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#not sure what else to tag this
catastrothy · 1 month
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overheated
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voidoffline · 15 days
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Welsknight fanart! Of his castle, more specifically
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fenfyre · 12 days
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Forbidden Fruit - Part I
The tavern was packed and dimly lit, a cacophony of scents and noises that was almost enough to give Chilchuck a headache. Good. Seated at the counter he let his gaze wander across the crowd while he waited for his order. No faces he recognized, no voices that stood out to him. Even better.
It was only after he had made absolutely sure nobody here would recognize him that he let his eyes flick over to the broad figure at the very back of the room. The man, occupying a table by himself, had not stopped staring at him since he entered the tavern and Chilchuck met his golden eyes for just a second before looking away again.
This was so unprofessional.
But Chilchuck would not be here if there were any other way to deal with the … situation. He tried. Gods had he tried. And failed. Better to get this over with here and now than to suffer through another endless mission with this unresolved thing between them. So when the innkeeper set down two heavy mugs of ale next to him he grabbed them and, with one last, steadying breath, headed over towards the table in the far back.
"Well, hello handsome", he grinned, almost shouting over the noise of the tavern. "You here all by yourself?" It was cheesy but that did not matter. He was not here to woo anyone, he just needed to set the scene.
"Uh", the man mumbled, still taller than Chilchuck even when seated. His eyes were big as they flitted across the room, then landed back on Chilchuck, brows creased just slightly. "I uh, suppose so. Yes?"
Chilchuck nodded both in agreement and to show he was pleased with the answer. He took a seat next to the stranger without waiting for permission, sliding just a bit too close on the bench as he set down both mugs.
"Good. You don't mind me inviting you for a drink, do you?"
Neither did he wait for an answer before he let his hand wander below the table where he found a thick thigh to squeeze. Scratching his nails across the rough fabric of the breeches and digging his fingers into strong cords of muscle. The single touch after months of self control was enough to have him half hard. But to his delight the tallman next to him was not faring much better, pale face flushing and eyes looking anywhere but down at him.
"I've seen you watching me from across the room", Chilchuck continued, nonchalant, as he reached for his mug and took a deep swig. The ale was sweet and left a refreshing, sour taste on his tongue as he swallowed. Slow and languid, savouring. Preparing himself for his next words. Too fast, but they were already clawing at the insides of his teeth and Chilchuck was impatient. Especially after that first touch left him yearning for more.
He squeezed again, noting a tremble to the thigh.
"So if you'd prefer to skip the drink ... I have a room upstairs."
For a moment the tallman was frozen, even his trembling thigh finding stillness. Then he grabbed the mug with both hands and emptied it with quick, greedy gulps. His thumb was still chasing a stray droplet down his chin when he set the mug down again moments later. Sucking the spilled ale from his thumb he looked down at Chilchuck, eyes wide, and nodded.
"I would enjoy that."
His breath was sour-sweet. Chilchuck wanted to climb him.
Not here, though. He mustered enough self control to retrieve his hand and slip out from behind the table. He did not have to look back as he headed for the stairs. The sound of hasty steps following him was enough.
~
The door to his room fell closed with a thud and immediately Chilchuck was pushed up against it as the tallman leaned down to devour him. The kiss tasted of sweet and sour ale, of copper and greed, and Chilchuck was hard pressed to meet it with the same fervour of nipping teeth and sliding tongues.
He had debated with himself about this for longer than he would like to admit, debated whether he should allow the tallman to kiss him tonight. But in the end he knew they needed to get everything they wanted out of this if it was supposed to work. That holding back and drawing lines would only cement the next, enticing thing to yearn for. Especially if the thing they were left yearning for was something as mouth watering as these kinds of kisses.
So Chilchuck leaned back with a low groan and allowed himself to be devoured, meeting that insistent tongue as best he could. Trying to ground himself his fingers curled into the fabric of the tallman's tunic, pulling himself up to meet the kisses with more leverage.
Then clumsy fingers found the buttons of his doublet and Chilchuck got distracted by the attempts to undress him. Soon his more nimble hands joined them and together they opened the buttons. The force with which his doublet was ripped from his body left him breathless, unsteady, and there was nothing he could do but comply when next his shirt was lifted over his head and flung to the side.
With their kiss interrupted golden eyes stared down at him, fiery and wanton. But when the tallman leaned closer again it was not for another kiss. It was to nuzzle his face into the crook of Chilchuck's neck, large hands coming to circle his bare waist as he inhaled deeply.
"Chil...", the tallman whispered between breaths, teeth finding the junction of his shoulder for a quick, harsh bite. "Chil, you smell so good ... taste ... so good..."
A hot shiver ran down Chilchuck's spine and for a second he was reeling. Then he let out a low hiss and slapped the back of his hand against the tallman's chest.
"Shut the fuck up, Laios", he reprimanded. "We don't know each other, remember?"
