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winter-literature · 11 months

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Deadman's Stand In

A Given Fan Fiction

Okay, so I have been extremely sick this week and watched Given and read the manga and have not yet recovered from the intense level of angst I feel from this show. So I wrote a fanfiction to help me deal with some of my unresolved feelings.

Summary:

Post anime, within the final chapters of the Manga.

Uenoyama deals with the fact that he doesn’t feel like his own person. His friendships and relationship currently revolve around him being a shadow of who Yuki used to be.

This FF focuses on Uneoyama's hurt that I didn't feel were acknowledged enough. The feelings of inadequacy, of being second strung, and just so fucking hurt that you can’t figure out what to do because the person you love won’t talk to you and… who do you have left?

Charcoal clouds covered the night sky, their dull grey reflected in glacier blue eyes. If he stared intently enough, perhaps he’d see the reminiscent twinkle of a far off star.

His forlorn sigh fogged up the glass before him. With a click of his tongue he let out a wry laugh. The irony of the ghost-like image was not lost on his train of thoughts. Blowing on the glass, he enlarged the opaquing white.

Before he wrote his message onto glass, his phone started buzzing once again. Dejected, he decided he should finally answer it.

“Dude, are you okay?” Haruki forever played the role of band mother.

“I was just about to head to bed. Why?” Uenoyama forced his throat to swallow the growl that was clawing at the surface.

“This new song… it… are you and Mafuyu… okay?”

Uenoyama knew that the first line of worry would be the band. It was his and Mafuyu’s promise going into it, of course. They knew there would be problems, but they’d get through them together. Or, so he thought.

The reality, though, is everytime Uenoyama struggles, with himself or in the relationship, Mafuyu pulls away. He doesn’t know where to turn to, who to talk to. All of his friends are Mafuyu’s friends now too, and they might be even worse, at times.

“We’re the same as last week.” Uenoyama squeaked his finger through the lingering blur of white. “As far as I know, at least.”

“I’m just saying… this song… it’s, it’s amazing!”

Uenoyama could practically see Haruki frantically waving his hands, as if his own words had lit a fire before his face.

“Were you and Akihiko able to layer your parts then?” Uenoyama assumed that they would organize it together. They basically lived and breathed each other, Uenoyama doubted Haruki even hit play before sharing an earbud with his boyfriend. It must be nice to be connected to someone like that.

“Oh, uh, Akihiko is working on his part right now… but it’s… do you think Mafuyu will want to sing to this beat? Isn’t it usually, um, backwards? From how you guys usually do it? Has he started his la-la-la’s and udon noo-oodles yet?”

“It can be a demo or an extra track. I don’t… I don’t really want him to know about this one, okay?” Uenoyama clenched his eyes shut, the reality blinding. “At least not until it’s done.”

“NO! You two aren’t breaking up are you? What happened?! I told you this would happen! Ugh what were we thinking?” His voice trailed to a muffled mumble.

“We’re the same as last week, I already told you.” Uenoyama breathed against the window pane to reanimate his colouring board.

“You both seem off…”

“Are you coming to my show?” Uenoyama diverted courses. He didn’t want to talk about his relationship anymore. A part of him hoped he could actually just discuss music with Haruki, but nothing’s ever quite that easy.

“Yeah, of course.” There was a distant sadness that carried through the phone.

“Is Mafuyu coming with you?” Uenoyama cursed his chest for the sudden spike in his heart rate.

He always held onto the hope that Mafuyu would come, would take initiative to mend what keeps falling into oblivion.

“Oh, I - uh - I don’t know?”

But he never does.

“Wouldn’t you know, Uenoyama?”

Because as much as Mafuyu sees fragments of his reflection.

“Hello?”

Uenoyama can never be Yuki.

Tears dotted the page as he focused on the missing pieces. Of course Hiiragi would ask him to finish the song. He has the one piece that the others don’t.

He’s writing about the man he loves.

From the inspiration of a lost soul.

Uenoyama might have been able to say no, but he didn’t want to risk losing this gig. In reality, probably the only reason they brought him on was because of his relationship with Mafuyu. They’ve told him between jokes and sets how much he reminds them of Yuki.

So he keeps his head down. And he keeps writing. It’s not hard to see what Yuki saw in him. His sparkling eyes that soak in the world around him. So fragile yet so insurmountable at the same time. He just wishes that the first time he brought these words to paper, they could really be played from his heart.

Instead they go through the filter of what Yuki would have thought. How he would have sang.

Uenoyama spent countless hours researching the man and the music.

Mafuyu only ever looks at Uenoyama like that when he plays guitar.

Those must be the moments he’s most reminded of Yuki.

No matter the season, the sun basks through the windows, warming the platform of the stairs. Uenoyama collapses towards the surface, his body starting to fail him. His brain is fogged, his movements languid, even his breath is raspy.

The crashing descent from his knees to his hips, to his chest, is barely noticed as his body lingers in the first stage of sleep.

His brain has been on overdrive, writing Yuki’s love song. Part of him hopes that Mafuyu will hear it and finally see Uenoyama through the shards. But that doubt fuelled the rhythm of the song in Haruki’s possession.

In all likelihood, it was the blend of writing, waiting, and unyielding loneliness that created the concoction of his exhausted state. Not the added half an hour cramming for the test that he’d told himself it was.

As his mind fell deeper into sleep, he could hear Mafuyu’s laugh. Uenoyama squinted to make out the words that started to leave his lips. The sentence was distorted, but the message was clear. ‘I love you’.

Uenoyama woke in a jolt of sweat, his breath whistling out of his throat.

“Are you okay?” The voice was as distorted as his vision as tears fell without regard, while his chest heaved in rhythm. “Uenoyama? R-Ritsuka?”

Mayfuyu’s voice sliced through the delirium.

Uenoyama assumed he must still be dreaming. Sobbing, he dropped his forehead to the ground, and let the pain fall through him. Down to his very toes. Everything hurt.

A gentle hand stroked his hair, but it didn’t stop the pain. Somehow, the realization that this was reality, only made the pain worse.

Is love always this lonely?

I walk the path paved for someone else

Echoes

Of adoration and laughter

Beloved by all

Echoes of scars

Against my skin

Echoes of lips

Stained by tears

I live as a dead man’s stand in

“Wh-what is this?” Mafuyu looked up from his phone screen.

Uenoyama’s brow furrowed as he looked up at his boyfriend then back to Haruki, who’s face set ablaze.

“What?” Uenoyama’s back straightened, as if he already knew the answer. He was carefully setting his guitar beside him, preparing for a fight, a cry, or simply to escape.

“I’m sorry, I - oh no.” Haruki’s voice turned to gravel as he muffled his lips into the palm of his hand.

“Is this… is this how you feel, Uenoyama?” Mafuyu’s eyes teared, his fingers trembled around his phone.

“I- I’m so sorry!” Uenoyama collapsed to his knees, but Mafuyu was already leaving.

Whenever Mafuyu left it felt as if his heart was being torn out of his chest. But how can you lose someone you never truly had?

The spotlights burned his skin as the crowd roared. He prayed that Mafuyu was there. Maybe then he’d understand. He poured his soul into Yuki’s song. For Mafuyu could have his goodbye… so that Mafuyu could have another moment with the one he loved.

Sweat beaded down Uenoyama’s brow as his heart lit aflame. Nothing else mattered. At this moment, on stage, he let out every sour emotion and fragment of dread to burn under the stage lights.

Mafuyu ran backstage, headed directly to Uenoyama who slouched happily in his seat. Before Uenoyama could react to the rehead’s presence, Mafuyu gripped the man’s collar in his fist and yelled a proclamation towards him. “I want to sing! And make music with you!”

Uenoyama’s heart pounded in his ears. Did this mean he forgave him? Or was it a shadow of feelings left lingered from Yuki’s song?

“For the rest of my life!” Mafuyu added, the words louder than the amps had been during Uenoyama’s show.

“Huh?” Uenoyama was lost for words. The battle of mediocrity played in his head as Mafuyu stared into him. Was he honestly seeing him?

“I promise.” Mafuyu’s grip continued to twist at Uenoyama’s black shirt.

“Sorry… come again?” Uenoyama stammered; he couldn’t comprehend the reasoning behind Mafuyu’s actions. Was he forgiving Uenoyama? Was he apologizing for the distance? Why can’t anything just be clear?!

“I will never let you regret it!”

The collar on Uenoyama’s shirt threatened to strangle him.

Mafuyu’s eyes were intense, his chest heaving while he kept his face inches from Uenoyama’s.

“Hold it right there!” Hiiragi screamed. “You… what do you think you’re doing in someone’s dressing room dropping - like - a proposal?”

Uenoyama met Mafuyu’s weeping eyes. For once, he truly believed, they only saw him.

“You came.” Uenoyama ignored Hiiragi, speaking to Mafuyu with soft words. His hands worked of their own accord, reaching out for Mafuyu.

“Of course, of course I did.” Tears ran freely as Mafuyu held Uenoyama’s hand against his flushed cheek.

Biting his own lip, Uenoyama struggled with his own emotional eruption. Mafuyu rarely ever cried off stage. Yet…

“Thank you.” Uenoyama whispered, brushing kisses against shuddering lips as he pulled Mafuyu onto his lap.

“Why? Why did you do that to yourself? Why’d you finish Yuki’s song?” Mafuyu’s voice was hoarse as he fired questions between kisses.

“Because he would have wanted you to hear it.” Uenoyama’s floodgate broke. His tears flowed without regard while his thumb caressed those of his partners.

“You… you…” Mafuyu stammered, drowning under his own tears.

Concerned glacier eyes sparkled under crystal lakes towards Mafuyu, who offered a half smirk in return. He couldn’t respond, instead, the redhead wrapped his legs around Uenoyama as they pushed their foreheads together.

Salty tears of heartache, forgiveness, and understanding.

Tears that belonged to just them.

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it-was-too-cold-always · 5 months

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Always Read the Fine Print Chapter 11

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

Who actually reads all the terms and conditions? After mindlessly checking a box years ago, our Reader unintentionally agrees to be part of a scientific study to create super soldier babies. To make matters worse, her fellow test subject is the brooding and intimidating Bucky Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: SHIELD adds yet another layer of discomfort to Bucky and reader's relationship.

Warnings: arranged marriage, forced proximity, lots of angst, violence, PTSD/nightmares, panic attacks, language, SMUT 18+ only, oral fem receiving, unprotected sex, size kink, let me know if I'm missing anything

Your entire body buzzed with anticipation as Bucky pulled into the SHIELD parking lot. You spent the ride in comfortable silence, Bucky’s hand resting possessively on your thigh as he drove. It was enough to calm your nerves, at least until the car shut off. Then your anxiety flared up and your stomach did flips. Please god don’t let me throw up in his car, you thought. That would not be cute.

“Hey, look at me,” Bucky said softly, taking your hand in his. “Whatever happens in there, we’re a team. We can get through it together.” You nodded slowly, As long as you could stick with Bucky, you’d be able to handle whatever they threw at you. You could be brave.

Your bravery did not last very long. The moment you stepped into the conference room, you were whisked away to yet another exam room. Was Bucky nearby? Was he still in the conference room? You wished you at least knew where he was.

The nurses had you change into a gown and lay down on the table. They were shuffling next to you, setting instruments onto a tray in preparation for whatever was coming next. The moment you saw a huge ass needle, you decided it would be best to stare at the ceiling instead. Hadn’t they done enough poking and prodding?

After a few excruciatingly painful stabs to your cervix, the nurses instructed you to get dressed. It would’ve been nice if they told you what the hell they just did to you, you thought. You then realized it didn’t matter – you already signed your rights away.

