#the chains are broken by the bridge to the stars | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

octuscle · 1 year

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Alexander Ristor was perfect. The perfect body, the perfect skin, the perfect hair, he was simply flawless. And thanks to his father's fortune, he had the perfect life, too. Although he had never worked or studied, through generous donations he had reasonably presentable high school and college degrees. And his family's connections had also been a catalyst for his career as an influencer. Although he did nothing but travel the world First Class, do shopping, and work out and take care of his body, by the time he was 25 he already had thousands of followers. And while from the beginning his mother had had to secretly pay for hotels and restaurants so that Alexander felt he was getting everything for free as a social media star, by now many doors actually opened by themselves if he just approached them.

Alexander surfed through Instagram, bored. He was starting to get bored in Vienna. He was on a European tour, it was spring, and it was too cold for him in Austria. Going a little more south, working on his tan, now that would be cool. But all the destinations that came to mind when he looked at Google Maps seemed hackneyed. Croatia, Montenegro, Albania. All water under the bridge. All the C-class celebrities had already been there. But what was this northern Macedonia? Skopje? Almost all the posts on Instagram were from locals. Looked interesting enough. In fact, there was also a Hilton. Looked pretty old-fashioned. But he had an advertising contract with them, so he could stay there for two nights. Maybe he could find something better locally. Or he could still travel on to Kotor on the Mediterranean if he didn't like it in Skopje. A few hours later, his two big RIMOWA suitcases were packed and a limousine took him directly to the first class terminal of the Vienna airport.

Saturday

The Hilton was really not to his liking… A proper chain hotel. Not a boutique hotel secret tip that his followers loved him for. But for a few selfies at the bar, in the room and in the lobby, it would be enough for him to get out of here without a bill. Only for his daily workouts did he need something else. The gym at the hotel was unacceptable. Since he had already failed to work out yesterday, he had the concierge recommend a gym nearby. And headed straight for it with his gym bag.

The gym was surprisingly good. A former school high school gym, where high tech and shabby chic met. Well, the audience was different than at home in New York, but he would look all the more radiant on his contributions. So he stood at the counter and said he'd like to work out for the next few days. The employee at the counter, whose name tag said his name was Atanas, obviously didn't know him. Sure, that was a problem if you were a social media pioneer in the province… Atanas realized that he had to make a special effort with the customer. Only, unfortunately, he spoke very broken English. But at least he had understood that the handsome man in front of him was called Aleksandar. He didn't understand the last name… But it sounded something like Ristovski, the name of the captain of the national team. So he entered that. Date of birth? He could only guess… But he guessed well and made Alexander just about half a year older. And for the address Atanas simply entered the address of his mother's guesthouse, nobody would check that. Especially not the customer in front of him, who looked incredulously at the text written in Macedonian on the display and then signed on the input field without checking anything. Atanas took another photo of the customer, saved the entry in the customer file and coded the wristband that could be used to open doors and lockers in the studio.

He had no idea what the employee at the counter wanted from him. But somehow it all worked out and after only fifteen minutes Alexander had received a very cool looking wristband and quickly understood that it worked for checking in and opening the doors. With hands and feet, communication worked even in the middle of nowhere… After changing clothes and styling his hair, Alexander checked his accounts again. He was now 4:15 pm. So he could work out, take a few pictures while he was at it, edit them back at the hotel, change, and then hit the nightlife. But now let's get to the weights.

After three hours of training Alexander was exhausted. Shit, he had totally forgotten the time. But the workout had been awesome. It had been a long time since he had had so much fun pushing his body to the limits. So there was just a selfie of him with sweaty hair and sweaty T-shirt. And a succinct caption, "Best workout ever," along with the name of the gym. Strange, why did he have a three-day beard…?

Sunday

The night had been fun, there was no other way to put it. The afterlife of Skopje could not be compared to that of Vienna. As usual, his posts had had hundreds of likes after a very short time. And there had been a lot of likes from locals as well. He must have collected some new followers tonight. He was a little surprised about some comments about his new style. Okay, he didn't shave every day since he was here. And when you party hard, your hair doesn't always sit perfectly either. But new style…? He thought it was over the top.

Before he wanted to look at the city a little, Alexander wanted to work out a little in any case. So he went directly unshowered with only once combed hair to breakfast. Around him sat many festively dressed people. Probably locals who went to Sunday brunch. Because of his careless dress and perhaps also because of the smell his sports bag gave off, Alexander received one or two reprimanding looks. All weaklings, he thought, as he ate his bowl of scrambled eggs and the three chicken breasts for breakfast.

Atanas and Alexander greeted each other with a ghetto fist. The prepared protein shake was already waiting. Alexander appreciated how quickly his workout routine was addressed here. And thank God he could exchange a few words of Macedonian with the staff and the other guys on the training floor. And he understood a little Albanian, at least. His grandmother had sometimes sung him a few folk songs she knew from her North Macedonian mother, so a little had stuck.

Communication with Atanas was still complicated, however. He probably wanted to say something to him when Alexander left the studio at 5:00 p.m. after a hard workout, sauna and a shower. And after some time he understood that Atanas invited him to move out of the expensive and uncool Hilton and move into his mother's guesthouse. Great idea, that would certainly go down better in his stories than pictures from an interchangeable hotel bar. Nevertheless, Alexander spent the evening at the hotel. After all, he owed the hotel a few posts. And he didn't feel like going out clubbing after the day was over.

Monday

He did not have to shave today… The beard had a good seven-day length and still looked reasonably well-groomed. But he could go to the barber again, the last haircut should be a month and a half ago. So it had to be enough to tame the hair back with plenty of gel. He stuffed his clothes into his suitcases and went for a quick breakfast before checking out. After devouring his mountain of scrambled eggs, the waiter pointed out to him to please not wear a tank top to breakfast next time. There won't be a next time, Alex replied in his broken Macedonian and wiped off the rest of the scrambled eggs with his forearms. The front desk employee also smiled somewhat painedly when he pointed out his partnership with Hilton while paying the bill. The lady said they were tasked with telling Alex that the quality of his posts had fallen below the usual standard and they were considering discontinuing the partnership. Normally, Alex would have raved now, but he didn't care about the Hilton at all. Nevertheless, still posted a selfie with him and the reception team on Instagram. And immediately came the reactions:

"When did you stop shaving your armpits, Alexander?" "Bro, you're working out more than usual!" "Sun's out, guns out"

And many posts were in Macedonian and Albanian, which is also where most of the likes came from.

Atanas and Alex went to the barber together after the training. This was also a cool experience, making a post from this was much funnier than from drinking cocktails at the hotel bar. And the pictures he posted online of Atanas and himself went down especially well with his followers from the Balkans. With their trimmed full beards and shaved bald heads, the two looked almost like siblings.

When they had heaved Alex's luggage up the stairs to the guesthouse and Atanas introduced Alex to his mother, Alex silently cursed his mother. While she had grown up bilingual in Albanian and English, they spoke almost no Albanian at home. Now he would have needed more than the smattering he had learned from his Tirana-born grandmother. But at least his Macedonian was already quite passable, so that a simple conversation was already quite possible. His room in the guesthouse was great. Actually a separate apartment with a small kitchen and a balcony under the roof. Wonderful view over the city. And very comfortably furnished. He could leave his dirty laundry directly with Atanas' mother. And before they moved around the houses, Atanas lent Alex some of his things. The two spent the evening with some friends. Hardly anyone spoke English, but as training for his language skills this was perfect. And in fact, hardly anyone thought that the muscular guy in the soccer jersey and track pants could be American.

Tuesday

Part of the deal with Atanas' mother was that in the morning after breakfast, before he went to training with Atanas, he would collect the garbage in the rooms of the guesthouse and take everything to the dumpster around the corner. Easy money, Alex thought to himself… And the rest of his lodging he worked off by picking up guests (especially those from abroad) from the airport or train station and bringing them to the guesthouse. In the meantime he got along quite well with the old Skoda in the city traffic of Skopje. No one was arriving or departing today, so Atanas and Alex were able to work out together at the gym before Atanas' shift. And Alex spent the afternoon working on the guesthouse's social media presence. He was so not interested in the comments on his own account right now.

Wednesday

By now Aleksandar had been in his mother's country for three months. He couldn't understand why he had waited so long to come here. It was good that he had been so well received by Atanas and his family, it was enormous luck. His mother was also overjoyed with the situation. In the morning, when he left for the wholesale market at the crack of dawn, he always called home to wish his mother in New York a good night. It was a young tradition, but one he enjoyed. And sometimes he would have a few words with his father, who still viewed his activities with some suspicion. But that he made his mother happy, made his father happy too.

After carrying the fresh groceries to the cellar, Aleksandar usually went straight to work out. He enjoyed it when the gym was still empty. Besides, he always had to spend more time in the afternoons with Atanas' and his online supplement business. As his own successes as a heavyweight bodybuilder grew, so did the demand for his own products. And today he also had to go shopping himself. After hardly anything of his old clothes fit anymore, Atanas' sister had sold everything at the weekly market. Mila had great talent in such things and had made a good profit. And with that Aleksandar went shopping. He didn't need much. During the day, in the summer, an undershirt and a pair of training pants were enough. For the evenings, or when he had to work at the guesthouse, he bought a few pairs of jeans and some black and white shirts. The picture of him doing a double biceps pose with a bursting new shirt led to enthusiastic reactions from many of his new followers. And the salesman who took the picture of him immediately posted a selfie of himself and Aleksandar afterward.

Thursday

Today Aleksandar combined his morning visit to the market with a visit to the barber. He wanted to look his best before the weekend. And he enjoyed the visits here very much. For one thing, he learned plenty of news. For another, he liked it when his full beard was trimmed razor-sharp, the sides of his angular skull gleamed as if polished, and the barely-a-millimeter-long hair on top of his head shone black. He would love to add a few tattoos to the picture, but his mother would kill him for that… And if not her, Atanas' mother would take over that task.

Atanas and Aleksandar worked out together today after Atanas' shift ended. It was good because they were both tough critics and knew how to motivate each other excellently. And it was good because they could both shower together afterwards. Jerking each other's soapy dicks was the highlight of the workout.

Friday

Actually, Aco (Aleksandar only called him his grandmother when she was angry) wasn't really religious. But with three Muslim grandparents, the imprint had been big. And his parents both wanted him to grow up as a devout Muslim. And so, at least on Fridays, it was natural to answer the muezzin's call and say the sunrise prayer. And for the evening prayer, he and Atanas would also go to the mosque. But otherwise, Aco had to spend every free minute on training today as well, besides his work at the guesthouse and on their online trade. Sunday was his first appearance in the heavyweight class. And for that, it wasn't enough to eat like a barn-burner. He had to convert the calories, too.

In the gym, he was something of a local hero. Sure, he was exotic because he was born in the United States. But he had his roots here, and he and his fans were proud of that. But he had also had to work hard for success. Sure he had been in good shape when his parents sent him here with a little capital to start. Sure he had received a lot of support from Atanas and his family. But both his body and his business were essentially his earnings. For that he got up every morning at 04:00 o'clock, for that he went to bed every evening at 21:00 o'clock, for that he renounced alcohol. But for it he brought also with his 1,75 m proud 120 kilograms on the balance. The only thing he had not worked for was his cock. These 25 cm were a gift from his fathers. And for that he and Atanas thanked Allah!