Above him Laios stiffened, then pulled back from his neck enough to throw Chilchuck an abashed look, eyebrows drawn together and lips curled tight.
"Right...", he murmured, eyes shimmering in the low light of the room. "Sorry..."
Something in Chilchuck's chest pulled tight at that look. When exactly had he gotten this ... soft for the other man? It did not matter. What mattered was that he solved this problem. That was something he could do. Something he always ended up doing. Solving problems.
He sighed, reached up to press his palm against Laios' chest. To keep him from diving down again any moment now.
"It's alright, I'll help you shut up", he said, glancing over at the bed. "Lie down."
Without pause or preamble Laios dropped to his knees right in front of Chilchuck, face alight with curiosity and an ever present readiness to please. Chilchuck almost choked at the sight, throbbing in his breeches at the relaxed implicitness Laios followed his order with.
"On the bed, idiot!", he hissed before Laios could continue and stretch out on the cold, hard ground for him. No questions asked, no hesitation. What was he supposed to do with that?
"Oh, uh ... yes, sir!"
~
Part II
~
Kofi | AO3 | twitter
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schrodingers-boobs · 6 months
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I know @xenasaur was talking about breaking doms but what about the other way around? A dom training a sub to become a dom.
Like the dom leads the trainee to a sub, hands her a paddle or something, and says "Go on, break her. Do this well, and you get a reward. But if you mess up and she cums, you won't."
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wyrmapalooza · 4 months
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Sketch from the plane ride home .
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mof-rot · 3 months
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Sibling pranks
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cowgirl-cow-girl · 1 month
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This feels pathetic, 0 pressure whatsoever I will be ok, but if you could send any kind words it would be appreciated. Im not holding up super well.
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cyanide-latte · 2 years
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Hey friends, mutuals and other fellow writers who are feeling down. Can I level with you for a second? Y'all deserve real and that's what I want to give you here.
Is this going to be an encouragement post? That's the intent. But I don't want it to be the usual affirmation. That's good and it's needed dgmw. But sometimes when you get into a funk about writing you don't want the usual affirmation and encouragement. So I'm going to just give you off-the-cuff and be as real as I can.
Sometimes...writing sucks. Both the act and the final piece. Same is true of any art form, I think: there's just times you'll churn out something that you end up hating or seeing nothing but flaws in what you've made. There's times where just the act of writing is the most awful feeling of an uphill climb, of forcing something that doesn't want to cooperate no matter how much effort you put into it. And there's also going to be time these things overlap or one begets the other.
And that also sucks. In your medium of choice (and yes, writing is an artistic medium, don't bother trying to fight me on that, I don't care how school may have conditioned you to regard it as a mechanical thing, it's art) one of the lowest, most awful and discouraging things is feeling like you're not good enough or skilled enough to hold the implement in your hands and create.
In tandem to that feeling come those thoughts. You know the ones. Every whisper of doubt, of questioning why you're doing this, of asking what the point is, of thinking that even if you make it that there's no point in sharing because someone, somewhere, is going to judge you for daring to put it out there (and more often than not that someone is lurking inside you, in that shadowy, gut-churning lake of self-doubt.)
So, why keep bothering then? What's the point?
I ask myself this semi-frequently. Sometimes there's nothing to spur the questions, sometimes it's a direct reaction to feeling like the few people I really want to read something I wrote just don't care or interact with it. It happens, and I hate it. I cannot stress enough how much I hate that doubt, as well as the worry I'm being childish for wanting interaction.
So why keep writing?
Well, if I've not lost you by now, hopefully what I have to say next won't completely make you scoff and scroll past.
Hope.
Well, hope and a time capsule effect, really.
The thing about hope is we often think of it as a sweet, almost passive and gentle thing, the act of lighting a little candle in a dark room. And hope can be that way; hope and compassion in tandem certainly are evocative of the sweet, kindly image.
But hope is also a very defiant act, and it can be downright aggressive. I don't really like talking about some of the crap I've lived through but here's the skinny on why I'm bringing this up:
Some time ago I found a disc with some very old files on it...including the PDF of all the chapters of a Teen Titans fanfic I was writing when I was 14. I'd started writing fic when I was around 11 or 12, but typically only shared them with a friend from school. At one point I felt bold enough to post a couple fics on FFNet, including that one. Looking over this old PDF, I didn't realize at first that it was mine, my writing was so drastically different to what it's since become. It took a specific couple of moments in the fic as I was reading for me to finally realize "wait, I wrote this!"
And you wanna hear something really wild? It was good! Not at all how I write now, not at all as well-researched as I would be today, but the writing was good, especially when you took into account I was 14 years old and didn't even have regular access to watching the show.
It was also unfinished.