When you got back to the conference room, Bucky was sitting alone at the long glass table. He stood immediately and walked over to you, placing a finger under your chin so he could study your face. “Are you okay? What did they do to you?” He was panicked. You looked like you were in pain, and that made him angry. He was the one that had to pay for his crimes., yet you were the one suffering the most.

“I’m okay, just a few pokes. A couple needles can’t scare me,” you lied, thinking you could comfort him. Bucky frowned. Kind of a stupid idea to think you could lie to the Winter Soldier. The truth was you were in quite a lot of pain, and you were terrified to find out what they just injected into you. But if you voiced all this to him, it would become more real. It was more calming to pretend like everything was fine.

Deciding not to push you further, Bucky pulled out a chair and motioned for you to sit. You didn’t protest – the pain was making you a little woozy. He rubbed your back gently as you both stared at the door, waiting for whatever was coming next. You jumped when the door finally opened. That abrasive woman from before walked in with her stupid pencil skirt and tall black heels. Following her were a couple men in suits and the man you recognized from before – Bucky’s lawyer.

“Good morning! Mr. Barnes, you look well. I hope that little farmhouse is living up to your standards.” She was mocking him. She really was the worst. Bucky grunted in response, not even looking in her direction. You hoped that made her feel disrespected.

“Well, I suppose we better get down to business. I assume you’re wondering what we did to your little friend here?” she asked, motioning to you. Her question was met with silence, so she continued. “I’m sure it’s no surprise that I don’t trust you very much, Mr. Barnes.” Bucky scoffed but she ignored him. “I had to ensure full participation in the study. What we injected into this young lady is a series of sensors. They’ll be able to tell us the exact moment sperm moves past her cervix.”

“The consent that Y/N and Sergeant Barnes signed allow no such devices to be implanted. You’re overstepping,” his lawyer cut in. You were so glad you had someone on your side.

“Oh Mr. White, I had a feeling you’d argue with me on this. Please refer to page 104, section 8. You’ll see that we have full authority to use whatever medical devices we deem necessary for the success of this study. I’m afraid we’re perfectly within our rights,” the lady retorted. “As I was saying, we’ll be notified the moment sperm moves past the cervix. You cannot play games with me, Mr. Barnes. If we do not get a notification at least once a day, you’ll be paid a visit, and it won’t be a friendly one. At least not for your little friend.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked and his fists clenched. They were threatening you, and it made him furious. He vowed he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. One day, he would kill every single one of these bastards. But for now, he had to do everything he could to protect you.

Back at the house, thoughts swirled around in your head as you fixed dinner. Sex with Bucky was amazing – life changing, really. It was the most magical thing you’ve ever experienced. You were afraid to admit it, but you wished you’d get to experience it every day for the rest of your life. But having SHIELD know exactly when you were having sex, and how many times? Talk about an invasion of privacy. It made you feel incredibly uncomfortable.

Bucky spent the entire meal trying to read your mind. How did you feel? Violated, he assumed, but he wasn’t sure if your opinion of him changed. You were suffering once again because of his actions. He was supposed to be the one paying for his crimes, not you. Rage bubbled up inside him as he watched you eat. There you were, offering a comforting smile with a mouthful of pasta. He didn’t deserve you. He was only hurting you. He was disgusted with himself.

You could tell something in Bucky’s demeanor changed, so you took his hand from across the table and gave it a squeeze. He wouldn’t even look at you.

“Bucky?” you whispered. He could hear the hurt in your voice but didn’t respond. “Bucky, what’s wrong? Please don’t shut me out.”

Hearing the pain in your voice, how you were begging him to open up, it broke his heart. He couldn’t bear to see you like this,

“I’m sorry, doll. I’m so sorry,” was all he could say. He wrapped you in a tight hug and buried his face in your hair. You weren’t quite sure why he was apologizing, so you just wrapped your arms around his slim torso and reciprocated the hug. He released you just enough to lean back to look at your face. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

“Bucky…” You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t deserve this either. It wasn’t his fault, but clearly he feels guilty. Words wouldn’t come to you, but you had other ways to comfort him. You reached up and traced along his jawline. Slipping your hand to the back of his neck, you pulled him down for a kiss. You were gentle and cautious – one slow, meaningful kiss. You pulled back and searched his face. The deep lines in between his eyebrows were softening, and his eyes were lighter. The kiss must have eased some tension, but that wasn’t enough for you. You wanted him to feel good.

Leading him to the couch, you motioned for him to sit down. You knelt down in between his knees, moving slowly to see if he’d stop you. When he didn’t, you slowly unbuckled his belt, pulled down the zipper, and sprung his cock out of his pants. Your eyes widened and you instinctively licked your lips. You’d never get used to how big he is. You looked deep into his eyes as you ran your tongue from the base all the way up to the tip. His eyes rolled back and a moan escaped his lips. You swirled your tongue around his shaft, slowly taking in his cock inch by inch. Bobbing your head as you made your way down. What you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you rubbed with your hand. Your other hand was gripping his strong thigh for support. You lost yourself completely, so focused on how amazing he felt in your mouth. His hand was tangled in your hair, holding you firmly but not pushing down. You released his cock from your lips with a pop, looking up at him. He looked in complete bliss. He blinked, trying to get back to reality, and his eyes met yours. His look was sinful.

“Get up,” he demanded. You obeyed and stood in between his legs. In one swift motion, he took off your shirt and threw it across the room. He peppered kisses along your stomach as he undid your bra. His lips immediately found your nipple, while his hand mercilessly kneaded your other breast. He covered your chest in kisses and bites, sucking deliciously on your tender skin. The moans leaving your lips only encouraged him more. His hands were everywhere: the back of your thighs, up to your ass, your hips, your breasts.

“Bucky, please, I need you,” you panted, his touch alone making your body shake.

“I’m not done yet,” he replied, guiding you to the couch. As he spread your legs open, he kissed his way down to your core. Without any mercy, his tongue dove into your folds, sucking and running his teeth across your sensitive clit. He sat back on his heels and slowly worked his fingers into you, twisting and pumping his digits in and out of your pussy. “Such a good girl,” he cooed. “My beautiful wife.” His words alone sent you into a fiery orgasm. As you came, he increased his speed until he was finger-banging you into oblivion.

He kissed you deeply, quieting your incoherent mumbles and resetting your brain. You twisted your fingers in his hair and pulled his pelvis into yours, grinding shamelessly.

“Please,” you whispered. He chuckled.

“Alright, doll. I’m yours,” he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. He slid his shaft into you slowly, letting you adjust to the size. You moaned loudly as he began thrusting his hard cock in and out of you. You desperately grasped his shoulders, trying anything to ground yourself. The sensations were overwhelming. But suddenly you remembered the sensors in your cervix. SHIELD was watching and waiting. You panicked.

“Wait wait wait,” you breathed, suddenly feeling extremely anxious. Bucky, on the verge of coming, pulled out immediately and climbed off you.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Talk to me, doll,” he was scared. Terrified, actually.

“I just…I…um…” you stuttered. “I don’t think I can do this. Not when I know they’re monitoring us,” you admitted. Bucky nodded his head and covered you with a blanket. He kissed the top of your head and went outside without a word. You felt like you had whiplash. The stark change from mind-blowing orgasms to the sudden panic of being watched, then Bucky just up and leaving. You weren’t sure what to make of it.

You waited for Bucky on the couch, but after a half hour or so, you decided he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. You waddled your way upstairs and got ready for bed. You heard a car door open and looked out the window – it was Steve, handing a paper bag to Bucky. You wondered what could possibly be so important that Bucky would just walk away from you to get this.

You were warm and comfortable in bed when Bucky burst into the room. “Doll, you gotta get up. It’s almost the end of the day and the sensors haven’t gone off yet,” he said hurriedly. It was true – the day was almost over and Bucky had not come inside you. You shivered at the thought of what they would do if you failed.

“Okay, you’re right,” you said solemnly. It made you feel uncomfortable, but you were sure the punishment would be even worse. You didn’t have a choice. The magic of sex with Bucky would completely disappear, but you had to do it.

Bucky grabbed your hand, gently kissed your knuckles, then set something in your hand. Confused, you opened your hand to look at what he just gave you. It was a long plastic syringe, filled with a white substance.

“Bucky?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed. What the hell was this?

“Semen has to pass your cervix. They never specified how,” he explained. “Leave it on the nightstand when you’re done. Goodnight, doll.” He walked out of the room and closed the door.

Chapter 12

Taglist 💛

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#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #marvel

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wasawattpadkid · 1 year

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this might not make sense but I absolutely love your billy and Stu playlist. Could you maybe write a couple headcannons on which songs they like and why? You could include the reader or not it's up to you thanks Maddy!❤️‍🔥

I think I get what you're asking. I hope you like it!💕

Billy's playlist

Stu's playlist

Billy

1.) 1979 by The Smashing Pumpkins

This is Billy's favorite song I don't make the rules. Smashing Pumpkins is one of his favorite bands. The song reminds him of a time he was happy. He listens to music like it'd play in a movie about his life. This would play while a montage of him and Stu flickered on the silver screen.

2.) The Killing Moon by Echo & the Bunny Men

This song always finds its way onto his mixtapes. It makes him think of how love can happen to anyone even if they pray it doesn't. He equates love with death just because you have no control over when and where it happens.

3.) A Day In The Life by The Beatles

A Beatles song amidst alternative rock is definitely a little jarring. Billy actually enjoys the Beatles. It was his mother's favorite band. He grew up listening to the Sgt Peppers album on repeat. She'd sing song after song to him trying to get him to sleep. This song reminds him of simpler times.

4.) How Soon Is Now? by The Smiths

Billy's a Smiths fan. He puts music on just to brood over his life. The man thinks he has better music taste than everyone else he knows. Stu likes to make fun of Billy's music taste. "Damn does that shit come with razor blades?"

5.) Mama I'm Coming Home by Ozzy Osbourne

Mommy issues. Likes to play music he knows that'll make him cry. He thinks if he makes himself cry in private he'll be less likely to accidentally cry around anyone.

6.) It's The End Of The World As We Know It by R.E.M

Stu knows all the words to We Didn't Start The Fire by Billy Joel. Billy thinks he's a dork because of this. Yet in the privacy of his car, he will sing every single word of this song.

7.) Every Breath You Take by The Police

Told a girl he related to this song on a first date. He's still not sure why she stopped talking to him. Billy still thinks it's a romantic song.

8.) Goodbye Horses by Q Lazzarus

Only knows the song because of Silence of the Lambs. Will start dancing to this song if he's been drinking.

9.) Flesh For Fantasy by Billy Idol

Remember how I said he thinks about where a song would fit in a movie about his life? This would play while he's kissing down your chest. His movie wouldn't have a full sex scene he's not a sellout. More like a montage of kissing and soft moans. It would be frustrating to watch for people like me and you.

10.) A Girl Like You by Edwyn Collins

Without wasting words he'd play you this song hoping you'd understand how he felt about you. Billy was odd like that. He obsessed over lyrics and a song's meaning. When he realized he had a crush on you he immediately started making a list of songs that reminded him of you. They could put his emotions into words when he couldn't.

Stu

1.) In The Meantime by Spacehog

Stu loves music. He doesn't care about lyrics although they can make a song better. If he likes instruments he'll buy the album. Will buy a whole album for one song. This is one example. Stu doesn't like what he calls "sad bastard music." You will rarely catch him listening to music he knows will bum him out.