Saturday

Actually silly that he had to sneak out of Atanas' room in the morning. The two of them were more than grown up. But even if it was an open secret that they were a couple, it was not really allowed to become public. That's where both their families were just stuffy. The guesthouse was full today. Many guests were there also because they hoped to take a photo with the most promising candidate for the national amateur championship. And Aco fulfills this wish for every guest. That's why today, for once, he was only allowed to work in a tank top and flex his muscles. Secretly, he regretted that tomorrow no one would be able to enjoy the fur on his chest and arms. He would miss the bushy hair in his armpits. And Atanas probably even more, if he could no longer press his face into the cave stinking of fresh sweat after the training. But tomorrow morning it all had to come off, tomorrow nothing could distract from the tight skin over his muscle mountains. And thanks to his genes, the hair would soon grow back.

Sunday

He had been working towards this moment for over six months. Worked out until he was exhausted, ate until he was pissed off. He had slept in extra today. Pumped up all the important muscle groups one last time. Atanas had carefully shaved every hair on his body. There was nothing left below the beard. And now Atanas was oiling him just as carefully. And as with shaving, he was especially careful in the places to which Aco's cock was particularly sensitive. You idiot, Aco said more in jest. Should the jury choose me for my biceps or for my boner. Grinning, Atanas returned that both would be more than impressive.

Just now, at the accreditation of the contestants, Aco had had to identify himself. Thanks to his mother, he had an Albanian passport; thanks to his birth, he had a U.S. passport. All passports showed his proud name Aleksandar Ristovski, all showed his real birthday but on only one passport were all the data, including his address, exactly as Atanas had recorded them a week ago: on the passport of his father's homeland, on the one from northern Macedonia. And tonight he would leave the stage as the winner for this country.

Many thanks to @massivemusxcle and @homme-parfait! You guys were a great inspiration !

#wife beater #male tf #muscle tf #race change #reality change

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365-days-of-taylor-swift · 5 months

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November Day 26

Check out the masterpost to vote on more polls or find the ❄️ Back to December - Prompt Calendar ❄️

#taylor swift #365 days of tswift #polls #lyrics #reputation #taylor swift bridge

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jinxedruby · 4 months

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Ambush at the Bridge: Chapter One

Surprise I'm actually a writer! I've fooled you all! uhh anyway here's a linked universe thing that I wrote. The chain gets ambushed during their travels and split up. It is whump-like, Hyrule's not having a great time this chapter.

AO3

First part | Next part ->

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The sound of clanging metal and grunts, both human and monster, filled the air around Hyrule. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead and neck, his skin slick with sweat. He sidestepped a swipe from a bokoblin, panting as he thrust his sword forward. The point drove through the bokoblin and it let out an ugly screech before it went limp. Hyrule yanked his sword from the monster’s body just as a lizalfos bore down on him from the side. He whipped around, bringing his shield up just in time to block a blow from the lizalfos’s knife. The blade bounced off his shield and he slashed at the monster with his sword. It jumped backwards out of reach before its tongue shot forward. It wrapped around Hyrule’s shield and yanked. Hyrule grunted as he was thrown to the side, shoulder twisting painfully. The lizalfos retracted its tongue, ripping the shield from Hyrule’s arm and tossing it aside. He scrambled to his feet as the lizalfos charged at him, blade raised high. He dodged a swing and returned with a slash of his own. The lizalfos just dodged away again. Hyrule gritted his teeth and held his sword with both hands, carefully watching the lizalfos’s movements, waiting for the opportunity to strike. He watched too closely.

A bokoblin appeared in his peripheral at the last moment. He darted away, the tip of the monster’s sword grazing his arm and drawing a shallow cut in his skin. The adrenaline dampened the pain and he hardly noticed the wound as he skipped to the side, eyes flicking between the two monsters. He narrowly dodged another swipe from the bokoblin. He was given no time to retaliate as the lizalfos ran to him and attacked as well. Hyrule didn’t realize where he was until his boots hit wood. A bridge spanning a small river. He and the others had been about to cross when they were ambushed. The monsters had split them apart and were doing their best to keep it that way. Wind and Twilight had managed to join up, and Hyrule could at least see Warriors and Time, but he had no idea where the others were.

He managed to get a good attack in on the lizalfos, opening a large gash in its chest. It gave a cry, backpedaling. It lashed out with its tongue again, but Hyrule was ready this time. He ducked and swung his sword in an arc over his head. The blade connected with the multicolored tongue and sliced it clean in half. The lizalfos screamed, stumbling away and grasping at the bleeding end of its severed tongue. Before Hyrule could straighten and reset his stance, the bokoblin screeched and lunged at him. Frantically, he twisted his sword upright, their blades crashing into one another. The bokoblin slid its sword one way and Hyrule followed, keeping the bokoblin’s weapon away from himself. The monster threw all of its weight into a swing. It ripped Hyrule’s sword from his hands while simultaneously losing its grip on its own, sending both the weapons flying. Hyrule reached into his bag for something, anything, he could use but the bokoblin moved before he could. It dove for Hyrule, colliding painfully into him and bringing them both to the ground.

Hyrule’s shoulders hit the wooden slats of the bridge but his head didn’t hit anything, neck bending too far as it swung back from the momentum. The resulting stretch of his neck left him seeing stars. He lifted his head, abruptly recalling how shoddy the bridge had looked. It bore plenty of holes and the wood had warped from the water running beneath it. He could feel the ragged corners of broken planks digging into his shoulders and realized his head must be right over a hole. The wood groaned beneath him as he fought to wrestle his way out from under the bokoblin. He managed to get a boot beneath the monster and kick it off of him. He quickly sat up, trying to get to his feet before the bokoblin did. A screech sounded to the side. He whipped his head around, just in time to see the lizalfos flying at him. Black blood dripped from its mouth and seeped from the wound in its chest, eyes crazed as it collided with Hyrule. He yelped as it slammed him into the bridge, arm curled against himself, pinned painfully between him and the monster. He tried to shove it off with his free arm but the bokoblin returned, jumping on him and grabbing his other arm. The bokoblin twisted his arm away from him, pain sparking at the overextension. The monsters gurgled and screeched, clawing at him as he fought against them, keeping him trapped beneath them.

He heard a shout, saw a flash of green in the distance out of the corner of his eye. Warriors, struggling to reach him. The captain cut down enemy after enemy, but whenever he did, more would just replace them, blocking his path. Hyrule kicked wildly and struggled to pull his arms out of the monsters’ grasps. He managed to flail enough to sit up partway but the monsters just shoved him back down, his shoulders slamming against the wood. Hyrule felt a jerk beneath him. A loud crack sounded from the bridge.

Then the planks beneath him snapped.

Hyrule’s stomach flipped as he suddenly found himself in freefall, the bokoblin and lizalfos plummeting along with him. He heard a distant shout that sounded like Warriors yelling his nickname. He barely managed to get a breath in before he hit the water.

The sounds of the river pummeled his ears, the force of the current flipping him around. His lungs constricted as panic flooded his mind. A sharp pain lit in his leg as a broken plank of wood whipped past him, slicing his skin open. He had no idea what happened to the monsters. He flailed as he tumbled in the water, trying to find the surface, or even the riverbed so he could kick off of it. But all he found was water. His lungs burned and all he could do was clap a hand to his mouth and nose so he didn’t inhale by accident. The current yanked and shoved at him, sending him spinning further and further from the bridge. His stomach churned, head fuzzy, unable to tell which way was up and which way was down. Black fuzziness crept in the corners of his vision, if his vision could even still be called that. He could see nothing but frothing water in the moments he managed to keep his eyes open.

The current abruptly tossed him in a direction that caused his head to break the surface. He gasped a breath in the moment he realized it but was yanked back under just as quickly. It wasn’t enough time to see or hear if anyone was coming for him. He felt numb with panic and crawling dread as the river carried him further and further. This couldn’t be how he died, could it? All those battles to the death – defeating Ganon, monsters hunting him – and he drowns?

The river dashed him against a rock, his head smacking against the coarse stone. His vision blackened for the briefest moment. But it was long enough for him to suck water into his throat. He coughed reflexively, the sound lost in the roar of the river, bubbles escaping his mouth and being whisked away from him. The coughing only succeeded in pulling more water into his throat. The panic had been dulled slightly by the knock to the head, but it returned in tenfold as the water found its way to his lungs. He clawed at his throat only for the current to rip his hand away. The blackness edged into his sight again, his vision rapidly shrinking. His chest burned, throat stinging horribly. His vision darkened further and his limbs began to prickle, the sounds of the current muffled. The water drove him to the riverbed and he barely even noticed his back scraping against the rocks. He could hardly hear the water at all anymore. His chest felt warm. He sank into darkness.

***

Fire in his chest.

That was all Hyrule registered. The burning pain spasmed through his body with each harsh cough, water spurting from his mouth. He found himself on his side, hacking and spluttering, fighting to suck in air between coughs. His throat ached, eyes sore and stinging as he struggled to pry them open. After practically hacking out his lungs, the coughing fit began to slow, water dripping from his lips.

“-ar me? Traveler?”

Hyrule gradually became aware of a voice above him and a warm hand on his arm. He turned his head, absently trying to rub the ache from his eyes. A blurry figure crouched above him, fluffy yellow-blond hair sweeping across a sun-kissed face. A bright blue blob hovered beneath the face gradually becoming clearer.

“Sailor?” Hyrule croaked, throat raw.

Wind laughed, a short bark of relief. He collapsed against Hyrule, wrapping his arms tightly around the other boy and burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“You’re okay!” Wind cried, voice muffled in Hyrule’s soaked tunic. “Oh, thank the gods. I- I thought I didn’t make it in time, thank the gods…”

Hyrule blinked slowly, sluggishly processing Wind’s words. As awareness gradually returned to him, he realized how much everything hurt. His chest burned and throbbed, spiking in pain as Wind held him. The side of his head felt strangely cold, skin prickling with numb pain. He also realized that Wind was sopping wet, water dripping from his hair and running onto Hyrule.

“Sailor,” Hyrule said weakly. The younger boy pulled back immediately, round eyes wide with worry. Hyrule struggled to string together a coherent sentence, vaguely wondering why his brain was working so slowly. After a while he gave up, settling on two words. “Thank… you.”

Wind blinked. Then he laughed, pushing his soaked bangs from his eyes. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Hyrule gave him a crooked grin before pushing himself up. He hissed as pain seared through his head at the movement. Wind gasped, arms darting out to support him.

“Careful!” he said, gently laying Hyrule back down. “Y-you probably shouldn’t get up yet. Your head… your head’s bleeding.”

Hyrule reached up to the side of his head, wincing at how tender it was. His fingertips came away red.

“Do you have a potion? Or a fairy?” Wind asked. “I- I left my bag…”

Hyrule slowly shook his head, placing his fingers gingerly against the wound.

