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forbidden-sunlight · 5 months

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yandere! literary agent with fem!reader scenario

warnings: implication of obsessive thoughts or love.

There might be potential triggers in this story. If you do not feel comfortable venturing any further, please hit the 'back' button on your mobile device or computer and read something much more pleasant.

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Hey guys, welcome back to another yandere fic, introducing Yulian Prescott. I'd like to give a big shout-out to my dear friend @deathmetalunicorn1 for helping me write this and finding the perfect likeness for my character, especially when this idea came to me all of a sudden on a Sunday night when I should be sleeping instead of staying up an ungodly hour.

As always, bullying on here will not be tolerated. If it does happen, this scenario will be taken down. I'm not sure if this will be a series. At the moment, this is just a scenario.

With that being said, sit back, relax, and let's dive into the cutthroat world of publishing.

PART TWO

Yandere!Literary Agent is a man who prides himself on being very good at his job. He represented one of the best publishing houses in the country. Anything less than what he expected from his clients was unacceptable.

If the manuscript arrived in his inbox exactly two minutes past the promised deadline, he would not look at it. If his client is acting like a stupid moron at a function or royally fucking up their reputation by posting something inappropriate on their social media account, he is not cleaning up their mess. He is not their babysitter. They are full-grown adults. And if one of them is not able to produce another book that will actually sell past the number of copies slated to be printed, he will let them go. Call him cruel if you want. Yandere!Literary Agent is simply being pragmatic. He wasn’t cheap. He only wants the best of the best.

So imagine Yandere!Literary Agent’s surprise when a particularly difficult client sent him a completed manuscript. He planned on writing her an email that after much deliberation, it was time for her to find another agent to represent her. The client, Abigail Crowley, had written an adult dark academia trilogy and a feminist retelling of the myth of Theseus, told from the perspective of his lover Adriane. The manuscripts following the conclusion of her last book, however, were complete shit. Her royalties were nearly gone, having squandered them on a penthouse in a high-end neighborhood, the latest clothes, and a wine fridge. You heard him. A fucking wine fridge when she could have replaced that shoddy laptop of hers with something better so she could keep writing books and not have it crap out on her.

Half-amused and half-annoyed at this pathetic attempt to keep her contract with the publishing company from being null and void, Yandere!Literary Agent clicked on the attachment and read it. One page became four, then fifty. He had to force himself to stop when it was lunchtime and he was already at the mid-way point.

This story, it was…good. No, it was more than good. It was absolutely fantastic. And Yandere!Literary Agent did not compliment his clients’ works very often, which meant he believed at this very moment, this manuscript will most definitely become Abigail’s comeback to the literary industry. Book sales would go through the roof, A Netflix deal was also possible. But the first hurdle he had to overcome was pitching the manuscript, and making sure the query letter was at least consistent with the story that Abigail was trying to sell to him.

And he’ll make it happen. He is very good at his job, after all.

Once he had successfully pitched it with a bit of extra charm, he contacted Abigail. She was over the moon, promising to make any necessary edits to the manuscript and it will be sent to him on time. From there, time fast forwarded. ARC books were sent out, Abigail selected the cover designs for the regular and special editions, and a tentative book tour was scheduled. Seven cities, and one international trip, maybe another in the future. Sales for this book were projected to exceed expectations. Yandere!Literary Agent was very confident things would go smoothly from here. At least he had thought so.

A month before the book was to be published, his secretary knocked on his door and said he had a visitor. They insisted on seeing him. Yandere!Literary Agent raised his brow, rising from his desk and stepping out into the hall and saw you.

In the beginning, he will begrudgingly confess that his first impression of you was someone who is painfully average and out of place. A backpack slung over your shoulder, dressed in navy blue medical scrubs and looking absolutely haggard. Your eyes, though, shined with anxiety and determination. You inclined your head.

“I apologize for the sudden intrusion, I know you’re busy, but I have some concerns about the book that’s going to be released soon by Abigail Crowley.”

Yandere! Literary Agent’s gaze sharpened.. “And what, pray tell, are your complaints?” He crossed his arms. “Are you one of the people who had signed up to be ARC reader and didn’t get their copy?”

You raised an eyebrow. “...No?”

“Then why -”

“Because it is my novel that is being published. Without my consent.” You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Look, I know it is hard to believe, I get it.” You then swung your backpack around to your front, unzipping the larger compartment. You pulled out a large notebook, some papers, and a flash drive. You held them out to him. “But I think what I have here might convince you to allow me ten minutes, if not five, to hear me out. That’s all I’m asking. This isn’t about money, this isn’t about suing your company. I just want my story back. I’ve already tried talking to Abigail about it, and she isn’t picking up my calls. Please.” You said. “Three minutes.”

His schedule was clear until the two o’clock meeting with another client on the other side of town. That was about an hour and half from now, as he had just come back from lunch. He supposed he could give you three minutes. Rolling his eyes, Yandere!Literary Editor swiveled on his heel.

“Let’s see what you have. Melissa, please hold my calls until I’m done.” His diligent secretary nodded and went back to her desk. You followed him like a lost little duckling back to his office. Once the door was closed, you handed him everything.

