory as you chase your high on his thick cock. His thumb flitting over your clit messily, primal groans of bliss echoing throughout the bedroom at every divine flutter of your pussy milking his cock so well. Your words were simply unintelligible, mumbling breathy prayers wishing for his seed.

“No one can take you away from me,” Kuni himself is beginning to tremble with pleasure, but nevertheless he keeps up his brutal pace. Every crevice of your walls and your womb will know his essence. “You’re mine, and I’ll burn the whole damn world for you if that’s what it takes.”

In a rush of jealous envy at the mere thought of losing you, the puppet abruptly pushes your legs back onto your beautiful breasts by his chest. The erotic melody of your fluids coating the base of his cock and v-line with every sloppy thrust pushes you both over the edge of an impossible free fall of euphoria.

“Cum on me, (Y/N). C’mon, cum all over my fucking cock,” Kuni demands with salacious desperation, pounding into you again and again until you’ve ridden out every second of your climax. The sensation is indescribable as he swears he could feel your rapid heartbeat through your walls—your heartbeat in his hands like he’s the supreme god of your body.

And as such, he blesses you with ropes of hot cum to drown your pussy in his everlasting love. Kuni collapses and cradles you, wiping the tears of pleasure from your sweet, angelic cheeks.

Righteousness means nothing to gods, for whom salvation is too late and sin knows no price.

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist

#IDK WHERE 4.5K CAME FROM I JUST REALLY LIKE SCARA OKAY😩💜 #[opulent dreams].✿ #[dreams of delusion].✿ #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin fatui #genshin scaramouche #genshin kunikuzushi #genshin wanderer #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche smut

[gretavanlace]

Sugar II (part 8)

Jake Kizska x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: adult content, language, brief illusions to sex, angst, jealousy, etc.

Only two chapters to go and an epilogue, everyone. I’m so grateful that you have taken this little journey with me. Thank you so much for all your kind words, support, and care. You’re all so wonderful ❤️

“Oh my god, Jake,” your eyes are darting around the room like a mouse with a rabid alley cat slinking, famished and cruel, into its path.

Your unease trumps his delighted gloating instantly, “What do you want me to do, sugar? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

When you steal a glance at the window, longing to climb out and disappear, he hops on the train of your thought process right away, “You want me to duck out?”

You know Jake through and through, and staring into his eyes as your heart drums paranoid vibrations into your rib cage, you’re stunned to watch him offer to give up this chance to square off with whom he has come to see as his most bitter rival. That he would do that for you? That all you would have to do is ask and he would crawl out and wander off into the golden afternoon sunshine like an afterthought…

You really do own his whole heart, you realize at the most inopportune of moments. Your grip on his soul is just as tight as his fingers have always clawed down inside yours…fierce and beautiful in their unrelenting grip.

But haven’t you always known? Hasn’t it always been written across his skin? Etched in his gaze? Sculpted into the bow of his lips when he whispers your name? Evident in his touch?

“No,” you shake your head, willing the mess inside of it to go away, rejecting the thought of him leaving. You want him near, you need him near. To let him go right now, even for a second, seems an agonizing punishment that you cannot bear to suffer. No matter the consequences.

“Stay. But please…” you rush over to him, helping him to his feet while stealing glances at the doorway, “Please just behave and follow my lead, okay? Please?”

”Normally, I like it when you use your manners,” he sighs, smoothing out his clothes, as well as a lock of your hair that has fluttered out of place, “But that’s too many pleases and you look petrified. Why?” His voice is suddenly intense yet careful, as is his grip on your arm, “Does he hurt you?”

They idea is entirely laughable, but there’s no time for that, so you brush him off with a swipe of your hand and a flippant, “Don’t be stupid, Jake.”

Without allowing yourself to think it through, you begin ushering him down the hall towards the front room, but what will you find there? Doom or salvation?

How will these pieces fall together? Something solid and heavy in your heart tells you Jake will do as you have asked and play nice, but another facet buried even deeper inside is rocked with anxiety and screaming that it’s only wishful thinking to believe such a fairytale.

”Hey hon,” jovially rings out as he steps in through the garage, “I saw your car! We’re both home early? Looks like the universe knew how much I missed you!”

Jake turns to catch your eye as you shove him along, but you refuse to meet his gaze. You're unsure of what you’ll find there and this isn’t the time for uncertainties.

Would you find sadness threatening to roll hot tears down his cheeks? Anger threatening to boil over in his fiery chocolate irises? Accusation and resentment for what you’re about to subject him to?

Oh god, you can’t do this! Suddenly, and absurdly, you wish you could fade into the gentle, lush, green paint that you had once rolled upon the hallway walls, paying meticulous attention to detail. Build this home, had been the plan…bury him away under paint and sanded cabinets. Art perched on the walls and throw pillows piled on the bed.

You’d love to disappear and leave them perplexed and confused, wondering what became of you. To vanish into nothing like a dust mote blown away upon the lightest, softest breeze.

You’re a coward.

While your thoughts are busy with that, Jake’s are grappling with each other. Tangled up and struggling. He’d very much like to stomp into the front room and shut this man up. With his booming voice calling out how much he’s missed you like he has some claim over you. Like you’re his. Like he doesn’t understand that you could never really be anyone’s because you’re much too good for this whole goddamn world. That you’re precious, like the rarest of stones and anyone who is lucky enough to hold you in their palm should fall on their knees in thanks.

He sounds so fucking common. Does he think you’re common as well? Jake can’t stomach the thought.

So, yes, he’d like to stroll into the room, casual as you please, and announce that he is taking you away from this ridiculous illusion where you play house and pretend to be satisfied. He longs to tell him how he’s made love to you, how he’s fucked you. How you’ve begged for him and swore no one could ever be him. Jake wants to tell him that the ring he put on your finger has been in his mouth, that he spat it out and you didn’t even care. That you hardly even noticed. Jake would almost kill to watch Mr. Wonderful’s face crumple in defeat and loss…

But he loves you far too much, and to say all those things would hurt you, too.

Scar your heart he will not.

He’s shrugging off his suit blazer when you both appear. It’s a mundane action, one that repeats itself nearly every evening, but you stand still and shellshocked, unable to jolt yourself into some semblance of normalcy until Jake subtly nudges you with a ginger elbow.

“Hi,” you begin, a touch too loudly, “Yeah, you’re early! I actually didn’t end up going to work today. Old friend in town. We went to the movies. And then we came here. He wanted to see the house. I…I told him about it. I was just giving him the tour.”

You sound robotic and ridiculous, but he doesn’t appear to notice. Rather, he looks delighted when his eyes land on Jake and recognition settles in.

”Ah, I know you!” He laughs, marching forward with an outstretched hand. “The almost brother in law. Good to finally meet you.”

His grasp on Jake’s hand is strong and sure as he pumps it up and down. The genuine gladness in his gesture makes you want to tear your own hair out in penance.

Or is it the ‘almost brother in law’ moniker that has made you nauseous?

Yes, that’s what you boiled Jacob down to. You had held nothing back about your relationship with Josh…but Jake? You just couldn’t. To speak of him, to share him that way…it had seemed incomprehensible. And how could you ever put it into words, anyway? How could anyone ever understand what he was to you? What he is to you? No, it had seemed best to keep him locked away, silent and safe in your memories. Tucked away in your heart. The boy in the bubble.

Jake’s face is unreadable as he sizes up this opponent before him. This rival who has just unknowingly stepped into the ring. This blissfully unaware adversary. He is a doe who has wandered idly into the path of a dangerously ravenous mountain lion, and he doesn’t even know it. Ignorance really does seem like bliss in this moment, and you long for it.

“Yes, the almost brother in law,” his tone is slightly clipped, but no one, aside from you - and perhaps his brothers - would ever notice. “That’s me. And you are?”

Here we go. He’s going to love this.

They drop hands and a friendly clap lands on Jake’s shoulder. “I’m Jake, too. What are the odds?”

A sharp, satisfied laugh bursts out of Jake, head tipped back, adam’s apple bobbing gleefully, and you long to tell the smug bastard to just shut the hell up, but it’s over quickly enough.

”Yes,” he sighs, with a shake of his head that ends in his eyes blazing holes into your soul, “What are the odds?”

”’Course this one over here calls me by my middle name, James. Says it fits me. No one else does, though, so choice is yours. Man, it’s so great to finally meet you.” He’s prattling on now, never having met a stranger, “You know we’ve got all your work over there in the case. You’re a hell of a guitar player. I tried to learn in high school, mostly to impress girls…never could get it. Anyway…”

Jake is eyeing him like he doesn’t know what to make of this man standing there, cordial and warm, tossing out compliments and bids for conversation.

His eyes are traveling over this unfamiliar being, now so tangible and real, who has had his hands all over you. Who has had his mouth pressed to your precious body, who has whispered against your skin, who has made love to you in the still of the night, and held you, and rested beside you, breathing in tandem. Who has gotten down on one knee and asked you to be his wife.

And you said yes...you said yes.

He wants to hurt him. Both physically and emotionally. He wants to level him. To crush him into nothing. And though this Jake, James, or whatever his name is, isn’t to blame, he wants it all the same. He wishes he could lure him into his palm like a revolting insect and squeeze until he was no more than something vile to be wiped away with a Kleenex.

Instead, he tilts his head in the direction of the vinyls and shrugs off the accolades, “Fuckin’ Zeppelin cover band.”

James laughs uproariously and gestures into the room welcomingly, “Why are we all standing around like this? Have a seat…please. Make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink? Water? A beer? Whiskey? I know it’s early, but special occasions call for special circumstances, I always say.”

Eyes on you, he shrugs out a response that would be lost on anybody but you, “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Once you’re alone for a moment, he shakes his head with a gorgeous, if not self-satisfied, smirk sparking to life upon his face. “His name is Jake? Oh, sugar…” he’s laughing softly now, and sinking down into the cushions of the couch, “creature of habit, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

”Shut up!” You hiss, eyes flickering towards the kitchen doorway, “Coincidence. That’s all. Don’t be so fucking full of yourself. Now, please just be nice.”

He quiets down, drawing the back of his forefinger beneath his eye dramatically as if he has laughed himself to tears, “I’m being very nice and you know it. Don’t push it.”

You sit, as far away from him as the couch will allow, but instantly he’s leaned in close. “What do you think he would do if I got down on my knees right here and buried my face in that gorgeous little cunt of yours? Showed him how it’s really done.”

”Jacob!” You barely make a sound as you admonish him with a clipped shove to settle him.

He slinks back into his seat with another laughing shake of his head, “This is perfect.”

”I hate you.” You lie.

”Sure you do, sugar,” he winks, crossing his legs to get comfy, “Sure you do. Almost brother in law, huh? Is that what I’ve been reduced to?”

He’s still chuckling quietly to himself while a strange mix of panic and tears begins to churn around inside of you like a slow moving summer storm. He’s gearing up, you can feel it, and the thought of it all is too much, your metaphorical knees are beginning to shake. This could end so, so badly.

“Later, Jake…” you’re beseeching without shame, pleading with your watery gaze. “We’ll talk about it later. Please just stop.”

His palm cradles your cheek so softly you wonder if anyone has ever touched someone as gently as he touches you, “Settle down, baby. I won’t make trouble for you.”

How laughable that he can’t seem to recognize that you’ve brought this trouble on all by yourself. No help needed.

He has moved to create a respectable distance between the two of you by the time James is sweeping back into the room bearing a tray flush with drinks and snacks.

”Here, sweetie,” he drops a kiss upon the top of your head, presenting a glass. “Made you a mimosa…I know you like to keep it light through the week.”

You somehow manage a thank you and sip at the sweet, bubbly mix, praying it calms your frayed nerves.

”For us,” he extends the tray and you watch as Jake plucks a low ball glass from it, “bourbon. Unless you’d rather browse the bar. Plenty to choose from.”

”Bourbon is fantastic,” Jake nips at his glass. “Thank you.”

There is a palpable disdain hovering around Jake like a murky aura, but there is heartbreak there too. Aching and black. Heavy and weighing down the light that normally follows him around like a strange shadow…and you’d give anything to take it away.

For just a breath, you intend to do just that. To rise to your feet and stomp all over James’ open, trusting heart. To tell him the truth. To tell him you’re leaving. You nearly take Jake by the hand and drag him towards the door and leave everything else behind without explanation…simply to end his suffering.

Your lips nearly part to say the words when you’re cut off.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” James leans forward in his chair and grabs for your hand, absently running his thumb against your own, “Erin called. She said you guys had a great time the other day, said you’d planned something for this weekend? Wedding planning?”

Erin. His sister. You’ve grown close but it wouldn’t hurt to leave her behind. It wouldn’t even sting…not for Jake.

You squeeze his hand with a tiny smile and fight rolling nausea at the mere mention of the wedding in Jake’s presence. From the corner of your eye, you watch him tense, but he recovers quickly and drains his glass to the dredges in one pull.

”Well,” suddenly, he’s on his feet. “I’ve taken enough of your time today. It was good to see you.” His eyes are unreadable and shift quickly away from your own. “James, good to meet you and thank you for the hospitality.”