“I’m sure the others will find us! Oh, maybe you shouldn’t touch it. Or- or can you move? We can… No, you probably shouldn’t- What are you doing?” Wind rambled on until a soft light glowing around Hyrule’s wound distracted him, the reflection glimmering in Wind’s eyes. Hyrule’s heart thudded heavily against his ribs as magic flowed through his fingers and into his injury. His eyes slid shut as he struggled to keep the spell going. Using magic while exhausted and in pain wasn’t exactly easy but eventually, his efforts paid off. The wound in his head closed, stemming the flow of blood. The prickling and sharp throbbing subsided and the fog in his mind cleared just enough that he could think at a reasonable pace again. He sighed in relief, letting his arm flop to the ground. He blinked his eyes open, vision much sharper than before. He could clearly see Wind’s face, the boy’s mouth in a small o.

“What was that?” the younger boy asked, wonder in his voice.

“Life spell,” Hyrule explained as he sat up with more caution than before. “It can’t heal everything, but it’s useful in a pinch.”

“That’s so cool!” Wind exclaimed. “Are… are you okay now? Looks like the bleeding stopped…”

“I… yeah.” Hyrule neglected to mention the dull headache the spell hadn’t fixed. He instead glanced around, looking for any of the others. “Where is everyone?”

Wind looked around as well, biting his lip. “Still upriver, I guess. You… The current carried you pretty far.”

Hyrule nodded in response, taking in their surroundings for the first time since waking up. They sat a fair distance from the river, the current splashing over rocks and tree roots poking out from the banks. The force of the water seemed far calmer than it was upriver where Hyrule had fallen in. Trees crowded around them, thick boughs stretching overhead and blotting out the sun, light just dappling the grass. It was quite peaceful if Hyrule didn’t think about the fact that he nearly drowned in the river before them.

“We should make our way back,” Hyrule said. The others had still been fighting when he fell in, hadn’t they?

Wind hesitated for a moment before nodding. He stood, offering a hand to Hyrule. “Can you walk?”

Hyrule took Wind’s hand, the blond pulling him to his feet. His head spun a little at the motion, throbbing in time with his heart. With a deep breath and focus on staying upright, he trudged alongside Wind. They slowly made their way back, walking beside the river in the opposite direction it flowed. Hyrule stumbled a number of times along the way, Wind steadying him each time. Whenever Hyrule coughed, Wind would shoot him a fearful look, despite the brunet insisting he was fine.

“Are you okay?” Hyrule asked at one point. Wind didn’t appear to be injured, but Hyrule couldn’t help but notice the way the boy’s hands trembled, how he shook slightly with each step.

Wind was quiet for a moment. “Drowning is… scary,” he said in a quiet voice. Hyrule almost didn’t hear him over the sound of the river, which grew in volume as they walked. “Most of the world in my era is underwater, so it happens a lot.”

“But you saved me,” Hyrule replied. “I didn’t drown.”

Wind looked back at him, expression grim. The look didn’t fit his youthful face. “Sometimes people will drown later anyway.”

Hyrule fell quiet at that. Wind sighed and faced forward again, hands clenched at his sides to keep from shaking. Hyrule watched for a moment, focusing on walking without stumbling as he tried to think of a way to get Wind’s mind – and his own – off of his potential death.

“What’s your Zelda like?” he asked. He must have picked his question well because he could see Wind’s shoulders relaxing.

“Tetra?” Wind said. A grin crept onto his face. “She’s amazing. Real tough girl.”

Hyrule blinked. “Her name isn’t Zelda?”

“Well, technically it is, but she didn’t know she was the princess until our journey.” Wind’s grin widened. “She’s actually a pirate!”

“Whoa, really?”

Wind bobbed his head eagerly. “She helped me take down Ganon! No way I could’ve done it without her.”

Wind went on to regale Hyrule with the story of his battle against Ganon and how Tetra fought alongside him. Hyrule could feel the tension in the air lifting and relaxed as it did. Wind talked animatedly, waving his hands through the air for emphasis and spinning around to face Hyrule, walking backwards as he spun his tale.

“…she got him with the arrows one last time and I did my back slash, flew up and-“

A branch snapped in the woods to their right. Wind instantly fell silent, the two of them going still as they peered into the trees. Wind pulled out his sword, standing protectively before Hyrule who was still unarmed. Hyrule narrowed his eyes as he tried to see through the shadows of the woods. Another branch snapped and he tensed. There was shuffling. Then footsteps. Wind’s shoulders rose, grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Twilight emerged from the trees, dirt and leaves caught in his dirty blond hair and sticking to his clothes.

“Rancher?” Wind groaned, lowering his sword. “I thought you were a monster! Call out or something next time!”

Twilight chuckled, unsuccessfully attempting to swipe the grime from his bangs. Then his gaze landed on Hyrule and his face lit up.

“Traveler?”

Hyrule lifted his hand in greeting. Twilight laughed in relief, hurrying to close the gap between them. “Thank the spirits you’re okay!” he exclaimed, reaching out and squeezing Hyrule’s shoulder. Some mud caked onto his fingers were left behind on Hyrule’s sleeve. “I tried to go after you, but by the time I got away from the monsters, I’d completely lost track of you.” His expression fell into one of guilt for a moment before brightening again. “But it looks like Wind got you. For that, I’m grateful.”

Wind fidgeted, fingering the pommel of his sword. “It… it was close.”

Hyrule nudged Wind, giving him a soft smile. “But I’m okay.” He looked up at Twilight. “What about the others?”

Twilight pushed his bangs back with a sigh, smearing the muck across his hair even more. “Last I saw, the captain and the old man were clearing out the monsters by the bridge. They’re doing fine, but I haven’t seen anyone else.”

“I hope they’re all okay. I wonder what happened?” Hyrule mused.

“Speaking of what happened, how’d you get so dirty?” Wind asked, pointing at the mud-splattered rancher. Hyrule got a better look at the rancher and the muck that covered him. Dark mud coated his limbs, climbing to his knees and elbows. Smears of it decorated his clothes and face as well as his hair.

Twilight gave an awkward laugh, smiling crookedly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s… well… I was in a hurry, trying to go after you guys. I was investigating something I heard but it just led to all this mud and, well…”

“Don’t tell me you fell!” Hyrule laughed.

“It- it was really slippery!” Twilight spluttered, the other two laughing as he scrambled.

“All those monsters-“ Wind cackled, “-and you tripped!”

Twilight groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please spare me, I’m going to get enough from the captain.”

It took nearly a full minute for Wind and Hyrule to reign in their laughter. Twilight struggling to pick the clumps of dried mud from his hair and wolf pelt only made stopping their laughter that much harder. Then Hyrule’s laughing turned to harsh coughing and the joviality in the air vanished. Wind and Twilight instantly swarmed him, holding him steady, trying to soothe him.

“I’m- I’m fine,” Hyrule croaked, weakly trying to brush their hands away.

“That didn’t sound fine,” said Twilight, a worried crease in his brow. He reached into his bag, digging around. “Hold on, I have a potion.”

Hyrule shook his head, clearing his throat. “Save it. One of the others might really need it. My lungs are just irritated, that’s all. It’ll go away.”

Twilight pursed his lips, looking unconvinced. “But if it’s more than that-“

“It’s not,” Hyrule insisted, straightening and drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “If no one else is injured when we all regroup, I’ll think about drinking it, okay?”

Twilight hesitated, glancing at Wind. Then he sighed, withdrawing his hand from his pouch. “Fine. But you will take it if no one else needs it. Deal?”

Hyrule nodded, relieved to drop the issue. He glanced into the woods upriver. “Well, should we go meet up with the two by the bridge? I’d also like to find my sword and shield, if we can.”

Twilight nodded, turning in the direction Hyrule faced. “I don’t think it’s too much further.”

The others nodded before Twilight turned away and began walking upriver, the other two following after him.

Wind leaned over to Hyrule, hand cupped against his mouth. “I still can’t believe he slipped,” he snickered not-so-quietly. Hyrule snorted and Twilight groaned.

“I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

Wind grinned. “Nope!”

#linked universe #gee i sure hope there's not a character limit on tumblr #lu hyrule #lu wind #lu twilight #whump #linked universe fic #linked universe fanfic #ruby writes #time to go have a mini mental breakdown over sharing my writing

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datastate · 1 year

Photo

hey there, darlin’

[ID: A digital drawing of Reko Yabusame from Your Turn To Die, portrayed as Filipino. Reko is leaning back with soft red backlighting. Her left arm is poised casually behind her neck, and her arm rests against the side of her torso. She has short, dark brown hair that falls down the back of her neck, with a small section of her bangs dyed. Reko has several piercings in her ears, as well as a lip and bridge piercing. She wears mascara and has make-up that resembles three tears on both eyes. Only two of her black-ink tattoos are visible: a skull stabbed by a blade and bleeding from the mouth, on her right upper arm, and a broken chain placed on her neck. She dons a red halter top, a black belt with gold rings, and black cargo jeans with star-shaped rips in them. A spiked jacket loosely hangs over her shoulders. Additionally, she wears fishnet stockings with various tears in them, and gloves and long platform boots lined with deep red. The background is warm, with a maroon-colored oval placed behind Reko. It holds the same design as her skull tattoo, notably without the blood. End ID.]

#sorry no companion nao piece for you </3 it's okay i'll get this comic done soon enough #yttd #your turn to die #kimi ga shine #reko yabusame #my art #wall #ult ccs #ccs #described art #thank you to acci for the base id! i made some adjustments but :P <3

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legobiwan · 6 months

Text

Whumptober Salvage: Episode 3

Well, I'm back. Finally. More life happened in the past week-and-a-half than I had planned for, but here we are!

Today's theme: Restraints

Today's author commentary: The concept of Luigi [redacted due to story spoilers] is something I got from a fic I read a while ago on fanfiction.net whose name I absolutely cannot recall at the moment. But I love fallout fics like this and it's not an impossible consequence of the events of SPM if things had gone in a certain direction.