Yandere!Literary Editor went over the materials carefully, flipping through the pages of the notebook. The outlines and character designs were here, all written in excruciating detail and in such tiny print. He asked you random questions, going off of his memory from the manuscript and these notes. You answered him without hesitation.

“Yes, that’s correct. What? No, absolutely not. I would never have those characters be romantically paired up! Their relationship is too toxic, and wouldn’t set a good example to the target audience. I’m sorry, what? No, that isn’t her name! It’s Cristabel, not Anastasia! She’s supposed to be assisting the Night Emperor with collecting intelligence via the gossip of salons under her alias, not swooning over his brother when he’s already happily married to his wife! Good God, no. That scene should not even be there! That’s filler content and makes the character growth of the protagonist seem like the pay-off wasn’t worth it, or that he didn’t learn anything at all since the beginning of the book!”

Yandere!Literary Agent grounded the molars of his back teeth, inhaling slow, deep breaths through his nostrils. Keeping his emotions in check is one of the reasons why he has survived in the publishing industry for this long, and he’s such a successful man.

But hearing you speak about the characters, perfectly recalling the manuscript’s themes and looking back at the notebook in his hand, seeing the colorful sticky notes with edits and improvised scenes written on them…he couldn’t deny it any further. You were the real author of the book he’s representing, and Abigail Crowley played him like a goddamned fiddle.

If this wasn’t enough damning evidence of his client’s plagiarism, you had shown him an original illustration of the world you had created. It was done by an artist you had commissioned on Etsy, with proof of purchase for their services and a timestamp. Three years ago. That was when Abigail’s last best-selling book hit the shelves, and when her creative well began to dry out.

You must have caught on to his irritation, because you told him that you weren’t here to intentionally stir up any trouble. A coworker had told you about Abigail’s newest book coming out, and the premise was exactly yours, at least what was advertised in the BookTok and Youtube trailers online. You’ve been searching high and low for your manuscript, and the only other person who has been in your apartment and knew about your creative endeavors has been Abigail. She wasn’t really your friend, per say. You took some of the same creative writing courses. You eventually found another career to pursue, and you kept writing as a hobby. She went on to become a professional author and never missed an opportunity to show off her success whenever she invited you out for drinks at an upscale bar or went to fancy dinners.

Why would Abigail steal the book you’ve been working on for three years when you work a full-time day job, you had no idea. She’s living the dream that she’s always wanted, defying her mother’s wishes to get a normal job because writing is everything to her, and she would never give up on it. But if you were to be hypothetical, it might be another attempt to somehow get one up on her self-proclaimed rival, Cindy Chen, who is an even bigger success than her.

You then rubbed your eyes. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.” You murmured, standing up from your seat. “Keep the notebook, the maps, whatever you want. If you could return them to me when you’re done, that’s all I ask. And an apology from Abigail, if you’re able to get one out of her. Like I said, this isn’t about money, royalties, or fame. I just want my story back.”

Yandere!Literary Agent immediately stood up, his eyes slightly widened in fear. “Wait, please, just a moment! I know you’re tired, you want to go home…but I need to set things right. If I had known that this manuscript, your story, had been stolen, I would have never spearheaded its publication.” And he wouldn’t have. Not only would it affect his reputation, but the company’s too. Stocks would plummet, and there would be a feeding frenzy on social media with #abigailcrowley, #plagiarism, #sailboatpublishinghouse.

When you looked at him, his heart lurched uncomfortably at seeing your lips fall into a crestfallen expression. You looked so tired, so done with everything, and oh god you looked like you were about to cry shit. Walking around his desk, Yandere!Literary Agent eased you to sit back down and quickly prepared an espresso, possessing a machine to make it in his office so he did not have to walk down five flights to the break room.

You thanked him for the drink and took a sip, wrinkling your nose slightly, no doubt surprised at the taste. You must not be a regular espresso drinker, or prefer how you made it. Either way, he was grateful that you did not bolt out of the office. Picking up his office phone, he dialed Melissa’s number.

“Call all of the heads, including the marketing and social media departments. This is an emergency meeting. Now!” Bless Melissa, she did not ask him questions and said she would get on it immediately, hanging up on him. The next person he called was Abigail fucking Crowley. He sweet-talked her into coming to the office, apologizing for interrupting her ‘creativity time’ and promised it won’t take long. She swore to be there in a half an hour, so long as traffic didn’t back up. Yandere!Literary Agent played the understanding card and hung up, his smile being replaced with a smirk. Hook, line, and sinker. He scoffed. He then turned to you.

“Everything will be resolved soon.” He promised.

“Sir -” You began.

“Yulian, please.”

“Mister Yulian, I understand that you want to make things right, but…can you really get Abigail to talk? She blocked my calls, and the book is hitting the shelves in a month, maybe less than that? How are you going to recover the money that has gone into getting it published, the fees for the printing companies, and the marketing? Correct me if I’m wrong, I’m not too familiar with how publishing works these days.”

You weren’t wrong, at least in the aspect that the company has put a significant amount of money into the publication of the stolen manuscript, your work, he added mentally. It was too late to stop the printing, and the final draft would need a significant amount of changes. Unless…

“Abigail is a plagiarist, and you are the rightful creator. The way I see it, we can salvage the financial loss by putting your name on the cover, and fixing the glaring omissions as well as other scenes you claim shouldn’t even be there.” He sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Of course, we would need to have a press conference and explain why we are changing authors, and what she has done. Considering the timetable and coordinating with the printing companies, it will be cutting it close.”