2.) Blood Makes Noise by Suzanne Vega

This song itches his brain every time he listens to it. Stu is odd. He likes rock but if there's too much going on it freaks him out. Not one for screamo makes him feel like he's being yelled at. This song is on his sex playlist do what you will with that information.

3.) Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana

Nirvana fan first human second. He has a crush on Kurt Cobain. Hates Cortney Love like she's Yoko Ono. Stu likes to learn about bands and artists' personal lives. He's nosey. "Can you believe that shit? I'd treat them so much better." Stu would rant to his friend about a random celebrity making Billy want to drink Draino.

4.) Paradise By the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf

He thinks the song is hilarious. Will perform the 8-minute-long song at karaoke. There will be an empty room once he's done. He doesn't regret his actions.

5.) A.D.I.D.A.S by Korn

It was your fault. You picked out the movie Say Anything and made him watch it. You woke up at 3 in the morning to Stu loudly blasting this song outside of your house. Not only was it funny it was romantic to him. Cops were called.

6.) I Was Made For Lovin' You by KISS

This is one of Stu's favorite songs. When he was little he was obsessed with KISS. He'd put on a full face of face paint and he'd stain his tongue and hands with red food coloring. The boy would run around the house singing and dancing. To his parents, however, Stu's unserious habit of playing with makeup wasn't something they were proud of. His music taste is all over the place because he constantly went through different phases trying to figure out what he could do to please his parents. Nothing ever did.

7.) Peaches by The Presidents of the United States

If you write a song that sounds good and had some goofy ass lyrics Stu's sold. Stu will sing this every time the school lunch consists of peaches. Billy has thrown several trying to get his friend to shut up.

8.) Iron Man by Black Sabbath

Stu loves to stir up shit and have arguments. He was actually on the debate team for his freshman and sophomore years of high school. Billy thinks Ozzy Osbourne is better alone than with Black Sabbath. Every time this is brought up Stu acts like a little piece of him dies. Plus when this song comes on the radio Stu likes to cover his mouth imitating the voice at the beginning. It's where they got the whole ghostface voice idea from.

9.) Fight For Your Right by Bestie Boys

Stu is a huge fan of The Beastie Boys. Their first record is a go-to when there's a party at his is. Of course, this is his favorite song of theirs. The amount of times that man has bounced around an empty house blasting that band is almost worrying.

10.) Psycho Killer by The Talking Heads.

Best for last. If Stu had a theme song this would be it. In his movie, it'd play as he's running around as Ghostface. He has a lot of energy so he loves to chase people. Randy called him an "evil golden retriever" once and Stu likes the comparison.

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linasofia · 1 year

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Around the Riverbend

This is my entry for the TSF 2023 event. I teamed up with the wonderful artist @legolasbadass and the masterpiece above is her creation. Link to her original post. Give her some love!!😍

I had so much fun during this event and it's thanks to you, @legolasbadass. 💙💙💙

Fandom: The Hobbit

Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield x OFC

Summary: In Nordic folklore, the Neck is a malevolent water spirit who took the form of a naked man and played a violin or harp so beautifully that he would enchant women (and children) to follow the music and lure them down into the river—where they would eventually drown. This is a story about Thorin, a lonely Neck who one day witnesses a beautiful woman washing clothes in his river.

Warnings: A bit angsty

The sun shone brightly from a clear blue sky, and the horizon appeared to tremble from the warmth. The air was filled with tiny winged warriors, ready to defend their queen if a sudden threat to their miniature realm should appear. A narrow river cut through the endless green landscape, separating the fertile hills from the real wilderness. On both sides of the river, where its banks met crispy grass, wild thyme, lupins, and buttercups covered the ground, filling the air with their characteristic smell. The dark, glittering water followed the countless bends without obstacles, for the persistent river had tamed the landscape long ago. Only the ancient rocks—created when the world was still young and violent—refused to bow to its will, but time had made the stones’ surface smooth and slippery. No matter how strong the sun appeared, the river would always be there to offer all living things a chance to quench their thirst or cool off from a long walk. But the river was also treacherously deep in some areas, and it was said it had a soul. The river gives, and the river takes, was a saying well taught among the gentle folk living over the hills, and songs were sung to honor those who paid with their life when the river was capricious.

The air stood still above the river and reached a higher temperature than it had for a long time. The banks along the river were dry, causing any movement to stir the sand. Not even a gust of wind made the leaves rustle, and the only sound heard was the distant noise from a waterfall. During these warm summer days, the light never went to sleep—for this was the land of the midnight sun.

On a large rock by the shallow end of the river sat a tall figure who dipped his feet in the water. Sturdy trees in distinct shapes grew close to the banks, and their branches provided shelter from the merciless sun—and cover when the brooding-looking creature needed to remain unseen. From a distance, he looked like an ordinary man, a warrior even. He was broader over the shoulders than most men who came to swim in the river, with muscular arms and large hands. His wide chest was covered in curly hair, dark as a moonless night. The most unusual cerulean shade graced his eyes, causing his stare to resemble both the sky and its dramatic reflection in the water. Despite his thick fingers, the creature could play the harp more beautifully than any other tones ever heard. He was a Neck—a water spirit—and the only of his kin, as far as he knew. During the golden hour, when the river bathed in warm light and before the animals came down to soothe their burning throats with water, the Neck let sweet tones roll from his strings—to calm his loneliness. Many were those who had listened to his music and blindly followed him without thinking of their safety. A golden harp was his only possession, and its delicate strings were made of fair hair taken from the scalps of the innocent maidens he had enchanted in the past. The countless strings were thin but twisted hard to last a long time. Not even the sharpest sword could cut off the strings, and the fingers on whoever was trying to play his instrument would bleed. On one occasion, he had tried to replace a broken string with his own hair, but the harp made a shrieking sound during his first attempt to strum it. From that day, he learned that only the fairest of hairs could create the tones he craved.

The wind had whispered an unknown word to him for as long as he could remember. The word bore a resemblance to thunder, and eventually, the Neck named himself Thorin. He was a lonely spirit, bound to the life-giving river and unable to leave it. Some would certainly call his destiny sad—if they knew he existed. But he always stayed out of sight, and the animals who came to drink barely felt his presence. Thorin had no knowledge of his age, but he knew he had seen the oak closest to the river bank grow from a small acorn to the impressive tree it was now. His long, dark hair was marked by time and for every summer that passed by, his reflection revealed how the thin braids at his temples gradually turned whiter. Thorin lived off what the river provided him, but his restless mind always searched for the pure soul who would make his lonely misery end. He was certain she was out there; it was only a matter of time before his One would make her way down to the river. She was destined to pass the cruel sacrifice of drowning, and he would give her the ability to breathe in his kingdom, far beneath the glittering surface. Then she would be his to cherish—forever.

Slowly the shadows in front of the old oak became longer, indicating the sun’s journey over the sky. Thorin watched the stillness of the water around his favorite rock and snapped his fingers to create the smallest vibration. His harp lay next to him, and it glowed like fire in the sun. Suddenly, he became aware of a movement further down the river. Thorin usually stayed in the more narrow parts of the river where the water was shallow, allowing him to keep sight of both banks at the same time. When he squinted, he saw the shape of a person moving along the river, walking straight in his direction. A woman, more precisely. Without disturbing the water, Thorin slipped down from the rock and hid behind it with water up to his waist. He waited in silence as the woman came closer, but he knew precisely how to move to avoid discovery. She carried a large basket, and as she sat it down near the water, directly in front of him, he understood why she had come. From his position behind the rock, Thorin could easily observe her, and the first thing he noticed was her hair. The woman had long, fair hair—forced into a thick braid and secured at the end with a blue ribbon. In the afternoon light, her hair shone like the sun itself, and Thorin gaped at the sight. She wore a dress that reminded him of the many cornflowers growing beyond the sandy banks. The fabric was of a simple kind, as so often when hugging the body of a woman from beyond the hills. Over the years, Thorin had noticed that the peaceful people living near the water and traveling by foot often wore these kinds of fabric to shield their bodies. On a few occasions, he had seen small groups of riders and carts pulled by large horses. Those people often wore fabrics that glittered like frostbitten river reed in the sun, but they never stopped long enough for him to learn who they were or where they came from. Usually, their animals drank water, and then they were gone as quickly as they came. The folk from the hills beyond the river were of a different kind. They regularly came to the river to bathe or clean their belongings. Some of them were only children, and those were the times Thorin had most trouble remaining undiscovered, for young minds are curious by nature and far more reckless than their parents. And they liked his music.

The woman in the cornflower dress grabbed something from her basket and waded out in the river until the water reached above her calves. Then she sank the dirty fabric into the water and started to whip it with the piece of wood she held in her other hand. Water splashed around her, staining her dress—but she did not seem to care. Thorin watched her as she worked, and something about her intrigued him, and it was not only because of her unusual hair. The woman was young but not as young as the previous maidens who had failed to resist his harp. Her sleeveless dress was of a simple cut, offering him a fine view of her tanned skin. She was clearly used to working hard; her feminine muscles were strong and well-defined. With tireless strength, she carried on, working through the small mountain of clothes in her basket, and Thorin found himself wishing she had even more chores to do. Every time she stretched her back, he admired the curves of her body, and when she bent down over her basket, he could not tear his eyes from her behind. Thorin felt confused; he had seen beautiful maidens before, naked even—as they sometimes came to bathe, alone or in a group. Without knowledge of what waited in the dark water, they unconcernedly exposed their skins to his eyes. He had never been attracted to any of them as much as the fair-haired beauty.

As he gazed at the woman, Thorin came to think of another young maiden from long ago when his braids were still dark as the eyes of a heron. He had never forgotten the fiery maiden who came to the river evening after evening, yet always alone. The warm light of the sun made her hair glow like copper as she lowered herself into the river, and in the cover of the dark water, Thorin dived under the surface and swam very close to her. He had a feeling she knew someone was watching her, and she was not afraid—she liked it. The way she used her hands to clean her body was something he had never seen, and he allowed himself to take great risks to be near her. Hidden by the dark water, he could have reached out to touch her—but he never did. When he got bored of just watching her, he grabbed his harp and let his seductive notes fill the air. She was so easy to snare. Sadly, she was not who he was searching for, and she paid the ultimate price for his misjudgment. Thorin dressed her body before he left her at the bank further down the river. Such beauty was better to cover before someone with foul intentions found her. Someone like him.

Clear, light tones suddenly filled the air, and Thorin listened intently. A sweet melody floated over the water—like mist rising on early summer mornings. The young woman had stopped beating the dirt out of her laundry and was rinsing and twisting the fabrics. As she worked, she gave air to the feelings she carried inside, and Thorin had no problem understanding the longing behind her words—for they lived inside him as well. Long strands of hair escaped her braid and framed her face beautifully. She pushed the locks back repeatedly with her wet hands, but the hair had a will of its own, it seemed. The locks wanted to be free, to be able to dance in the wind on stormy days and caress her cheeks when she lowered her chin. Absently, Thorin stroked the strains on his harp. The length of her hair was perfect, but his harp was still intact. He had no need for it—yet.

The melancholic melody she was singing penetrated Thorin’s skin, found its way to his tormented soul and wrapped itself around his lonely heart. An unfamiliar and strange feeling spread in his chest, making his heart beat faster. Her words could have been aimed directly at him when she sang of all the beautiful things he had never known but still instinctively felt he wanted; tenderness, love, and someone to hold close. The young woman’s voice was unlike anything he had ever heard, purer than the morning’s first ray of light and softer than a swift summer breeze. Her tones would harmonize perfectly with his—if he caressed the golden strings. Together they could create something extraordinary.