Warnings: No real warnings here, I'm just excited about this one :D

Index: Episode 1; Episode 2

~~~~~~

It’s good hardware. Great hardware, even.

Tensile strength? Check. Double check that, he corrects himself with a grimace, pulling at the twin sets of heavy shackles around his wrists and ankles.

The yield strength was high. High enough, he couldn’t even begin to calculate an exact number. (Liar, the voice in the back of his mind corrects. You can’t concentrate on calculating an exact number.)

To reach the malleability threshold must have required something beyond simple fire. Lava would have been his first guess, but he doubts these restraints are a product of the Darklands. Use of an electric current was a feasible concept - maybe - but it would have necessitated one hell of a resistor to produce the heat required to bend this kind of metal into a proper restraint.

This leaves a few less palatable options.

The temperature inside a star would certainly get the job done. But he only knew of one person with even the slightest hope of developing a technology to harness the cosmos in that manner, and Luigi has to believe, for his own sanity, that E. Gadd has no involvement with his current predicament.

Unfortunately, this leaves magic as the only other viable option.

Luigi grits his teeth, absently running his fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the heavy cuffs. No. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. It had been outlawed years ago, far before he had landed in this strange world. They would have had to strike some kind of deal with the enemy, or spend more coins than he could imagine to acquire this level of restraint. And why did they even have these on hand in the first place? How could they have possibly known -

After everything. Everything he’s done for them.

He’s been kidnapped. Tied up and thrown in a dungeon. Has been bruised, burned, cut, and broken in seventeen different ways. Has been manacled, trussed, bound, caged, buried, boxed, restrained, surrounded.

And it was supposed to be that way, alright? It was all part of being a hero.

Luigi plays at the long chains falling from his wrists, a line of solid, squarish links extending back to a thick, leather belt secured around his waist.

He hadn’t wanted to be a hero. Swooping in and saving the day, getting the pretty girl, marching in parades and receive=ing accolades from a grateful population. It wasn't...him.

No, he had never wanted to be that person.

But was it so wrong to want to be seen as an equal?

He sags against a cold, stone wall with a hoarse sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, his fingers digging into the soft collagen of his eyeballs. The movement produces a percussive, dullen ripple as the chains linked to his wrists fall over another, doubled lines of looping metal drooping from his midline to his shackled ankles.

I guess it was. He huffs out a hollow laugh at the thought, picking up one of the chains, inspecting the dense links at eye level.

There was an art to welding. Not the same kind of art those kids over at LaGuardia used to pump out at all hours of the night - weird, insectile sculptures whose disjointed end result of legs and limbs and tentacles mashed onto a misshapen thorax resembled a creature out of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

No, the art in welding came from the marriage of form and purpose, in the perfectly rounded curve of a plate face, in the smooth aerodynamics that resulted from a nearly seamless, but unbreakable fusion of two disparate materials.

The art was in the flight of a machine never meant to fly, in a silohoutte never meant to be replicated in such vicious form.

Luigi pulls at either end of the metal links. Whoever had forged these chains knew what they were doing.

The only thing he can’t quite wrap his head around is the belt. Not that a belt in itself was a confusing item. He’s worn belts almost his entire life, a constant war with drooping pants and scolding family. You should eat more. You’re too skinny. You look like a girl. You’re going to get your ass kicked one of these days if you’re not careful.

Sure, he knows about belts. He’s a plumber, right?

And there's nothing too odd about the one he wears now, save the enormous engraved buckle sitting right below his belly button, the nexus point of the chained tentacles unfurling to the four endpoints of his wrists and ankles.

He was told it was meant to bind his magic.

A dark chuckle vibrates beneath his sternum.

Magic. A ludicrous thought.

Magic isn't real.

And I couldn’t pull a rabbit out of a hat if I tried.

A heavy door squeals open on the opposite side of the dark chamber. A short, robed figure enters first, followed by two familiar beings of similar height. The guards, who he’s nicknamed “Click and Clack,” (a memory of slow, sultry summer days, his too-long legs dangling off the rusted metal of a fire escape, the crackling static of his little radio fighting against the tortured grumbles of the nearby D train) take their usual places on either side of him, their domed heads only reaching as far as his mid-tricep, their pointed, well-honed spears towering tall above Luigi’s own head.

The third visitor is one he’s not seen before, his long, embroidered robes pooling in eddies of velvet at his feet. He spares a single, disgusted look in Luigi’s direction as he pushes a pair of little, round glasses up his nose.

“It’s time,” he says.

Click and Clack take him roughly by either arm, their odd little entourage an awkward three-legged race in slow motion, the trio limping behind the robed being, who has turned back towards the open door, his steps solemn, measured.

This is it, Luigi thinks, his gut churning.

There will be an audience, for certain. Beings who will be all but salivating to witness him dragged into the light, shackled and accused.

He used to think he knew where the line was, that unshakable boundary between enemy and ally.

He realizes now that perhaps that line never existed at all, or if it did, it only served to separate him from everyone else.

The light of the interior chamber is harsh, too bright to be natural. Luigi squints his eyes, letting his head drop towards the floor as he’s led through a deluge of camera shutter clicks that sound like the wings of a thousand frenetic cicadas, past the murmuring tributaries of whispered accusation and barely-shrouded invective.

He can feel their eyes on him, all of them. As Luigi approaches a bare, wooden seat, he senses his gaze, a thousand unspoken words in an unmet, silent question. Luigi tenses his shoulders, making for the stripped down chair that is both the source of his salvation and damnation. There’s no threat, no promise in this universe or any other which could convince him to answer back, to meet that too-familiar pair of azure eyes.

You let this happen.

The next moments pass in a blur. He sits, then stands again at the prompting of Clack (or is it Click?), who remains steadfast at his flank. Finally, he sits one last time as a low, sonorous voice to his left produces a slurry river of speech.

“...your duty today…”

“...beyond a reasonable doubt…”

“...the defendant must be found…”

Reality crystallizes around him in one horrifying, frozen moment.

This is really happening.

“Ms. Shiitake, what is today’s case?” the severe-looking Toad judge asks.

A stout, female Toad in a drab olive uniform steps forward, clipboard in hand. For a brief moment, her image is overlaid by another, beige skin darkening into a periwinkle shadow crowned in a bun-topped fuschia.

Luigi shakes his head, trying to bring his focus back to the room.

“Your Honor,” she begins in a bored monotone, “today’s case is The Mushroom Kingdom versus Luigi Marionetti.”

“And what are the charges?”

Nothing. I didn’t do anything!

“High treason and crimes against the state as they relate to the events of the appearance of the Void, the Chaos Heart, and Mr. Marionetti’s actions taken against representatives of the Mushroom Kingdom, which include, but are not limited to, attempted murder of our head of state.”

A wave of discontented grumbling washes over the packed courtroom, a young Toad in the back climbing onto his chair, pointing at Luigi with a fiery gesture.

“Traitor!” he yells before being pulled back into his seat by a small gang of nearby onlookers.

“Order!” The judge raps his gavel three times in sharp succession.

Luigi swallows over a swollen lump in his throat. Please. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t want to hurt anybody.

“Is the prosecution ready?” the judge asks.

“Yes, your Honor,” a sharp-suited Toad in red replies as she stands.

Are you so sure of that, the other gravelly voice in his head retorts, an inverted mirror of his own.

The judge turns to the other side of the room. “And is the defense ready?”

Another Toad in a black suit and purple tie stands, fixing Luigi with an inscrutable look before answering, “Yes, your Honor.”

I don’t…I can’t…I don’t know what happened.

“Then the prosecution may proceed.”

Yes, the dark voice chuckles. Yes, you do.

#hello there #writing #the eternal struggle #luigi #is there a car talk reference in this story?#yes #because i feel like that would have been in character for brooklyn luigi #also yes laguardia high school is a real place although i can't comment on the art students' output #also i have thoughts about luigi growing up in 80s/90s brooklyn and how he would have been perceived and how that shaped his attitudes #i have a lot of thoughts about everything #we're back!#hopefully more premanently

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georgieluz · 7 months

Text

here, have a tiny bradnate playlist bc i'm very brainrot rn

i got a bulletproof heart, you got a hollow-point smile

please someone help me, i'm dying here in front of you

we need some leverage, we can't seem to open up, the locks are far too tight, and the chains are far too strong

we'll start a fire, and burn some bridges, and make it out of here tonight

and when your stitch comes loose, i wanna sleep on every piece of fuzz and stuffing that comes out of you

confidants but never friends, were we ever friends?

i noticed your eyes are always glued to me, keeping them here and it makes no sense at all

they taped over your mouth, scribbled out the truth with their lies

trust the feeling and i still get burned, so i run, i can't face that i've come undone, i'll be back with the setting sun

holding out the night, lonely after light, you begged me not to go, sinking like a stone

you're hiding something, cause it's burning through your eyes, i try to get it out, but all i hear from you are lies

i can tell you're going through the motions, figured you were acting out your part

once again, we're playing off emotion, which one of us will burn until the end?

you contradict the fact that you still want me around

i bring the match, you bring the gasoline, it turns me on when you set me on fire, enter my bloodstream, you are my nicotine, i need a fix, can we get much higher?

you wear a crown that's made out of barbed wire

dear, can't you see? it's them, it's not me

look at the mess we've made, look at what we've done, i throw myself to the floor as you say "fuck this" and run

you never ask why, you're living a lie, baby, you're flying too high

thinking i was far away from a crossed line, but i was giving soft praise to a hard lie / my tongue's gotten real tired of me biting it

all alone in a room, do you want what i want, too?

yeah, it hurts to say, but i want you to stay

bombs light up the night, burn like fireflies, tell me one good lie, so i can sleep at night, hurt me one more time, i wanna feel alive

how many times can i let you down with regret?

how much can i ask for 'til you walk out that door?

he burns my skin, never mind about the shape i'm in, i'll keep you safe tonight

blow a kiss at the methane skies, see the rust through your playground eyes, we're all in love tonight, leave a dream where the fallout lies, watch it grow where the tear stain dries, to keep you safe tonight

when the lights go out, will you take me with you?

if you stay, i would even wait all night, or until my heart explodes

you're the broken glass in the morning light, be a burning star if it takes all night, so, just save yourself and i'll hold them back tonight

oh, you're the prettiest, smartest captain of the team

#generation kill #bradnate #playlist #nate fick #brad colbert

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consularmain · 6 months

Text

I should be doing nanowrimo but I rewrote the prologue for my revalek story instead. I'll post it here for now and add it to ao3 when I have all the other chapters fixed :)

Broken Chain

Revan was dead.

There was a time when a galaxy without her in it would have been unthinkable for Malak. But he was a different man then; content to live in her shadow, to hang on her every word, to follow her lead as he had since they were children. Whether it was to the war or beyond the edge of known space, wherever Revan led, Malak would follow.

He would have done anything for her. And she knew it. But that was long ago — before she started them on the path that led them here.

The Leviathan’s laser cannons rained fire on Revan’s flagship. Malak watched from the safety of the Leviathan’s bridge, his arms crossed over his chest and his gray eyes staring unblinkingly as he watched Revan’s ship buckle under the onslaught.