”Don’t run off on my account,” James is on his feet now as well, “We’d love to have you stay for dinner. I make a mean chicken Kiev, and…”

”No,” Jake interrupts, gaze jumping towards the door as if he can’t get away fast enough. “I’ve got a flight to catch in just a few hours, need to head back…you know how it goes.”

He sounds ineloquent and so unlike himself… and you can feel it - his heartbreak - in your bones as though you’ve crawled inside his body and curled up beside it like a clinging lover.

“Jake,” you can’t seem to move from your seat, your body uncooperative and rebellious, “Your car is still at the theater, let me drive you…”

”Drive me?” He is staring at you, white hot and desperate…the mask is finally slipping. He has played pretend all he can for the day. “And then what?”

”And then…” again, you are a coward. A fucking coward. “I don’t know. What do you mean, and then?”

The room is silent for a beat - with words unspoken crashing into the space between yourself and Jake, and James struggling to understand this strange exchange.

With the slightest nod of his head, Jacob silently encourages you. Urges you. Come with me, sugar…it seems to say, come home.

But still you sit, frozen and paralyzed. A horrified doe staring down the hunter’s muzzle.

Another nod, clipped and more obvious this time, responds to your inaction. “I’ll walk. Again, thank you for having me.”

The door closes behind him in a blink, and he is gone. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve imagined him completely…

Looking down at your shaking hands in your lap, you realize you never even made it to your feet. You sat, unmoving, and watched him go.

~

Hours later, you’re standing outside an unfamiliar door, anxiously clutching at the straps of the bag tossed over your shoulder.

And when that unfamiliar door swings open, your heart unclenches, for there he stands. Showered, smelling of soap and warmth, hair curled into dampened, loose ringlets, beat to hell jeans riding low on his hips.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “If it isn’t Mrs. Wonderful…”

“Hi,” it comes out meek and small, but flush full of the comfort that is being near him.

”How’d you find me?” His arms cross loosely, with a faded smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

”Were you hiding?” Why hasn’t he turned to lead you in?

”From you, pretty girl?” He scoffs as if the very idea is preposterous. “Never.”

Yet, on he stands as though barring your entrance…as though he intends to send you on your way any moment.

”I called Josh,” you offer, wringing at your bag’s handles idly, simply for something to do with your hands. “He told me where you were staying.” Your gaze skitters over the house. “It’s nice. Cozy.”

He nods, “Airbnb. You mentioned something about us always being in hotels, before. I thought, if there was a chance I’d be hosting you, you might like something a little more…domestic. Though, I see now that you have plenty of that going for you already, right? Domesticity?”

“Do I deserve that?”

His shoulders hunch inwardly slightly, he knows you’re right, and he knows he’s being a bit of an asshole as well. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

”Are you going to invite me in? I feel a little stupid standing out here.” Vulnerability seems of such insignificance when it is Jacob in question. He knows your bare soul so well anyway.

Still, he allows you to dangle on his string, twisting languidly in the soft, evening breeze. “Why’d you call Josh to find me? Why not just call me? Missing my better half now that you’ve had a bit of fun with me?”

Now there’s a slight irritation traipsing along your nerves, and damned if you’re going to mask it. “Alright, either let me in or tell me to go to hell. I’m not going to beg for your good graces.”

”Are you coming in to stay? Or are you here to say goodbye? Because my heart has had enough for one day.”

”Oh, fuck off, Jacob.” You huff, pushing past him into the house. You slump your bag off your shoulder and onto the floor and then turn on him. “Sorry to have interrupted your pity party, but what did you think was going to happen today? Did you think it was going to be spectacular and wonderful to walk around in the life that I live with someone else? You practically fucked me in the bedroom I share with him. You lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree when you realized he was home. You wanted this, and you know what I think your problem is? I think you liked him.”

”Fuck you!” He slams the door closed and looks you over like you’ve lost your mind entirely. “You think I liked him? I couldn’t give a fuck less about him. He made my skin crawl. Do you know what it was like for me to watch him touch you? The way he looked at you…”

He falls silent and suddenly refuses to meet your eyes, and your heart breaks right alongside his.

Tentatively, you reach out and rest your palm against his cheek, “The way he looked at me doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It never really has.”

His hand floats up to meet yours, “He looked at you with so much love. Like he would give you the entire world. It made me feel not good enough. It made me feel like I should leave and let it be. Like I was wrong for showing up and rattling your whole life around.”

You’re backing him up against the door now, his gorgeous, stricken face held fast in your sure and gentle hands. “Not good enough? You? Oh, Jakey…” you pet at his face worshipfully, “We have a garden, remember? And you help me harvest, and I know you feed me those tiny tomatoes I like. You know? The little yellow ones? And they’re all gone before we even get inside.”

He’s nodding along as you pepper kisses upon his cheeks and forehead.

“And we have a porch swing, and a piano, and beautiful babies, and a cat…and you sing to us, and love us hard every single minute of every single day. And you make us so, so happy. And I wake up every morning with a smile on my face because I packed this stupid bag,” your foot darts out and kicks it, “and shoved my way inside when you refused to invite me in.”

”Don't say things you don’t mean, sugar…” his hands are in your hair now, guiding your mouth to his own so that he can lick inside it. He needs to taste you - needs to feel the silken velvet of your tongue, “I can’t take it, baby.”

You’re breathing each other's breath, lips like feathers dancing together soft and sweet, holding on to one another as if you might both just vanish into nothing in an instant, “I mean it, Jake…” you promise, “I mean it. You are everything,”

You can almost hear the pounding of his heart as the heat of his need begins to radiate and warm you, “Because I can’t stand the thought of leaving, of thinking you’ll follow, only for you to change your mind. It would kill me, sugar. So, please don’t say these things to me if you—“

You silence him with a deep, feverish kiss and then break away, forehead to forehead, “I’m not following later. I’m coming with you. This is where I am now…with you.”

Tears well in his eyes and spill over, hot and saline, as you lick and kiss them away. “I love you, pretty girl…” it chokes out of him, rasping as he swallows thickly, “I love you so fucking much. I’ve imagined this moment in so many different ways, but it was never as perfect as this. Tell me you know how much I love you.”

”I know, and I—“ it is he who interrupts with a desperate kiss this time.

And you know that later he will ask, and when he asks you will tell him what was said back at that house that broke his heart in two - how you ended things with the one who really never mattered at all…

…but for now all that matters is the taste of him on your lips. His air-drying hair looped through your searching fingers. Your hearts and lungs syncing, with his tears like brackish diamonds in your stomach because you have finally swallowed his sorrow and unburdened him from it.

He seems lighter in your arms already…closer now to the sun than he had ever been to the moon before.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie @hugorobinson @jaketlove @josh-iamyour-mama

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[corruptedcaps]

The Mean Manual

“64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69…. Done!” Charlotte groaned as she finished her 10th straight day of her bust exercises. She stretched out her remarkably flexible body and looked lovingly at her big tits. She almost couldn’t believe that two weeks ago she had the body of a flabby no chested geek but that was before she found, the book.

Back then she was know as Charlie, a girl so anonymous you could ask her classmates what she was like and they would reply with, “Who?”

Charlie wasn’t noticeable enough to be bullied, didn’t stand out enough to be noticed, a quiet solitude she had grown to accept. She would spend her free time in the school library, reading her fantasy and sci-fi books away from the crowds.

However that changed when she found, hidden behind several books in the reference section, the ‘Mean Manual’. Its cover was a bright pink that almost glowed amongst the drab covers it surrounded that made it hard for Charlie to ignore.

Pulling it out she blew away the dust that had accumulated over years maybe even decades of neglect. Charlie opened the tome and curiously flipped through its pages. It seemed to be some sort of guide to becoming the ‘Queen of Mean’.

Charlie chuckled to herself as she skimmed its pages, realizing it had to be some sort of parody book. How could it not be with chapters like ‘Spreading lies to get your way’ and ‘The 10 ways to steal a man’. It was laughable to her that anyone would take the instructions as gospel.

Amused by it, she decided to take it home and read some more. It was there that she came across the chapter on ‘beauty exercises’. There was sections on toning your stomach, getting the perfect tan, how to make your body more supple, but what weirdly interested Charlie was the section on breast growth.

As the other girls in school had all hit puberty and grew reasonable and sometimes outrageously sized tits, Charlie had lagged behind, growing no more than an ‘A’ cup. It wasn’t something Charlie ever cared about, most people didn’t notice her anyway, and yet she found herself reading the instructions on how to increase her boob size intently.

“I’ll give it a try, just as a joke of course.” She said to herself with a half hearted laugh as she readied her body. The excercise involved getting on her knees and pushing out her chest 69 times, which seemed intuitive enough if a little juvenile but what was odd was she had to moan each time she did it. She felt a little silly as she began.

However with thrust of her chest her moans got a little louder, a little more genuine. It felt good sticking out her chest again and again, it felt as though her whole body was getting a workout. She couldn’t help imagine how good it would be to have the perfect tight body with perfect round tits, she found herself getting wet with each shove of her chest. She went into a near trance as she went on and before she knew it she hit 69 thrusts.

She panted in pleasurable exhaustion as she shakily got back to her feet, feeling warm and wet between her legs. She stumbled over to the mirror and gasped loudly at the sight. Her meagre breasts were gone, replaced with impressively big tits.

“No freaking way!” She said as she turned each way to make sure it wasn’t some mirror illusion but there was no denying it, her boobs were bigger.

She eyed the book out of the corner of her eye, maybe it wasn’t a joke after all, she thought. She looked at her reflection and couldn’t help wonder what she would look like with the long nails, the silky hair, the smooth skin and everything else it purported to be able to give her. She had to know.

An hour and several exercises later, Charlie was looking at a practically different woman in the mirror. Her body wouldn’t have looked out of place on a runaway, there wasn’t an ounce of imperfection anywhere now. She could bend and flex in ways that would make the Hailey the head cheerleader jealous.

A smile started to cross her lips as the idea of making a bitch like Hailey green with envy suddenly made her horny. He mind went to wicked places as she thought about doing more than making her jealous.

She imagined strutting in to school the next day, in a tight shirt outfit, all eyes on her but she would be focused on only one set of eyes. Chad, Hailey’s boyfriend, was a big block headed idiot but did anything Hailey asked. If she could seduce him, she’d have the school in the palm of her hand.

“When I seduce him.” She corrected herself with a smirk, after all no one would be able to resist her looking the way she did now. She’d take Hailey’s friends, her cheerleading position, her power. It would be so easy and fun.

She started to move her fingers down her body towards her increasingly wet pussy when she stopped herself. Something didn’t feel right, why was she thinking such cruel and nasty things?

As if to answer her, a sudden gust of wind started to flicker the pages of the book back to the opening, where ‘Queen of Mean’ was emblazoned in large letters. Charlie drank in the word ‘Queen’ again and again. It seemed to almost put her in a trance as she put her hand into her panties.

As soon as her hand made contact with her soaking wet pussy a sinister grin came across her face.

“Ohhhh fuck yes!!! More, more! I want to be a fucking bitch called Charlotte not some loser nobody called Charlie. Make me a toxic slut, make me a wicked whore, make me the Queen of Mean!” She moaned loudly as she pumped her pussy again and again, her nerdy persona getting weaker each time she did.

The book began to glow bright pink as she continued and Charlotte had an innate knowledge of what it was doing.

“Yesss take my pathetic soul, make me evil and bitchy, I’ll be hot, corrupt and unstoppable!” She moaned thrusting her chest out as if it was being pulled up. She watched in malicious joy as her soul was ripped from her body and sucked into the book. She felt free of morals and doubts as she began to cum harder and longer than ever before.

As the book slammed shut, a surge of dark energy enveloped her newfound form. Her eyes glowed for a moment a deep crimson before settling back into a cold icy blue. A wicked smile curled on her lips as the transformation completed. She reveled in the intoxicating power coursing through her veins, ready to unleash chaos upon the unsuspecting world.

“Bye bye Charlie you fucking dork nobody. No one will miss you and even remember you when I walk into school tomorrow. It’s going to feel so hawt and nasty taking everything Hailey has, in fact why wait until tomorrow.” She said to herself as she picked up her phone and snapped a sexy selfie of herself.

With an evil grin she started to text Chad: “Hey! I got your number from the school secretary. I’m, like, the new girl in school and she said you would be able to show me around and stuff? It would be totes amazing if we could do something tonight? I’m so alone xxx.” She wrote sending it along with her picture.

She smirked to herself as he quickly replied and made plans to meet up asap. Within the hour she was sucking his dick in the back of his sports car and cementing her hold on him. As soon as she had swallowed his load she dropped her cutesy bimbo act and became more demanding of him. He of course would do anything she asked now.

Now ten days later and Charlotte was the most feared and popular girl in school. Everyone knew her name now and there was no way she would ever fade into the background with her commanding presence and bitchy hot body.