Remember I mentioned a time capsule effect? Where it took me a long time to realize I was reading my own old fic I'd long since taken down, the understanding of why I had removed it and it was unfinished was immediate. Remember that friend I mentioned? Yeah. She was the reason. I'm not going to get into the messy details but suffice it to say that her behavior and treatment of me became abusive at one point and part of the way she kept control of me was to tear down my writing. Constantly. Not even just in online spaces but to my face. Someone who I'd been sharing my stories with for years, so of course I already trusted her judgment. It was a given, no matter how deeply she cut me.
I stopped writing for five years. Every time I tried, that voice of doubt sounded just like her. Dozens of WIPs, of lost ideas, ended up trashed and destroyed. I couldn't write worth shit, so what was the point, you know?
The day I sat down and had a fic idea at 19 years old, I need you to understand I'd not seen that person for a year...and I was still terrified to try and asking what the point even was. Every keystroke, every paragraph of that first chapter, the cutting reminder that I shouldn't even be bothering to try and I couldn't write worth a damn and nobody wanted to read my obviously stupid story anyway was right there, peeking over my shoulder and hissing at me in the dual voice of my own sullenness and her venom.
Writing the first chapter of that fanfic, and then the second, and posting them, I was wracked with anxiety, doubt, self-loathing, a sense of defeat and a deep sense of guilt. Several times I wanted to stop, and almost did.
But like I said, the hope that maybe, maybe, maybe that person and I and that dual voice were all wrong about my writing...that hope was defiant and aggressive. I was working on chapter 3, when I started to think of myself as a bulldog with a steak locked in its jaws that it refused to give up. (I only recently explained this to a friend who started writing and asked me how the heck I could keep at it.) Bulldog visual. Somewhere deep down on some level I couldn't quite tap into in my conscious thought, I did not want to let this steak go.
I posted chapter 3. And a small miracle happened: someone commented. That someone went on to become a dear friend. But it was like floodgates had opened. I gradually got more readers and commenters. Not many, maybe four regular readers total, and not all at once, but across them I started hearing something that, to me at that time, felt like a foreign sentiment. My writing was...good? People thought it was good. They liked it.
Little by little that bulldog gained ground. I kept writing. Not just that fic but I began writing others, and doing more experimental ideas with my writing. Readers came and went but the regulars who stuck around and even some of those who were only around for a while reaffirmed that my writing was good and/or that they enjoyed reading my stories. It still felt strange to hear that, even as much as I tried my best to soak in every compliment and kind word.
If that old Teen Titans unfinished fic PDF is a time capsule of a brighter, more innocent hope that got crushed, when I look at the fic that I started writing at 19 and everything that came after it for a while, I see a different time capsule. A rougher, more defiant hope full of tears and anxiety and doubt and guilt. I look at that fic and several others surrounding it and I'll again be real: I wince at a lot of it. The pacing, some of the plot choices I made, the lack of explanation I gave for some things. It's not a bad fic at all, especially for someone who hadn't written for five solid years and didn't think they could again. Still, I wince all the same because I know more now, I've improved a ton, circumstances have changed and the flaws in all my fics from about ages 19 to 25 are painfully glaring. But that person had hope and was clawing their way back. Little bulldog was gaining ground and not giving up that steak. Heck, not giving up several steaks. A lot of my readership by my mid-to-late 20s had begun to tell me that my writing wasn't just good and entertaining, it had some quality to it they looked forward to, something that even in the shortest and most self-indulgent pieces shone through and hooked them. It didn't just make me happy, it also made many others happy, and many, many of the people who stuck with me since I was 19 (and are still with me now) have talked with me about how much they've watched my writing grow over the years, through everything I've both posted or shared in private. Even the ones I've been reluctant to share or feel are bad.
So, now that I've wrapped up that bit and tucked away the mirror, where does that leave this post?
Usually, when we get in these writing slumps, there's probably external factors, sure. But I think I know pretty well it's that inner voice, the one that can be as ugly as it can sound reasonable, that will really look for a way to justify not wanting to write. Sometimes it's not even a completely cruel or self-harming thought process; often when we find ourselves frustrated or constantly dissatisfied with our work, it's because we're starting a new stage of artistic growth. Something in that artistic part of us is undergoing change, metamorphosis, in our approach to what we make, and if we cannot pinpoint what it is—be it certain techniques, use of devices, or even stylistic approach—it becomes easier to want to give up. Because those pieces we create in the "in-between" stages feel flawed or pointless or wrong somehow, and there is a sense of shame in wanting to share or feel proud of them.
I'm not going to tell you what you should or shouldn't do. What we all need is different from person to person, and I'm not going to force you to parade writing you feel embarrassed about or ashamed by. I'm also not going to sit here and say any empty assurances that it's just doubt and you'll get through it, because I know what it feels like to be so deeply devoured by the sense of wanting to give up. What I am going to do is recommend you keep all those pieces, even if it's just to yourself. They're little time capsules, little facets of you at different periods in time. They're different things you're feeling, experiencing, thinking, all sown into innocuous little fragments of writing. I see and remember aspects of my past selves I'd long forgotten more clearly in a ficlet than I do in some photos my family took. Sometimes they're hidden little gems I learn from, eeeeeven if they occasionally make me wince.