His master’s cold rage at his betrayal sent a tremor through the Force so strong even those with the weakest of connections would have sensed it and fear for their lives. It was made only stronger for Malak through the bond that once flowed so naturally between them. He felt it as Revan turned her rage onto the strike team of Jedi sent to capture both Sith Lords.

Among the Jedi, Malak was surprised to sense Bastila Shan.

The Council must be truly desperate to risk losing their most precious pawn and her Battle Meditation.

If Malak could still smile, he would.

After a lifetime of losing every game of strategy, he had finally outsmarted Revan.

A well-aimed shot from the Leviathan exposed the bridge of Revan’s ship to the vacuum of space for a split second before the ray shields flickered on. In that same instant, Malak felt the echo of a brutal blow to the back of his head. He grunted under his mask, digging his nails into his bicep. The pain was only a shadow of what Revan must have felt, but it was enough to force him to concentrate on breathing through it until it passed. And when it did, he realized their connection was weakening.

Revan was dying.

Her presence, always lingering like a whisper in his thoughts, had finally gone silent. Malak was suddenly the only person in his own mind for the first time in decades. What remained of her that he could sense was slipping away — an eerily quiet death for one who had burned so bright in the Force.

The bond strained, struggling to hold onto his other half, until it snapped.

Something between his ribs echoed that break. It almost brought him to his knees, but he stayed on his feet through sheer willpower, clenching his fists so tight his blunt nails drew blood.

This was his moment of triumph — he would not give her the satisfaction of humiliating him one last time.

Malak slowly opened his eyes, the black spots in his vision fading. He looked out to the black of space to see Revan’s ship being pulled into the gravity of the planet below. Fire and smoke billowed out from the decimated vessel as it hurtled through the atmosphere, disappearing into the clouds without a sound.

Soon, it would crash into the planet’s surface, the last remnant of Revan gone forever.

Malak waited to feel something. The apprentice had finally usurped the master. He would never be second to anyone ever again — the galaxy was his for the taking.

But there was only the deafening silence where she used to be.

“Lord Malak.”

The Lord of the Sith startled in a way very unbecoming of his new title. He could sense Admiral Kareth standing at attention behind him. If he noticed Malak’s blunder, he hid it well, but Malak considered cutting the old man in half anyway just to save himself the embarrassment. But he quickly dismissed the thought. Kareth was far too competent to do away with on a whim.

Malak fixed his gaze back to the stars and answered the Admiral’s unasked question, “Revan is dead.”

Kareth bowed his head and stepped back. In the reflection of the viewport’s glass, Malak saw the Admiral gesture to the other officers to follow him off the bridge and Malak realized he must not have been as composed as he thought if Kareth deemed it prudent to remove the crew. They all moved silently and efficiently, the door closing behind them with a soft hiss and for the first time since he was a child, Malak was truly alone.

Revan was dead.

Nothing could have prepared him for the emptiness that would come after.

He lifted his hand to rub his brow but realized his hand was covered in his own blood from how tightly he had clenched his fist. Malak held his hand up to his face, watching the blood collect in his palm and drip to the floor.

“What have you done, Alek?”

Malak turned on his heel, her name escaping his vocalizer in a gasp, but he was met with empty space on an empty bridge. He looked around in total confusion before steeling his gaze.

He hadn’t imagined it — it had been nothing more than a whisper, but it was unmistakably Revan’s voice; softer than he had heard it in years. Could it have been some forgotten memory brought to the surface by their broken bond or Revan herself punishing him for his betrayal by tethering her spirit to his?

It would be just like her — clinging to life any way she could just to spite him.

But the apparition or whatever it was didn’t show itself again and Malak closed his eyes, the long breath he took rattling through his prosthetic vocal cords.

Revan is dead. I am the Lord of the Sith now.

And suddenly, the loss of someone who had once made him whole became very real. The girl he had followed to war was forever beyond his reach.

A small part of him, buried deep and rarely paid any attention, wondered who he would be now without Revan.

#kotor #knights of the old republic #revalek #darth revan #darth malak #my beloved revalek i miss them!!!

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aikuutv · 2 years

Text

Under Stars

Tagging – @anzepanpan | @sophiethewitch1 | @effulgentfireflies | @mcdonaldsnumberone

Gender neutral reader (they/them)

Warning – none

The bass felt right in Kurona's hand. The atmosphere around the crowd was electrifying and rowdy. Kurona’s fellow members of the band were practically feeding from it. He could tell Isagi was getting hyped by the riffs he belted out from his guitar on his right. Yukimiya was farther away from him but the thunderous chords he strummed made him feel surrounded. Not to mention Kunigami, he was practically bashing in the drum kits. He was afraid that all the backup sticks were gonna end up broken by the next set.

Sweat was forming at his brow from the lights of blue and purple illuminated his band members. It was his turn to choose what color scheme was going to be for tonight’s show and he wanted them to be reminiscent of space, to which made Isagi and Kunigami groan slightly; Yukimiya was more supportive of his choices.

As he sang back vocals with his lip chain moving to the rhythms, fingers moving by memory to the chords of tonight's current song, ‘Planet Hotline’.

Everything was going well. Everything was doing good: so…why weren't you there?

All that filled Kurona's mind was looking for you in the crowd that filled the rented venue. Where are they?

He scanned the people most noticeable out front. Many were singing along to the song, some were dancing, a pair of two were straight up making out and one was recording the band performing with their phone, but you were nowhere.

Did you get held up at work? Did some sort of family emergency come up and you had to help?

...Did you decide the show wasn’t worth going too…?

As the song ends, Isagi announced they were going to take a small break for water and equipment check to the audience’s chattering protests. Yukimiya, on his mic, reminded the crowd it would only be 20 minutes until the next set with the kind reminder to hydrate, use the washroom, and eat a snack while they were out. Fans bursted out in shouts when Yuki’s dazzling smile was directed towards them.

His mind only could think about texting you, calling you to see if you were okay, questioning about what happened that you hadn't been to the concert he was (secretly) excited to play for with his band. To play for you.

Before entering the backroom with his group, Kurona dropped to one knee to retie a loose boot lace, his 1460 slip resistant steel toe Doc Martens. Reliable and sturdy for standing hours on a humid stage. Glancing at the little charm of the constellation of Andromeda ‘The Galactic Rose' clipped to the back of his boots why he let you put it there was still debatable, Kurona thought of the explanation of why you chose this specific charm from an Etsy store you randomly found in his librarian job.

—

"Did you know that when galaxies come too close together, their mutual gravitational pulls drag at their shape, pulling them out of true?"

Kurona, who was putting away returned books back to their rightful shelves, blinked a few times at the sudden explanation, "No, I did not know that." You handed him some non-fiction books from the rolling cart which he quickly grabbed from you, his callous hands brushing against your supple ones.

"Well, guess what? This is for you–wait give me a second…" You quickly grabbed your bag to pull out the so-called ‘this’, which seemed to be giving you quite the frown in concentration.

Realizing that it would take a while for you to search for whatever you had in that bag, Kurona slipped off his reading glasses to clean the lenses. I should really do that more often…

His glasses had thin, gold, metal framing with a matching golden chain of stars with a set of the sun and moon to complete the theme. Readjusting his glasses back to the bridge of his indented nose and looking back at you, all that was thrusted towards him was an acrylic keychain of a galaxy that was similar to a rose.

He admitted it was a beautiful piece of art. All of it had soft swirls of blue and pink and hints of brown in the middle, some shining stars dotted around; it really looked like a rose. "It’s pretty. Why did you get me this?"

At his words you seemed to become flustered, eyes scanning the books, occupying the shelves and your focus on him, "W-well I just–that...we’re close and all, and reading about how these two galaxies had their mutual gravity so out of place their entire being gets reformed in a way...I thought it was like you and me in a way..."

Cute. So cute. You were the cutest you've ever been to him right there in the non-fiction area.

As if you are a blackhole consuming everything in its touch, Kurona was pulled into you. His hands reach to cradle your head, his lips touching yours in an attempt to thank you in ways he could never say with words.

His starlight. His sundrop. His moonbeam. The reason the earth pulls and waves tide. Venus with her beauty and scorching heat. You blind him and burn him and all he would do is pull you closer. Hand in hand with your hair and your charm.

—

Kurona felt a bit warmer at the memory, finishing his lace before he could think about how you weren't at most of the concert. They really didn’t show up…

His hands opening the backstage door, two things immediately came to mind. One, the crisp air conditioning that assaulted his sweating body. Two, the body that had thrown themselves onto his sweaty one.

'I'm so so so soooo sorry I'm late!! There was an emergency at work because some lady wanted a non-caffeinated drink even though she ordered a latte which does have caffeine in it which she yelled for and a traffic jam happened while I was riding the bus the way here but I saw that I was running really late and was missing out on your concert so I told the bus driver to stop and BOOKED it on my life to the hall! So I ran all the way here, showed security my backstage you generously gave me and I've been waiting for you since! Man, you feel so sweaty, there's some towels over on the cou–mhmmp–!"

His mind made no sense anymore. His brain has been eviscerated by a flaming meteoroid, his body overeating like the molten core of the earth. The idea that you cared so much about his show you ran for him? The idea itself was like the possibility of a supernova and yet—you came, you came. You came.

You didn’t ditch him…

The kiss Kurona pulled you in for could only be described as desperate. Lips moving along one another in ways only lovers could. Eventually both of you had to pull away because of the oxygen. Your lungs missed oxygen too much, which Kurona huffed, “I’m glad you came…thought you would just go home…” At his words you cradled his face to yours, foreheads aligned and breaths shared, “What? Never! I could never miss the Kurona Ranze playing in his own concert!”

That made Kurona chuckle, “Yes my concert for me and me alone and definitely not for a band which usually consists of a guitarist, drummer, even a tambourine if the band feels so inclined”

Now pouting, you turned your body away from Kurona’s teasing smile and crinkled eyes while his arms trapped your body with his swaying lightly to an non-existent rhythm, now sitting on the tilted floor while the chatter of the crowd outside the room served as white noise.

"Woooooow just for that I’m leaving. I will start a hate account for you on twitter and spread hateful messages of how mean you are and that you bite the end of your pencils.” Now Kurona laughed at you, the vibrations sending your body a telephonic message to laugh along with him.

"Ranze, do you want to get off the floor now? As much as I love being in your lap, I don’t think it's recommended to have your ass on a stone cold floor. No, wait, this is a public floor, what if it's dirty..."

All Kurona did was squeeze you in response, burying his nose into the nape of your neck that did nothing but send trembles along your spine. 'Just wanna stay like this for a little bit longer..."

Soon after you and Kurona simply leaned against each other, like galaxies pulled to one another out of true, like the planets pulled to the sun, like stars scattered in the solar system. Kurona couldn’t have doubted this moment you would always be there, his Galactic Rose.

#hello this is a old pic from my previous blog enjoy yum yum #blue lock #blue lock manga #blue lock x y/n #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #bllk x reader #bllk x y/n #blue lock kurona #kurona ranze #kurona x reader #my writing

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rinny-rae · 27 days

Text

What Could Have Been

Chapter 3

Summary

The Archduke attempts to have a pleasant dinner with his new ally

Pairing: M!Tav/Gortash

Rating: M

Word Count: 3.5K