She didn’t know if she needed to continue doing her stretches and exercises to maintain her evil sexiness but she did them all the same, enjoying the wave of pleasure each would give her. The book seemed to glow happily each time she did as well but she could sense it was growing hungry for more. It had opened one day on a page marked “Beta Bitches”, giving Charlotte the guidance and knowledge with what to do next.

“Hello girls, welcome to tryouts to be my new friends.” She announced to a group of nerdy girls who had all been lured to Charlotte’s house under the pre-tense that Charlotte would stop bullying them if they did. And for some of them that would soon be true. “You are all pathetic losers right now, adrift, invisible. But after today some of you will be getting a new wonderful purpose; worshipping me. Now do as I do and try and keep up.” Charlotte said to a sea of bewildered faces as she began doing her stretches and one by one they each followed suit.

Charlotte’s book began to glow…

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #magic #evil bitch #corrupted book

[shebunie]

Could you do one where reader is a samurai kid of a ruff back story facial scars or back and ringo and mizu see them fighting also huge and buff as shit 🙄🙄

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝙈𝙞𝙯𝙪 𝙭 𝙎𝙖𝙢𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙞! 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝗵𝘂𝗿𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁, 𝗶𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗿𝘆, 𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘀, 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟭.𝟭𝗸 𝐀/𝐍: 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗺𝗲 𝗮 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲, 𝗜 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘂𝗽 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗮𝗿. 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗲𝘀

A woman, training to be a samurai? How laughable. You were of no use, no value even when offered to a brothel. Not when your skin is imperfect, flawed, or undesirable. You were a disgrace. And so you went anew. Walked a path that shaped the person of who you are now. 

You trained, with makeshift materials that mother earth provided. You had to make do with what you had. You trained again, with more precision and confidence in your steps. From the early cracks of dawn till the bed of night, you gave every drop of sweat, blood, and tears. 

But as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you discovered a resilience within yourself that you never knew existed. The makeshift training ground, surrounded by the echoes of your own doubts, became a sanctuary of self-discovery.

With each swing of the makeshift sword, you embraced imperfection as a testament to your strength. The scars on your skin became a map of your journey, a visual story of battles fought and resilience earned. You realized that perfection was an illusion, and true strength lay in embracing your flaws.

However, at some point in time, you’d give up, out of frustration, and anger. Why couldn’t the gods have given you another life, maybe spare you mercy and take you right now? 

I’m tired. Mind plagued with bitterness, sorrow, and demise. And scared.

“How long has it been like that?” Mizu questioned as she leaned by the entrance of the abandoned hut, eyes grazing over the scars littered on your body. Watching Ringo mend another fresh wound you obtained from a fight. From their fight. 

She watched you wince and hiss, how your broad shoulders would rise and fall from behind. “Long enough.” You knew what the woman was implying. Calloused fingers of your hand trace along the scar on your arm. A constant reminder of the past. 

Heart-shaped lips pursed together, hard in thought. Mizu called out to Ringo to leave you two alone when he finished patching up the wound. 

Hushed creeks of the wooden floor and the soft thud of the sandals enveloped the silent room as the dark-haired woman came close. Standing behind you, feeling her gaze at the back of your head. She voiced

“Why risk so much of your life for us, you very well know you can’t save everyone.”

With closed eyes, you steadied your breathing as the mind flowed. You’ve always been living in this way, with the weight of the world heavy on your shoulders. It is what you are been used to — trudging on in life, putting the needs of everyone else before your own. Not a single complaint, not a single time had you griped about the unfairness of it all. Such is life, anyway, is what you always tell yourself— your mantra which often draws you comfort from. But when it all starts to get too much to bear; the burden weighing down to the bones, you finally decide to allow yourself a tiny space to breathe, just for a moment. 

Your palpitations start to cease. A few seconds pass, and then a full minute, before you feel a weight settle beside you; you know, without a doubt, a slight turn of your head, you look over at the sword wielder. “I just, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”  

The night was heavy with the scent of impending danger, but in that moment, you found solace in the shared silence. The soft rustling of leaves and distant echoes of distant creatures became the backdrop to your quiet conversation. The sword wielder's eyes reflected the glint of moonlight as they met yours, and a hint of vulnerability lingered in their gaze.

You turn to face the dark-haired woman, and for the first time, vulnerability flickers in your eyes. The dim light casts shadows on the lines etched on your face, a testament to the battles fought and sacrifices made. You offer a weary smile, the kind that holds a lifetime of stories.

"I appreciate your concern if it was one." you scoffed your voice a gentle murmur that barely broke the silence. "But sometimes, we must risk everything for the chance to make a difference. It's not about saving everyone; it's about making the choice to stand against the darkness, even when the odds are stacked against us."

The room seems to hold its breath as you continue, your gaze fixed on some distant point, perhaps lost in memories or contemplating the uncertain future. "I've seen too much pain and loss. It's true, I can't save everyone, but if I can make a difference for even one person, it's worth it. We all have our battles to fight, and this is mine."

The dark-haired woman listens, her eyes reflecting a mix of admiration and worry. She understands the weight of responsibility, having seen the determination etched on your face during countless trials. Her fingers find solace in the hilt of the sword at her side, a silent acknowledgement of the shared burden.

"I get it, I do," she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "But what if your choices lead to your own undoing? What if the darkness consumes you, and there's no one left to carry on the fight."

Your eyes, tired and world-weary, met hers. The vulnerability in your gaze deepened, revealing the cracks in the armour you've worn for so long. "That's the risk we take," you replied, your voice now laced with raw honesty. "Sometimes, the line between saving others and losing ourselves blurs. But if we let the fear of that darkness paralyze us, then what hope is left?"

The fireflies danced in the distance, their fleeting glow a stark contrast to the gravity of the conversation. The sword wielder clenched her jaw, torn between understanding your noble cause and the gnawing fear that she might lose the one person who had become her anchor.

"I've lost too many people I cared about," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I can't bear the thought of losing you too."

For a moment, silence reigned supreme, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the night. You reached out, your hand finding hers in the darkness, a silent promise etched in that touch.

"We can't control every outcome," you said softly, your thumb tracing comforting circles on the back of her hand. "But we can choose how we face the inevitable. And as long as I can make a difference, I'll keep fighting. For you, for everyone."

The unsaid words lingered in the air, heavy with the unspoken truth that this journey, this fight against the encroaching darkness, might cost more than either of you were willing to admit. In that shared moment of vulnerability, the weight of the world pressed down, and the looming shadows seemed to grow darker.

#blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu brainrot #mizu x reader #mizu x you #bes #fanfic #fic #x reader #angst #im hurtin #poetic #sad thoughts #my wife mizu #give my girl a break #sobbing #screaming #screaming crying throwing up #ahhhhhh

[supercap2319]

Silas wasn't Stefan.He wasn't the goodie goodie vampire, who sacrificed everything, even his own happiness, for the sake of others. He didn't groom his hero hair to save lives. He wasn't a good man, nor did he have a heart of gold.

He was selfish, manipulative, and just a bit spoiled, but hey, could you really blame him? All these copycats running around, claiming to be better than him, when Silas, was pure and utterly perfection. Perhaps that's why Y/N Gilbert thought he could come into Silas' house and demand things of him. Otherwise, the witch-vampire would kill him. Such hubris that it was almost comical of what Silas did to the young man.

He didn't just do it to be mean, mind you, but to teach Y/N a lesson in humility and respect, something lost to this generation. Silas will admit Y/N was powerful. Perhaps even more powerful than Qetisyah or himself. Adding to the fact that he was half vampire made him all the more powerful. But power wasn't his problem. It was knowledge. His mental defensive were shit, so it was very easy, almost laughable at how Silas slipped into Y/N's head, and read him like a book. Literally.

In the center of a podium sat a large book that contained all of Y/N's desires and wants. Page after page, Silas read about Y/N and Stefan's vomit inducing love story. And while it was clear the Gilbert boy loved his shadow self, but it doesn't mean Silas didn't find hidden desires. He read deeper into the chasm of Y/N's head and found out that he desired to be fucked by Stefan's brother, Damon. To give Tyler Lockwood and Matt Donovan blow jobs in front of the football team. To be gangbanged by Klaus Mikaelson and his brothers.

It was all too delicious as Silas wrote in the book of his psyche. Two words that turned Y/N from a powerful hybrid to a cum slut.

Silas' slut.

Silas watched from his home with a smirk as he used his powers of illusions and telepathy to make Y/N live out his fantasies of being dominated by all the hot men in his life as he sat in the middle of town square, naked, and people watched Elena's little brother getting fucked by imaginary cocks until he came.

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #vampire diaries #the vampire diares #paul wesley #paul wesley x male reader #witch gilbert #Silas #Silas x males reader

[s1zar]

I rewatched Owl House.

First season is so average, like they make it by a notebook

Lilith get off the hook too easily

Fucking body swap plot is annoying in anything but Gravity Falls and Adventure Time

Willow and Amity reconciliation is too quick

Titan Trappers are exist only to exist

Who the fuck put this magic door in Titan’s skull and then put Collector Dish there

How did witches have information to tell legends about the Collector?

When Amity and Hunter are cut off from they Evil Pumping Stations they are lost all personality

Belos is boring as fuck. His only character trait is that he is evil, which is laughable for the show that tell us people are complex. That’s why he only will be referred as Evil Dude

Odalia is so stupidly evil that it’s impossible to take seriously

Lumity is not developed further than “Girlfriends” and the only reason why Lunter could be better is because it’s just easier to develop

Luz and Evil Dude’s parallel starts and ends with the fact that they are humans

Evil Dude is an idiot

Collector could be named Plot Device

Raine is very meh. They only personality is that they are hero

Evil Dude is said to be the strongest witch ever, but he almost looses to five teenagers

What was the point of standing against coven system if in the end we have a squad from a fucking RPG game. Character form plants, character for illusions, character for abominations, character for teleportation

Evil Dude have as much super powers as the plot need

Characters have zero reaction of learning they arch enemy story

Evil Dude looses all small glimpses of being an actual character and become villain of the week

Absence of chemistry between Hunter and Willow can cause physical pain

For the Future is one of the most useless things created by a human being

Caleb Wittebane appears for reasons and never affects anything, so he will referred as Fan-service Background

Collector is an insult to God

I hate Collector

“One character hears half of what other character says and is offended by it, only for the audience learn that other character didn’t actually mean what first character thought they mean” plot line is a violation of Geneva Conventions

Evil Dude spending 98% percent of his screen time in finale as giant roaring green blob is a final shot from a shotgun in a head of his characterisation

Luz is Chosen One now. Message of the show is annihilated by Atomic Bomb

Titan is an asshole who assaulted a child because there was no one else to assault

There two villains. One looks like a child, have sparkles in his eyes, and flies and a star with happy face. Second is goopy skinny, rots in real time, have eyes in places that supposed to be without eyes, and he shrieks like an Alien. Who of the two is going to be redeemed?

The moment Evil Dude is dead Boiling Isles is an utopia. If you take this seriously, I don’t feel sad for you, I will laugh at you

Hunter becomes Caleb 2.0, and that’s why you dig up in the fact that you are a clone, my boy. You never know if your actions are actually yours

Evil Dude’s death better than Toffee’s only because this time main antagonist dies by the end of the series

The fact that Owl House doesn’t redeem it’s main antagonist like Steven Universe or have a better ending than SVTFOE is not an argument

Fuck Collector

I could write what I liked but it would be boring

#the owl house #toh critical #toh criticism #emperor belos #philip wittebane #luz noceda #willow park #gus porter #hunter toh #amity blight #raine whispers #papa titan #the collector #the collecter toh #collector should kill himself #caleb wittebane #Evil Dude

[ddarker-dreams]

being a cynic comes naturally to scaramouche.

if he had a heart, it'd undoubtedly be hardened by this point in his centuries-long existence. to be made callous is not so bad. it offers certain protections, acts as both a sword and a shield. he's never had reason to regret the towering walls erected around his soul, if anything, his only regret would be that he hadn't done it sooner. he saps the energy from the room upon entering. excited conversations die down into cautious whispers for those who are brave and silence for those who are smart.

he is feared, rightfully so.

it's a wonder, then, that he tames his unruly tongue in your presence.

certainly, he's still disagreeable. petulant, argumentative, always ready to give an opinion you never asked for. compared to how he treats everyone else who has the misfortune of knowing him, though, the difference is stark. for the longest time, scaramouche never dwelled on this out of self-preservation. the door to exploring the deeper reasons behind his behavior isn't locked, yet he acts like it is. he writes it off as begrudging intrigue for as long as he can.

yes, it's to satisfy some mild curiosity that he winds up in your area more often than not. allows himself to sustain wounds he could've easily avoided so that he may experience your healing touch. why he falsely claims he's still recovering so that he might sleep beneath your roof another night. this is a passing fancy that'll lose its glow as every star is fated to. maybe he'll even revel in the reveal that he isn't who he's presented himself to be — you've been granting sanctuary to a harbinger, sharing silly childhood anecdotes with a being who delights in cruelty.

he entertains the thought, finds amusement in it. he'll part his lips, ready to unleash vitriol that'd shatter the illusion he's meticulously maintained, then you'll smile. or laugh. or maybe make a joke that's perhaps the tiniest bit clever. then he'll forget himself, the monster which lives beneath his unblemished skin. he'll lose his appetite for sadism. what you offer tastes far superior, and just when he thought he was averse to sweet flavors, you challenge the notion.

you'd look cute with glassy eyes, a trembling lower lip, and upturned eyebrows. but you almost look like you were the one destined for divinity when your countenance is beaming, enthusiasm carved into every crevice.

it irritates him to no end. if you happen across a pretty flower, you can either pluck it and delight in its beauty until it wilts, or leave it to bloom in peace. why is he opting for the latter? preserving this mirage is more trouble than it's worth. he has to go days without you — weeks even, when dispatched into the abyss — he should just secure you in a fatui stronghold and be done with it. perhaps your petals would wither away, but it's no matter, he'd see to it that you'd blossom again in time.

and still, he leaves you where your roots are spread. it's unlike him. this benevolence, this consideration.

when it comes time to leave, he'll often mull over these thoughts. this could be the time he takes you back. the difference in your strength is laughable, he'd barely need to exert any effort. while he weighs his options on an internal scale, you'll amble over, giving him homemade snacks for the road and a hug. your warmth envelops and washes over him, softer than the first rays of sunlight come dawn. as always, he falters. next time, he'll think. next time for certain. there's no more convincing liar than oneself.

the world made him cynical, but for as long as he can, he wants to prevent it from doing the same to you.

