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#late post classic period
soldier-poet-king · 11 months
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Last thought but like. The ptolemies....kinda sucked???? If we wanna romanticize a cool af Egyptian dynasty why do we have to Pick Them and insist that Cle*patra was a girlboss or whatever, when there are literally So Many Other ancient empresses and queens
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hellishjoel · 7 months
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slow shift
7k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader
Series Masterlist l Next Chapter
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series summary: Tommy’s Diner is where dreams go to die and burnouts clock-in for work. Waitressing would be boring without the flirtatious distractions of line cook Frankie Morales.
warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), swearing, talking about w33d, alcohol consumption (not by reader or frankie, but discussions of alcohol), oral (f! receiving), discussions of periods and Plan B, frankie having a fat d!ick, slightly public sex, unprotected p in v (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), you know how I roll
A/N: welcome to the first part in my linecook!frankie series! It's all just going to be chaos!! enjoy dirty dishes, cussing, and decent food made by the hot linecooks. I’ll have a title as soon as I stop putting it off <3 enjoy! let me know what you think! also how LIT is the banner
here's my masterlist!
**follow hellishfics and turn on notifications get updates on my fic postings**
“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle.  You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight. 
Welcome to hell. 
A makeshift building somehow still holding up four walls that housed a small restaurant inside. 
This wasn’t some secret treasure that belonged on an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives or a hidden hole-in-the-wall five-star Michelin Restaurant. This was Tommy’s Diner. 
The locals had different names for the run-down dump you called your place of employment: the Hometown Heartburn Hut (true), American Pie ( ha-ha funny), the Rusty Spoon (some guy OD’s behind the place one time, and no one ever forgets), or Tumbleweed, your pothead coworkers liked to call it. It was a tumbleweed because the restaurant was barren, emphasis on the weed to accommodate the faded line cooks that lurked in the back of the restaurant. 
Don’t let today’s slow shift fool you; there were times when Tumbleweed was cram-packed. Friday night football games were busy with tailgaters, bustling with teens after a championship game. Other times, it was when a Greyhound bus or a similar cross-country vehicle drove through and took a stop for the passengers. 
The most popular time of year was in the summer. Tommy’s Diner hosted Saturday night Cruise Nights. The town would flood with classic cars and hot rods, and the diner would transform into a drive-in. Their engines revved through different cities from far and wide to be at Tommy’s. That’s when the place felt the most alive, bustling with people and their laughter, little kids running with their milkshakes and flipping quarters into the rigged claw machine. 
But it wasn’t a Saturday in August. It was a Monday. You were stuck with the misfit motley crew that did everything from dishwashing, cooking, bussing, running the register, being half-ass managers, and, of course, the token pretty waitress. You. 
You will admit that each character working at Tumbleweed had a unique story etched into their grubby hands or baggy-eyed faces. They’ve weathered years of late-night shifts and condiment, grease-stained aprons. 
Tonight there was Lou, the jaded by heartbreak teenage busboy. He walked with a shuffle, always sniffling about an ex-girlfriend. He worked slow and god damn, did that piss you off. 
Then there was Tina, the aspiring singer stuck in a small-town type. She was newer, still learning how things worked since she had never waited tables a day in her life. She had that fresh twinkle of stardom in her eye despite being in her late 30’s. You were training her and trying not to let her drive you up the wall whenever she started singing different songs on the jukebox. Note to self: Put a sticky note saying it’s busted every time you work together. 
Paul was the do-it-all guy. Toilet clogged? Get Paul. Dishes piling up? Ask Paul to do it. The cashier on a bathroom break? Paul can run the till. He was useful, just complained and grumbled a lot. 
Tommy of Tommy’s Diner hasn’t worked a day in years. He’s older, so it’s understandable. Last thing you heard was he was down in Florida, living out retirement in a cheap home with a gambling addiction. Sounded like he was doing well for himself.  But now his idiot son Rudy ran the place. Tommy’s picture was still on dusty display, toothy smile and all at the front door that people huddled in and out of—speaking of. 