Thorin observed her every move carefully, and from his hiding place, he could not spot any signs of belonging on her body. No rings on her fingers nor braids in her hair—nothing indicating that she already had a chosen one in her life. Even if her hips were wide enough to bear children, no man seemed to have claimed her yet. Thorin felt a rare stream of heat rushing through his body at the thought. He was suddenly warmer than he had ever experienced, not even during the year’s hottest days. The heat came from the depth of his core, created by the music of his pulse and her singing in his veins. For a moment, he wondered if he was ablaze, and he lowered himself deeper into the water to cool off the burning feeling on his skin. The water never failed him; it helped his skin to control its temperature, and his mind regained its usual sharpness. The young woman in the cornflower dress was special in a way he could not explain to himself—all he knew was that he could not tear his eyes from her. When he turned to the river for guidance, he was suddenly met with silence. It was as if the river was forcing him to feel for himself. Could she be the one he had spent a lifetime waiting for? Was he looking at his One? His grip around his harp tightened.

When the basket was filled with wet fabrics, she left it by the river. After a quick glance around, she grabbed the hem of her dress and lifted it in modesty as she waded out in the water until it reached up to her thighs. She wore no stockings, Thorin noticed, as he caught a teasing glimpse of her skin before the water shielded the sight. Her cheeks blushed like the sky during sunset, revealing how warm she was after her hard work, and Thorin marveled at the satisfaction she appeared to experience in the cooling water. How he wished for her to pull the dress over her head and throw herself out in the deeper part of the river. The water would wash away all her sweat and help her forget the chores for a while. Maybe she was a good swimmer—some of the people over the hills actually were—and could easily make it to the opposite side of the river. If so, he would follow her. Protect her. When Thorin was underwater, his eyes adapted well to the darkness, and it allowed him to see things others could not. It also made it easy for him to approach those he wanted to avoid being seen by. Humans’ skins sometimes glimmered like the scales of a trout in the water, but this woman was not that pale. The sun had kissed the delicate skin on her arms, yet Thorin suspected not all of her body had been exposed to the burning sun. The thought of seeing what she hid under her dress made him quietly groan. Greed slowly corrupted Thorin’s heart—she could belong to him. Her voice already had the power to brighten his inner clouded sky, and if he took her to his kingdom, she too would be bound to the river. She would never be able to return to the place she came from, and they could be together—forever.

When the first mellow note vibrated through the air, the woman looked up with a startled expression. She instantly let go of the hem, and the skirt fell down into the water and created a pool of wet fabric around her. Thorin let his fingers run along the strings—echoing her melody—and it made her smile softly. Her face was beautiful while frowning, but now, when his music made her features light up like the sun, Thorin realized he was smiling as well. At first, she seemed to hesitate, but then she took a few steps in his direction and started to sing again. Without thinking, Thorin gave his harp life, and the notes rose to the sky effortlessly. The woman’s soft voice harmonized with his music, followed the same winding path, and spoke of promises neither of them understood. He watched her as she came closer, and to his delight, he saw the same golden light in her eyes as he had seen in others several times before. When she fell silent, Thorin knew he had succeeded. She was defenseless, captured by his music, and she would follow him to whatever place he led. With a pleased grin, he dived under the surface, swam quickly further away and then emerged again. The moment he broke the surface of the water, light from the sun hit his wet skin and made it sparkle. His hair appeared to be even darker than before—as well as his eyes. But the beautiful fair-haired woman did not even blink; only the sweetest of smiles formed her lips into a sensual shape. Thorin lifted his harp again and tenderly caressed the strings. Another of his melodies floated over the water—tones filled with the deepest temptation—and formed an invisible leash to wrap around the neck of whoever heard them. It never failed to make the listener unable to resist following the sound of his harp. And it did not take many heartbeats before the woman started walking, her eyes resting on a spot far beyond what Thorin could see. As soon as she came closer, Thorin dived again, and then again, leading her away from the relatively safe parts of the river. Around riverbend after riverbend, she followed him, and he played with growing desire in his heart. He wanted her—needed her. Her body and soul would eventually be his. Blinded by greed, he ignored what would happen to her if she was not his One. The river got deeper, she was up to her waist in water, and the river started to become restless. It tore at her dress as if trying to wake her from her trance. But it was to no use, for no woman nor child could stand against the power of Thorin’s harp.

The rumble of the waterfall became louder, and Thorin increased his effort so he would not lose what he had worked so hard for. His music needed to drown the noise from the fall, or the woman with the fairest hair would wake from the enchantment too soon. He just needed to lead her around another riverbend, and then they would finally be looking down at the gate to his kingdom. Thorin could picture her falling, but he was supposed to follow her—and catch her—before she passed the point of no return. If her body were resilient enough, they would then be able to enter together.

The river banks narrowed the gap between them, the trees grew even closer to the water, and their long branches framed the magical-looking scene. The air was filled with mist rising from the fall, and it gave the area a spectacular light. The fall itself was dangerously high, and the river sent cascades of water over the edge, creating a mesmerizing—but violent—entrance to the Neck’s underwater realm. Below the fall waited a long row of black, large rocks, and only Thorin knew how far they reached—and how to avoid getting smashed against them. The melody changed to compliment the dramatic nature, and by the brink of the fall stood his woman—waiting—in her soaked dress. The water was less deep here, so he could see more of her, and while the dress clung to her body, he greedily took in every shape and curve. Soon he would be able to touch her. She would slip on the flat rocks he knew were placed right in front of her. They all had. In perfect harmony, the two of them would then spend the rest of their days together, and never before had his heart been more convinced he was right. All he demanded was a few more steps.

One of his precious strings suddenly broke and was left hanging by a single piece of hair, forcing Thorin to stop briefly and rethink his notes. Losing a string was not critical, for most of his melodies could be played in a slightly different way, but it disturbed him enough to shift focus. Instead of continuing, he came to think of her song and the meaning behind the beautiful words she sang while working. Parts of the song spoke of longing for someone who could heal a shattered heart, but at the end of the many courses, one line stood out from the rest, and he remembered the words clearly: I ask you to be mine.

Thorin was already holding his harp in place—ready to fulfill what he had started—when an unwelcome feeling of doubt erupted in his chest. He tried to ignore it, but the cold feeling spread with his blood to all parts of his body and made his skin itch as if he had a rash. Like a massive tidal wave, realization hit him, and it threatened his inner river dam to collapse. He was not asking her to be his, and even if her words of love were true, she had certainly not approved of what he was determined to do. Despite that, he was more than ready to put his own needs first and take what he wanted. Thorin took a deep breath to steady himself and bring order to his chaotic mind. But what if what he truly needed was something deeper? Something pure, formed by consent between two souls and spoken with mutual words. True love. He tasted the words. True love could not be forced, he knew that deep inside his lonely heart, yet he spent all his life denying it.

The waterfall roared his name, and Thorin started weighing his options. If he broke the enchantment and approached her, the risk of having her running for her life was exceedingly high. She could hurt herself badly on the slippery rocks. He was aware of their differences in appearance, and his natural nudity was not customary—maybe even disapproved of—among the gentle folk living over the hills. On many occasions, he had seen the men who came to swim in his river and none of them were sculpted like him below the waist. Never in his long life had he lifted an enchantment, and therefore, he lacked knowledge of what would happen when she drew her first breath without his invisible leash. Thorin knew he possessed a mighty power, and he sensed a risk she might not recover quickly from it. He watched the woman as she trembled. The currents tearing at her clothes were strong and cold, and her skin was silently protesting. Her beautiful smile had the power to wake the northern light, but his mind refused to leave him alone. Would she be able to love him if she knew how he captured her and sent her tumbling down the waterfall? Could she forgive him if he passively watched her body fight in the water until no air was left in her lungs? When the light of day finally disappeared from her eyes—and his kiss marked the beginning of their union—would she then accept him as her One? Thorin could feel every heartbeat vibrating in his chest, and his breathing turned shallow as he slowly shook his head in answer to his questions. When he lowered his harp, he perceived the truth; he wanted her to choose him out of free will—not by death.

Dark clouds started to gather in his inner sky, and his lonely heart tore at his soul. Together they could end his misery, and a lifetime of searching would be over. But the possibility he earlier refused to ponder crept over him. Another thought—cold and sharp—sank its massive claws in his exposed heart, and when it got a tight grip, Thorin knew he could no longer hide from his own mind. His self-doubt fed from him as a starving leech and rapidly grew stronger. If the woman he was about to claim as his was not the one he so desperately wanted her to be, history would repeat itself. She would fight a doomed battle against the river but eventually end up on the river bank—as so many had done before her. Thorin acknowledged the longing in his body, but the more he thought of the meaning behind the words in her song, the more he questioned himself. Even if her lips no longer moved, he could still hear her beautiful voice echoing somewhere between his hope and despair. Time was running out, and he needed to continue if he was not going to let her slip from his grip. But Thorin’s fingers refused to strum across the strings. He tried again, but no tones came. Desperation boiled in his blood until suddenly, he understood. He could not proceed. She deserved to make her own choices; her life belonged to her, for she was indeed special. With a heavy heart, he took in the shape of the woman he was convinced—until just a few breaths ago—was meant to be his forever. Her fair hair was damp, and she seemed to sway like a young silver poplar during an autumn storm.

By the river stood an old weeping birch, dipping its long branches in the water. Thorin had seen the leaves fall from the old tree every autumn, but he had never been more grateful for the shelter it provided under its green ceiling. From a distance it was impossible to see beneath the branches, but Thorin could peek out. When he was certain he was well hidden, he sat down—and waited.

Time seemed endless, and Thorin was just starting to wonder if the woman would recover at all when all of the sudden, she shook her head. With a confused expression on her sweet face, she looked around, and for a short while, her gaze lingered on the old birch. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat, and suddenly he feared she could see him. Or sense him. But then she turned her attention to the water and carefully took a few steps backwards. Her slender hands rubbed her naked arms as if waking them from a slumber or bringing warmth back to the skin. The woman reached for her skirt and collected as much as she could of the wet fabric before slowly walking to the opposite side. The banks were steeper on that side, and she crawled, visibly dizzy, up from the water. Her dress that used to bear a lovely shade of cornflower before, was dirty when she reached the safety at the top of the bank. She looked back over the river, and Thorin could only guess she carried a strange feeling in her chest. Even if she did not remember how she got to the fall, she most likely understood at least part of the danger she barely escaped from. The noise from the waterfall was usually enough to keep sane folks at a distance.

Under the tall weeping birch, Thorin remained unseen, and he lowered his head, ready to be judged by the river. Pieces of his shattered heart scraped against his lungs as dry sand on sore skin, and it made it harder for him to breathe. Very carefully, he plucked a few strings, and the sad notes reminded him of large drops of water dripping into an already filled bucket. His knuckles were unnaturally white—caused by his tight grip around the harp—and a salty taste lingered on his lips when he slowly ran the tip of his tongue over them. For the first time in his life, he had done an unselfish act, and even if he doubted the pain was worth it, he could now call himself honorable.

That night, the glowing sun unexpectedly came to rest below the horizon and abruptly marked the end of summer. The people living over the hills spoke about the strange whim of nature long after the remarkable event. As darkness fell over the landscape, Thorin slowly loosened the fair strings from his harp and let them float away with the river. They glittered like gold when they disappeared over the edge of the waterfall, and Thorin sighed deeply. Stars glimmered in the sky, and the moon’s pale light made Thorin’s temple braids shine like silver. He was a fascinating creature, but as so often with lonely souls, completely unaware of his beauty. Without even the slightest hesitation, Thorin took a deep breath of the warm evening air, then gracefully entered the gate to his realm for the last time—and sealed it.