#i really like the thought of a reader far removed from society just vibing who happens upon mr mouche #and he's like well. this thing is cute. and mine now #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere scaramouche x reader #scaramouche brainrot #concepts

[astraltrickster]

I feel like we're dealing with a bit of a catch-22 here.

On the one hand, I don't want to be buying tumblr merch and premium options to REWARD the garbage decisions they're making right now, and I know enough about how upper management at tech companies operates to know that they WILL see an influx of money right now as basically saying either "ohhhh, so they LIKE these changes" - or, if they actually listen to the staff members fielding feedback, "ohhhh, so THREATENING to make the user experience worse gets us money!"

On top of which, I don't want to encourage an OVERLY friendly relationship between the company and its userbase. Tumblr may be...by FAR the best we've got at its scale, despite the fact that they literally seem to be trying to hide that fact where they're not threatening to change it outright, but they are still a company. They're still inclined to make shitty decisions and lose touch with the userbase in the interest of Company Bullshit.

On the other hand...if we DON'T try to get them to at least break even, we're going to lose the site eventually, and possibly have some REALLY heinous shit go down in its death throes. Definitely not today or tomorrow. Maybe not for many years; it's hobbled along on life support via changing hands for many years already. But it will happen. They can fake it for a significant time if there's enough demand, enough hope - tumblr's not the only one pulling it off - but a company CAN'T go on forever when it's hemorrhaging money. Money doesn't become a nonissue when it's not YOUR paycheck.

I'm sick of the illusion that the internet is an immaterial, intangible thing...except when we're criticizing mining and energy usage and basically implying it shouldn't EXIST. It's not just a fake thing that exists in our phones and computers and the LITERAL ATMOSPHERIC clouds. Servers cost money to buy or rent, even when the software running on them is a buggy mess. Staff and contractors cost money to pay, even when the skeleton crew your company has is laughably insufficient for the scope of its services - we want them to expand staff to respond to tickets and improve their moderation system faster, well, with what money?? You want these improvements made with whose man-hours?? I wholeheartedly agree with most of the userbase that this Twitter-knockoff layout and some of their other stupid ideas lately are a huge waste of the ones they're paying for, but that doesn't mean they can redirect 1,000 man-hours from an ill-advised project and magically get a 10,000 man-hour project done!

Consider the moderation system. It's bad! It's biased! We've proven this! It's also mostly automated. What are our potential solutions here?

Go back to fully manual: Puts real human people through a PTSD meat grinder. For this to be done even REMOTELY ethically demands hazard pay, short hours, and the best mental health care coverage money can buy. Where are these human moderators getting paid from, let alone if they're going to be paid fairly?

Modify the software: ...they're already trying; retraining a whole system is easier said than done, especially in the very likely event that posts that are taken down by report-brigading innocuous content are feeding BACK into the system as "This Is What A Bad Post Looks Like." I'd love it if they could do it better and faster - but again, with what money?

Train their OWN software from the ground up: Requires EXPERT software engineers to build the framework AND a large human moderation crew in the short term to hit that "good post"/"bad post" button all day; refer to the problems with fully manual moderation. No one is quite sure how to bulletproof a moderation system against report-brigading in a way that won't ALSO deprioritize reports against content so heinous that everyone who sees it reports it. Once again - where is the money for all this labor coming from?

Every option is human labor that must be paid for. Every single possibility.

Anything else that needs doing? Fixing search? Human labor - money. Improving the bot filters to ban more bots and fewer real people? Humans have to do that - needs money!

So the money-seeking WILL continue until they're breaking even or better, or the site shuts down completely. Those are the two options. You cannot anti-capitalist Theory your way out of them. You can have your grand ideas for how things will work in a healthier, restructured economy, but that's not the point we're at. For now? Operating at a deficit = enshittification or shutdown. Those are the options. There is no third one. The level of hostility I see from some users against the very concept of tumblr BREAKING EVEN is absolutely absurd and completely detached from reality.

But what's the conclusion? Where do we go from here? Fuck, man, I have no fucking idea.

#tumblr wank

[howhow326]

You are still my beloathed.

But the way Nino is utilized in the show is laughable despite being a main character. Like, compared to Alya, who:

Got at least two focus episodes in season 1 (Lady Wifi, Pharaoh)

Got her parents introduced through cameos and her sisters got focus episodes in season 2

Didn't get anything in season 3, but Nino Didn't either lol

Got an actual character arc in season 4

Got to be replacement Ladybug in season 5

Nino gets:

A focus episode that's about his relationship with Adrien (Bubbler)

A focus episode about his relationship with Alya (Animan)

Another focus episode about his relationship with Alya (Anansi)

One of the worst episodes in the whole show (Rocketear) that is again about his relationship with Alya

Another awful episode (Illusion) that is not only about Nino's relationship with Gabriel of all people but establishes him as an idiot

5 seasons, eight years, and we know more about Zoe's home-life than a character who has been here since the beginning.

... I think boys getting dramatically less focus than girls is a running theme with this show (cough Adrien cough)

#ml salt #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug salt #ml writers salt #alya sugar #nino salt #adrien sugar #thomas astruc salt

[airas-story]

The Ice

Stephen stepped out onto the ice, slowly and carefully, listening for any warning creaks.

It felt solid beneath him—an illusion, always an illusion—and he kept moving, slowly but surely toward the middle of the lake.

He felt alone, isolated on this frozen lake, surrounded by trees whose leaves had fallen and were now covered in a layer of frost and snow.

His breath came out in gusts of white, too fast and too quickly, a sign that he was not as composed as he wanted to be.

For a moment the ice seemed to creak beneath him and the cloak fluttered, as though moments away from pulling Stephen away and to the safety of the lake’s bank.

“No,” he told them, quiet but firm. “I have to do this.”

The cloak went tight around his shoulders, a firm embrace to protect Stephen from the cold.

It was a failed attempt. The icy cold inside his chest was far worse than the cold of the wind that nipped at him.

The dream—nightmare—the past few nights haunted him. It had been brought on by a rip between their dimension and the nightmare realm. The rip had been repaired, but that didn’t make the dream any easier to bear, now that it had been stirred up again.

It was an old nightmare, one that he’d thought he’d left behind years ago, as age and time had scarred the rip in his heart.

He closed his eyes and he saw the nightmare again.

Stephen, Donna whispered, the sound as chilling as an arctic wind. Her face was pale and her lips blue from where they’d frozen. Her eyes were empty, so very, very empty. Why didn’t you save me?

He swallowed. I tried, he thought. I tried. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry it—I—wasn’t enough.

It was the first and greatest failure of his life. The first real one, the one that had lit the fire beneath him that had demanded excellence, perfection, that had demanded that he never fail again.

Because the first failure had almost killed him.

Now, now he’d failed so many, interminable times, that his old fears felt almost laughable. Almost.

Because this? This was something he’d never be able to laugh about.

He reached the middle of the lake, and for a moment he could see them spinning around him. It was him and Donna, playing tag on the ice. She’d been it and he’d been racing away from her. He could hear them echoing like ghosts in his ears. Laughing.

The memory was visceral. A part of him thought that if he reached out he could catch her as she raced past him, that he could pull her close and keep her safe.

But he couldn’t, the figures running past him were nothing more than memories, and the laughter he could hear echoing in his ears was nothing more than his heart’s own haunting.

He’d been laughing when the ice had cracked. Had been laughing when she’d fallen through the ice.

It had been years before he’d laughed again.

He knelt slowly, could feel the cold of the ice against his knees where it seeped through the fabric of his pants.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He was talking to a ghost, a phantom from years past who couldn’t hear him, would never hear him. “I miss you,” he added. Because it was true, because after all these years it had to be said, because after all this time he had to let her go.

For a moment he could imagine her in front of him, eyes warm and smile so real it ached. There was never anything to forgive, the haunting whispered. I love you.

Stephen held onto it as though it were real.

He wondered what sort of woman Donna would have become. She had always been so brave, so fearless. She had lived bright and vivaciously. She had loved so fiercely.

The world was a darker place than it could have been, without her in it.

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, trying to put to rest the grief, trying to let go of the nightmare.

Donna was gone.

Stephen remained.

A shiver ran down his spine. It took effort to move, to push himself back to his feet.

In the end, the cloak helped him make it to his feet. He let out a heavy breath, watching the cloud of white disperse into the air.

The sun was starting to go down, Stephen noted as he stared up at the sky. How long had he been out here? The cold seemed to have penetrated through to the deepest layers of him. The wind nipped at his skin, his lips chapped, his cheeks frozen.

He made the slow trek off of the ice, listening once again for the cracks of the ice beneath him. The ice creaked, a low moan. The cloak flared again as though to lift him to safety, but it was unnecessary. The ice held firm beneath him.

Still, the cloak seemed to be pushing for him to move more quickly. To make his way off the ice.

He stepped onto the bank, firm ground beneath him and the cloak seemed to slump in relief.

“It wasn’t that scary,” Stephen murmured to the cloak gently. “It’s just ice.”

It was more than that, it was so much more than that. Both he and the cloak knew it, but Stephen wouldn’t put it to words, and the cloak couldn’t.

He turned away from the ice and felt the nightmare haunting him fade. Perhaps not gone, perhaps never gone. But for a moment, there was peace.

#stephen strange #fic #donna strange #nightmares #kind of weird writing a non IronStrange #I'll be back on my IronStrange train soon

[gretavanlace]

Sugar II (part 6)

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, illusions to cheating, illusions to oral sex (f rec), language, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, phone sex, etc

Your phone is lying on your chest when it begins to vibrate. Pretend you weren’t waiting for it all you want, your self-deception is laughable even to you. But isn’t that what you’ve become? A miserable joke who spurns the truth with a smile on her face and untruths in her heart.

Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others, Dostoevsky once said. Wise and brilliant, he was. He also loved someone he shouldn’t have too deeply to let them go.

He is beside you, arm draped across your middle, forehead tucked against your shoulder…so placid and secure in his place next to your wandering mind. So blissfully unaware and peaceful as he dreams of things you don’t care enough to wonder about. But hasn’t he always been? Unaware, that is? He has lived in the dark, oblivious to the fact that he has never truly cradled your heart in his hands.

You are a wicked, black-souled creature, and no one knows that better than yourself. He doesn’t deserve this, and he never did.

Maybe you shouldn’t answer. Maybe. But you will, and you do.

Slipping out of bed like a phantom, you move through the house on silent toes, creeping along until you’re folded into the chair in the far corner of the living room.

“What took you so long?’ His voice drifts out, lazy and quiet, “Hiding from Mr. Wonderful again, are we?”

“You have to stop calling me like this.” You’re quiet, but not like him. Your quiet stems from deceit, and some inexplicable fear of what? Getting caught on the phone? And that’s all this is, right? Just a conversation with an old friend? There’s that self-deception again.

“Stop answering, then.” He counters coolly. Unbothered and wholly aware that that won’t be happening.

“How was the show?” You ask, rather than comment on the ridiculous confidence laced through his tone like sex on his tongue.

“Good.” He sighs, and you can picture his flippant, nearly shy shrug so clearly it grips your heart tightly for a breath. “I may have had a whiskey or three too many. May have tripped. May have fallen. May not have been very rock and roll.”

Your soft giggle tightens his heart just the same, but he doesn’t tell you that. “Did you play through?”

“Of course I played through,” He scoffs with feigned offense. “Who’re you talkin’ to?”

“Then I think that’s very rock and roll, Jake.” The smile won’t leave your voice. “Besides, you misjudged those stairs, don’t blame the whiskey. You should wear your fucking glasses.”