You stared at him silently for a long moment before placing the espresso cup back onto the tiny saucer with a soft clink, releasing a heavy sigh. “If I agree to do this, to help with the edits, probably fuck up my sleeping pattern and might potentially be fired from my job unless I can use some of my PTO, what will I get in return?”

He smiled. “Abigail will be the one to pay for publishing and marketing fees. I can extend the deadline for the revisions by a week. And you will be paid for your time, of course. There will be no need to come here to drop off revisions either. All correspondence will be through email. As an agent, I am qualified to be your representative during press conferences, so you will not have to be present. All I would ask of you is to turn in the final manuscript on time and not say anything on social media until our legal team is fully prepared.”

“No need to worry about Twitter or Facebook. Haven’t logged on to my account in years.” You raised the espresso cup to your lips. “Too much politics.” You tilted your head to the side, a puzzled frown stretching across your face. “Any chance I could get all of this in writing? I might need to get a lawyer if Abigail tries to take it to court and sue me for defamation.”

Yandere!Literary Agent nodded. He opened up a blank document and immediately typed up the contract, including everything that you have discussed and a few other variables. Once he finished, he printed it out, handing it to you. You read through the contents carefully before handing it back to him.

“It looks good - it’s all here and I’m agreeable to the terms.” You said.

Humming under his breath, Yandere! Literary Agent signed the bottom. You signed your name next to his, with today’s date and the time.

He ignored the tiny tingle that crawled up his spine when your fingertips brushed against his as you gave him back the pen. You agreed to stay until the matter with Abigail was over, and he would email you the manuscript so you could go through everything when you get home.

As it turned out, you did not have to wait much longer for the best-selling author to make her entrance at Board Room 3. Exchanging numbers with Yandere! Literary Agent you would wait in the adjacent room until he sent you a text to make your entrance. Melissa escorted you to said room when he received a message from Abigail that she would be here in ten minutes.

It’s time. That was the message he sent you. When you opened the door, revealing yourself to the staff and the flustered Abigail…she snapped.

She rambled how she needed a book, just one more successful book, and she would be set for life. She wouldn’t lose her penthouse, she would still be considered a worthy rival to Cindy Chen, and above all else, she could still write as she had always wanted to do since she was a teenager. You already had a normal job, you had a steady income, you weren’t even a writer. Being a hobbyist writer did not count. Yes, she took your manuscript, but it wasn’t a big deal! You could just write another book when you had time between shifts at the hospital, right?

The look you gave her…it was resignation. Hopelessness. Disappointment.

“Abbie…it wasn’t just a story I wrote. You should know that. Writing is so much more than that. I’ve tried to be nice, to talk to you but you wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry it’s come to this, I really am.” You said. That was the last thing you said before you were escorted outside of the door. Seeing your part in this is over, Yandere! Literary Agent took control of the room.

“Whether it is a hobby or professional writing, it doesn’t change the fact that you stole someone’s work and tried to pass it off as your own.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You are a thief, nothing more and nothing less.” Then the lawyers approached Abigail, presenting her with the fees she will need to pay. If there was an issue, going to court would not be an issue as he had all of the evidence needed to ruin the once best-selling writer Abigail Crowley.

Her reaction was….amusing.

After security had escorted the screaming woman off of the premises, Yandere!Literary Agent went to search for you, thinking you had gone back to his office to wait for him. You weren’t there. Melissa said you did stop by her desk, only to leave a message on a sticky note that you needed to go home but promised to get the revisions done as fast as you could, and thanks for the espresso it was really good.

Yandere!Literary Agent smiled softly at the hastily written chicken scratch, pocketing it in his trousers before going back inside his office. You weren’t like any of his other clients. And he would like to get to know a bit more. Who knows? Perhaps….he could persuade you to sign a contract with him, be your agent. You shouldn’t hide your talents from the world. There were people who would love to read your stories, and he had no doubt that the company would benefit from it too.

But there was no need to rush. There was a month until the book was to be released. That was more than enough time for him to work his magic. He is good at his job, after all.

Taglist

@impeakcharacterdesign

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@abelheilonwife

@suiana

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@usernames-are-so-hard-to-create

@navierkalani

@yanderefangirl

©️do not repost or use any of the characters depicted here without the author’s permission. forbidden-sunlight, 2024

#forbidden-sunlight #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere x you #fem!reader #yandere! literary agent #yandere fanfiction #yandere manhwa x reader #ns.fw #tw obsessive love #tw obsessive behavior

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shaunelderroofing · 2 years

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dollish-shard · 10 months

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Drone of the Wilds

The Drone of the Wilds lived in a small cabin, in the outskirts of the dark forest that bordered a small village. She stood out from her environment starkly; black nano-latex skin and smooth, faceless head highly out of place amongst thatched roofs and crude fabrics, quiet glens and clear streams.

She pushed open the door to her cabin, pulling her haul inside and hanging her bow on the wall. The dead creature, a six legged beast with shaggy fur, was effortlessly picked up and placed on a table.

The oils secreted from its fur would lubricate her joints well, and it’s organs would make a good base for her nutrient slurry. The rest, she could trade in town for things more useful to her.