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Taglist and others who might be interested: @lathalea @legolasbadass @laurfilijames @i-did-not-mean-to @enchantzz @fizzyxcustard @middleearthpixie @xxbyimm @mariannetora @haly-reads @sunnysidesidra @rachel1959 @knittastically @quiall321 @medusas-hairband @fulltimecrazy @s0ftd3m0n @emrfangirl @glimmering-darling-dolly @lilith15000 @clumsy-wonderland @theawkwardbutterfly @exhausted-humxn-being @beenthroughalot @chaikittie @piscesvancouverite @sotwk @dontaskmehowdontaskmewhy @mrsdurin

#tsf23 #thorin oakenshield #Näcken!Thorin #thorin #richard armitage #the hobbit #fanfiction #thorin fanfic #thorin fanfiction #thorin fanart #collaboration

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irish-dress-history · 4 months

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An early 1600s account of Irish Travellers

This is a bit off topic, since it doesn't discuss clothing, but I'm not apologizing for posting it, because Irish Travellers are a marginalized group whose history is little-documented and under-researched.

This account comes from an Exeter College, Oxford manuscript written c. 1607-1608 by an unknown Anglo-Irish protestant. The writing reflects period-typical anti-Irish bigotry and anti-sex worker prejudice. If there is any truth to what it describes, however, the Irish Travellers deserve some credit for their role in the Elizabethan Era Irish uprisings. According to this author, they acted as an intelligence service for the Irish, disseminating information that helped to coordinate Irish forces in different parts of the country, in addition to supplying Irish troops with food and munitions, and possibly also engaging in guerrilla attacks against English-occupied towns.

I have modernized the spelling, punctuation, and some of the wording to make it easier to read. The original text can be read here.

Exeter College, Oxford, MS 154, folio 59r:

"Another kind of these associations are a roguish kind of people, some are stout beggars, some are professed wh*res, or common women, and are therefore called Traveling women, some kerroghes(1) or gamesters, other counterfeit fools or Jesters, others are messengers, and carriers of letters and the like, and all these do continually travel from feast to feast, from meeting to meeting, all the kingdom over, and are never permanent in any one place, and they live only by begging, and that in such a fashion, as they will constrain men to be liberal unto them, either by railing or otherwise, but under pretense of this covert of beggary, this poison is much enhanced. For, if any matter of negotiation be a foot, and purposed to be spied over among all these idle jealous brood, or if any novelty either foreign or domestic be stirring, or if any revolt or treacherous attempt be intended, these be the instrument, that do whisper them at all times from one to another of all the Irish faction. These be the conduits that carry and convey these Evils from place to place; these do divulge and scatter this reprobate opinion in every corner of that kingdom, and these do join these firebrands together and help to make up a formal fire of all manner of treasons and villainies. Nay, these are often used to set towns and villages on fire in the night time, wherein they be harbored for pity and commiseration of their poverty. And in times of hostility, these do relieve the rebels with victuals and munition and do serve as spies to give all possible intelligences to the enemy of any project intended against them. And without a doubt, this kind of effort is very much used and set to work by the other literate fellowship for conveying of all their devilish devises into all the parts of that kingdom, and the providence of our ancient fathers hath not neglected to provide preventions for their malice and convenient means and ways to suppress them."

(1) kerrogh: cearrbhach: cardplayer or gambler

#irish history #17th century #minceiri #irish traveller #stair na héireann #elizabethan era #16th century

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lericekrispie · 1 year

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Worldbuilding on Fauna

This was supposed to be a Vyncent headcannon list, but I ended up just talking about Fauna instead. Enjoy!

I tried to do some very surface level research into what Asian decent Vyncent could be based off, and the closest I found that matched was Mongolia. All my research is very shallow, please don't take my word as law, but from what I've gathered is that they are from a cold climate, with rich traditions. They are traditionally nomadic, have extensive and rich cultures in arts, music, and dance. They have unique architecture called a yurt. They had woodcarving, metalworking, embroidery, and weaving. Men and women both wore skirts and pants. They had meat like mutton, and beef, and herded sheep, goats and yaks. They had horse racing, wrestling, and archery. The games they played were chess and checkers, dominos, rock paper scissors, and puzzles.

Deriving from this, I believe that Vync-

likes music without lyrics, because English is his second language and it's hard to keep up, and most of his music back home was mostly instrumental anyways

wears gender non-conforming clothes

used to help herd animals while the older adults hunted. He knows how watch a flock, and has also sat in fields for long times just staying alert. B/c of this, his stake out abilities are top notch. He can disassociate like a pro and probably has ADHD. (head empty fr fr)

is really good at traditional board games, and always wins. He also likes puzzles, even if he is stupid sometimes and has to get help. He likes fidget toys. He likes video games as well, but because he grew up without technology he is horrendous at them. He still loves games and puzzles though so he still tries. Will and Dakota try to help him with some video games, but Vync likes the single player games the most bc he doesn't feel left in the dust when playing with his friends.

can tell when clothing is cheap and of bad material/craftsmen ship, and because of such he has a picky taste in quality. (his preferred fashion is maximalism and weird-core) (He has sensory issues fr fr)

Also, he lives on a floating island. We didn't see a horrible lot of worldbuilding b/c the world building was... well, destroyed in an apocalypse. I wanted to expand a little on that as well. What I think would be cool and good worldbuilding is if every Great is from a different island, and each island as a different climate/elf species.

Remember, all floating islands are flavored to be close in culture to a general overview of Mongolia culture, or in cannon, some East Asian culture.

The Lush Island

Vyncent comes from an island that is more traditional. It's smaller, and the communities are like tight knit families. Their climate gets very cold in the winter, so the weird fae-magical elf evolution would be the small predator animals that people sometimes draw for Vync as a headcannon. Small predator animals include cats, foxes, small predator birds, and sometimes dogs. It helps to be adapted to traverse in the snow, as they have two seasons, 'Dormant' and 'Bloom', basically Winter and Spring. Their Blooms is very abundant and full of festivals and celebrations, with long sunny days that could be disrupted by powerful storms. Dormant is even more brutal and dangerous, and what they prepare for during Bloom, so that they have stored food to survive the freeze. The traditional way of life has been very well preserved, that a lot of old techniques of artisans that would have been lost to time have been preserved. They have expert woodcarvers, metal workers, embroidery and weaving. Vyncent's sword was made on his island, and is part of why it's so powerful.

The Convergence Island

Strider is a rouge, wears a cloak, is mysterious and brooding. Strider would come from a island that has a larger community, because then there would be a reason for crime/stealing and or being a vigilante. The community would have to be large enough that there is animosity, so his island might be known as the 'City' island. This would be a market intersection, like Riptide's 'All-Port'. There is a strong Tribal Government there, with a clear Chief rather than just local figureheads and Respect for Elders. There is hoarding from the rich and people trying to build their lives from the ground up. Think ' The American Dream'. It's mostly a scam, but sometimes if your lucky you can make it big. Because of the city the island is a melting pot of multiple different elf evolutions, but the native's to the island have evolved to fit a more lavish, modern life, growing very tall, slim, and frail. They speak softer and less rushed, are often physically weaker, and have features for social evolution and not survival evolution (think classical faries and fae, with big buggy eyes and eyelashes, high cheekbones, slender faces, shimmery skin, slender soft hands, long hair and well kept hygiene.)

The Sunlight Island

Alphonz is the paladin. He wears a lot of heavy armor, so I believe his island would also metalworkers, the main suppliers of such. They are also a very religious community, with religious leaders controlling the tides rather than political. Their island would be the highest up, to be the closest to whatever the equivalent of 'heaven' would be. Of course, the evolution of the highest island would be wings, but most wings are made for gliding rather than flying because of body mass and energy and whatnot. Because of this, most people from this island can find jobs elsewhere as messengers. These people often get around to other islands eventually in their lives, and are known to be wanderers. They are closest to the sun so they have very thick eyelashes and undereye markings to protect them from the sunlight, and the darkest skin. They have a lot of intense flowers and foliage because the closeness to the sun. Their waterfalls from the top of their island run into the other islands below.

The Sunken Island

Min is a mage, and uses a lot of water themed magic. Because of this, I believe Min's island would be more like a bowl full of water, and most of the people would live in underwater domes, or on small floating islands. The people who live here would have evolved to be semi-aquatic, with features like frogs, dragonflies, fish, and such. Their island would be abundant with a fishing culture and magic, with huge coral structures and beautiful vibrant colors. The island would also be more traditional, much like Vyncent's.

The Badland Island

Ram is our beloved gunslinger, so obviously his island would be like the wild west. Enough said. Think riding horses, saloons, outlaws and sheriffs. The evolutions would be close to hooved creatures, like goats, antelope, deer, rams, horses, things like satyrs and centaurs. Because of the harsh and vast amount of lands these elves need to travel, these evolutions save time and their feet as they traverse the difficult terrain.

The Wildlands Island

Chungus is a the barbarian, very strong and almost a gentle giant. I believe this island would be very much so like Vyncent's, but much harder to live in, in terms of monsters. I think Vyncent's island would have more difficult natural weather and disasters, while Chungus would face a lot more monsters and ruffians. Because of this, the elven evolution would be to match monsters strength a take form of large predator animals, like wolves, cougars, bears, and such, while Vyncent's island would only need to evolve to smaller predator animals for hunting, such as foxes and cats and such. (Chungus would be a bear.)

The Hellfire Island

Finally, Grayson. Grayson is described as having Dragon armor, so why not just go all the way and say the elven evolution is dragon-like. This island would be the hardest to live on, full of flames and lava, basically like a floating volcano. This island would be closest to the surface, and speaking of surface-

Surface

The idea of the surface is that it is basically hell. It's where the lich comes from, it's full of hell fire, screaming damned, zombies and undead and such. The closeness to the surface dictate how dangerous your island is. The position of your island means a lot.

From Top to Bottom

The Sunlight Island -Is reaping the rewards of lush wildlife, but has to deal with extreme weather, sun, and temperatures.

The Sunken Island -is practically unaffected by weather and monsters because they live mostly underwater. Very peaceful. Uninhabitable by people who are not native.

The Convergence Island -In the top middle. The monsters here are the people. Have to deal with extreme weather.

The Lush Island -Reaps the rewards of lush wildlife, has to deal with extreme weather and temperatures, as well as some monsters.

The Wildlands Island -Deals less with weather and temperature, but more with monsters.

The Badland Island -as we get closer to 'hell' basically, the weather get's dry-er and hot-er. There isn't extreme storms, but instead harsh constant heat. Has to deal with monsters, as well as elven criminals. Most intelligent monsters and criminals set up bases here. The largest landmass. (we can never truly escape Texas)

The Hellfire Island -A step up from 'hell'. Has to deal with monsters all day long. The people here are built from blood and spit, metal and nails. Life expectancy is short here, but the people take pride in being the first line of defense for the other islands, are often talented warriors who hunt monsters to allow the rest of the islands to prosper.

It's hard to get to island to island. Sometimes you can because of your adaptations, sometimes you can find a way to safely fall to a lower island. Sometimes you can find a mage who can transport you. It is more common to go down than up. That's why Vyncent's dad was so impressive.