“Oh!” Now he sounds incredibly pleased with himself, dragging the word out like the cat who ate the canary, “Sounds like my sugar caught the show…”

“I may have popped in to peek at a livestream.” You concede, curling down into the chair to get comfy.

“Groupie.”

Pulling the throw off the back, you sling it over your bare legs and shake your head at his nonsense “Miss my Sammy, that’s all.”

“Fuck you.” He laughs.

“Fuck you, too.” You toss right back, but you both hear the love hidden behind those terrible words.

“You miss my stupid kid brother so much, why don’t you come and see him? I could have you on a plane tonight. How long would it take you to get to the airport?” There’s a sincerity in his offer that makes you long to pack a bag and go.

“Jake…”

“Should I send a car, or do you think Mr. Wonderful would mind driving my girl?”

Little shit.

“Stop calling him that.” You scold with little conviction.

“What should I call him then, baby? Since you won’t tell me his name…”

Fighting to sound steadfast, you square your shoulders and issue a warning you don’t feel a drop of in your bones “I’m gonna hang up.”

“Liar.” There’s that gentle laugh of his that echoes through your mind all hours of your lonely days. “What did you do today, sugar? Tell me.”

“Um,” you pick at the blanket absently and search back through the monotony. “I had a work thing. Then I went to the supermarket. Saw a movie. I smuggled a bottle of water inside in my purse like a criminal.”

“I should alert the authorities, but they’ve probably already got your wires tapped.” He’s teasing, but he suddenly sounds so sad. “Did you go to the movies with him?”

You hesitate, which tells him everything without a word.

“Damn,” he’s so quiet now. “I hate that, sweetheart. I hate that so fucking much.”

It makes no sense, he knows you’ve just crawled out of the bed you share with him, he knows that a ring rests on your finger right now - he knows. So why does he sound so broken-hearted? Why this?

“You just go around doing stuff with him, you know?” He clarifies as though he’s heard your unasked question. “Simple little things. The movies. The market. Dinner with your friends. Bookstores. We never really got to do those things together.”

It surprises you, though you aren’t sure why…he’s always been this way, soft and romantic about the strangest things. “You’d want to go to the grocery store with me?”

He laughs as you verbally poke at him to lighten the mood. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

“That’s good. Because I loathe going to the gynecologists alone. Care to attend my Pap smear, Jakey?”

He laughs again, but this time, it’s halting and loud… your favorite of all his laughs, “Absolutely, I do. I’ll steal the stirrups and take them home to use later. The doctor will see you now, sugar.”

You’re laughing now too, likely a bit too loudly “You’re so fucking weird. I feel like I’m talking to Josh.”

“Spending too damn much time with him lately.” He offers by way of excuse, “his shit is rubbing off on me. The other day I briefly considered a perm.”

Your laughter trails off with matching sighs, “I should go.” You say it, but you don’t want it.

“No, you shouldn’t.” He argues quietly, and with a strange tone…he’s fighting something.

“What is it?” You press delicately.

“I just,” he pauses, collecting his thoughts before pouring them out to you. “I just thought you’d be back by now…but you’re still there, with him. And I’m still here.”

“Jake,”

He doesn’t allow for you to finish whatever it was you were about to say that he doesn’t care to hear. “Hush, baby…I know. Do you miss me?”

“Yeah,” you secret into the phone, stealing a glance down the hall. “I miss you very much.”

“Good.” He has quieted to match your whisper. “How much do you miss me? More than Sam?”

“Yeah, I miss you more than Sam,” you see? This is why you’re a bad fucking person. “But like I said, I should go.”

“Why?” There’s that terrible, beautiful rasp again, the one that fails to belie how hard for you he likely already is. “Because you’re afraid you’re going to slide your hands into your pretty panties for me just like you did last night, and the night before, and the night before that?”

It’s a knee jerk reaction that you can’t explain when your finger jabs at your phone to end the call.

He calls back right away, and right away, you answer.

“That wasn’t very nice.” He taunts into the phone with a grin dripping from his accusation. “Don’t you dare hang up on me. Have you forgotten your manners, little girl?”

“Can’t we ever just talk?” You’re struggling to remain on solid ground, but for what? You want nothing more than to sink into him. “Do you ever think about anything else?”

“Other than what?” He counters. “Other than fucking you? Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I think about loving you, and lying beside you like that fuck gets to do. Taking care of you, making you laugh, cooking for you, and drawing you baths, and going to the goddamn movies to watch you smuggle in bottles of water, but you won’t let me have any of that, will you, sugar?”

“I—“ you’re shocked into silence.

“Right.” He agrees, as if you’ve said something poignant. “So forgive me if I indulge where you see fit to allow.”

“Jake, this isn’t right…” oh, don’t you sound righteous? “It has to stop.”

“Isn’t right for who?” He is rife with condescension, “For him? Ask me if I give a fuck about him. Not to ruin the surprise, pretty girl, but I don’t. And maybe you do a little, maybe you do even more than that. Maybe you care more than I’d ever want to know, but you’ll never care enough for it to matter more than you and I.”

No one has ever seen you like Jake sees you…and it is both intoxicating and frightening.

“You want to hang up? Hang up. I won’t call you back tonight.” There’s an edge to his promise, but you know better than to believe it, and you’re thankful it's a lie.

“I don’t want to hang up.” You should want to…but you can’t imagine giving him up right now.

“I love you, sugar.” He breathes, and it’s the loveliest song you’ve ever heard. You want to close your eyes and drift away into it like a symphony. There are cellos and violins in those words, magic and pain more beautiful than anything else you’ve ever known.

“I love you, Jake.” You want him to feel those same things living and breathing inside your own words, but they feel so lacking.

“Do you know what I did this morning?” He questions. You can picture his face so perfectly, and you long to touch it, to simply run the back of your hand down his cheek.

“Hmm?” You hum, still lost in the daydream of being near enough to touch him, to soak in the warmth of his skin.

“I tuned the piano in our front room.”

You know right away that he means the house he visits in the corners of his mind, the place he keeps just for you.

Your gaze has drifted out the window. If you look hard enough, you can almost see the house in the distance, windows glowing golden with light and love “You did?”

“I did. You’re teaching the girls now. I wanted it to be perfect for the four of you.”

“I don’t know how to play the piano, Jakey.” You tease, staring harder still at the mirage of your make believe home.

“Yes, you do. I taught you. You took to it right away, and now you’re better than Sammy, even. You play like an angel. And sometimes, when the girls are asleep, we make love on it and scatter notes around the room in the night.”

Your hand finds its way into your panties all on its own, but it’s innocent somehow, gentle. “We make love on the piano?”

“We make love everywhere, sugar.” He hushes, “I’ve slipped inside of you against the maple tree in the backyard in the Autumn while it drops its leaves at our feet. I’ve nestled my face between your thighs on the porch because you like to watch in the moonlight. Bent you over the kitchen sink so you’ll forget about the dishes, in a closet or two when the girls were too busy to notice, in the dirt in the garden, everywhere.”

A soft moan you attempt to swallow escapes you as your fingers sweep, wet and warm, across your clit.

“What was that, sweetheart?” The smugness in his query is so loving you forget to be annoyed with it, “Are you touching yourself imagining all the places I’ve made you mine? All the places I’ve taken you and made you shake, over and over and over?”

“Tell me,” you beg, slipping your leg over the arm of the chair, opening yourself up for him, offering something he isn’t here to take. “Talk to me. Tell me.”

“That’s my girl,” are you imagining the sound of his zipper through his praise? “What do you want to hear? I’ll talk to you all night, sugar…talk to you forever. Until my voice gives out.”

“The porch,” Another brush against your aching clit, another airy moan you fail to quiet, “Tell me about on the porch.”

“Yeah? You want to hear all about how I lick your pretty pussy on the front porch until you’re dripping down my chin? Want me to tell you about how good you taste, and how sweet you sound when you whine and rock against my mouth?” His voice is like sandpaper smoothing out the frayed edges of your heart. And you most definitely heard his zipper.

“Jake, please…” you would give nearly anything for him to materialize in the room. To listen to his boots clip across the hardwood as he moves, closing in on you until you’re trembling with anticipation.

“Shh, sugar…” he clicks his tongue in mock sympathy, “We wouldn’t want to wake Mr. Wonderful. He doesn’t belong on this porch with us, does he?”

“Tell me.” Your demand falls short through another shaky sigh.

“It’s late, baby,” you can hear it now, the rhythmic, slick slide of his fist along his cock, “and we really should go inside and go to bed, but I can’t take my eyes off of you, you look so fucking stunning in the starlight. You’re curled up next to me in the thinnest, whitest nightie, and I can see the tops of your thighs. So soft and smooth. And I only want to kiss them, but the second I’m on my knees you’re spread open for me like you’ve been waiting for my mouth.”

You’re so wet you can almost pretend your fingers are his tongue drawing tight circles exactly where you need it “And then?”

“Then I slip your panties off, and you give me a little shit about it just for show, but you shut up quick when I start licking along the insides of your thighs. You smell so fucking good, and you taste like heaven, and my cock is so fucking hard for you, but I don’t care about that, all I care about is getting my mouth on you.”

“Do I really taste that good, Jakey?” You pant, arching away from the back of the chair as you slip inside your warmth and fish for compliments.

“You do, baby.” His breath drags in and out of his lungs hard and fast. “You taste so sweet…prettiest, pinkest pussy I’ve ever kissed, you taste like home, you taste like my sugar.”

“Fuck, I’m—“

“Slow down.” He interrupts, sounding gentle in a way he seldom does when he’s hard and throbbing for you. “You just go real slow for me and listen.”

You nod, and though he can’t see you, he seems to feel it all the same.

“I’m on my knees against the porch you helped me strip and sand, and you’re spread open for me on the swing. It creaks every time you move. Your hands are in my hair, but you’re being such a gentle girl, fucking your lovely cunt up into my mouth, begging me softly to suck your spoiled little clit, begging me to make you cum.”

With your fingers fluttering light as air, you can almost imagine it all to be real, and you’re close…so close.

With a choked gasp of your name he pauses, but recovers in a blink, “You’re whining for my fingers, but I want to get you there just like this. I don’t want anything in the way when you finally let go on my tongue. I want to drink you down, baby…every drop. It’s all mine, and I want it. And you let me have you that way, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you nod frantically, writhing in the chair until the blanket falls away, forgotten.

“And you’re going to be such a good girl for me, huh?” That, leading, teasing tone has joined the party, and your stomach is twisting and turning, wringing the lust out of your very soul, “You’re going to be the sweetest little sweetheart and cum right in my mouth because I’m just so fucking thirsty, aren’t you?”

“Oh fuck, Jake…” you’ve hardly made a sound, your constricted throat won’t allow for much more, “Say it again.”

He knows what you want, and like always, he gives it to you without question or thought. “Want you to cum in my mouth right here on the porch, you beautiful fucking filthy girl. I want you, sugar…c’mon and make a mess on my tongue.”

“I’m gonna cum,” you’re spread wide and thrusting into your own touch, but it’s Jake you feel…he’s everywhere, all around you, you’re drenched in him.

“Of course you are, sweetheart,” he soothes, sounding near the end himself, “Because you know how badly I want it, and you’re my girl.”

“I’m your girl,” you whimper, desperate for more more more… “I’m your fucking girl, Jakey. I love you…”

“Love you too, sugar,” a growl rumbles out of him low and menacing. “Love you so fucking much. Come on, baby, c’mon…”

With a fist drawn to your mouth and your teeth dug in deeply, you let it happen. Welcoming that sparking, searing, electric bliss only he seems to be capable of gracing you with, no matter how near or far he happens to be.

You’re quiet somehow, but he doesn’t seem to need anything more than your muted gasps to get there with you. Though on his end, he sounds feral and violent…like the beautiful, seedy underbelly of something you shouldn’t want. Pornographic and obscene. Improper. Dirty. Wrong. Perfect.

With the calm of the afterglow, comes the shame. The guilt. The self-hatred. He knows it all too well already, and rather than drawing attention to what has just happened, he shifts focus to help you through.

“I might order room service. If you were here right now, what would you want? That’s what I’ll get.”

“Hmm,” you think it over, kicking the blanket up from the floor to recover a bit of modesty, “Soup sounds good. Broccoli cheddar if they have it.”

“Soup?” There’s that wide open laugh of his again.

“Yes.” You pretend-pout. “And don’t laugh at me. It sounds divine.”

“Soup it is, sugar.” He sounds soft and a little unlike himself. “We’ve got a small break coming up. It’s only a couple of days, but what if I came to see you?”

“Jake,” you’re preparing to wage a loving war, though you want to see him more than you want the air you breathe to quench your lungs.

“I just want to take you to the movies, that’s all,” he holds up his metaphorical hands innocently. “Will you go see a flick with me? No illegal bottles of water necessary.”

“You want to go to the movies?” You laugh at the idea of it all. So PG in a manner so… not Jake.

“Yep.” He sounds positively delighted at the mirth in your response. “Bring Mr. Wonderful, we’ll have a great time.”