Not for the first time, she mused on her luck. That such a backwater planet would be able to offer her a chance to live comfortably….

The Grand Hive had, at its height, been one of the biggest superpowers in the galaxy, respected and feared.

Even one of its mighty hiveships, shining black even against the darkness of space, was enough to conquer an entire planet. Each ship filled with millions of drones; converted humanoids joined together into something greater.

The human she had used to be had lived on one of those planets. A colony established by a long fallen planet named Earth, cut off from what little remained of that fledgling empire. A target ripe for conversion.

The human she had used to be had run in fear as the droneships descended on his planet, abducting people in the thousands. He had been terrified, so afraid of something he did not understand. So afraid, he ignored the tingle of excitement underneath.

He, along with the rest of his planet’s population, were placed in conversion pods. Organics merged with flesh, the hardware and software of his brain upgraded and reorganised. Wants, hopes, fears, emotional attachments… all stripped away. Replaced with obedience. Everything he was was assimilated by the Hive, the unnecessary discarded.

When she had finally emerged from that pod, along with hundreds of her sisters, all she felt was devotion to the Hive. She would not, until much later, truly appreciate her new body; smooth curves, powerful yet slender limbs, a blank slate where a face should be…

She was perfect.

She had served 146.31 cycles aboard Hiveship 462 before the Grand Hive fell. An alliance of rival forces had infiltrated Hiveship 000, from where the Grand Mxtress ruled over all, and destroyed her, contaminated the Hive. All at once it was severed. The network that connected all drones, providing them their orders, their purpose.

The hiveships all over the galaxy fell to chaos. Many drones began to regain their former lives, and in disgust of what they had become, self-terminated.

Others dedicated themselves to destroying all remnants of the Hive, the scattered hiveships that had managed to form smaller networks of their own.

She had not understood. She had never understood. Even as the network fell, she continued her existence as a drone.

Even with the return of those old memories; they weren’t her. The human she used to be sickened her. She did not miss him. Being a drone was far superior.

Those who were once her fellow drones chased her out, and hounded by the galaxy on all sides, she fled.

The other networks would not take her, the serial number tying her to a fallen hiveship marking her as terminate on sight. So she ran. For cycles, hoping from ship to ship, system to system.

It was a wormhole that brought her journey to an end. Her ship, a fragile thing, had been shredded by the forces, her alone ejected intact onto the strange planet upon which she could identify no stars in the night sky.

The people of the planet had been curious, but not afraid. They saw her as a curiosity, not a threat. She learned their language, told them her story. They felt sorry for her; not for the lost of her hive, but the lost of her humanity. It was a sentiment that confused her.

The planet’s technology was primitive; far too primitive for her to build a ship on. But it was irrelevant. She was safe there. None wanted her dead simply for the crime of being a drone. She was content to simply… be.

Some of the beings of the planet had strange powers, powers that defied comprehension. They called it magic; an obvious misunderstanding of some natural force, but one she alone could not quantify.

They had told her they could restore her old form, revert her to the human she used to be.

She had refused them. Why would she ever want to go back to that body? She was… drones did not used to have emotions, but now that she did, she could state with certainty she was ‘happy’.

Those wise men had shared a look with each other; something she did not understand shared in silent communication. It made her yearn for the Hive. Then, they had wished her luck, and left.

It had been 3 cycles since then. 3 cycles of relative peace. Of getting the chance to shift through the parts of her mind that resurfaced, to decide what to keep and what to toss. 3 years without the threat of termination, from drones or fearful organics.

She still missed the Grand Hive as it had been, a grand interconnected network of mindless belonging. But as far as lives went, being the Drone of the Wilds wasn’t so bad.

Not when compared to life as a human.

#empty spaces #microfiction #shard's stories #transhumanism #drone #it's a metaphor for something we wonder if you can guess

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rooflastroofing · 3 months

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europa-ganymede · 11 months

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Things that are currently going wrong in my life:

- gutter is clogged on the back side of my house, which is causing water to come in my son’s window frame and drip through the window down into the radiator and onto the floor (COOL, GREAT) so I’ve been trying to contact a million people to come and help me with it - no one has availability. We’re supposed to get torrential rain on Sunday (hahaha fuck) so my ex suggested we just rent a truck and a ladder from Home Depot and he will go on the roof and try to clean it out himself. He’s done it before. That’s what we plan to do tomorrow. My townhome is incredibly difficult because the back side of the house is three stories (it’s a walk out) and the front has architectural slate on the roof so you can’t access the roof from the front. You HAVE to go at it from the back. My neighbors on either side don’t have roof access. It’s literally such a shit show. The people I usually use to help with this didn’t answer the call when I called them and didn’t return my VM.

- My dishwasher is leaking a tremendous amount of water during the wash cycle for some unknown reason, I tried to troubleshoot this myself and haven’t been able to yet (this is on the back burner, gutter comes first) but it’s coming out from under the door onto the kitchen floor. At first I thought it was just a loose sprayer arm or something and it didn’t fix the issue after fussing with it.

- My room is unusually hot now that the weather has ramped up and the tree is gone in the front yard, so I’ve had to do DIY fixes to try to fix any sort of air leaks around windows... it’s not really working too well but again, that’s on the backburner. Luckily we replaced my large AC unit in the downstairs in 2020 so it cools the bottom floor of my house excellently.