Tag/Warnings:

Violence, there’s always graphic violence

Brief mentions of non con

According to my beta reader, Tav is very breedable and idk if that should be a tag or a warning

He just wants to lick Gort’s fingies, leave him alone

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

The Archduke Has Pretty Lips

“You’ve been quite brave,” Gortash said and smiled to reassure the boy who sat beside him in sullen silence. “Stupid, but brave.”

He spoke earnestly but the brat hardly listened. Instead, he gawked at a servant who brought out a silver platter piled high with lamb and roasted vegetables.

Waitstaff rushed about, clattering plates and muttering to each other as they set the table. A tall man in Banite livery walked around the room, lighting rows of torches that sat in iron sconces along the walls. Despite the evening’s warmth, a fire crackled in the hearth, harmonizing in tune with the waves that crashed into the rocky shore beneath the windows of the fortress. An anti-magic crystal swung lazily from a chain above the dinner table, faintly distorting the colors in the room. A blush of sunset peeked through the heavy half-drawn curtains and flickered off the silver cutlery and porcelain dishes, painting them with a faintly pink hue.

The boy’s sad yet innocent eyes gave him the look of a wounded animal and the fresh bruises around his neck only added to that effect. For some, broken, pathetic things elicited an instinct to comfort or nurture but the Archduke found such outright weakness nothing but irritating.

With a bland smile, a servant placed a fork and a knife before Wynn.

“Our guest will make do with a spoon,” Gortash said and fixed the servant with a stony gaze, amazed at the depths of his incompetence. The man’s tight smile wavered and he scrambled to the serving cart to provide the appropriate silverware.

Wynn’s borrowed clothes hung loose in a somewhat flattering way. His shirt slid off one shoulder, revealing his lean, if perhaps too thin, frame - the boy was small for the age he claimed to be. He adjusted the shirt and rubbed the bruises on his neck. A lock of chestnut hair fell across his face and he swiped it back behind his ear, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. The redness made them look green though they were likely hazel under duller circumstances.

A clerk shuffled in, muttering apologetically, late as always. He hunched beside the table, peeking sheepishly from behind the mountain of letters and scrolls that swayed precariously in his veiny hands. The Archduke waved for him to sit while watching Wynn primly poke at a baked potato with his spoon only to fail to break its crispy skin. The boy’s frown deepened with each failed attempt but he persisted. The clerk cleared his throat as if to remind Gortash of his presence and just for that, the Archduke ignored him for a while longer.

“What of the missing shipment?” he finally asked, taking a bite of his own meal and realizing it had been the first thing he’d eaten all day.

The clerk frantically shuffled through his letters, finally pulled one out and, with trembling hands, passed it to Gortash.

“No news of the missing shipment of infernal weapons but possible culprits are under investigation.”

Gortash put the letter down and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the tension in his shoulders worm its way up and begin to build into a dull headache.

Wynn reached for the platter of lamb and tried to break off a piece. While undeniably tender, the meat proved to be a formidable opponent. It slid to the opposite side of the platter, pushing a few honeyed carrots off and staining the tablecloth. Wynn’s bloodshot eyes glistened with fresh tears but he kept his silence.

Gortash toyed with his own dinner knife as he watched the boy struggle. How long might it take to rob him of all decorum? Evidently, four days of starvation didn’t quite do the trick.

Wynn gave up on the meat and spooned carrots onto his plate instead, conducting himself with restraint unlike that of a common vagrant. Joylessly, Gortash remembered his own younger self, stuffing his pockets with anything he could snatch off the table, then dashing from the dinner hall in hopes of outrunning the guards and avoiding a beating. Sometimes he succeeded.

“Let’s go through the speech again,” he said to the clerk, yearning for a distraction. The man shuffled some papers around, unrolled a scroll, and cleared his throat.

“Esteemed citizens of Baldur’s Gate,” he started in a thready voice and the Archduke winced, picturing the pathetic creature actually giving the speech. “We must be mad, literally mad, as a city to be permitting the inflow of thousands of dependents…” the clerk soldiered on.

“Change that to tens of thousands,” Gortash interrupted. The man nodded several times, scribbling a note.

“Esteemed citizens of Baldur’s Gate,” the clerk started over.

”That part is going to stay the same,” Gortash said, rolling his eyes, then reached for the platter of lamb. He ran his serrated knife along the bone, cutting off a large chunk, releasing the succulent juices that flowed freely from the incision and filled the bottom of the platter. He dropped the meat onto Wynn’s plate and cut it with slow, intentional precision until the pieces were small enough for the boy to eat. Wynn quietly observed, gripping his spoon so tightly that his already pale knuckles turned bone white and Gortash didn’t know if that was a gesture of terror or excitement.

“Right, yes. We must be mad, literally mad, as a city to be permitting the inflow of thousands… “ the clerk trailed off and began scribbling again.

His patience at a hair’s breadth, Gortash pushed Wynn’s plate back to the boy and ripped the scroll from the clerk’s hands, nearly knocking over his pot of ink.

“Tens of thousands of dependents, who are for the most part…” he muttered, sensing Wynn’s attention snap to him, “… the material of the growth of the refugee descended population.”

The boy craned his neck, trying to read along. Gortash spoke louder, “It is like watching a city busily engaged in heaping up its own funeral pyre.”

He rubbed his chin, unhappy with the wording but unsure how to fix it. Lamenting the fate that befell his most recent speech writer, he uncorked a bottle of wine.

“Needs some work, don’t you think?” he looked at the boy, filling two goblets and handing one to him.

The clerk, ever the eager sycophant, stammered “Oh no, it’s very, very good.”

Wynn smelled the wine, then took several small sips and closed his eyes. His cheeks flushed and he visibly relaxed, then looked into the Archduke’s eyes with genuine warmth. Gortash crossed his legs and leaned back, holding the goblet in front of him and swirling the wine slowly, waiting for the boy to answer his question.

“The speech is… fine,” Wynn finally said, remnants of a smile still dancing around the corners of his eyes.

“Mediocrity won’t do,” Gortash said, and after a pause, added “Be honest with me, we are allies after all.” It was an empty reassurance given the circumstances but sometimes people needed to hear kind words, no matter how meaningless.

Wynn took another sip of wine, pulled the scroll closer and read through it again.

“Who is this speech for?” he asked.

“The good citizens of the lower city,” Gortash said, topping off both of their goblets. Wynn met his eyes and nodded appreciatively.

“I like the ‘funeral pyre’ bit,” he said, “as for the rest, frankly, it may confuse the fishermen and the cobblers.”

Gortash raised an eyebrow, mulling over the response.

“Maybe something more personal?” Wynn suggested, sipping his wine, the pallor of his face giving way to a rosy blush.

“Yes, something a simple worker can relate to,” Gortash agreed. Fresh ideas swirled in his head and he took the parchment back, writing fast.

Two servants shuffled in with another platter of food. The Archduke couldn’t recall what the second course was or that there even was one but he made a silent promise to eat more than one bite of it.

The men fussed around him and Wynn, clumsily gathering the dishes as if they had never served dinner before. Gortash held the scroll up and began reading the speech over before presenting the updated version to his apparent advisor.

A dull thud shook the table and a shrill scream pierced the room. Gortash’s eyes shot up to see that a dagger stuck through Wynn’s hand and into the mahogany table, pinning him in place. A puddle of blood bloomed, soaking through the linen table cloth.

Gortash sprung to his feet, kicked the chair over and splashed ink into the eyes of Wynn’s assailant. Moving in a blur, the man behind him hopped over the chair and pounced, swinging a short sword. Gortash twisted out of the way and the man sliced through the empty air, smashing his sword down onto the table. Splinters of wood, shards of porcelain, goblets, and food flew in all directions and rang in a shrill cacophony as they crashed to the ground. Gortash flung the empty ink pot into the side of the assassin’s head, then pulled out his hand crossbow and followed up with a shot. The bolt pierced through the shoulder of his opponent’s sword arm.

“Guards!” he called out. No response came.

He spun and shot at the ceiling, shattering the anti-magic crystal. All lights and colors in the room came into sharp focus.

The clerk squealed and stumbled, sending his mountain of papers rustling to the ground, then, nearly tripping over his own feet, ran for the door, disappearing in the darkness of the adjacent room.

Despite the Archduke’s help, the brat was as good as dead. He whimpered, staring dumbly at his pinned hand and leaving himself completely exposed. His opponent swore, wiping black ink from his eyes with the hem of his shirt, revealing the light leather armor beneath. Instead of dealing the final blow, however, he turned from the boy and began inching toward Gortash. The Archduke reloaded and cranked his crossbow. Breathing steadily to control the fear that coursed through him, he readied himself for the attack.

Wynn gritted his teeth and, with a pained gasp, yanked the dagger out. Blood rushed from his wounded hand. He stood up but stumbled, clutching the table, then, still swaying, picked up the half empty bottle of wine and flung it at the man who had stabbed him. He missed by several feet but the assassin spun on his heel and scowled. The boy assumed a fighting stance holding the bloodied dagger in his uninjured hand.

“You best put that down, little lamb,” the assassin growled. Wynn slashed at him but the assassin slipped sideways and kicked Wynn’s feet from under him. The boy’s head bounced off the stone floor and he dropped the dagger.

“Stay down,” the assassin said, and kicked him in the stomach.

Gortash’s opponent snapped off the shaft of the crossbow bolt lodged in his shoulder, tossed away his shortsword and produced a dagger. Wielding it in his off hand, he held it low, advancing wearily. Gortash didn’t have time to reload before the man closed the distance between them. He threw the crossbow away, pocketed the unused bolt and, in a practiced motion, he parried the attack with the back of his forearm. The blade scraped along the gold alloy of his right vambrace, leaving a long gouge in the decorative piece but leaving him uninjured. The assassin slashed at his chest. Gortash dodged his strikes and stepped back, realizing his mistake a moment too late. The assassin kicked Gortash’s front leg out and slashed at his exposed inner thigh. Gortash raised his knee just in time to protect himself from the deadly strike but the dagger sliced clean through his soft leather boots, opening a gash across his shin. He stumbled, unable to ignore the searing pain. Pressing his advantage, the assassin drove into Gortash’s chest with his uninjured shoulder, knocking him off balance, and, with terrible precision, drove the blade into the right side of his stomach, just under the ribs.

The Archduke gritted his teeth against the piercing pain and gripped the man’s wrist, keeping the dagger firmly in place, then thrust a crossbow bolt into his throat, only puncturing his windpipe the first time but severing an artery on the second strike. Hot blood spurted from the wound and the man groaned, then twisted the knife. Gortash’s vision swam. To keep himself upright, he clutched at the man’s neck, feeling the assassin’s life leak out until his grip slackened and he released his hold on the dagger.

Tears rolled down Wynn’s cheeks. He reached for the dagger but his opponent kicked it away and stepped on the boy’s hand.

“We’ve orders not to kill you but Chosen said nothing about maiming,” he said and ground the toe of his boot into Wynn’s palm.

The boy cried out and muttered something. The assassin frowned and spat at him but stepped away, turning his attention to the Archduke once again. Wynn sat up and made a quick motion with his fingers, sending a small cloud of sparks into the air, then gasped and cradled his injured hand.

Gortash wrapped his coat around the protruding dagger and trained his crossbow on the approaching enemy. The man hesitated and shot a glance toward the black doorway. Gortash smirked, relieved to finally have the upper hand.

A flailing, screaming body flew between him and his opponent and, with a sickening crunch, crashed into the stone wall. It was the clerk, his eye sockets now empty, bloody pits. He raised his head and coughed up a spray of blood, then lay motionless, gurgling and foaming from the mouth.