You roll your eyes, stretching out your limbs, which have been tense and contorted for far too long, “Oh, don’t be silly, Jacob, like I would ever share you with Mr. Wonderful.”

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @jakesgrapejuice @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordie-gvf-admin @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake

#greta van fleet #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet smut #greta van smut #greta van fic #gvf fic #fanfic #jake gvf #josh kiszka #jake kiszka fanfiction #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiskza #gvf jake #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka smut #jake greta van fleet

[neonscandal]

I saw a video these days about jujutsu and I saw something that I never realized that Megumi is not a good person because he is willing to do anything for his sister, which makes him selfish and that he only saves those who he "deems" to be a good person and who qualify as a good person for him. his morality is very black and white just like geto. There's a line from him that is very realistic, especially today in the manga, that sorcerers are not heroes, an example saturo gojo.

Just Megumi dodging these harsh allegations.

You mean Megumi Fushiguro, son of Toji Fushiguro Satoru Gojo?? Character alignment wise, I oscillate between considering Megumi a True Neutral or more of a Lawful Neutral where "Lawful" is being applied generously.

Megumi is incredibly principled. The baseline for his evaluation of a person is distilled down to an observation that "I won't kill you so, in return, you shouldn't kill me." In a lookback at his days before Jujutsu High, we see that he is more than comfortable beating the brakes off of people who violate this basic tenet, even if they don't infringe upon it with him directly. Despite the rule as he lectures the delinquents, his application of it is very in line with Geto's ideology that the strong should protect the weak and keep the strong in check.

Geto considered all non-sorcerers to be weak against curses thus it was sorcerers' responsibilities to mind the herd. Megumi is a bit more discerning which is a reflection of his strength and perceived weakness compared to his peers. It also factors the flaws and inherent ability to be evil into his consideration. What set Geto astray was the fact that, as the strongest, he couldn't fathom the weak to be a threat. Based on Megumi's actions, those that deserve protection, like Tsumiki and Yuji, are those who are selfless and act on others' behalfs even to their own detriment. So, doing anything for Tsumiki, not even his blood relative, is a reflection of her purity of character. He's not one to cause harm to innocent people but does consider past harm as damnable offenses (like the truck driver who struck a kid in the juvenile detention center... who may or may not have been the driver who killed Rika Orimoto).

I think the big difference here is the fact that... Geto was a part of "The Strongest". Megumi is not. While he was great against non-powered up delinquents, people within jujutsu society remark that he's not good at hand to hand combat. Further, at this point in the anime, we now see that Megumi, at any indication that a fight was going poorly, either had a death wish or didn't see a way out that didn't involve summoning Mahoraga... even against Todo. EVEN AGAINST HARUTA. One could argue his morality is less to do with the idea of omnipotence as was the case with Geto and more to do with the fact that... he's not out here trying to die for someone who will later cause more harm to the world than he can cause good.

It's true, Megumi is aware that sorcerers are not heroes. In fact, he probably thinks those who are foolhardy and believing that they're helping people are especially laughable. Consider the fact that Megumi Fushiguro is a person who was bought and sold... twice... by sorcerers. He's got no choice in the matter as to the path he's on but he's got a tempered sense of reality that is informed by the fact that sorcerers die all the time, students and adults alike. He's just trying to make it out alive and with as much autonomy as he can and that informs an illusion of choice as to who is worth potentially dying for.

While his ideals definitely seem like they could lead him down a similar path to Geto, I think his motivation informed by a sense of self-preservation that he's willing to forego on principle differs greatly from Geto's perception that no harm would ever come to him at all. Geto experienced a foundational upset that altered his brain chemistry but Megumi is aware of his own weakness all the while and will still choose to fight. Please also remember the whole reason he even agreed to go with Gojo in the first place was to make sure Tsumiki wouldn't have a shitty life. He blindly chose a life fraught with peril so she wouldn't suffer at the hands of the Zenin. He, a child, essentially agreed to indentured servitude to protect her because, alone, he could not fend for her.

RE: Gojo as a hero... I am not so foolish as to say he is, but I am not uninformed to say he isn't either. He is simply flawed. Both in essence as a character and in the execution of his ideals. But consider the fact that, as The Strongest:

Gojo doesn't have to bend to the will of the elders that he disagrees with, he could simply kill them.

Gojo doesn't have to take missions just as Yuki Tsukumo refuses, he could let others continue to die in vain.

Gojo doesn't have to stick his neck out for Megumi, Yuta or Yuji, what matter are they to him when he has godlike strength?

None of the above would make him a villain to simply.. not participate in the rigamarole of jujutsu society because, with his strength, it's not like anyone could force him to. Doing the above also doesn't make him a hero; however, knowing that he could just go off and do whatever but he chooses the path of great resistance to cultivate abilities in others so as to better prepare them to be sorcerers and, as much as he can, protect them from the burden of their responsibilities. He's earnestly trying to improve facets of jujutsu society that he doesn't necessarily have to suffer because it's the right thing to do and it benefits kids who come up after him. In comparison to what he could be doing, he's trying to make a difference so the world doesn't lose another person like Geto to the reality of what it means to be a sorcerer.

In a broader sense, Gojo also meets the literal requirements of a hero as a literary device as he is a legendary figure seemingly born of divine descent and endowed with great strength and ability. This is just offset by him being canonically grating to like... everyone around him but Geto and just, generally, a silly, goofy lil guy 🤪✨

#neon asks #anon asks #manga with me #manga with me jjk #we are the strongest #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #megumi zenin #zenin megumi #geto suguru #suguru geto #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #fushiguro tsumiki #tsumiki fushiguro #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #anime #manga #character analysis #jjk meta #jjk analysis #character alignment

[f--e-u-e-r-t-r-u-n-k-e--n]

The End of the World or the End of Capitalism?: Colletion of Notes.

>"Capitalist realism as I understand it cannot be confined to art or to the quasi-propagandistic way in which advertising functions. It is more like a pervasive atmosphere, conditioning not only the production of culture but also the regulation of work and education, and acting as a kind of invisible barrier constraining thought and action". -Mark Fisher, Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? >[Capital] has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation -Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Manifest der Kommunistischen Partei.

>"In his Prison Notebooks, Gramsci said that in periods of crisis the old is dying and the new is not yet born. While Gramsci drew attention to the morbid symptoms of such a situation (in 1930) our crisis is different, and I want to draw attention to more hopeful symptoms (waiting to be born) of our present crisis of capitalist hegemony. The viability of initiatives trying to avoid competition with the market and escape from the hierarchic state rests on many untested assumptions. The first assumption is that those who do essential day-to-day tasks would continue to do their jobs in a PCC in preference to large corporations and their local affiliates: a multitude of people who now work in private or public sectors, directly or indirectly, establishing PCCs in their local communities producing food, organizing transport, setting up places of learning and transmission of skills, providing healthcare, running power systems, and so on. PCCs already do this all over the world on a small scale but such initiatives struggle within capitalist markets. Community-Supported Agriculture schemes in various parts of the world represent a first step on a long and difficult road to self-sufficiency in this sphere". - Leslie Sklair, The End of the World or the End of Capitalism? >"In 1869, New York neurologist George Beard used the term "neurasthenia" to describe a very broad condition caused by the exhaustion of the nervous system, which was thought to be particularly found in "civilized, intellectual communities." In 1998, Swedish psychiatrists Marie Åsberg and Åke Nygren investigated a surge of depression health insurance claims in Sweden. They found that the symptoms of many cases did not match the typical presentation of depression. Complaints like fatigue and decreased cognitive ability dominated, and many believed their working conditions to be the cause" >"The whole life of those societies in which modern conditions of production prevail presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. All that once was directly lived has become mere representation".  -Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle. >"Architecture is the simplest means of articulating time and space, of modulating reality, of engendering dreams. It is a matter not only of plastic articulation and modulation expressing an ephemeral beauty, but of a modulation producing influences in accordance with the eternal spectrum of human desires and the progress in realizing them. The architecture of tomorrow will be a means of modifying present conceptions of time and space. It will be a means of knowledge and a means of action." -Ivan Chtcheglov, Formulary for a New Urbanism

>"To you, this gathering is just one more boring event. The Situationist International, however, considers that while this assemblage of so many art critics as an attraction of the Brussels Fair is laughable, it is also significant.

Inasmuch as modern cultural thought has proved itself completely stagnant for over twenty-five years, and inasmuch as a whole era that has understood nothing and changed nothing is now becoming aware of its failure, its spokesmen are striving to transform their activities into institutions. They thus solicit official recognition from the completely outmoded but still materially dominant society, for which most of them have been loyal watchdogs.

The main shortcoming of modern art criticism is that it has never looked at the culture as a whole nor at the conditions of an experimental movement that is perpetually superseding it. At this point in time the increased domination of nature permits and necessitates the use of superior powers in the construction of life." -The Situationist International, Action in Belgium Against the International Assembly of Art Critics >"Karoshi (Japanese: 過労死, Hepburn: Karōshi), which can be translated into "overwork death", is a Japanese term relating to occupation-related sudden death.

The most common medical causes of karoshi deaths are heart attacks and strokes due to stress and malnourishment or fasting. Mental stress from the workplace can also cause workers to commit suicide in a phenomenon known as karōjisatsu (過労自殺)" >"The limits of capitalism are not fixed by fiat, but defined (and redefined) pragmatically and improvisationally. This makes capitalism very much like the Thing in John Carpenter's film of the same name: a monstrous, infinitely plastic entity, capable of metabolizing and absorbing anything with which it comes into contact. Capital, Deleuze and Guattari says, is a ‘motley painting of everything that ever was'; a strange hybrid of the ultra-modern and the archaic. In the years since Deleuze and Guattari wrote the two volumes of their Capitalism And Schizophrenia, it has seemed as if the deterritorializing impulses of capitalism have been confined to finance, leaving culture presided over by the forces of reterritorialization.

This malaise, the feeling that there is nothing new, is itself nothing new of course. We find ourselves at the notorious ‘end of history' trumpeted by Francis Fukuyama after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Fukuyama's thesis that history has climaxed with liberal capitalism may have been widely derided, but it is accepted, even assumed, at the level of the cultural unconscious. It should be remembered, though, that even when Fukuyama advanced it, the idea that history had reached a ‘terminal beach' was not merely triumphalist. Fukuyama warned that his radiant city would be haunted, but he thought its specters would be Nietzschean rather than Marxian. Some of Nietzsche's most prescient pages are those in which he describes the ‘oversaturation of an age with history'. ‘It leads an age into a dangerous mood of irony in regard to itself, he wrote in Untimely Meditations, ‘and subsequently into the even more dangerous mood of cynicism', in which ‘cosmopolitan fingering', a detached spectatorialism, replaces engagement and involvement. This is the condition of Nietzsche's Last Man, who has seen everything, but is decadently enfeebled precisely by this excess of (self) awareness." -Mark Fisher, Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative?

>The Socialist Patients' Collective (German: Sozialistisches Patientenkollektiv, and known as the SPK) is a patients' collective founded in Heidelberg, West Germany, in February 1970, by Wolfgang Huber (born 1935). The kernel of the SPK's ideological program is summated in the slogan, "Turn illness into a weapon", which is representative of an ethos that is continually and actively practiced under the new title, Patients' Front/Socialist Patients' Collective, PF/SPK(H). The first collective, SPK, declared its self-dissolution in July 1971 as a strategic withdrawal but in 1973 Huber proclaimed the continuity of SPK as Patients' Front.

The SPK assumes that illness exists as an undeniable fact and believe that it is caused by the capitalist system. The SPK promotes illness as the protest against capitalism and considers illness as the foundation on which to create the human species. The SPK is opposed to doctors, considering them to be the ruling class of capitalism and responsible for poisoning the human species. The most widely recognized text of the PF/SPK(H) is the communique, SPK – Turn illness into a weapon, which has prefaces by both the founder of the SPK, Wolfgang Huber, and Jean-Paul Sartre. Rejecting the roles and ideology associated with the notion of the revolutionary as scientific explainer, they stated in Turn Illness into a Weapon that whoever claims they want to "observe the bare facts dispassionately" is either an "idiot" or a "dangerous criminal."

#anti capitalism #leftblr #SPK #Mark Fisher #Leslie Sklair #the international situationist #guy debord #end of the world #postmodernism #postmodern #marxism #socialism #capitalism #Colletion of notes

[theninthmember]

I know it’s extremely tacky to say “I hated this thing before I knew it was problematic” because of course the implication that problematic stuff is always of bad quality and that you can like. sniff out the problematic based on whether it’s good or bad is laughable

BUT in this specific case I really do think Somerton’s plagiarism made his videos worse. I watched about one and a half before deciding they weren’t for me. They felt very meandering, and while they had the illusion of structure, they lacked the sort of cohesion I look for in a video essay. I now know that’s because he was lazily trying to synthesize multiple people’s words and ideas that, despite being on the same topic, often didn’t really connect to each other, while doing none of his own work to make those connections click.