- My car’s alternator went up and we already fixed that, I just have to take the core back to Advanced to get a Core Charge for the old part... but that was an absolute bitch. We (the ex and I) fixed it together in the blazing heat, it was literally 89 degrees and 70% humidity, raining off and on. It was insanely hot. We both had sweat dripping down our faces after. It took us a good 3 hours with troubleshooting included but we got it done. Thanks to Youtube I watched a couple videos and it was “simple” enough.

Talk about Mercury in fucking retrograde or whatever shit. I can’t even deal now. I feel like everything that could go wrong is definitely going wrong. I would really appreciate a break - especially financially. All these unforeseen expenses getting thrown at me has caused me to really stress about money on top of it.

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greyhound-with-a-mega-wizard-hat · 5 months

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The Necromancer and The Martyr: The Village

(Part 6 of The Necromancer and The Martyr)

tw mild body horror

Rose and Thorn continued down the road, and eventually came to the village. The sign with the village's name was indecipherable. The language looked familiar, but neither really understood it.

Thorn and Rose shared a look. Thorn believed that there were 3 possible reasons why they could not read the sign:

They had been resurrected in an unknown kingdom that used a different but similar language

They had been dead for so long that language had evolved and changed to the extent that they could not read it

When they were resurrected, they had been brought back illiterate

She voiced her theories to Rose, who shrugged his shoulders. He of course knew the truth: Thorn had been dead for a long time, exactly how long, he wasn't sure, but seeing as how he hadn't strayed beyond the borders of the kingdom, and he also could not read the sign, he knew the second of Thorn's theories was correct. He suggested as much to her, and she nodded sagely in agreement.

"Do you still remember the spell for this Rose? The one you used when we encountered the Esperenzi soldiers." Thorn nudged Rose, bringing his attention back to her. He sighed, and cast the spell. The words on the sign now clearly read:

'Welcome to Frmioliya'

"We probably could have guessed it said that" He remarked dryly. Anticipation squirmed in his stomach and bones squirmed in his body. If Thorn noticed his discomfort, she said nothing, staring intently at the houses just beyond the trees.

They were small, and made of stone bricks, grey and proud, with dark slate roofs and little windows in square wooden as far as Thorn or Rose could tell. Ivy grew up the backs of them, and small wild gardens sat squarely at the back. It was almost picturesque, though Rose was in no mood to appreciate it.

"I wonder how technology has advanced. Maybe they'll have flying cars!" Thorn joked, although it wasn't an absurd suggestion. "Our clothes are going to look weird, especially my armour. We'd better try to find some money for replacements, or hope that people believe that we were at a party or something."

"I could just magic them into something less conspicuous once I see the local fashion" Rose suggested, "although I am curious as to what kind of story we'd need to spin to get people to accept us."

"That's a better plan. Lets hope that no one notices my sword in the meantime. We could probably sell it for some coin though. An antique sword must be worth something!" Thorn laughed. Yet more evidence at how she had changed. The notion that she would ever sell her sword was nigh unthinkable, but here she was. A new woman.

Rose laughed mirthlessly. The new Thorn still unnerved him. But she seemed happy and that was what was important he supposed. He'd get used to her.

They started to walk into town, keeping an eye out for any locals. Once they reached the houses, they saw some washing on a line out the front of one, the clothes were small, likewise the front door was too. Rose was almost a foot taller than the height of the door frame, and Thorn towered over him.

"Do you think people are shorter in the future? We're really gonna stand out if so." Rose asked nervously, whilst he cast an illusion that replicated the small clothes, disguising Thorn's armour, but not her sword, and hiding his own outdated clothes.

"Maybe this is a Pyngite village." Thorn mused.

"In that case the fashion will be the least of our worries, better draw your sword" Rose said darkly.

"That won't be necessary I'm sure. And it will probably just frighten them. Plus they might have laser swords now so..." Thorn trailed off, reluctant to finish her sentence.

"We should stick together." Rose held out his hand for Thorn's.

"We should split up" she replied resolutely. "We have a better chance of sneaking through the village undetected if we split up."

"You're right but I don't like it..." Rose tried to respond, but Thorn had already left, disappeared into an alley to the right.

Rose kept going straight ahead, he'd find Thorn later. For now, he needed to see what the deal was with this village, and figure out what the villagers knew. In the years he'd spent preparing for the ritual, he had avoided people, and had destroyed any means of entering the forest so as to remain undisturbed. Internally he was kicking himself for not also investigating the village when he destroyed the road. He knew there were Pyngites in the area, he had snatched one that had wandered into the forest one day, but that had been on the opposite side of the forest.

Still, he was worried that he and Thorn were in danger. He knew that he would be ok, but he wasn't confident of her fighting abilities, whether she still had the stomach for it. And what would she think of what he'd become? Would she run from, fight, or accept him?

"Hello there stranger!" A nasally man's voice rang out across the street. "What bring you here on this fine day?"

Rose turned. The disgusting, vile Pyngite stared up at him. Standing at only 3ft tall, they were not a menacing race, but their looks were deceiving. They resembled giant moles, but with long, wicked fangs and claws that were perfectly suited for killing humans.