Father Sol

Father Sol was the leader of the group. With this worldbuilding, I think it would be cool if he embarked on a mission to build a party that could defend against a brewing monster from the Surface, The Lich and his forces. So Father Sol went from island to island, searching for the most powerful person from each to make a party. This alone is a feat, for traversing islands is very difficult, most only go to one once in their lives, and most of the time it's a permeant move. You often don't return. It's no wonder The Greats are well known, doing something such as what they did, going from island to island, even without the stories of their deeds and just the feat of traveling islands alone is something to behold and would be talked and gossiped about until they were legends. But on top of that were the adventures they had on each island, of Father Sol having to earn the trust and respect of each powerful warrior for them to join the party. I can already image in the classic Dnd shenanigans, battles, and hero adventures they would have. And to have them fail at the very end.

And all of this we never get to see because it get's destroyed. By the very monsters The Greats gathered to fight against. They lost. They weren't strong enough.

Now. Imagine, Vyncent has to make a choice between staying between Prime and Fauna. He chooses Prime, for his friends. His life is there right now, that's what he tells himself. He can always go back. He has unfinished business on Prime.

What he doesn't say is the pain that is in his heart, looking at his home that once used to be lush and full of life, full of smiles and memories, destroyed. Seeing his people broken and torn by the worst possible thing that could have happened to them. To see his people go from living in community villages full of flowers and celebration to hiding underground like rats. It hurts. It's painful to look at all the despair and pain. Knowing that things probably wouldn't go back to normal, at least in his lifetime.

He's a coward when he stays in Prime. He's not strong enough to go back. He wishes he was. But he isn't.

#jrwi podcast #jrwi #jrwi show #jrwi pd #jrwiblr #jrwi vyncent #jrwi headcanon

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walkingshcdow · 8 months

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@storyandscng | Anna and the Good Omens duo

Someone had once given Anna the impression that rent across the pond was cheaper. They might have said "healthcare" or "public transit" or something else entirely. What they said and what Anna's impression was were totally separate things. As it was, she was renting a room on this cute, little street in London. Her proprietor sold instruments, so he didn't mind her singing half as much as her roommates (or, as people here called them, flatmates) back in New York had. There was a cute coffee shop down the way called Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, which, honestly, sounded reasonable. There was also a lovely bookstore that seldom seemed to be open run by the kind of man who looked like someone's very gay medieval literature professor. Parked along the street, just out of sight from the bookshop, was a Bentley.

Look. Anna didn't know a lot about cars. She grew up in New York City. Cars were as mystical to her as dragons were to other people. She was fascinated by its shiny, black finish that gleamed despite it being parked in the street. She daydreamed about riding in such a nice car, preferably through the countryside with the windows down and a breeze blowing through her hair. It looked like a car utterly at odds with her musical theatre training and she wondered what kind of music played in it and what kind of man (it was probably a man who owned it, right?) owned it. Santiago would have loved it. He might even have been willing to trade his motorcycle for a Bentley. She took a picture of the car once to send to him. He'd responded hours later with more excitement about the car than he responded about most anything. She didn't know how it was that he didn't notice as she most certainly did that there was a redheaded man in sunglasses, sleeping crampedly in the driver's seat. She assumed he had just drank too much at Justine's restaurant the night previous and didn't dare drive home. But this morning she saw him resting again. She didn't have a lot in this world - teaching voice in SoHo only made so much money - but she had enough to buy him an extra coffee and a scone from the coffee shop.

And, look, she didn't want to be rude and wake him, but men didn't scare Anna anymore. Maybe before she'd worked in an illegal detective agency for a werewolf, she would have had one hand on her pepper spray. Probably not, though. She didn't have enough hands for coffee, scones, knocking on the window, and pepper spray, after all.

She rapped her knuckles gently on the window.

"Hi? Sir? I hope you don't mind - I brought you a coffee and breakfast, I live down the way and I've seen you out here and- it doesn't matter. I didn't know what you liked so I got one with milk and sugar and one without. I mean, you look like a 'black coffee only' type of guy, but who am I to judge?"

In truth, now that she could see him better, he really did dress like Santiago: head to toe in black and the kind of face that looked made for brooding. She swallowed the homesickness and smiled, holding out her offerings and waiting for this to go about as well as giving a box of takeout to a panhandler back home.

Or worse. Because, you know, everyone said she'd be paying less rent or making more money or something by chasing her dreams here and London had been distinctly unremarkable thus far.

#storyandscng #ch: anna garcia #.009 | crossover #thread: anna & crowley & aziraphale #go s2 spoilers

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decadentpandawasteland · 5 months

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Hello friends, today is Day 5 of my writing exercise. I was going to link yesterday's and today's, but honestly, finishing that section was really difficult for me. I plan on eventually publishing it, but it's going to take time. Instead, I wrote something on revenge. The plan was to go more fantasy with it as I've been playing a lot of Baldur's Gate 3 (around 160 hours. No, I don't have a problem) Anyway, I hope you enjoy! As always, I greatly appreciate any kind of feedback and support.

---------------------------------------------------

Prompt: Revenge is all I haven't lost.

“Damien, you need to calm down,” Rost said, running his hands through his long hair.

“Why? Why should I calm down when they're out there, living a happy life?” Damien fired back, mania was seeping into his voice. “They've taken everything else, why not take my fucking calm too?”

“Boy, it isn't about that,” Rost started, but Damien cut him off.

“They took everything Rost. They took my mother, my father, they even took my eye.” Damien said, pointing at his closed and scarred right eye. “Why do they get to take whatever they want?”

Rost almost slapped the man. “They can take what they want when they have the backin’ of a fuckin’ dragon. Have you lost yer mind? You know just as well as I that there's no stoppin’ a dragon when it eyes a treasure. It'll take ev'ything you have, just because you have it.”

A glint passed through Damien's eye. It was the thought of a mad man escaping a deserted island, a junky creating a plan for one more hit. All he needed was a little time.

Rost had know Damien for only a few months, but that was a look he'd seen on many men trying to get even with The Brood. “What’ver you're thinkin’ ain't going to work boy!” He said, trying to plea with the single strand of sanity that was still holding Damien together.

That strand broke.

“It'll want it. If all I have left is revenge, it'll want it,” Damien whispered. A madman’s smile threatened to rip his face in two.

“What're you blatherin’ about boy?” Rost asked, too afraid of what the answer will be. “Be careful of what comes out of yer mouth. Brood has eyes and ears all ‘round.” Rost was right, of course. The ale house the two men sat at was mostly empty, save for the bard tuning his instrument in one corner, having a jovial chat with a less than enthused barmaid.

Paranoia had kept Rost safe over the years, so when the kitchen door had seemed to have stopped part way open when Damien spoke, it was noticed. He had even caught the barmaid throwing glances towards the pair. Better safe than sorry.

Rost held up a hand to silence the newly minted madman Damien was becoming and waved down the barmaid. With a gracious look, she left the bard and came to greet the two men.

“Oy, lass. My par'ner here has never had yer pum’kin ale. Mind grabbin’ us two?” Rost asked in a cheery tone. “Maybe e’en a shank or two if you got ‘em.”

The barmaid looked annoyed, but Rost showing a silver coin immediately shut down any rude comments she was about to make, adopting a more friendly tone, “Right away, sir.”

“We'll eat n’ leave so the eyes of The Brood don't think anythin’ of us. Don't care if you ain't got no appetite. Sho'el it in or I'll do it fer ya.” Rost whispered to him. Damien's eye was beginning to get wide with manic energy, but the ale helped bring him down to an even keel. The two men ate and drank, eventually settling into an awkward, but normal conversation. Rost made sure the barmaid was well tipped to forget any conversation she had previously heard, which she graciously obliged.

(This is a WIP)

#fantasy #my writing #writeblr #30 day challenge #writers on tumblr #fantasy writing

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spxllcxstxr · 2 years

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An Adventure • A

(Gif not mine)

Request: hi! could i request something where aragorn falls for a performer (like singer or musician?) at a tavern or smth that he passes through semi-frequently? thanks :) — anon

Summary: A conversation with the mysterious ranger at the Prancing Pony leaves you excited for the morning

Warnings: alcohol mention, food and eating mention, uhhh probably some bad middle earth geography and stuff like that but idk

Word Count: 1k

A.N: me?? Writing and posting again???? Sorry for the lateness lmao but I loved this request so I wanted to write it first lmao…, gn!reader…also: because it’s been a while, let me know if you want to be put in a Taglist for any of my fandoms!! Even if you were in one before, just resubmit in my inbox

{ Miluis - lovely one }

•

No matter how many taverns or inns you visit, Bree’s very own Prancing Pony will always be your favorite to perform in. It was the one place, where even as a bard traveling throughout Middle Earth constantly, you could somewhat call home.

The All-Welcome Inn, near the East Road and filled constantly to the brim with rowdy patrons, only ever wanted drinking songs and the Forsaken Inn, east of Bree, only ever wanted solemn songs of war and death. The Prancing Pony was nothing like these.

Butterbur always had a hot meal and good ale flowing for you, gleeful he had a bard to occupy his customers. He paid well and had good lodgings for perfectly for you. The Prancing Pony was the one place you would always come back to.

The smoke of Hobbiton leaf swirls around you making your strokes across the strings of your lute become more languid. You were light on your toes, flitting through the room, twirling hobbits around as they dance and drink and gleefully sing with you.

Men and hobbits cackle at your song, something you picked up near the Misty Mountains—a dwarven mining song translated into common speech from Khuzdul.

Laughs permeate the air mixing with the clangs of metal and smaller conversations.

Your eyes drift to a darkened corner, spotting, once again, the mysterious ranger. You haven’t just met him here in Bree, he’s seen your other performances across Middle Earth, even teaching you a few of his own compositions when in a good enough mood.

His face, as always, is shrouded by his dark cloak and the grey smoke curling from his pipe. A flash of silver eyes meet yours briefly along with a hint of a nod in greeting. You duck your head, glancing down at your fingertips running over your instrument. His intense gaze always had this effect on you.

It’s not long after that drinking tune you’re taking a hot dish courtesy of Butterbur (“my finest meats and cheeses for my very lovely bard!”) to the table the ranger is brooding at.

He’s somehow more mysterious up close; one hand focuses on his pipe while the other traces the rim of his ale, obviously keeping an eye on everyone in the room at all times.

“My dear long-legs, how are you on this fine night?” You jest, over exaggerating with a deep bow before taking the seat across from him.

As smoke pours out of his mouth due to a deep sigh, you can practically see his eye roll beneath the hood.

“Strider,”

“And yet, I prefer long legs,” You sip your ale, slaking the thirst you’ve built up during your performance. “It suits you better,”

A gruff laugh escapes him.

“How are you, (Y/n)? Any tales to tell?” His left hand leaves his mug to rest on the table, his body turns away from the center of the room and instead he focuses on you in every way.

Sometimes, when the smoke from his pipe rises at the perfect time at the perfect height you can see a flicker of his grey eyes, studying you. His gaze makes you shy, it always had. Especially when it flicks ever so slightly to your lips before landing back into your eyes. You’ve met your fair share of men and women and yet no one comes close to this ranger. You may not know his face but you know his mannerisms, his kindness. Having his attention is something you miss when you’re not passing through the same tavern as he is.

“I’m sure any tale I can spin is no better than yours,” You begin to eat. “You have adventures, I have drunken fools.”

You pause, glancing at the patrons of the Prancing Pony, oblivious to this connection in the dark corner.

“Though I do have a soft spot for these drunken fools.”

“Would you like an adventure?” Strider asks softly.

“I would love one…or two…or maybe even three!” You admit. “Most bards tell tales of great expeditions they witness firsthand,” You rest your head in your hand. “They beg and plead with swordsmen and famous outlaws to let them join them. That’s how they get such great material,” You sigh. “I’m not getting any younger so if I want an adventure, I may have become as pathetic as most.”