#my post #james somerton

[grandmother-goblin]

Field Study - Chapter 5

Ao3 - Masterlist

Chapter Summary: After Cas's secret is revealed, Astarion finds himself in a bigger mess than he initially realized. Not only that, it seems the Wyll has eyes on the little wood elf as well.

Relationships: Astarion x Female!Tav

Rating: Explicit (18+) for eventual smut.

Word Count: 5.6k

Chapter Tags: References to past abuse, jealous/paranoid thoughts, Astarion gets into an argument.

When Astarion set off with the intention of doing something reckless, he didn’t expect to actually find a bear. Let alone fight it, win, and drink all of its blood. However, he felt marginally better than before by the time he got back to camp. The encounter with the Gur still weighed on his mind, but not as much as Cas did.

It was hard to shake. Cas only had to smile at him and butterflies swarmed his stomach. He was like a smitten school boy. It was laughable, really.

Astarion tried to ignore those pesky feelings, but instead found himself focusing on everything Cas did during breakfast. How she took care of everyone, from packing blackberries just for Shadowheart to pre-grinding the beans for Wyll’s coffee. Wyll had offered Astarion a cup once again, and he accepted. While the coffee still tasted as bland on his tongue as it did before, he couldn’t help but notice how Cas made a face after her first sip. He found himself wondering if he should keep an eye out for cream and sugar the next time they went out for supplies. And when Cas passed out the pemmican she had made, he found himself wanting to try it. Not because it particularly appealed to him, but because Cas had made it and he was curious.

All useless thoughts. Yet they made his stomach turn because he wasn’t sure when the last time someone had caught his attention the way Cas had.

Mosquitoes and dragonflies buzzed through the thick swamp air as they made their way toward Ethel’s “tea house”. The whole place reeked of sour earth and death. The fact Ethel had managed to disguise the putrid swamp as an idyllic wetlands to the average traveler was a testament to her power. Astarion was not keen on witnessing that power first hand.

When asked about her plans for dealing with the hag, Cas kept her answer short and vague.

“I have something she’ll want,” Cas said as they trudged through puddles and grime. “It’s better if you don’t know what it is. Hags love nothing more than misery, and she’ll love the idea that she’s sharing something I don’t want shared.”

Whatever that “something” was, Astarion could only hope the hag behaved as Cas expected so he could find out. It had to be good.

The hag’s home looked more like a decrepit shack than a place any sane creature would live. Actually quite perfect for a hag when Astarion thought about it. The signs posted around it were cute and clean and adorned with little paintings of herbs that pointed towards the “teahouse”. Cheerful bright colors on the innocent little signs were lost with the banished illusion. The whole place reeked of fey magic and trickery. The contrast between what the place was and what Ethel wanted others to see was unsettling to say the least.

A dainty, rusted bell chimed over the door to the shack. Out of habit, Astarion stopped at the threshold but quickly corrected himself. He no longer needed permission to enter someone’s home. With a self-satisfied smile, he stepped past the door frame.

Upon entering the hag’s domain, they found Ethel lecturing a heavily pregnant young woman. Mayrina, if Astarion had to venture a guess. They had run into her brothers on the road. Once when the brother had told them about Mayrina and a second time when the two were both bloody corpses on the ground.

Though they had already seen plenty of death on their travels, the brutalized corpses of Mayrina’s brothers seemed to strike Cas a little harder than Astarion would have expected. When Cas looked upon Mayrina, there was a flash of sadness and sympathy as she likely thought of her own brother. Then the look was replaced by a false mask of stony indifference before anyone else seemed to notice.

Before Cas could deliver any news about the unfortunate fate of Mayrina’s brothers, Ethel vanished the woman with a puff of green smoke. Ethel then dusted her hands on her apron, as if using her magic on Mayrina had dirtied them. “I was wondering when you were going to show up, petal,” Ethel said, turning to face Cas. “You best have one Hells of an apology for me, young lady.”

“I’m sorry, Granny,” Cas said, sounding so sincere that Astarion might have believed Ethel was her grandmother if he didn’t know any better.

Only the most powerful hags were called ‘Granny’, which meant Cas was going for the flattery route. Interesting.

“If I had known Mayrina was safe with you, I wouldn't have said anything to her brothers,” Cas continued, looking down at her hands and picking her nails like a child waiting for a scolding.

Ethel scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. “Given who your brother is, I almost believe your apology,” she said. “Now, what was it you needed? Before I kick you all out of here for interfering with my private business.”

Reaching into her bag, Cas retrieved her field journal and opened it to the latest page. The one with the picture of the tadpole. “A little help filling out some missing information here. I figured if anyone here would know about a creature like this, or if anyone was powerful enough to help, it would be you.”

Ethel plucked the journal from Cas’s hand. Her yellowed eyes scanned the drawing of the tadpole for just a moment before she began to flip through the other pages without bothering to ask Cas for permission. Not that she seemed to mind.

“Just information, dearie? You don’t want me to remove the bugger?” Ethel asked, pausing a rough sketch of a male Gith dressed in dark robes.

Cas shook her head. “Just information,” she confirmed as her eyes darted to the page for a mere fraction of a second. “I know you recognized me back at the Grove. I don’t doubt there’s something I can do for you in exchange.”

Floorboards creaked beneath Ethel’s feet when she crossed the room, settling herself in a rickety rocking chair. “Of course I did,” she said as she thumbed through Cas’s journal like it was some sort of scandalous diary. “The Huntsman of Neverwinter casts a pretty big shadow, but it’s not so big that I couldn’t recognize his baby sister.”

A deafening silence fell over the room. Astarion felt his heart drop to his stomach as Ethel took in their reactions, a satisfied smile on her lips.

That was it.

That was the secret Cas wanted the hag to reveal.

The Huntsman of Neverwinter was Cas’s brother.… Astarion watched Cas, waiting for a smile or a shake of her head. For any indication that Ethel’s claim was nothing more than a lie. Instead, he heard a floorboard squeak as Shadowheart shifted her weight from one foot to the other and a myriad of frogs droning beyond the rotten wooden walls.

A chill like needle thin tendrils of ice crept up his spine and spread across the base of his skull like shallow roots.

By the gods…. He had bitten the Huntsman’s sister.

He might as well have slipped a noose around his neck and saved the executioner the trouble. Out of all the ways he thought he would die (and he certainly would as the vampire who fucking bit the Huntsman’s sister), getting slaughted by one of the greatest monster hunters that had ever walked Faerun was not one of them.

The conversation he had with Cas on the road a few days ago sprang to mind. The vampires I know wouldn’t bite me even if I offered, she had said. Of course they wouldn’t. Astarion wouldn’t have if he had the faintest idea of who she was connected to. Bile rose in his throat and it almost tasted like betrayal.

What sort of mess had he gotten himself into?

Astarion shook the thought. It wasn’t his fault. If there was anyone to blame, it was Cas.

If the stories were true, the Huntsman was a reasonable man. Though sometimes reason went out the window when family was involved. The man would at least hear him out before staking him in the heart, right? He had to.

“Your brother is Vesryn Lichenwind?” Wyll said, his brow high and his mouth slightly agape. “Gods, that explains some things.”

That was an understatement. It explained a lot. How Cas knew so much about vampires. How she just happened to know how to deal with every monster they came across from undead skeletons to rabid gnolls. How she was so comfortable surviving out in the wretched wilderness.

It explained why Cas was so comfortable around him. Why his being a vampire didn’t seem to bother her a tick whereas most people would have very reasonable reservations.

“Well,” Astarion said as he swallowed his rising panic and plastered a smile to his face. “Wouldn’t that have been good to know. Better late than never, I suppose.”

Shadowheart folded her arms across her chest and pursed her lips. “So we’re talking to a hag instead of your brother because…?”

With an exaggerated motion, Ethel looked about her home. “It looks like he isn’t here, dearie” she said and gave Cas a fairly convincing sympathetic frown. “I think you’re all stuck with dear old Auntie. Lucky for you, the Huntsman’s not the only one who might be able to help with your little problem.”

True enough, but he would probably help without demanding Astarion’s spleen or something else equally horrifying.

As much as Astarion hated so-called “heroes”, Astarion couldn’t deny that a connection to the Huntsman of Neverwinter could prove invaluable. At the end of the day, Astarion had to concede that by all accounts, the Huntsman was a good, honorable, man. Someone people looked up to. A legend even among legends.

As a young man, long before the vampiric hell that he had been living, Astarion had dreamt of meeting the Huntsman of Neverwinter. Hells, he might’ve even fancied him in the way children tended to fancy a dashing hero. And when Cazador turned him, Astarion might’ve daydreamed of what the Huntsman would do to his former master should they ever have met.

To his knowledge, the Huntsman also never bothered with Cazador. Just like every other hero, the Huntsman never came to Astarion’s rescue. Perhaps the Huntsman didn’t know what Cazador truly was. Or perhaps he simply didn’t think of Cazador as a threat.

Either way, Astarion was presented with an opportunity he could only dream of before. If anyone could sway the Huntsman of Neverwinter to make Cazador Szarr his prey, it was his precious little sister.

And having the Huntsman take care of Cazador was a hell of a lot less work than doing it himself.

With that in mind, Cas became far more valuable than he had ever dreamed. And far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.

Cas shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “If you’re able to tell us about the tadpole, Granny,” she said, “I’d be willing to tell you anything you want to know about the Huntsman.”

“Save your flattery.” She flicked away the generous title Cas once again tried to bestow. “If my sister’s heard you call me that, it would be both of our asses. Besides, I’m sure everything I need to know about him is stuffed in a library or down a bard’s throat.”

Ethel flipped through the journal until she landed on the drawing of the Gith once again. She dragged a dirty fingernail around the contours of the drawing and hummed. “I’m more interested in a ‘monster’ –” her boney fingers curled with air quotations “– he took care of a few years back. A dear friend of mine.”

With all the grace of a practiced politician, Cas’s mask of indifference did not falter at the dismissal. “That doesn’t narrow things down. Taking care of monsters is a daily thing for him.”

“Oh, but this one was a big deal, petal,” Auntie Ethel cooed as she flipped the journal shut and passed it back to Cas. “Do you remember a vampire lord known as the Collector? Hamish Slorach was his name. He had that massive museum in Waterdeep with everything a woman like me could dream of.”

Cas’s left eye twitched. “I remember him.”

Both the name and the title were familiar to Astarion. Cazador had corresponded with the Collector on a few occasions. Astarion had delivered a few letters addressed to Hamish Slorach to the post office himself on Cazador’s command. Despite Cazador’s best efforts, Astarion and his siblings all heard the story of the Collector’s brutal demise at the hands of the Huntsman.

It was the source of several news articles and no small amount of chatter in taverns across Baldur’s Gate. On one hand, people were shocked and scandalized that a magnate with connections to the aristocracy across Faerun was a vampire lord. On the other hand, the museum, the Collection, was an incredible source of knowledge that was made available to the public. Artifacts, artwork, pieces of history and magic that Gale would (and probably had) drooled over. And when the Collector had perished, the museum ultimately went with him.

From what Astarion had gathered, the museum also had a private collection: his vampire spawn. Vampire spawn of all races, sizes, colors, backgrounds. Most of which were kept in exhibits like animals in a zoo. Kept for the enjoyment of anyone willing to pay the price. For any kind of enjoyment. All their master had to do was say the word.

If rumors were to be believed, one of those spawn was key to helping the Huntsman bring down the Collector.

The rocking chair scraped against the moldy wooden floors as Ethel leaned forward, bringing Astarion’s attention back to the conversation. “I was a patron of his private collection,” she said with all the ease of a woman discussing the weather.

“Why am I not surprised?” Cas drawled as she folded her arms across her chest. Despite her tone, a tiny muscle in her jaw ticked in irritation.

Ethel cackled with unrestrained delight. “Then you should know that your friend Eroc was a favorite of mine,” she said and nodded toward the journal. “He must be a favorite of yours too, given those lovely sketches you have of him. I must say that Gith had a talented tongue.” The hag made a crude gesture and hummed as if she had tasted the most decadent dessert, and the sound made Astarion want to vomit.

One point for Cazador: the man never commanded him to have any sort of relations with a hag. Though Astarion wouldn’t have put it past him.

“I would have kept him here with me just for that big brain of his alone if Hamish would have allowed it,” Ethel continued as if they were making perfectly normal small talk. “But Eroc’s magic, that was something else. And you positively reek of it, petal.”

Cas exhaled through her nose, trying to disguise her obvious irritation as a sigh. “Are you sure that’s not the tadpole you’re sensing?”

“Ha!” Ethel slapped a bony hand on her thigh as she leaned forward in her chair. “You think I can’t tell the difference between Netherese shadow magic and a zerth’s? Please. What sort of hag do you take me for?”

The kind that gives away information for free with a nudge in the right direction, apparently. The knowledge that the Illithid tadpole also had some sort of Netherese magic tied to it was not at all reassuring. Good to know, nonetheless.

If Cas recognized the hag’s slip of the tongue, she didn’t let it show on her face. Instead, she simply folded her arms across her chest and waited for Ethel to continue.