And also yeah. Don't give up the hope that you are improving, that your writing has meaning, that you're connecting with others who enjoy what you make, that your growth is being tracked by people who can see it much clearer than you can and appreciate and encourage it. There is value. Don't give up on seeing that all your writing has value, all of it. Don't give up that hope. But don't think of it as a passive, gentle little thing that flickers here and there in the dark moments.
It's defiance, like that bulldog.
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fablegate · 8 months
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I see a lot of posts about people with diabetes. Lot of people with a chronic illness having to deal with countless bullshit (from food management to insurance bs) just for this hitch in their body not to kill them.
But I want to make a post to the people who, while don’t have diabetes, still have to watch their loved ones suffer from it.
And this is not to take away what diabetics have to go through, if anything I mean this post to emphasize to people who never have to deal with diabetes directly just how much it hurts the people with it and their loves ones too.
For me it was growing up nearly having a loved one fall over countless times out of no where. It was learning to watch for signs of spacing out, being ready with extra glucose tablets and knowing where the emergency pen is, having to call er in the middle of night when you’re loved isn’t waking up.
It’s listening to phone calls fighting with insurance because they don’t want to cover insulin or are raising the prices.
It’s your loved one getting so excited to be getting the automatic insulin pods and not feel self conscious about taking insulin shots anymore at restaurants.  
It’s your loved one looking right at you but can’t tell you your own name while you give them food and wait for them to come back out of it.
It’s watching your loved one struggle your whole life until one last trip to the er at 2 in the morning.
I don’t have diabetes. And damn if not a day goes by that I’m not relieved that I don’t. But it doesn’t change how much it hurts watching a loved one suffer and die from it.
I see posts saying diabetes use to kill. It still kills. Some days I feel lucky, then I remember who I’ve lost and...then I don’t.
I’ve been lucky not to ever hear someone in person joke about diabetes or blame diabetics for what they go through. But damn if you’re still reading this and one of those people who joke...I think you need to realize just how lucky you are not to have diabetes in your life. 
Be glad you don’t have it. Be glad your loved ones don’t have it. 
And quit poking fun at the people who do.
Because diabetes still kills.
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stellamancer · 11 months
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don’t, if you value your life (one-sided nier x reader)
notes: i have had the idea of this fic in my head ever since i finished replicant like a year ago. of all the things i expected to write on my days off, this was absolutely not one of them, but at midnight a demon possessed my body and puked out the fic. though i think of it more of a writing exercise since anyone knows me knows that my typical genre of fic is completely on the other side of the spectrum of this. 
contains: angst (no happy ending), canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, suicide ideation, very minor stalking, character death, largely un-beta read, language (Kainé is present after all). 
wc: 3.9k words
if you read this and think i need to add a tag, please tell me. 
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Don't go into that village. 
Don't go near it. 
Don't, if you value your life. 
The words of your elders are etched into your brain— your mind. It's a mantra, a hymn, a warning. The village in question is a quiet place, nestled in verdant hills, built upon the ruins of the old world. They say it's peaceful there, pretty even, but the village houses a great and terrible monster. One that will kill on sight— without hesitation, without mercy. 
When you were younger, the curiosity, morbid and insatiable clawed at your heart. Maybe the elders were over exaggerating, maybe they were mistaken, maybe there was no monster at all. You thought about it sometimes, thought about tempting fate and visiting the forbidden village. Someone said that there's a library there and you'd love to see one, even just once. However, everyone who ignored the words of elders— who set off to see that village never, ever returned. 
That, in of itself, was enough to prove the monster was real. 
And so, you stayed away.
You didn't need to see a library, the view of the ocean near your home was beautiful enough to fill your heart and mind, leaving no room for thoughts of merciless, bloodthirsty monsters. For the most part, your existence has been quiet and peaceful.
At least it was, until the monster left its village. 
Until the monster came to the seaside town you called your home. 
Truth be told, it's not the first time the monster has appeared in your hometown, but its visits were well communicated— the sentries stationed outside the town quick to inform everyone to hide for the monster was on the way. Those visits were spent in the shadows hiding with bated breath— hoping and praying the monster would never notice. Your mother had hidden you well away, afraid that even laying eyes on the monster would condemn you to a fate far too sad. So you didn't know, you didn't know—
The screaming through the town is sudden and shrill, the sound running chills down your body. It is a siren biding you to run if you value your life. You and those around you act on instinct, running, scampering across the streets. Some run further into town, some toward the harbor, you run toward the lighthouse, abandoned since its caretaker died some years ago. You think it will be safest. The monster is said to be indiscriminate with its slaughtering, but also intelligent— surely, it won't come looking for murder in a place where no one is supposed to be. And if it does… you can choose to end it yourself rather than at the monster's bloody hands. 