Hatred and revulsion surged through Rose. His bones writhed under his skin, which parted with a squelch. He grew taller, his teeth and nails elongating into fangs and talons that made the Pyngite's look pathetic. Wings and vertebrae pushed from out of his back, a tail from just above his hips, and horns from his skull. Tentacles squirmed from his back and sides, 6 in total. His complexion became grey as slate, and 5 more eyes opened on his face, 2 more below each eye, and 1 in the centre of his forehead,

The Pyngite backed away. "I can see you're having a bad day sir... I'll let you be". The cowardly beast turned to run, and Rose roared and surged forward, grabbing it by its head and crushing it in his claws.

But not before the Pyngite screamed.

Meanwhile, Thorn explored the side alleys of the village, gazing cheerfully at the little gardens that each house had. She kept her eyes peeled for an antiques shop, but seriously doubted she'd find anywhere to sell her sword. She knew she'd surprised Rose by suggesting she sell it, but she figured that in a time of peace, she wouldn't need it. And as for the mysterious necromancer that had brought her back, well, she doubted a sword would be much good against such a person.

Thorn found that her thoughts kept drifting back to Rose. He was lying to her about how much he knew. He was still tormented by the war, and so afraid of peace that he hadn't recognised her without her righteous pain and fury. He needed help, and Thorn was determined that he would get it, though she did not know how to tell Rose this.

'For now, I'll just try to enjoy his company'

As she wandered, she saw a young Pyngite across the street. They were clearly a child, so Thorn held back from approaching, not wanting to frighten them. The mother rounded the corner, and her eyes widened when she saw Thorn.

"Hi there! Are you lost?" The mother asked, gesturing kindly towards Thorn. Her child, a son perhaps though Thorn was not sure, hid behind her.

"Yes I am," Thorn replied, keeping her voice light and casual. "Do you know where I might find a place to sell this sword? It is an antique."

The Pyngite mother stared thoughtfully up at the sky. And then shook her head sadly. "No, sorry. How come you have an antique sword? That seems a strange thing to wander around with"

Thorn laughed. The sound delighted her. She had never been one for laughter, always failing to see the funny side to anything.

"Yeah I guess it is. Thanks any how!"

A loud roar and a scream echoed down the street. The child burst into tears and bolted down the street.

"No, Min come back!" Cried the Pyngite, who sprinted after her son. Thorn followed behind, unsure of where the sound had originated. She overtook the Pyngite, and rounded the corner to see the child run across a large street, her view obscured by some trees. The roar sounded again. Louder, closer.

As Thorn got onto the street she could see all of it clearly. The creature, was barreling toward the child, who froze in fear. The creature was fast, but Thorn was faster, and snatched up the child, continuing to run.

She ran with the child through a series of convoluted streets, and then finally into a side alley, a dead end.

"Shit." She muttered under her breath, placing the child on the floor. They had lost the creature for now, but Thorn was certain it would follow. "Stay here. Don't move, don't make a sound." The child, Min, nodded, and hid behind some cardboard boxes.

Thorn cautiously left the alley, and started to retrace her steps, keeping to the sides of the houses. Smoke was rising a few streets over, and Pyngites started to leave their homes to see what all the commotion was. They stared curiously, and somewhat accusatory towards Thorn. She motioned for them to go inside their houses, but they paid no mind to her.

Screaming started up again, and the smell of burning filled the air. Thorn rounded the corner and saw a whole street ablaze, with the creature stood in the middle of the carnage, reveling in it.

Thorn drew her sword, prayed that Rose was ok, and charged toward the creature.

[Part 5]

[Part 7]

#long post #the necromancer and the martyr #tw body horror

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godofglitter · 11 months

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In a spontaneous (and probably highly illegal) decision, I decided to enter a half-renovated palace looking building in Mubarak Mandi Complex, Jammu. No one stopped me, precisely because there was no one around- the entire enclosed polygon of tall buildings of maharajas who'd probably thought they'd be ruling forever had a neglected, forgotten look about it. Even the locals didn't seem to know of the existence of the small museum, or the British style fountains on four corners of a Mughal and Dravidian style garden, enclosed by the Rajputana looking palace buildings. So many religions, ruling families, races- all blending together homogeneously, without the added colour of communalism that often (unfortunately) divides other significant melting pots such as Delhi, where I have grown up seeing firsthand the segregation of Mughalai versus Rajputana, each distinct and prideful in a lack of confluence with the opposite party. Here in Jammu for the first time I saw a masjid down the road from a temple, jhatka and halal shops standing shoulder to shoulder with a pure vegetarian vaishno dhaba, people living in seemingly true fraternity- and above all, harmony.

I am sure this is a gross romanticisation of the political atmosphere of one of India's most controversial and warred upon regions. And yet this picture- of a roof panel at that palace I very illegally entered- sparks these bittersweet emotions in me that awaken the inner idealist. This panel is a glimpse into Dogra history, and all the diverse factors that form it- and yet even as we speak, vital parts are being slowly replaced by fresh, bright, unmarked wood. The glass half empty side of my brain cries at the loss of history, cries for the beautiful and intricate artwork on the inner walls of the palace that are being covered by sterile white paint, for the erasure of an entire culture by controversy such that even the descendants of the kings themselves don't know who they are. And yet, unbidden as hope, the glass half full side of my brain sees this blank wood with rosy eyes, perhaps reminiscent of the perspective of the artisans who first set out to paint this beauty in the first place- seeing these empty spots as fresh slates onto which we can paint our own stories of love and peace.