His lips purse together, plunging the two of you in silence. It’s comfortable though, as most thing with Strider are.

Time ticks on, most patrons leave. Strider continues to be stuck deep in thought and you try not to overthink as to why.

“Join me, miluis,” It’s soft and the Sindarin, which you could never understand, rolls off his tongue so naturally.

“Surely you jest, long legs. I would only be a burden.” You snort. “I barely know how to use a dagger,”

“I can teach you if you wish, and even if you didn’t, you would be no burden.”

The ranger lifts the hood of his cloak just enough so his eyes are visible, the grey gazing into your own.

“Strider—“

“It gets lonely most days, and I would not mind the company, especially in the form of such an esteemed bard and my dear friend (Y/n),”

You swallow, a mixture of nervousness and shyness runs through your veins, you almost don’t know how to respond.

“It would be quite the honor, Strider, especially after those kind words.” Eyes meet once again and smiles are shared, and it’s the widest you’ve ever seen the ranger grin. Your heart pounds at the agreement; you’re going on an adventure, an adventure with Strider himself no less.

“Get some rest, miluis,” Swiftly, he rises from his seat, rough and calloused fingertips just brushing the underside of your cheek bone, sparks igniting at the brief touch. “We have much to plan in the morning.”

Once the ranger turns his back, you gape, your own fingertips brushing where he touched you. You skin tingles still. His hand was warm and while calloused from his many years out in the wilderness, it was comforting, something you would want to feel more of in the future.

Biting your bottom lip, you grab your instrument, hurrying off to your quarters, ready to start the next day.

•

#lord of the rings #lotr #lord of the rings x reader #lotr x reader #Aragorn #strider #Aragorn x reader #strider x reader #lord of the rings fanfic

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calico-heart · 5 months

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32 and 46 for the Spotify thingy? :3

Eee thanks for the ask! :D

32. Sleep Baby Sleep - BROODS - THIS one is actually from my Astarion/Lyra BG3 playlist :3 When I started playing through Baldur's Gate I was really struck by how similar their histories were, what horrors they've done to survive and the way they'd been misused by men who had power over them. I think they both know, better than most, what those wounds feel like and how to comfort each other without seeming patronizing. And well, they both have nightmares, which I can imagine them being very gentle toward each other about!

I could be the one to give you all that I have With a gentle touch And a foolish love And you could be the one to carry all my troubles away With the words you say All I need to hear, so Sleep, baby, sleep, what are you waiting for? The morning's on its way, you know it's only just a dream Oh, sleep, baby, sleep, I'll lie next to you The beauty of this mess is that it brings me close to you

youtube

46. Ivory Tower - Philip Ayers - A very pretty instrumental track from Tsimh's playlist! Another one of those that I feel like captures the classic "enchanted forest" vibes of the Shroud.

youtube

#spotify wrapped #music rec #astarion

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chibi-tsukiko · 2 years

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Prompts by @tkc-info

Day 19: Jealousy

Jealous Ryuji anyone? 😏

The noises in the crowded tavern are almost loud enough to drown out the voice in Ryuji’s head. Venom from his father’s words still sting under his skin. If he presses any harder into the wall he’s leaning against he may just melt into it. It’d be a quiet relief he’d welcome.

Restless and uncomfortable he tries to focus his mind on observation. To his left, at the bar, the tavern wench; Uma he thinks Ishida said her name was, smiles and touches a man's arm. She steals extra coins from his pouch while he’s distracted. It’s a despicable display, but not surprising for a Kubil. They're slippery water demons that can’t be trusted. No creature born with powers can be, his Father always told him. They will corrupt and destroy you. The words twist in his stomach and he looks on.

In between tables, in front of a small band made up of two instruments, Ishida dances with a group of men and women. One of them is spinning the caster around, drunkingly dipping him with no rhythm. He’s the fifth person Ishida has danced with since they arrived. Ryuji pulls his arms closer where they lay folded across his chest. Ishida throws his head back laughing as the drunken stranger dips him again and Ryuji turns away.

“Here,” a voice says, and Ryuji looks down startled. Uma stands next to him, a drink in her hand.

“If you’re gunna stand here and sulk you may as well drink something,” she says.

“No,” he declines, rolling his shoulders. “And I’m not sulking.”

“Brooding then, whatever you want to call it. You’re creeping out my customers.”

Ryuji shrugs, his eyes flitting back to the dance floor.

“At least someone’s enjoying himself,” Uma sighs, throwing the drink back.

“He certainly likes the attention,” Ryuji grumbles and bites the inside of his cheek.

“If it bothers you so much, you go dance with him.” She suggests.

“I don’t dance,” he tells her. “And it doesn’t bother me.”

The wrench laughs. “Whatever you say Moody, but if you aren’t going to drink, find something else to do or I’m going to start charging you a sulking fee.”

Ryuji opens his mouth to repeat that he’s not sulking, but she’s already walked away. He watches her pass where the Arrid and Myya are sitting chatting and she collects their empty glasses. Left alone, again, Ryuji’s eyes find the only light in the dark tavern.

Ishida’s leaning against the table sipping a drink while the other men sit around talking to him. His chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. One of the men asks if he is truly a man, that he's prettier than any girl he's seen and the Caster sends him an undeserved sideways smile. A woman places her hand on his inner thigh, leaning into him so that her breasts push against her corset and Ryuji bites down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He turns away, deciding to go in search of Takashi when a change in atmosphere draws him back.

Something is off now. Ishida's pose seems relaxed, but Ryuji notices the tight grip the caster has on his cup. His shoulders are curved in and he's rubbing his index finger against his thumb. A habit Ryuji has learned that he does when he's uncomfortable. Ryuji scans the people around for the source. A man replaces where the woman had sat, his hands messing with the fabric of Ishida's kimono. The caster moves, using setting his drink down as a cover to put space between him and the man. Behind him, another man steps in, wrapping a dirty hand around Ishida's waist, touching the bare skin that shows. The burning underneath Ryuji's skin ignites like fire. Ishida laughs off the man's advances, and spins skillfully out of his grasp. He stands more firm now, making his rejection clear, but the men don't sway. One man steps into the caster's space once more, encouraged by the audience of his friends. Ishida says something, an insult no doubt, and the entourage laughs. The man looks fuming, Ishida turns away from him and he lashes out. His rough hands grip Ishida's marble skin, pulling him like the reins on a horse. Ryuji can't make out the words he's saying save for one: slut.

His vision erupts into white. As it fades, the man who had been holding Ishida, lies on the floor, blood spewing from his nose. There's a dull ache in Ryuji's hand that grows sharper as he comes back to himself. He doesn't remember moving and he can barely hear anything over the pounding of his own heart. Between blinks, his eyes meet Ishida's, and reality crashes into him. A shiver rushes through him, like the moment in his Father’s home. There was solace then, but not now. Panic drowns him. He can’t breathe. Ishida's golden eyes are full of concern and...no. He needs to get out of here. He turns on a heel and rushes out the side door letting the cooler night hair freeze the onslaught of emotions.

Tag list : @littleturtle95 @phoenix-and-dragon @khaleesiofalicante @my-archerboy @clumsyowl-in-a-fandom @radisv @raziyekroos @magnus-the-maqnificent @spotsandclawsthings @sassybookworm2020 @la-lune-chaotique @elettralightwood @high-warlock-of-brooklyn @axhicleos

#i honestly love writing from Ryujis pov sm #love my lil grumpy gay panicing bat #my writing #wretched and divine #ryuji zenko #wretched and divine wednesdays #oc tober 2022 #oc tober

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ivebeenmade · 8 months

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Nyarlathotep

By H. P. Lovecraft

Nyarlathotep . . . the crawling chaos . . . I am the last . . . I will tell the audient void. . . .

I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a daemoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown.

::read more::

And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky.

I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city—the great, the old, the terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; that what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things none but Nyarlathotep dared prophesy, and that in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before yet which shewed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not.

It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about “imposture” and “static electricity”, Nyarlathotep drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We sware to one another that the city was exactly the same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces we made.

I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep.

Source https://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/n.aspx

#nyarlathotep #lovecraft #h p lovecraft

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thevagabondexpress · 10 months

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some closing thoughts on delusions (and terrible fictions) (my genderbent tlh rewrite)

Whoo. This has been a long ride. A very long ride indeed.

When I started writing this back in June of 2021 (a couple years ago now), I hadn't realized I was genderfluid yet, neither had I realized that the only consistency in my experience of gender would be a never-ending byronic crisis about it. I brood about my gender like James Herondale broods about being damned and I am proud enough of this to make no apologies.

But I was very much aware that I was in the middle of an existential gender crisis and that meant I had gender thoughts very much in the forefront of my mind when I read Chain of Gold and Chain of Iron for the first time. So of course, it stuck out to me that the 'fake marriage' plot was really gender-specific and would not have worked (certainly not the same way as it was set up in canon) if Cordelia had been, say, Claude.

So, of course, I saw a challenge. I had to figure out how to make these books work if the characters' genders were swapped around. Then I stumbled across a) Cassandra Jean's genderbent Mortal Instruments art, and b) someone else writing fanfic about it, and that was the catalyst I needed. And because it's been my favorite series, I chose to start with TLH.

I gave up on Great Expectations. I knew the books are a pseudo-retelling of it and I didn't have the time and energy to read the story, besides which I knew it would come out very differently. So d&tf's inspirations are instead a hash of We Have Always Lived In The Castle, Hans Christian Anderson's The Snow Queen, and a Radiohead song, among others.

I chose not to wait for Chain of Thorns. I said, to heck with it, I've been watching these genderbent characters disperse in very different directions from their canon counterparts and while some of that (the existence of Fields, Felice's survival) was my deliberate fault, a lot of it was simply me listening to the story and taking it where it felt like it should naturally go. So, before we even had an official ChoT summary, I threw my hands up and decided to just write my own take on a final installment. Looking at what became of Chain of Thorns, thank goodness I did. There's so much about ChoT that would not have worked with the characters I had and the directions I was pushing them in.

This is not, by far, my best writing. It's messy, it's sloppy, there are things I could've done a lot better and different decisions I could've made and I could've done better worldbuilding and used the historical realism of a genderbent rewrite concept to push it even further away from the original TLH. I may go back and edit/rewrite someday, but not now. For now, let's just sit here and consider that I actually saw this through.

I may do more TSC Genderbent Editions if people want them. TID also has a very gender-specific plot that could be fun to wrangle, and while TMI doesn't in the same way, I've come to realize this series is also serving a fantasy for women who like shorter men so I may have to do it for that reason alone.

So I dunno, let me know if you want more of these rewrites (or additional/ongoing content for Judith + Claude, Michelle + Fields, Jackie + Lou, Alice + Tracey, Christa + the deep blue sea, etc.) because you bet I will listen.