You ascend the lighthouse, two steps at a time. The cacophony of carnage is muffled here— distant, but still ominous in the background. You quickly reach the top of the tower and the town is so saturated in the stench of death that not even the salty sea breeze that's filling your lungs can displace it. From here you can see it all, your peers running in all directions, scattering like petals in the wind. 
It is here, for the very first time, you see the monster. 
If not for the large, bloodied greatsword in his hands, you would think him more a man than a monster. You cannot make much of his features from atop the lighthouse, save for his hair, shimmering like a beautiful white pearl in the sunlight. A strange, morbid frustration tears at your stomach as you strain your eyes in efforts to get a better look at this monster. He rushes at a group, too slow, too unfortunate and looks to effortlessly cleave them, slicing their bodies into ribbons. 
You should be horrified. Disgusted. Afraid. 
Instead, you are transfixed. 
Your body is stock still as you bear witness to the monster's massacre. He is every bit as cruel as the elders said— there is no hesitation, no mercy in the swing of his sword as he fells your neighbors and friends one by one. You are lucky that you ran to such a secluded area, just as you figured, the monster of a man doesn't bother to come your way. You wonder if he thinks there is no carnage to be found in such an abandoned place. 
Do monsters even think?
You remain there, rooted to the spot until you see the monster, a bloodstained pearl, wander toward the town's entrance. Once he's gone, your legs finally give out from beneath you, the weight of it all hitting you like a tidal wave. Eventually, you crawl your way down the steps of the lighthouse and into the town proper to find any survivors.
After a few hours, everyone is rounded up. Only just a fourth of your small community remains. No one is without loss— friends, family, lovers are all victims to the monster's rampage. Your heart seizes in your chest when you realize your mother is among the lost. She had been home when the disaster came to pass, waiting for you to return from an errand she had sent you out for. Had she come looking for you when all hell broke loose? Was she searching for you when she drew her last breath? Was your unconfirmed safety what cost her her life? 
Despaired and disgusted, you retch. 
You should have run home instead of to the lighthouse. Because you didn't, your mother is dead. Or maybe, if you had gone back, you would have perished together, you holding your mother in a shielding embrace as the monster brings the sword down. Or, more morbidly, the monster taking your life before your mother's eyes before claiming her life as well. You don't know. You throw up again. 
The remaining shuffle to the beach, erecting crude graves of shells and stones there. One of the older members of the community recites a prayer, something reminiscent of the olden days before the ebbing tide washes the graves away. 
In the days after the slaughter, the community is especially quiet, mourning. You don't know what to do in the absence of your mother, most of your friends were among the deceased as well: you have no one left. Some of the few remaining turn to anger in their grief: marching off to the forbidden village to claim what all know to be suicide disguised as declarations of revenge. You think it's because they don't know what to do either. 
There is almost no one left in your small seaside town and the decision is made to find another community. You follow wordlessly, carrying nothing but your memories of your quiet and peaceful life because they are all that you have left. 
Fortunately, there is another community close to your seaside town, sequestered in a building large enough to home at least a dozen families. From the outside the building looks like a fancy mansion, but the interior creeps you out– it's too quiet, too eerie. To make matters worse, the community lives beneath the mansion, in what seems to be a mad scientist's lab. You almost feel like at any moment you're going to become an experiment. Some of the members of this new community seem like they already are one. 
The only good thing about your new home is that there is a library. Shelves and shelves of books line the wall. It is the only place in the mansion with character, but there are rules that restrict visiting the library. You don't care. The rules don't matter much any more.
Nothing really matters much any more. 
It is in the library where you see the monster a second time. 
While perusing what appears to be some kind of fairy tale you hear footsteps in the hall and you instinctively scamper off into a hiding spot. You're not in the mood to be caught and lectured by the guards for breaking the rules tonight. The doors swing open and it's not the guards who walk in but the monster himself, accompanied by two— three others?
You watch from the shadows as the monster and his comrades move about the library. As he chats with them, you can't help but think of him as more of a man than a monster. He banters with… a floating book? How strange. How interesting. You'd love to see the contents of a talking book one day. 
It is much easier to make out the man's features in such close quarters. You think that he can't be much older than you. He's handsome, much more handsome than a monster has any right being. There's some odd urge to get a better look at his face pooling in your stomach. Your instinct is to act on it, to just get closer and look and look and—
Don't go near it.
Don't, if you value your life.
The old mantra holds you still like a spell, the warning coursing through your veins, keeping you taut. But still you keep watching the man, the monster. He laughs with what you have come to realize are his friends and you think he almost seems human. Is this really the same monster that wreaked havoc on your little town a few months ago?