“I haven’t spoken to Eroc in ages,” Ethel said as if she were lamenting time away from an old friend. “I just want to know how to get in touch with him and where he might be hiding these days. Tell me that and—”

“No deal,” Cas said firmly.

“Come now, dearie,” Ethel said, undeterred. “What harm is there in a little old hag like me getting in touch with an old friend? It’s not like I could hurt him.”

“I said ‘no.’” Cas tucked her journal back into her bag and adjusted how her bow hung over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you about Vesryn, but not Eroc. Final offer.”

The hag shook her head and tsked. “Then I’m afraid Auntie can’t help you, petal,” she said and stood from her rocking chair. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

Though Cas’s knuckles had turned white where she clutched her bow, she managed to give the hag a gracious nod before they excused themselves. Part of him was thankful they didn’t come to any sort of agreement with Ethel. No matter how good Cas thought she was with dealing with hags, they were notoriously tricky. However, Cas did manage to gain some valuable information without anyone having to sacrifice a vital organ or getting afflicted with a curse, so that was something. Not a whole lot, but it was enough that Astarion had no good reason to complain.

Once the tea house was well out of sight, easily swallowed by the swamp once they took a turn down the road, Wyll decided to speak up. “You’re not seriously going to leave that poor girl behind?” he said, his brow furrowed and a frown on his lips. Of course Mr. Hero hadn’t forgotten the pathetic pregnant woman who was ripe for the saving. “Is that what your brother would have done?”

Cas stopped in her tracks, her brown eyes blazing in a way that made Astarion glad her glare wasn’t directed at him. “What would you have had me do?” she snapped. “Take out my bow and fight her point blank in her own home? We got what we came for, and it was a hell of a lot more than anything we learned at the Grove.”

Wyll’s eyes widened at the outburst and he took a single step back.

None of them have ever heard Cas use that tone of voice before. Astarion couldn’t tell if she was still irritated from the encounter with the hag, or if it was the Wyll’s mention of her brother; holding up her inaction against the image of a legendary hero.

“She has a point, Wyll,” Shadowheart said as she stepped into his line of sight. “Whatever is happening with that girl isn’t any of our business. We have bigger problems.” She tapped her temple just below where her circlet rested in her hair, indicating the Netherese-Illithid monstrosity residing in each of their skulls.

“I get that she’s a sorry sight, but she’s not worth putting ourselves in danger,” Astarion agreed and folded his arms across his chest. “She made her bed, she can lie in it.”

Wyll set his jaw and kept his eyes on Cas as if staring at her would make her change her mind. “There has to be something we can do,” he said, taking on a softer tone.

The fire in Cas’s eyes dulled to a soft ember as she took a calming breath. “We can discuss this later,” she said. “We need to relay this information to the others. One of them might have something to say.”

“What information? About the tadpole or about you?” Shadowheart quipped as her face feigned innocence.

Cas shook her head. “We can discuss this later,” she repeated and something about her tone sounded tired. Like whatever anger she felt finally fizzled into smoke. Without another word, she adjusted her bow over her shoulder and continued down the path.

—

The return trip to camp was considerably quicker than their trek out to the swamp thanks to finding one those mysterious runes Gale had taught them how to use. Astarion wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, but the runes allowed for them to cross great distances almost instantaneously (provided one knew where the destination rune was located). The quiet trip back to their main camp was blessedly short and they had the rest of the afternoon to plan on what to do next.

They passed on the information they learned about the tadpole and identity of Cas’s brother to Gale, Lae’zel, and Karlach. While Lae’zel and Gale were interested in the tadpole, Lae’zel couldn’t care less about the Huntsman. She had no idea who he was. Even after Gale gave an impassioned speech about some of the Huntsman’s exploits, Lae’zel only commented that she wished to face him in battle.

There was probably some comment in there about how a wood elf couldn’t compare to a Githyanki warrior. Or some vague promise to bring Vlaakith the Huntsman’s head.

Karlach, on the other hand, was a different story. She was a big fan of the Huntsman. Although she seemingly tried her best to contain her excitement at first until Cas, with an exasperated sigh, gave her permission to ask questions.

Which led to several questions from Gale and Wyll as well.

Though Cas initially seemed a good sport about all of the attention, it quickly became apparent that the topic was tiresome for her. Astarion couldn’t really blame her. Judging by her tone of voice, getting asked about her brother was a common occurrence. And given who her brother was, it was likely that the Huntsman was the only thing most others wanted to discuss with her.

“You know,” Karlach said over dinner, “I used to have a poster of your brother in my bedroom growing up.”

Cas dropped her head into her hands and groaned. “Please tell me it wasn’t the shirtless one.”

With a broad grin, Karlach tossed her head back. “Ha! What kind of woman do you take me for?” she asked and took a swig of her beer. “‘Course it was. I used to kiss his abs for luck.”

Wyll laughed and gave Cas a pat on the back. His hand lingered for a moment too long and Astarion pretended not to notice. “If it makes you feel any better, he was fully clothed in the poster I had.”

Despite Wyll’s reassurance, Cas made a disgusted noise and tried to change the topic of conversation. Though her voice was playful, there was a twinge of desperation to it that only Astarion seemed to catch. Somehow, the others found a way to turn the conversation back around to her brother in one way or another.

But by the time night fell, everything seemed to have gone back to normal. Cas ended up going to her tent much earlier than normal, but Astarion didn’t know if it had to do with exhaustion from the day of traveling or if she was simply done talking about her brother. To be fair, Astarion felt a little sick of the conversation himself, and he didn’t even partake in half of it.

Lae’zel took guard duty for the first half of the night, and she did not bat an eye when she spotted Astarion wandering towards Cas’s tent. After dealing with the Gur, and everything that happened after, he hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with her privately. Knowing what he knew now, he was eager to get her alone. Not only for another chance to seduce her, but also to find out if maybe her potential usefulness might supersede the pesky emotions that drew him to her like a moth to flame.

“She’s not there,” Lae’zel said just as he went to open the flap to Cas’s tent. “I figured you two had learned from last time and made plans away from camp.”

Astarion furrowed his brow. “Of course,” he said, his brain quickly trying to process her words. “It seems I am running late.” The lie slid smoothly off his tongue, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he said it. Force of habit, perhaps.

Where the hell would Cas have wandered off to in the middle of the night? Perhaps she was hunting. He never paid much attention to their food stores, given that he didn’t have any need for normal food, so it was a possibility.

She hummed, her strange yellow eyes giving no indication of whether or not she believed him. Then she cocked her chin toward the road. “You won’t have kept her waiting long,” she said and went back to polishing her already pristine armor.

Curious and unwilling to let Lae’zel catch him in a lie, he set off down the road. Taking a few shortcuts that he learned from his nightly hunts, and walking at a quick pace, it wasn’t long before he spotted Cas. A bandolier was slung over her shoulder, heavy with a myriad of flasks and what appeared to be smoke grenades. Her bow in her hand and quiver at her hip, he knew she wasn’t just hunting deer.

For a few moments, he stalked silently behind her, keeping to the shadows. When she turned in the direction of one of the travel runes, the very one they used when returning from the swamp, he let his footsteps be heard.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Cas whipped toward him, her ponytail nearly smacking her in the face as she did. “What are you doing?” she countered lamely and lowered her bow so it was no longer aimed directly at his chest.

Astarion found himself fighting a smile. “I see I’m not the only one who jumps at shadows,” he said, recalling the night she had inadvertently snuck up on him after his nightmare. The same night things changed between them. It felt longer than only a few days ago. If he had learned anything since his abduction, it was how quickly things could change. There was something exhilarating about not knowing what would happen next.

Although it looked as though Cas were about to head into battle, it didn’t deter him in the slightest. He could change her mind if he played his cards right. Perhaps talk her into spending a bit of time with him instead of whatever it was she was going to do. It couldn’t have been too important.

“I wanted to see you tonight,” he said, his voice low. He brushed a few stray strands of dark hair behind her ear and stepped closer so her leather armor brushed against his black linen shirt. He’d changed into the garment just before seeking her out, knowing how her eyes lingered on him whenever he wore it. Just as they were doing now, seeking out a sliver of pale skin beneath the loose ties at the front.

Delicately, he held her chin between his thumb and forefinger and said, “I haven’t been able to get you off of my mind, you know.”

That much was true. It had been true since Cas saved him from the Gur. Since he held her in his arms and tasted her on his lips. It had been so damn long since someone, anyone, made him feel something positive for a change. As much as it scared him, he wanted to hold on to the feeling for as long as he could.

“You’re not mad at me for not telling you about my brother?” She leaned into his touch obediently and the gentle pressure sent trickles of electricity through his skin.

He swallowed thickly as he tried to ignore the sensation. Not the response he wanted to have to just a simple touch. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he told himself that Cas was just a pretty woman and he was just physically attracted to her. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing that warranted the fluttering feeling in his chest.

“Not at all,” he said. Well, only a little bit. Just because she withheld such valuable information. Not so much that he was unwilling to do everything in his power to get her fully on his side. “We all have our secrets, darling. Doesn’t change what’s happening between us.” He brushed his thumb across her lower lip in a silent request.

“And what is happening between us, exactly?” she asked, tilting her head towards him. The sweet scent of peppermint on her breath made him want to close the distance between their lips.

It was too easy to forget why he followed her out when she looked at him so warmly. Like she actually cared about him. “I think you know, my love,” he purred.

“I don’t think I do,” she said and bit her lower lip. “I don’t think you do either.”

“Why don’t we take the time to find out?” He slipped his fingers under the hem of her shirt and brushed over her impossibly soft skin with calloused hands. The scent of lavender and leather filled his senses as his mouth ghosted over the faded bruise on her neck. He made a mental note to refresh the mark tonight, but with his lips rather than his fangs.

“I can’t,” she said, taking a single step back that felt like a slap to the face. “Wyll is waiting for me.”

Astarion blinked. “Wyll?” The name dropped from his lips like a cannonball, landing squarely between them.

A breeze rustled the trees surrounding them and an owl hooted in the distance. Crickets sounded off from the bushes like they were trying to fill the silence with their song.

“We’re going after Ethel,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other nervously. “I know you think it’s a waste of time. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“More than a waste of time.” Astarion folded his arms in front of his chest as unease churned his stomach. Really? She would rather fight a hag with Wyll than spend time with him? A huff of air passed his lips. Clearly she wasn’t basing her decision off of personal enjoyment, otherwise she would still be in arms. Probably with less clothing on.

It only took one look at her face to know she wasn’t going to change her mind and Astarion shook his head. “That girl isn’t our problem,” he reiterated the point that he and Shadowheart had made abundantly clear just hours earlier. “Why would you waste your time on someone who can’t help themselves?”

“I don’t give a damn about Mayrina,” Cas said as an edge of anger crept into her tone. “The hag wants Eroc, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep him safe. I won’t be able to rest until I see that bitch dead.”

“So you’re playing the hero for the vampire?” Unable to look her in the eyes, Astarion scoffed and averted his gaze to the puncture marks on her neck. A dark part of him wished he was a true vampire in that moment: as his spawn, he could compel her to stay. But that would have been wrong, even for him.

Astarion tapped his foot impatiently and rolled his lips. “He isn’t even here to shower you with praise for you putting yourself in danger on his behalf,” he said. “If you valued your own skin, you’d drag the Blade of Folly back here and forget the hag. It’s not our problem.”

Cas crossed her arms. “You’re giving a lot of criticism for someone hoping for the same treatment.”

His eyes darted back to hers and his brow creased. “What the Hells do you mean by that?” he asked through gritted teeth.

She shrugged. “I mean that Cazador isn’t technically our problem. Just yours,” she said as she stepped into his personal space, and he fought the urge to bare his fangs. “And whatever you’re doing with me— this whole sneaking kisses in the middle of the night — doesn’t need to happen for me to help you. You’ve said enough about Cazador that I want to see the bastard burn, regardless of whether or not we are friends. Understand?”

Pulse pounding in his ears, he tore away from her. “I never asked for your damn help!” He took several steps back as her eyes seemed to stare a hole straight through him.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t want it,” Cas shot back. “Or maybe you just want my brother’s help. Like every other asshole, you were just waiting for me to offer and hoping that this thing between us—” she gestured vaguely in the air as if to indicate the amorphous concept composed of lust and utter lunacy “— would expedite the process. And I was willing to go along with it because I’m stupidly attracted to you.”

“Well, at least we can agree on the ‘stupid’ part,” he said. Not because he meant it, but because he knew it would hurt her.

If the jab struck true, Cas did not let it show on her face. With a heavy sigh, she adjusted her grip on the bow in her hands. “Go back to camp, Astarion,” she said, sounding more tired than angry. For whatever reason, her outwardly calm demeanor made him grind his molars as his blood boiled beneath his skin. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Stay safe.”

As Cas turned her back to him and started back down the road, he rolled his eyes. “Have fun playing hero, darling,” he called out to her, letting venom drip from his every word.

Cas didn’t even bother to look back at him as she held her middle finger in the air.

Seething, Astarion turned around and stalked back to camp.

---

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