Two men, one seemingly smaller than Wynn, dwarfed by his hulking companion, stepped out of the darkness and pushed into the room. They wore matching leather armor, dyed black and red after a Bhaalist fashion.

“A fine evening to you,” the smaller man said cheerfully, scratching his hawk-like nose with the hilt of his dagger. The man beside him stepped with careful poise surprising for someone of his size. The two strolled toward the Archduke, unbothered by the crossbow he had trained on them. Gortash swallowed, feeling bile rise in his throat, then shot the smaller man who flicked the bolt away with the ease of swatting a fly.

Wynn rushed the man who had stabbed him, swinging a red hot fire poker at the back of his head. The weapon connected with a hiss, filling the room with the stench of burned meat and hair.

The man howled then charged the boy screaming, “if you insist on dying here, so be it.” Wynn scurried backwards, waving the iron poker and looking utterly ridiculous. Gortash pursed his lips and, right as the assassin reached the boy, loosed a bolt into the side of his head. The man stumbled and dropped his weapon. Rubbing the spots where the bolt stuck out from both sides of his skull, he turned around slowly, mouth half open, pink fluid trickling from one ear.

Wynn did not hesitate. He wound up and, grunting from exertion, smashed the iron poker into the man’s face, snapping his head back. Blood and teeth sprayed from his mouth and the man crashed backwards.

Two sets of leisurely footsteps echoed closer and closer, punctuating the silence of the room. The Archduke loaded the last bolt, cranked the crossbow, and shot the larger man, hitting him square in the chest. The giant looked down and grinned, then ripped the bolt out and tossed it back to Gortash who, with nowhere left to retreat, crossed his arms and, standing his ground, recited a prayer:

Despot King, hear my words

Carried to thee by blood and bone

I beg for thy might to embolden my arm,

to hone my blade,

to ignite my spells.

Suffer not the heretic to live

For I am Faithful…

The giant’s calloused hand closed around his face and he was dragged backwards until his head collided with the stone wall.

”The Archduke has pretty lips,” the man said in a voice like grinding stones.

On the other side of the room, Wynn roared, then whimpered, then went silent. In the moment of stillness that followed, Gortash’s panic boiled over. His ears rang, every coarse breath in his burning chest filled with the sour smell of the assassin’s sweat.

“Let’s hear another prayer,” the man said and cruel smile crept across his face.

“As you wish,” Gortash mumbled into the giant’s palm. He ripped the knife out of his own stomach and buried it between the man’s ribs. With a howl, the assassin released his grip. Fueled by rabid desperation, Gortash stabbed him twice more. On the fourth strike he stumbled and clutched his side, feeling hot blood run between his fingers. Evidently unconcerned about the injuries, the assassin punched Gortash in the stomach and, as he crumbled, kneed him in the jaw.

“Now, where were we?” he said, kneeling and breathing heavily.

“The Archduke’s pretty lips,” his companion said, wiping blood off his dagger with a white dinner napkin.

“That’s right,” the giant grabbed a fistful of Gortash’s hair and snapped his head back.

Gortash had no strength to keep fighting so, as a compromise, he spat a mouthful of blood into the assassin’s scarred face. The man shook his head and began laughing heartily, then kissed him on the forehead.

“I like this one, can we keep him?” he said, turning to his friend.

Behind them, Wynn clutched at the side of the table and pulled himself up, swaying lightly. His shirt was torn and four deep wounds yawned in his gut.

The giant murmured, brushing the Archduke’s matted hair back, then squeezed his throat. The edges of Gortash’s vision went dark but somewhere in the periphery of his awareness he heard shouting and slamming against the wooden doors.

“Looks like we’re short on time,” the smaller man said, unsheathing a glistening rapier and pointing it at the Archduke who writhed helplessly, gasping for breath.

A cloud of sizzling electricity enveloped Wynn as he mouthed something over and over, making quick gestures, no longer bothered by the pain in his wounded hand. A scent of ozone spread through the room and the boy began to levitate, electricity crackling all around him. As Wynn raised his arms and hurled a colossal ball of fire toward Gortash and the assassins, the Archduke smiled bitterly at the irony of dying by the hand of a storm sorcerer.

With a deafening boom, the fireball hit the ground, and a terrible brightness engulfed all three. The air once again filled with the scent of burning flesh. The giant assassin roared, clawing at his leather armor as it melted into his blistering, charred skin. His hair curled, twisted, blackened, releasing acrid smoke. He rose to his feet, turning to face Wynn, as if to charge him, then took one step forward and toppled. Likewise, his friend has been set ablaze. Screaming, he was flung several feet into the air. After colliding with a wooden ceiling beam, he came crashing down, splattering onto the stone.

Among the chaos, Gortash felt nothing more than a rush of hot, dry air. Like a strong gust of wind, it gently pressed him against the ground but caused no pain.

Wynn floated toward him. Purple bursts of electricity danced on his skin and his eyes glowed the deep blue-black of a wild tempest. The sparks began to dissipate and he landed daintily, then slowly knelt beside the Archduke. Gortash propped himself up on one elbow, blinking blood from his eyes, and focused all his attention on the boy, well past caring about his own injuries.

“You’re losing a lot of blood,” he said, tonguing a loose tooth and welcoming the numbness that began to spread through his body.

“So are you,” Wynn smiled sadly.

“Lay on your back, put pressure on your wounds, and put your feet up,” the Archduke said, too weak to take on a commanding tone. He ran one shaking hand along the ground in a futile attempt at brushing the soot and gore away. The boy winced but, handling his pain surprisingly well, curled up beside him.

“You’re terrible at following orders,” Gortash’s voice cracked in a dry throat. His limbs felt heavy and, in his body’s last ditch effort to stay alive, he shivered so hard that his teeth chattered.

Perhaps growing delirious from his own injuries, Wynn looked into his eyes and smiled with candid sincerity.

“My fighting skills leave a lot to be desired as well,” he said in a weak voice, then wrapped his small hands around the Archduke’s. He ran his fingers along the rings and ridges of Gortash’s gauntlets, studying, exploring each groove, then weaved between them, pressing into his skin, linking them together with his soft, warm touch. He raised the Archdukes shaking, blood stained hands to his lips and held him there, squeezing just a little harder, peering into his eyes as if searching for something.

Feeling Wynn’s warm breath on his skin, and a lump in his own throat, Gortash closed his eyes and felt himself drift away.

#bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #gortash x oc #gortash fic #gortash x tav #enver gortash

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raayllum · 2 years

Text

Rayllum-y lyrics from Midnights:

And I wake with your memory over me / That's a real fucking legacy, legacy (it was maroon)

I would've stayed on my knees / And I damn sure never would've danced with the devil / At nineteen / And the God's honest truth is that the pain was heaven / And now that I'm grown, I'm scared of ghosts / Memories feel like weapons

When my depression works the graveyard shift / All of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room

All the love we unravel / And the life I gave away / 'Cause he was sunshine / I was midnight rain / He wanted it comfortable / I wanted that pain

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye / You were bigger than the whole sky / You were more than just a short time / And I've got a lot to pine about / I've got a lot to live without

Summer went away, still, the yearning stays

One night, a few moons ago / I saw flecks of what could've been lights / But it might just have been you / Passing by unbeknownst to me

I didn't choose this town, I dream of getting out / There's just one who could make me stay / All my days

Can I ask you a question? / Did you ever have someone kiss you in a crowded room / And every single one of your friends was makin' fun of you / But fifteen seconds later, thеy were clappin' too? / Then what did you do? / Did you lеave her house in the middle of the night? Oh / Did you wish you'd put up more of a fight, oh / When she said it was too much? / Do you wish you could still touch her? / It's just a question

Lock broken, slur spoken / Wound open, game token

My knuckles were bruised like violets / Sucker punching walls, cursed you as I sleep-talked / Spineless in my tomb of silence / Tore your banners down, took the battle underground

I can't let this go / I fight with you in my sleep / The wound won't close / I keep on waiting for a sign

When the silence came, we were shaking blind and hazy / How the hell did we lose sight of us again? / Sobbin' with your head in your hands / Ain't that the way shit always ends?

They said the end is comin' / Everyone's up to somethin' / I find myself runnin' home to your sweet nothings

My friends from home don't know what to say / I looked around in a blood-soaked gown / And I saw something they can't take away / 'Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned / Everything you lose is a step you take

Tale as old as time / I wake up screaming from dreaming / One day I'll watch as you're leaving / And life will lose all its meaning / For the last time

If clarity's in death, then why won't this die? / Years of tearing down our banners, you and I / Living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts

Good girl, sad boy / Big city, wrong choices / We had one thing goin' on / I swear that it was somethin' / 'Cause I don't remember who I was / Before you painted all my nights / A colour I've searched for since

You’re on your own kid, you always have been

"It only hurts this much right now" / Was what I was thinkin' the whole time / Breathe in, breathe through, breathe deep, breathe out / I'll be gettin' over you my whole life

All you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing

Once upon a time, the planets and the fates / And all the stars aligned / You and I ended up in the same room / At the same time

My hand was the one you reached for / All throughout the Great War / Always remember / Uh-huh, tears on the lеtter / I vowed not to cry anymore

You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love / The slowest way is never loving them enough

If you never touched me, I would've / Gone along with the righteous / If I never blushed, then they could've / Never whispered about this / And if you never saved me from boredom / I could've gone on as I was / But, Lord, you made me feel important / And then you tried to erase us / Oh, oh / You're a crisis of my faith / Would've, could've, should've / If I'd only played it safe

And the touch of a hand lit the fuse / Of a chain reaction of countermoves / To assess the equation of you / Checkmate, I couldn't lose

#rayllum #taylor swift #we're not swifties for nothing #caylangst #s4 #arc 1 #arc 2 #insp

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poetrythreesixfive · 7 months

Text

Monster Story

I hired a monster to walk around with me

to protect me from all enemies, foreign

and domestic, a big fat hairy monster with

teeth in rows like a sword factory displaying

its deadly wares, and when he would open

his gaping maw, rear his head back, and gaze

at the sky, it looked like a giant bed of death

daring all fleshy, pierceable organisms to flop

down onto it and be introduced to a world

of bloody holes like see-through fabric.

He only used that pose when posting victory

after crushing someone or scoring a touchdown,

because that’s what is expected, and let’s admit,

we learn these gestures from watching others

as small children, thinking, damn, that’s what

I would do if I successfully stormed a castle

or slew a hydra; most of the time, he would

just stand there, hairy and huge, and that was

enough to scare the bejesus out of bystanders,

and so that’s what I named him—Bejesus.

So me and Bejesus—I mean, Bejesus and I—

would stroll casually down dead-end streets,

memory lanes, boulevards of broken dreams

and country roads that took us home, and

people would part before us like a blood red

sea, no-one brave enough to raise their hands

and pronounce STOP! or ask for tolls or taxes;

even the troll beneath the bridge stayed silent

and cowering in his shady hidey hole, content

with allowing us to cross, and glad to see us go.

With all the hoopla of having to step aside and

cower to our demands, our names spread far

and wide—though let’s admit it, nobody still

knew who I was; it was my monster who got all

the press—but I was in every picture, or at least

most of them, and we got to meet mayors and

governors, pop-stars and princes, and anyone

who called themselves an ‘influencer’ was quite

instantly smashed into the ground with a single

mallet-like wallop from Bejesus’ colossal fist.

And I never feared for anything—my life, liberty,

or pursuit of happiness; muggers and marketers

were sent screaming over the horizon—but I did

contemplate how to leverage my newfound power