The man and his friends soon leave the library, the talking book bickering with the man's lady friend about her choice in dress. When you are sure that they are gone and not coming back you emerge from your hiding place and settle yourself in with the fairy tale book you had been reading. Hours pass before you've read your fill and you make your way back to the cold, metal depths your community calls home. 
What you find upon arrival is not the low, but comforting chatter of your friends and new neighbors, but dozens upon dozens of bloodstains— fresh and sticky. The stench of death is thick in the air, a sickening and stifling miasma. Before you can think, your feet are racing through the halls, screams reverberating against the walls as you search and search and search.
But you find no one. 
You are the only survivor. 
No one is left and you don't know what to do with yourself. There is a distant thought bidding you to return to the library, to drown yourself in books, in stories of another land, another time, another place where things matter and happy endings exist.
There is another thought, closer, louder and it is of the man. The handsome man. The terrible monster. Something in you desires to seek him out. Not for revenge, because you know that would be pointless, but merely because you want to get a better look at his face before you meet your inevitable end. 
You make it your goal— your reason to live. At this point, you're not even sure if you can call what you're doing living. You leave the mansion with this goal; it's all you have left. 
The journey to the forbidden village is not that long, it only takes a day on foot. But when you get to the edge you hesitate, unsure. 
What if the monster of a man isn't here?
You shake your head. Nonsense. This is his home. No other monsters have come to destroy it for he is surely the strongest one in all the land. He will definitely be here. 
Shuffling past what looks to be an abandoned camp, you make your way toward the village gates. Naturally, there are guards, but you manage to hop the fence, avoiding their attention. 
The village, despite being forbidden, is fairly peaceful. Quiet. It reminds you of your seaside home. You keep to the shadows as you steal past a row of merchants, watching as a few children play tag around a cobblestone fountain. 
Now that you're here, you realize you have no clue where to find the monster of a man. But there is one building, sitting atop a grassy hill above all the rest. You think it's a good idea to start there. 
You slink your way up the hill and you spot a few more children playing in the grass. To your surprise, a couple notice you. Surprising you further, they wave. Shyly, you wave back before bolting toward the tall building, not wanting to remain in the same spot lest the children go running to their parents. When you reach the top of the hill, you look back. The children are still playing and you breathe a sigh of relief before entering the building. 
It turns out that this is the famed library of the forbidden village. The feeling of joy, strange yet familiar, bubbles pleasantly in your stomach. You’re here to find the monster, but surely it’s fine if you take a detour. This library is much bigger than the one at the mansion— there are more books to bury yourself in, more stories to fill the void in your heart that’s been growing ever since you left your seaside town. You peruse the titles on the shelves and when you find one you don’t recognize you pull at it, freeing it from the shelf and watching as it falls to the ground, the smack echoing throughout the otherwise silent library. You freeze, fearful that someone will come running to find the source of the noise. When no one does, you scoop up the book and scamper off to a quiet, dark corner of the library to read. 
Part way through the story, the main doors of the library slam open, demanding your attention and you look up from the top of your book only to find the monster of a man. But it doesn’t look like he’s here to read, instead he briskly walks the length of the lobby. Your eyes remain glued to his form as he runs up the stairs and disappears onto the library’s second floor. The thought to follow him crosses your mind, but you remain still. He will have to come back down the stairs when he leaves— you will follow him then. You turn your attention back to the story, a little saddened that your attention is divided: it was just starting to get good. Maybe you’ll get a chance later to reread it, give it your full attention. 
Some time later, you hear footsteps again and quietly close your book. The man appears, descending the staircase, his handsome face marred by a scowl. Idly, you wonder what happened to make him upset like that, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. You stare from your dark little corner, waiting for him to leave before you follow after him, sure to keep yourself out of sight, sure to keep yourself at a safe distance. 
Don't go near it.
Don't, if you value your life.
The monster heads toward a house, fenced in and half-dilapidated. Despite that, there’s something about the home that is warm, cozy. A stark difference from the terribly violent image of the monster that the elders painted for you. You watch, hidden in the shadow of a nearby building, as the monster tends to a flower bed next to his home, watering and weeding them before he heads inside. Through the window you see the glimmer of light, and once you’re sure he won’t suddenly come out and kill you where you stand, you draw closer to the house. 
Curious, you examine the flowers. You are not an expert on plants, but they look well cared for. It’s strange. Why would a monster so lovingly tend to plants? A monster by nature, by definition, is a creature of destruction, so why? You don’t understand. 
But you want to, against all instinct, against all odds, you want to.