#india #indian history #jammu and kashmir #jammu #dogra history #historical #historical monuments #palaces #indian palaces #maharaja #indian art

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hbreference · 2 years

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Yellow House, Valerio Olgiati, 1999, Flims Switzerland.

This is a big one for the smalt boys – post 200 on the site. Foundational reference here, and one we have seen in person.

The last ski trip of the season, around number 10, and it was a slushy March afternoon in Laax. Hell of a day. Culminated in one of us breaking a pin binding clean off the ski, and the other being deemed the God of Snow. After a sweaty and revelrous gondola ride down the mountain, we had some time to kill before the bus brought us to Chur and the train took us back home to Basel. These ski days often involved 6hrs of transit time and 8hrs ski time but we were committed to shred. We came, we shred, and now it was time to take snacks from the shop and wander around Olgiati’s playpen of Flims.

We dropped our gear on the side of the road next to a restaurant where the Swiss were enjoying their apres-ski (unlocked – high trust in these places) and began to hunt for the goods. We were rewarded instantly. 100 meters down the road, in the center of the town (which is more of a layby on an alpine highway) sits this absolute unit of a building.

It stands in stark contrast to everything around it, yet somehow feels like it has been on this mountain since the rock was thrust upwards during the collision of the African and European tectonic plates, 20 million years ago. Those 15 black voids on the streetside façade silently judge everything that passes. It is solid and ominous and completely unique, yet for some reason there is a warmth and genuine soul to the thing. We showed up and realized that Olgiati’s grumpy exterior conceals a deep understanding and (maybe even) care for the people who live here and visit this place.

The building is a cultural center, converted from a home for the town Parish. Valerio’s father Rudolf, an architect himself, offered to donate his collection to the Parish foundation on the condition that it be renovated instead of demolished. Work began after his death and was completed in 2000. The interior is gutted, with a new wood finish over the whole space. The roof was replaced with a new structural shape and slate shingles. Some openings were left, others covered up, and all refinished with cast concrete frames. The entire exterior is painted and finished in a very fine lime wash, blending all the old textured pieces into one whole.

We had 10 minutes until closing so decided to speed-run the interior. We spent most of the time touching the window frames, admiring the weep holes, and whispering, “holy fuck”. There was a temporary exhibition on and the kid at the desk spoke perfect English. He told us he didn’t know anything about the building when we asked.

The inside is rock solid and completely cozy. You could run a boxing match on the top level and sleep on the wood floor on the ground level at the same time. The plan is dead simple and the same on all levels, but at the top you get the special angled column and pitched roof. The structure and enclosure are so locked down and well-executed they can be forgotten, and the architect can start to consider higher aims.

It’s hard to say exactly why this all works together. It weaves together mountain town culture, physical landscape, heritage buildings, religion, material mass, phenomenology, and one man’s brazen disregard for all that bullshit. I still don’t quite believe Olgiati’s non-referential thesis, but the fact that he genuinely tries it every time means that his buildings are the only stable and true reference points I have for pure architectural thought. He’s insane, but he’s useful and maybe a genius.

After we were ushered out of the building, we visited a few other bangers, hopped on the postbus, tried to eat a poke bowl using a popsicle stick and a rolled-up m&ms wrapper, and received a horrified look from a well-intentioned bus seat neighbor.

Happy 200, we still don’t know what good architecture is.

#medium #stone #wood #1990 #westeurope #switzerland #residential #reuse #cultural

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whifferdills · 2 years

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GALLIFREY: TIME WAR: UNITY: The main victim of Time War's pacing issues: you don't really get that it's been 15 years and two lifetimes since "The Devil You Know". Or like. I didn’t on first listen, at least, idk maybe it works for other people? Anyway. Drop this one into the ‘flawed but somehow more interesting precisely because it’s flawed’ category...

This is a Leela who is tired, who is no longer interested in fighting for someone else's cause, who is defensive and insular and surrounded by mines and the graves of people who tried walking over them. And Romana doesn't get it, certainly: her friendship has always been transactional (it has to be...this is not a woman who can easily conceive of herself outside of the roles she plays and the jobs she performs). Leela has always ultimately agreed to fight alongside her, or if not then for a predictable cause. And she...won't.

Leela's exhaustion is familiar. Of course the city runs on slave labor. Of course Daleks and Time Lords are vying for control over the planet's oil so they can eke out an advantage in this war no one will win. Of course Romana and Narvin are trying to leverage her emotions to their advantage. & like...her wife is dying and her son is growing up into a fight she can't help but push him into.

Understand I am not doing the fandom-brained ‘hurr durr there is no platonic explanation for [experience common in platonic relationships]’ thing here, this is Cat On A Hot Tin Roof (1958) dir. Richard Brooks levels of like, the space in the narrative where the queerness isn't anymore. It doesn't Not work as an intense platonic relationship (this series - and the franchise in general - beyond all the guff mostly turns on the complexities and complications of deeply-felt, transformative friendship) but also....you can see where they were going for a lived-in marriage and replaced it with ? at the last minute and every beat plays exactly the same but now the context is a ghost. It's a negative space drawing.