into cash because, let’s admit it, the only thing

more powerful than a big fat hairy monster is a

giant bank account, and I knew that one day, like

in every good story, the hero would have to lose

something in Act II, and my monster was the only

thing I had in the whole world, so I needed a plan.

So Bejesus and I started charging money for every

picture, and we hired a lawyer to sue anyone who

didn’t want to pay, and we started charging for

appearances on talk shows and at political rallies,

and if I had the sense to write a book, I would have,

but it was easier for companies to just plaster ads

all over Bejesus’ body as he walked along, a giant

hairy billboard that turned every head, and he soon

developed a killer smile and snappy finger-point

for the camera to add that extra promotional edge.

One day, we saw a little girl drowning in a lake,

as her canoe had capsized, and her father, unable

to swim, was clinging to the foundered boat; we

both jumped into the water, and Bejesus waded

out to the girl and plucked her out like a salmon

on a hook and carried her to shore; but there was

a ‘No Swimming’ sign posted on the water’s edge,

so Bejesus and I were both arrested for trespassing,

and since I had neither monster insurance nor a

license to own a monster, I was quickly arrested.

They took my monster away and threw me into

jail, and the father of the little girl sued us for

making him look bad, and all the muggers and

marketers who had fled in terror at our approach

got onto social media and canceled us for violating

their freedom of speech, and if we had had jobs,

they would have fired us, but we didn’t, so they

just kept me in jail and put my monster in chains,

and we lost all our endorsements, even the sneaker

ads, and the news reports said we were unelectable.

Then in my darkest hour, I had a brilliant idea:

I had something that no one else had: a monster;

a big fat hairy reason to tell them to all go fuck

themselves, and I went to the window of the cell

and gave a loud whistle, and Bejesus heard me

and snapped his chains and came a running and

smashed a hole through the prison wall, and both

us ran off into the night, giving them all the finger

as we went, and we disappeared into the woods,

free and uncaring, and lived happily ever after.

-GeorgeFilip

#poem #poetry #poetrythreesixfive #georgefilip #spilledink #poetryportal #poetsandwriters #poetsontumbler #spilledwords #deepthoughts #misanthrope #monsters #monsterstory #surrealreality

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brown-little-robin · 1 year

Text

tumblr year in review—but only the interesting parts!

I posted 4,072 times in 2022. That's 3,137 more posts than 2021! (yeah, because I joined tumblr in August 2021. Looks like my posting actually slowed down this year!

595 posts created (15%)

3,477 posts reblogged (85%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@swinging-stars-from-satellites

@lovesodeepandwideandwell

@thatfriendlyanon

@bluesidedown

@called-kept

many other very beloved friends!

I tagged 3,787 of my posts in 2022

Only 7% of my posts had no tags

#art - 193 posts (I've mostly stopped using that tag now. It was too broad... as you can tell :P)

#aesthetic - 147 posts (sounds about right)

#batfam - 144 posts (y u p)

#strange redemption intertextuality - 140 posts (NICE. finding these quotes is one of the most fun parts of tumblr to me.)

#yes - 110 posts (listen, I just REALLY AGREE with a lot of things!)

#on living softly - 101 posts (huh! neat!)

#mob-blogging - 99 posts (I didn't think I posted THAT much mob, but okay!)

#ahahahaha - 91 posts (yeah I like laughing in tag form)

#tim drake - 90 posts (blorbo <3<3<3)

#god's beasts - 87 posts (YEAH BABY. CREATURES)

My Top Posts in 2022:

Humans are essentially homesick for heaven. (I still stand by that, even though having a post I wrote in a feverish sort of haze going everywhere was kind of anxiety-inducing.)

Throgmorten drawing (hims grumpy :3)

HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH explanation (very sweet! I love that it got reblogged a lot)

Jason Todd and Tim Drake comparison (cool! I liked that!)

"Every writer should have readers who never point out flaws about their work". (Hnnn. Some sad things happened with that post. Oh well, I still stand by that idea!)

I say this with the sincerest belief: every writer should have someone who never points out flaws about their work, ever, and that they trust to never do that, ever.

Writers should also have people who do point out flaws about their work, of course, because that’s how their work can get better.

But!! For the emotional ability of writers to keep writing, to believe that their writing is worth doing, it is essential to have safe-haven readers. People we can take writing to and know they’ll remind us why we write.

Readers and commenters can fill different needs: improving writing, and ensuring writing.

189 notes - Posted April 28, 2022

Jason is too OPEN. Tim is too GUARDED. They have the same emotions (YOU ARE FAMILY I LOVE YOU I AM HURT AND LONELY) but they deal with them in two ways:

Jason: he’s an open book, a bleeding heart, a scream of defiance & pain & rage. He takes all his giant emotions and pours them out in a river in front of his loved ones’ feet and DEMANDS answers. He burns his bridges before others can burn them because he is saying LOOK AT THIS, IT’S RUINED, RIGHT? IT’S RUINED, RIGHT? —not realizing that, if he hadn’t set the bridges on fire, they would have still been there—broken, maybe, damaged, but still there, still fixable.

Tim: he’s a closed book, a chained-up heart, a locked jaw, a stifled scream. He takes his emotions and tells them river, run in your proper course and do not leave that course; don’t you dare flood. He lets his bridges rot because if he says “this bridge is getting worn down” too often, he will be acknowledging that something is wrong with him. What if his loved ones tell him that he’s at fault for letting their bridges fall into disrepair again? What if, even worse, they decide that the bridge is an eyesore and decide to remove it altogether? No, no, no, better to isolate himself on his island and just keep the structure of the bridges intact enough for him to survive. No need to call attention to their state of decay.

213 notes - Posted September 22, 2022

If I tell you “HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY” this is what I mean, btw. I’m not drunk, I promise. (image description under the cut)

[begin image description. A page from Winnie the Pooh. It has an illustration of Owl biting a pencil. It says:

“Can you read, Pooh?” he asked, a little anxiously. “There’s a notice about knocking and ringing outside my door, which Christopher Robin wrote. Could you read it?”

“Christopher Robin told me what it said, and then I could.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what this says, and then you’ll be able to.”

So Owl wrote... and this is what he wrote:

HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA

BTHUTHDY.

end image description.]

222 notes - Posted June 6, 2022

Throgmorten, the Asheth Temple Cat and thoroughly cranky beast. Look out, or he’ll tear strips off you!

295 notes - Posted January 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Humans are essentially homesick for heaven and lonely for God. Or vice versa. We want a person so big that we can sink into them like a bedroom and a bedroom so lovely it embraces us like a friend.

477 notes - Posted June 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#year in review #edited for clarity 'n stuff!

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risarchives · 2 years

Text

cataclysm finale rambles ii

ok ok let me talk about my theory as to why vin and freelancer weren't in the finale

beginning with the poem excerpts in the descriptions of audios where vin and fl were present in:

Cataclysm | What You Deserve:

“and voices are in the wind’s singing, more distant and more solemn than a fading star” — “Eyes I dare not meet in dreams / In death's dream kingdom / These do not appear: / There, the eyes are / Sunlight on a broken column / There, is a tree swinging / And voices are / In the wind's singing / More distant and more solemn / Than a fading star.” - T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

Cataclysm | Truth Will Come Out:

“the supplication of a dead man's hand, under the twinkle of a fading star” — “This is the dead land / This is cactus land / Here the stone images / Are raised, here they receive / The supplication of a dead man's hand / Under the twinkle of a fading star.” - T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

their first audio had a description that wasn't from this poem, so i excluded it, but it's this:

“with the first link, the chain is forged” — Captain Jean-Luc Picard: “‘With the first link, the chain is forged. The first speech censured, the first freedom denied, chains us all irrevocably.’ Those words were uttered by Judge Aaron Satie as wisdom and warning. The first time any man’s freedom is trodden on, we’re all damaged.” - Star Trek: The Next Generation (S04E21)

GOING BACK TO THE POEM: it talks of hollow, hopeless men.

the Hollow Men exist in-between, in liminal spaces, in the bridge of life and death, morality and immortality, light and darkness. the lines “remember us – if at all – not as lost / violent souls, but only / as the hollow men / the stuffed men.” strengthens the viewpoint that the hollow men live in neutrality. they avoid the life of motion and responsibility yet also fear the face of The Shadow, which is death.

this leads us back to the truth will out audio.

as vin had stated, freelancer had lost so much of their freedom and themself in the imperium (their being under the authority of moore connects them back to the star trek quote above, since he will occasionally command them to do or not do things, an action which results to fl not being given the ability to move on their own accord or their own liking.) they don't want humanity to die (and just them, i assume. they don't want to die themself) and for elegy to be destroyed. yet also they've grown exhausted of everything they have to do to be able to spend time with their lover, however limited, and to also do what they want—which is, hardly ever.

(^ the healing class thing with moore)

there are lots of references to the Divine Comedy both in the poem and in vin and freelancer's relationship, but i’m going to focus on their decision in the truth will out audio and a specific line in the poem, which is:

In this last of meeting places / We grope together / And avoid speech / Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

this is a reference to acheron. the river acheron.

Moral Hydrography: Dante's Rivers, Daniel J. Donno

acheron separates the mortal world from the underworld, for one cannot step upon the underworld or go back to the human realm without first crossing the river acheron. the unburied, those who couldn't pay or those who were never truly alive, is said to have been doomed to always wander around the banks/shore of the river.

the ‘neutral’ stay on the banks of acheron, being tortured by worms and flies, as they are neither god nor satan, heaven nor hell, but are only for themselves.

the hollow men that are ‘gathered on this beach of the tumid river’ are the unburied in this poem.

(…) ‘My answer can be brief: These have no hope that death will ever come. And so degraded is the life they lead all look with envy on all other fates. The world allows no glory to their name. Mercy and Justice alike despise them. Let us not speak of them. Look, then pass on.’

- Inferno, 3: 44-51

honestly, i don't know what this means for freelancer and vindemiator outside the hell that is the imperium, which, as we know, is now under the guidance of the demons and the shaw pack and samuel collins (?), but this underpins the idea that they are the ‘neutral’ of this equation. they are neither facing the responsibility of survival (fighting with the resistance) nor courageous enough to face death (...the entire point of the resistance lest they fail) and so, they are stuck “on the banks/shore,” not wherever the characters of the recent audio were.

i’m guessing that the constant hopes of a garden of both imp!fl and prime!starlight is a reference to the garden of eden, which is the original homeland of humanity, although i’m not sure because ajsksfnb how does it connect ?¿???¿

the fading star in both the descriptions written above refers to waning hope. i’m theorizing it was meant for freelancer ....

but like. there are dots i still can't connect.

does this mean they're doomed to live in hopelessness for eternity? or are they now free? are they in the garden together? have they created a little home in the woods for themselves, away from the hell that is the imperium?

ARE THEY HAPPY THERE??????? SAFE?????

echo pls give us something here im dying of curiosity.

i just wish they're safe and happy right now honestly i don't need anything else

(^ i do, in fact, need something. conformation that they're fine or something. anything. but i'm sure they are, considering how much echo values these two)

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted freelancer #redacted gavin #redacted vindemiator #rambles #what if i just. shut up #that would be lovely #!!!!! i hope they're safe out there. wherever they are #best couple fr #vinfl+staravi >>>>>

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