You start to follow after the monster as he goes about his business, or more accurately, the business of others, running errands for them: delivering packages and messages, fishing, committing atrocities against your people. You’re always sure to stay a safe distance away— close enough to observe, yet far enough to not get wrapped up in the carnage. But sometimes, a reckless rush runs through your veins and you steal closer, listening in on his conversations with his comrades, his friends. You learn their names, their personalities and while they become more human in your eyes, their images are still blurry in your mind’s eye; you are not yet foolish enough to get close enough to get a good look at their faces. You are not yet foolish enough to delude yourself into thinking of them as friends. 
One evening, at the camp you hear the scantily clad woman— Kainé, very, very loudly announce that she is going ‘to go take a piss.’ The talking book— Weiss, complains loudly about her crudeness, disgusted, as he always is, with her choice of language. She scoffs, dismissing him with a wave before walking away. 
Walking toward you.
You scamper away, running toward a large, nearby bush and hiding within. She shouldn’t see you, or at least you hope she won’t. She approaches another bush and you look away, respecting her privacy as much as you can.
“Come out, I know you’re there.”
Her voice is a low growl, and you think she can’t possibly be talking to you. While your observations have led you to believe that there is a soft core to her brash outer exterior, there is little doubt in your mind that, much like the monster of a man, Kainé would slaughter you on sight. 
“Hurry up, I don’t have all fuckin’ night.” She stomps over to your bush, and you’re sure she can’t see you, but still she leans in and whispers, her voice both seductive and violent, “Or if you want, I can just end your miserable existence right damn here.”
Instinct takes over and you run out of the bush, away from her. 
“There you are, you little fucker,” she snorts. You back away slowly, as she straightens herself out. Kainé eyes you like a bug, one that she is about to crush beneath the heel of her shoe. You swallow thickly, unsure if you should try to run or not. The only thing you are sure of is that if you do run, you’re dead. 
“So, why’ve you been following us, huh?” Kainé demands, arms crossed over her chest, frowning. She must know that she could kill you in an instant, must know that you couldn’t lay a finger on her if you tried to attack her. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed a fucking shade like you lurking around us for weeks.”
Shade. That’s what they call you and your people. Shades— condemned to the shadows, unable to live peacefully with the humans, or, as the elders called them, the replicants… whatever that meant. You eye Kainé warily, wondering why she is asking you a question when it is known that humans can’t communicate with shades, can’t converse with them— if they could, then maybe the monster of a man would just be a man, his beautiful hands devoid of the blood of your friends, your neighbors… your mother. 
“Hey!” Kainé shouts. “I’m talking to you, the least you can do is answer.”
She’s right. Even if she can’t understand, she probably can hear the words from your Shade mouth. You take a deep breath and speak for what feels like the first time in an eternity. “...it’s because of… him.”
Your voice sounds so strange in your ears, a sound more foreign than silence itself. Kainé stares at you, scowling like she knows, like she can understand the Shade tongue with which you speak. It’s hard to tell, and you take one, two, three steps closer to look in her eyes, risking your life more and more with each forward step that you take. You’ve read that the eyes are the window to the soul, so maybe if you can see them clearly, you’ll be able to tell, to know, if she really, really understands.
Fortunately for you, Kainé doesn’t move, nor does she speak, but still you hear a voice— not hers, erupt in a manic fit of laughter from her body. Her scowl deepens, clearly annoyed, but it seems that it’s not directed at you. 
“How cute, the little shade has a crush!” the voice howls, mocking you.
Your face scrunches in bewilderment. The source of the voice… is Kainé herself, but she is clearly not speaking…  You shake your head. No, that’s not right. This isn’t a crush, this isn’t infatuation, it’s merely curiosity. “No… that’s not… that’s right. I’m just… I just…”
The laughter grows louder, more derisive, “Oh don’t fucking delude yourself. You’ve been stalking after us for how long? It’s frankly kinda gross if you ask me!”
Kainé mutters something under her breath that you can’t hear, presumably at the mysterious voice making a mockery of you. 
Your stomach churns violently, a grotesque concoction of fear and unease. He’s not wrong though. It is kind of gross how you’ve been following this group around like a pathetic puppy. Watching them at a distance, wanting to get closer, to satiate your curiosity, yet staying far away because that’s the only way you can coexist with the monster and his friends. 
You think of the monster, terrible and cruel in his extermination of your people, the Shades. You think of the man, gentle and kind as he tends to the flowers by his house. The images in your mind overlap. Terrible and gentle. Kind and cruel. The images blur. 
You can only see the smile he’s offered to his friends. 
It’s all you have left now, and you don’t know what to do with yourself.
You are not one of his friends, the image of his smile is something you’ve stolen, held in the shadows, kept like a treasure— a secret that should have never been yours.
In fact, it never was.
“Hey Kainé?” A third voice enters the fray and you feel as if you have been drenched in ice water, thrust into the icy depths of the ocean, your entire body freezing over. “You’ve been taking a while, Emil and I were—”
He stops short. You know it’s because he sees you. 
Don't go near it.
Don't, if you value your life.