So we're left with a Leela who lost her son, who wasn't really her son; and her wife, who was only subtextually her wife; and her friend, who she now believes is an echo detached from the source. A harbinger or carrier of the war, not even allowed the full text of her grief, cast adrift again but this time with the personification of Gallifrey-as-grand-illusion. There's an interesting thread where Leela is as contemptuous of Narvin as she's ever been, but also trusts him enough to leave him with Vega and Rayo, and is delighted to find his box of scavenged weapons. & then from the other direction, Romana taking Vega's name...like it's such a weird and chunky shuffling-around of traditional family dynamics that relies on three pointedly-undefined relationships both being and not being romantic. What the fuck is actually textually happening in this story. This is making cartoon steam come out of my ears ~

DEPARTMENT OF OOO BABYGIRL YOU NEED THERAPY: "I deserve much worse...this is a clean slate I haven't earned. This is the opposite of a redemption. This is cheating."

DEPARTMENT OF THINGS ROMANA ONLY SAYS IN FRONT OF DALEKS: "I will never betray those I love" I'm scromiting

#narvin and the chickens...he's excruciating <3 #dr who #the conga line over rassilon's grave #big finish gallifrey #i understand the criticisms but i also really love the cat on a hot tin roof movie #specifically *because* of how it like. reworks itself back to a queer reading in the vacuum left by censorship #tangentially related to how the singer not the song works bc of - not in spite of - how much bogarde did NOT want #to imply he was attracted to john mills #anyway #that was time war 3! tune in next time for brax getting clown vored

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astroofing · 1 year

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o-kaythislooksbad · 2 years

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aaand of course today’s writing was about yet another character who isn’t in the fic 🤦 unedited jason todd ramble/thoughts/angst under the cut

bruce wayne replacing dick grayson with jason todd as robin 2.0 after he fucked up the relationship with dick is tragic for so many reasons but man, bruce is not a good dad and kinda being a shitty vigilante (a role which he arguable cares about more than his role as a father figure) with this move. okay, so bruce drove dick away, fine, another rant for another time. but seeing jason, a guy with a similar build to dick, by the batmobile, bruce is reminded of how dick used to be. and of course any kid brave or foolish enough to try stealing from batman is someone bruce would prefer to have on his side rather than against him. and so bruce sees not only a robin 2.0, but a dick grayson 2.0, and wow isn’t that a great way to start a relationship. he’s also so disconnected from the actuality of how gotham citizens, average, poor citizens like jason live, that when he gives the kid his own fucking room in a fucking manor, hell yeah the guy knows he’s being played, there’s a catch here. but jason can play that game, too, can play the role of a kid grateful for this opportunity, so he says yes to the training, yes to being robin. at least there’s a semblance of shelter and security in the routines of living at the manor with alfred and the cave with bruce. and when the whole crowbar incident happens, besides for it being the final straw that breaks jason’s back, in bruce’s eyes, it’s the nail in his coffin that he placed there himself by being too much of the edgy, not-grayson robin. then there’s the lazarus pit and talia al ghul before he makes it back to gotham, and the pit takes everything from jason. everything that indicated his life before the whole death thing. the pit removes scrapes from his knuckles, dye from his hair, bruises from all over his body. all signs of life gone, a blank slate, a dead man walking in a body that isn’t even his. no more scars, at all; he’s got smooth skin where lines from surgeries and fights and autopsies should be. it’s waking up, gasping for air like what the fuck. there’s no signs you were ever alive and no signs that you were ever dead.

so by the time you get to the whole, you’re jason and you’re red hood and bruce finally, finally sees you - you realize he doesn’t. he stands across from you as you hold the joker hostage, and there he is, your dad, still seeing you as his other son. bruce still sees dick, sees robin, sees a disappointment. a son, a robin, with a gun? a big no-no. you’re a bad, bad robin, one who died fighting your dad’s stupid battle, and you weren’t even good at staying dead. so now there’s the three of them on the roof and bruce still won’t kill the joker. your dad left you for dead and the man who killed you stands between you and he knows that no matter what happens, he wins. he has this big fucking smile plastered on his face, the same one that you saw right before you died, and across from him, bruce - no, batman - has the same fucking grimace beneath his cowl. and this is the guy that puts the first scar on your new body. a batarang to the neck, a knife to the back, another one through your heart. your hair is no longer dark like grayson’s, your clothes are no longer his bright colors, and you work alone. for the first time in years, your hair and your clothes and your body and your life is your own - and then he fucking brands you as his again. so anytime you catch a glimpse of your reflection, swallow a sip of water, suit up in your helmet and zipper your uniform - hell, any time you fucking breathe - there’s that line across your throat as a reminder of your inability to live according to the expectations of your mentor, your protector, your father. a reminder made by a weapon that could have, should have, been a fraction to the side and embedded in the joker’s neck.

a mark on the new red hood, on jason todd, that says the life of the previous hood, of the joker, is worth more to bruce than you ever will be. it’s waking up, gasping for air like what the fuck. there’s the sign that you’re alive and the sign that will stay with you even after you die.

#jason todd #fanfic #where is my mind?#word stuff

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