#delusions (and terrible fictions)#restless devil's rag #madman's blues #requiem for a shared delusion #genderbent tlh rewrite #i had so many great book titles in this series honestly #they're all themed after music if you can't tell #for no other reason than that i thought it sounded cool

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caseyrussell · 1 year

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FULL NAME: Casey Kennedy Russell

AGE: 20

BIRTHDATE: [tbd while Ella looks for a date in april that will give this man his astrological placements... bear with me x]

GENDER: Cis man

OCCUPATION: College student, prospective internship at HAH

POSITIVE TRAITS: dauntless, outgoing, protective, adaptable, passionate, direct, resilient, compassionate, loving, caring, fun loving

NEGATIVE TRAITS: impulsive, impatient, brooding, reckless, secretive, cynical, hotheaded, adaptable, defensive, stubborn

ASTROLOGICAL PLACEMENTS: Aries sun, Scorpio moon, Pisces rising, Taurus mercury, Pisces mars, Aries venus (yes, that one earth placement is clinging on for dear life)

INSPIRATION: [John Bender (The Breakfast Club), Ronan Lynch (The Raven Cycle), Sirius Black (Harry Potter), James Cook (Skins), Jess Mariano (Gilmore Girls), Han Solo (Star Wars), Daniel Desario (Freaks and Geeks), Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights), Marianne Sheridan (Normal People)]

Biography (tw child abuse/child neglect)

It feels like a life borrowed from someone else a lot of the time. Like watching yourself from the outside in as the movie plays before you. Life led as if it's a chair whose occupant had recently left - the uncertainty of when they might come back and take it away at any moment. Or at least, that's how it would feel when Casey grew old enough to understand his feelings beyond the confusion, sadness and loneliness that would tug in his gut no matter how busy their house was. With a name borrowed from two men greater than he, perhaps it was set in stone from day one that he'd settle nicely between his two brothers. Slap bang in the middle (although there's never a complaint, Ronnie and Noah have always been two of the better things going on in his life).

It wasn't as if Mila Russell ever gave the impression she wanted kids. In fact, from the way Ronnie often felt like more of a parent than his mother - Casey would argue that they were all just something that kind of happened to her rather than the kind of wish mothers made in Disney movies. Or whatever the Cabbage Patch dolls origin story tried to sell. Mr. Russell didn't give much of an impression at all; out the door when Casey's just about old enough to nag Ronnie for answers and imagine what their male 'role model' may be up to.

And it's fantastical. In the way children's imaginations often are, the ideas are farfetched. Ideas of him travelling and collecting stories, contributing to world peace... saving people from burning buildings and cats from up trees. To a little boy who had a mischievious grin and was otherwise told he had too much energy, the fantastical tales of what his 'dad' may be up to got Casey through his earliest school days. Your dad's an accountant? Well, my dad sang with John Lennon'. He never says it's in his dreams. Mr. Russell is a hero to everyone in his imagination. Everyone except for Casey who had longed for a parental figure at parents' nights without ever really knowing. For the kind of stability that he saw his friends have at school and that his mother's latest fling wasn't providing.

He'd picked up a bass that a fling had left behind at some point and that was the new story. Mr. Russell - had to leave at the drop of the hat as the Stones requested him as their understudy bassist. It didn't matter then that Casey didn't even know the name of the instrument in his hands. It was about vision.

It would have been easier if Mr. Russell had remained a dream. Casey could have handled the arguments with his mother's boyfriends or the tension in their house if he'd still had a hope that somewhere out there, an adult in his family was good. But, as he'd come to accept, that just wasn't life. Not black and white. Because Mr. Russell comes back and he makes sure all of them know he's returned, too. It's not even the bruises or the gashes that happen subsequently that hurt most - it's the thought that they'd been abandoned because a man loved liquor more than he loved them. And it leaves a confused ache in Casey's bones that he's not sure has ever fully shifted (only lifted slightly by Elaine and then Zahra). But it's more than that too. Because where the hurt glazes over, and the tear stains dry on pillows, it leaves something deeper in his chest. Anger. As intense as he's ever felt it.

Which might just be Casey in a nutshell. Intensity in every emotion that rips through him and takes control. He's the loud guffaw at the back of the car on a long journey when the silence is a bit too loud, the excessive tap to a back and riproaring cheer at a friend's success, and the need to replace nights spent crying into a pillow with sources of entertainment by any means necessary. It's all or nothing.

Of course, over time, the intense feeling of anger died to a duller feeling of resentment and cynicism that carried him forward through high school. Faded into the biting remark that would chip away at one of his mother's new flings or the need to stand up to Mr. Russell on behalf of either of his brothers. It would have been easier to ignore them entirely. Perhaps take solace in the fact that in a few years, Ronnie would be eighteen and could save them all from it. But Casey has never been known to take the easy way out of anything. Driven solely by his heart and not guided by his head. If no adult would stand up against his demons and fight for him - he'd do it himself; craft stories out of the bruises that sounded fantastical and make himself a hero. Still would. Even if, somewhere in the midst of hearing criticisms and remarks, he wasn't so sure he was worth fighting for. (He still isn't).

High school was mainly just another way to act out. Stupid rules and stupid social hierarchies. Somewhere... however... the want to escape from the bubble that was Cherry rose up in between wanting to actually be someone Elaine would want to be with and crafting himself into what his richer friends seemed to be granted naturally. The kind of person that his friend's father, Harvard Hargrove II seemed to be - poised, put together... being able to command effortless respect (aside from the capitalism). Of course, in Casey's eyes, this also meant needing to be twice as good as his best friend - Harvey.

It fails in many ways. He fails in many more and it takes the next two years after high school just to scramble together the pieces in an attempt to put them back together again while hoping behind a scowl that no-one would notice. He thinks he's just about holding together now - somehow. There's less nights spent chugging away at a bottle and asking people to dare him to do something careless. There's a lot less hoping he leaves the world rather than just the town borders... although he'd still take leaving town in an amazing blaze of glory any day and leaving his mark. But for now, he'll handle it. He somehow always manages to anyway.

HEADCANONS

Massive Led Zeppelin fan. He has three tattoos behind his left ear of the symbols from their fourth album and hopes to be able to get the full four eventually!

Adores animals. Is the guy at a party who purposely seeks out ur dog just to scratch them behind the ears. Would happily petsit for anyone in the gang and probably has, like, a crap ton of polaroid pictures of himself with Rex Russell.

Very much a follower of the ‘here for a good time, not a long time’ mantra.

Loves ABBA an ungodly amount but hides all of their records in inconspicuous sleeves. If you see two copies of 'London Calling' in his house? One copy is ABBA gold.

Rides a secondhand motorcycle that backfires far too often and really should probably be scrapped but he’s ~nostalgic~ and loves it anyway.

Used to play soccer in high school but was asked ‘politely’ to leave the team after being constantly red carded for trying to start fights with the other team. He still kicks around a soccer ball every now and then and will happily talk your ear off about his (not so lowkey) crush on Diego Maradona. 'Did you see him at the 1982 World Cup? No? Want to watch the highlights I recorded on VHS?".

He has a map of the world taped to his wall covered by... another map of the world taped on the wall! The old one is ripped at every corner from where he has almost torn it down in a fit of rage, and yet it stays. It serves as a reminder that there’s more to life than just Cherry where everything seems impossible.

Loves a microwave meal. For the longest time, they were the only thing he really knew how to make so he’s learnt how to spruce them up a little. Nowadays, his cooking abilities don't extend much beyond this rip.

Adoooores Albert Camus and existentialist philosophy. Yes, he does want to understand the meaning of life because really,,,, what the fuck.

#cusaintro #ROUUUGH pls avert ur gazes xoxo

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watching-pictures-move · 2 years

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Movie Review | Top Gun (Scott, 1986)

I rewatched the first half of this a week ago on a flight, in a 4:3 aspect ratio, horizontally squeezed (not even cropped), and still managed to enjoy myself. (The primary advantage was that Tom Cruise looked taller with the image squeezed in, or stretched vertically.) Now, on a different flight, I've managed to rewatch the rest of the movie, in a slightly more dignified cropped presentation, making time to watch the opening with Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone" and then skipping to where I left off. This is close to an ideal way to experience the movie, as you excise much of the DOA romance between Cruise and Kelly McGillis and instead are treated to a series of flight sequences, dick swinging (not literal, although it might as well be) and pensive brooding, the movie distilled to its essence of gorgeous planes and the gorgeous men who fly them. The fighter jets glisten like the abs of the male cast in the notorious volleyball scene, always, always captured in that perfect magic hour glow.

Every image in this movie is framed and lit so immaculately that they can't help but feel loaded with meaning. And that meaning is "USA! USA!" I'm not going to wring my hands too much over the movie's politics (it's so obviously propagandistic that it seems like a waste of time to get worked up over it), but will note as I've probably done previously and certainly others have over the years, that the fact that it limits itself mostly to training sequences and refuses to clearly define the enemy means that it's more effective in that respect. One, it's a movie you feel, rather than think about, and it's easier to be moved by pure vibes than clearly articulated geopolitics. Two, the climax gets a lot less cool when you realize that it was inspired by the 1981 Gulf of Sidra incident, in which American F-14s were fired on by Su-22 Fitters belonging to Libya, a significantly less intimidating enemy than the euphemistic Soviet presence implied in this movie.

This is a problem that didn't bother Iron Eagle, released in the same year, which features an opening confrontation also inspired by the incident and later has its Gaddafi stand-in get in a fighter jet to go after the heroes. ("I am coming for you, Iron Eagle.") That movie also takes a much more hardline political stance. For all its jingoism, Top Gun concedes that naval pilots don't make geopolitical decisions. ("Now, we don't make policy here, gentlemen. Elected officials, civilians, do that. We are the instruments of that policy.") Iron Eagle explicitly decries the Reagan administration's attempt to negotiate with its enemies (full disclosure: I've paraphrased the line about holding aces and twos during work discussions) despite having praised it earlier, and insists that the only solution to such problems is to bomb our enemies back to the stone age. Diplomacy is for pussies.

I chased this with a rewatch of the sequel, and while I very much enjoy both movies, it is worth noting the differences between the two. The original was still establishing Cruise as a star, does it's darnedest to make him look as cool as possible. The sequel, well, it still makes him look pretty cool, but gives him a few self-deprecating moments and pointedly frames him against much taller actors. It also gains quite a bit of mileage from the distinct way in which Cruise has aged, as if he tried to resist wrinkles out of sheer willpower, (I'm sure there are less impressive and possibly sinister reasons for his appearance), especially compared to someone like Val Kilmer, whose appearance is a lot more frail in comparison. In the original, the bulk of the male cast had an almost uniformly sleek and handsome look, so that anyone who didn't fit into that mould, like Tom Skerritt, Michael Ironside and James Tolkan, automatically had some texture added to their performances. I think Anthony Edwards benefits a bit from that contrast as well, and this is one area where I think the sequel suffers. Edwards is almost effortlessly likable, to the point that we would be tempted to root for him even if his character were, I dunno, perpetrating sex crimes like in Revenge of the Nerds. In contrast, Miles Teller, who plays his son in the sequel, is anything but, and resembles Sean Penn more than Edwards, and the movie has to cheat to have us sympathize with him by placing Glen Powell in a heel turn. One wonders if Powell might have made a better foil for Cruise in the sequel, he's prickly in a way that brings to mind Kilmer in the original. (Really, I would have liked to see them shoehorn Edwards back, perhaps in a different role, but I'm pretty sure audiences wouldn't go for it.) I think the original has a more memorable cast on average, although I confess I still couldn't tell the difference between Hollywood and Slider and am not convinced they're not actually the same person.

The sequel is also more of a "real" movie, in that it builds its plot around a clear climactic mission and spends most of its runtime building up to it. It certainly traffics in cliches, but puts in the work to pull them off for the most part. The original's cliches are more in the form of ready made "iconic" moments, that I suppose have managed to become iconic, thanks to the forcefulness of Tony Scott's style. But it's relative inattention to plotting means that the climax is more impressive in that it manages to be visually coherent without the mission parameters having been hammered into our head or even clear geographic signifiers to orient us. But who am I to complain. They're both great action sequences, and in both cases, I was internally hooting and hollering and shedding a tear or two when the good guy planes were blowing up the bad guy planes.

#film #movie review #top gun #tony scott

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