Everything happens so fast, before you can run, before you can even blink. The spear that was affixed to his back is now in his hands, its tip embedded deep into your abdomen. The pain is mind shattering as it spreads throughout your body, like a wildfire in a forest. 
The monster is close, closer than he has ever been, than he ever will be, the view of his face clear, and unmarred by distance. He is devoid of expression as he draws even closer, plunging the spear impossibly deeper into your fracturing body. Rather than the pain, you focus what attention you have left on his face. 
It’s what you wanted, to get a better look at his face before meeting your inevitable end. 
But now that you’re here, you realize, regretfully, that you maybe want a little bit more. 
You want to live in another land, another time, another place, where you’re not just a Shade and you can have a happy ending. 
With what sense you have left, you focus on his eyes. They’re clear, and blue as the sky on a cloudless day. As your consciousness ebbs away, fading rapidly from existence, you distantly think that at least the last thing you get to see is breathtakingly beautiful. It would have been nice, if you had had longer to enjoy it.
You have nothing left.
You are nothing but a bloodstain on the monster’s spear. 
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vangoghinthehead · 7 months
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when i feel as though i am not existing, i want to exist, but when i feel myself existing i fear i do not want to exist
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icannotgetoverbirds · 7 months
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The Baker's Code
As alluring and powerful as getting out into the streets and protesting can be, sometimes you just can't fucking do it. Sometimes the risk is too high. Sometimes you realize that the risk isn't just to you, but to those around you. Sometimes you just don't have any way to get there and/or back.
So what do you do?
You find another way to help.
Presenting The Baker's Code - a series of questions and answers to use in conversation with a protester if they're needing a safe place to stay after a protest and can't make it back home.
"I need some cookies." In this code, cookies represent hours. This works out quite nicely since cookies are baked in dozens and days are broken into 24 hours. If someone asks you for cookies, they need somewhere safe for a couple of hours.
"I need a cake / some cakes." Cakes represent days. If someone's asking for a cake, they need at least a day to hide.
"Do you have an oven?" This is asking if you, personally, can provide 4 walls and a roof over their head. They can also ask "Do you know where I can find an oven?" in case you can't shelter them but you know someone who can.
"I have ingredients." Either party can say this to indicate that they can provide supplies for the "customer's order."
"I have a pan / pans." Use this to indicate how many beds you have available. If no beds are available, you can tell your customer you'll be "baking on the rack."
"It's a secret recipe." This is asking for total plausible deniability. It means don't tell me what you did. If I had an oven, all my recipes are likely to be secret because I'm a terrible liar.
Similarly, asking "Do you have a recipe?" means you want to know what happened. "I need a recipe," means your customer's order is dependent on knowing wha they did. If you need to know what they did but still want plausible deniability, tell them "I meed a recipe, but sugarcoat it," which means their order is conditional on you knowing what they did, but you also need them to wrap it in enough layers of metaphor, code, and/or riddles that it could just as easily be a bedtime story.
"Do I have competition at the bakery?" This is asking them if they're being followed by someone who wants to take them into custody. If they answer yes, the follow-up is: "Is it neck and neck?" which is asking how closely they're being followed.
Anyways. I don't have an oven right now, but once I do, y'all are welcome to come over for some cookies or a cake. You might need to provide your own ingredients and it's likely I'll be baking on the rack or in a foil pan, and the recipes have to stay secret unless you're excellent at sugarcoating things.
Thought this might be useful in this day and age.
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Another Kaeya piece set in SAGAU, enjoy
You frowned, pausing in your attempts at knitting and stood up. Another knock from the door came again.
You sighed, sitting back down on the bed.
"Come in." You said, putting away the crafting project in the drawer.
The door creaked open and a familar chuckle filled the room and your heart, making it skip a beat.
"Well hello there, Your Grace. Hiding another crafting project from me?" Kaeya teased, slowly walking up to the bed.
You sighed, rolling your eyes and lying back down. "I just wanted to knit in peace, popsicle."
"You wound me, Your Grace." Kaeya said, mock hurt in his voice and face as he placed a gloved hand over his heart. "Calling me a popsicle? That's very uncouth for a god."
"I am your god. I can call you whatever I please." You stated, interlacing your hands before putting them behind your head. You crossed one leg over the other, throwing him an annoyed look. "What do you want?"
He sat down next to you, grinning. "Well, Kind One, I was wondering if I, as your oh so devoted follower that helped you out when you first graced Teyvat with your presence, could have a gift?"
You blinked. Now that you had all your powers and memories back, giving him a gift was something easy you could do.
"Sure, why not? You did help me against all those non-believers. What kind of gift do you want?"
"You."
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tealdoodles · 3 months
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Watching ing Luigis Mansion where he uses Fire to melt Ice to get to a ghost… and then this popped into my head.
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fobnsfwdoodles · 7 months
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So much happens here lmao
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