Your head lifted to attention as the bell above the door chimed, sighing in annoyance as you leaned back onto the counter. It was just Frankie. 
“It’s fifteen after. You were supposed to be here on time today because we have to set up for Carla’s thing.”
Frankie breezed past you, aviators and stupid ballcap on, his smile lifted in a sneer. He was smacking on pink bubble gum as he neared your part of the counter and purposely shuffled past you with his hips against yours in an attempt to get into the kitchen. You couldn’t help but lean into him with a little smirk. 
“Tommy said it was fine I was late.” He joked once he ducked into the back, your arms crossed as you followed him aimlessly. 
You sigh and lean back against the locker next to his, watching him shuffle off his jacket.
“You disappoint me, Frankie.” Your face held a teasing pout. 
“Never meet your heroes, baby.” That stupid fucking cocky smirk painted his face. 
You opted to roll your eyes and look away as a defense tactic against Frankie’s flirty moves. Frankie calling you baby made your guts twist. 
He was an ass ninety-nine percent of the time, but you two were hired the same summer a few years back and were the only ones who stayed once summer had run its course. You supposed it was bonded trauma after that. 
New workers had come and gone, but you and Frankie were still at Tommy’s, still working crappy shifts on crappy hourly pay. Despite Frankie being a douchebag, he made the place bearable. He was comfortable. You knew each other. 
“Can you just meet me on the floor like you were supposed to fifteen minutes ago and help with the banner? Carla’s going to be here at five, and you still have to make her special-”
“Jesus fuckin’- yes, I’ll be out in a few.” Frankie playfully groaned, shoving the brim of his hat into his mouth to hold it, his hands busy as he tied a tattered red bandana around his forehead before he replaced the cap back on. Okay… hot. 
He took a deep breath once he finished, and leaned against the locker beside you, arms crossed, mimicking you as your shoulder brushed his bicep. You looked up at him, so many inches taller than you, as he looked down. Maybe too far down. He started at your eyes, but those eyes of his tended to wander right down to the cut of your shirt.
“Ugh- Frankie!” You rolled your eyes and pushed him away, readjusting your top as he playfully threw his hands up on the defense. 
“You look fuckin’ gorgeous today, by the way!” He shouted as you exited the locker room, smiling and shaking your head with your back to him and throwing up your middle finger before the door swung closed with your exit. 
---
You stood on the top of a dining table in your sneakers, attempting to hang a shitty banner you had painted for Carla’s birthday. You glanced down at the table and made a little face about the scuff you put in it. Oops. You can try and scrub it later. 
There was no other person you or Frankie would do this stuff for. But it was Carla’s birthday and she was a diamond in the rough at this dump. 
Carla's position at Tumbleweed is a mixture of human resources, accounting, decent management, and a mother figure to not just you but the entire staff. Besides Carla, we could all care less about everyone else's birthday. You were burning this ‘Happy Birthday!’ banner as soon as the clock struck midnight. 
You let out an exhausted huff as you attempted to tack the final hanging string into the wall, but it was just out of reach. That’s when you heard the smacking of his stupid pink bubble gum. You didn’t even have to look. 
“Are you gonna help me or not, Morales?” Your voice seethed in annoyance, not only to Frankie but also cursing your short legs and your just not long enough arms. 
He didn’t say anything. Just crossed the differential space between you and took the tack and string into his meaty fingers. 
You glanced down, watching his teeth capture his lower lip in concentration, checking to see if it was straight. Pushing the pin in, he backed up to where you stood on the dining table and crossed his arms in observance. 
It was incredibly crooked. But it was the thought that counts, right?
“Good enough for me. You?” You glanced down at Frankie, and he was biting back a smile. 
“What?” You pushed, narrowing your eyes. 
“Yeah, yeah, it’s good.” Distracted by something else. “D’you paint this?” The warmth of his hand slowly crept onto the back of your calf, your chest tightening as he slowly skated it higher with no interference from you. 
You gently nod, avoiding his eye contact as you look at the sign. Now, his hand was on the back of your thigh, and you had to take a breath. A mhm was all you could muster up. 
His fingers delicately skimmed the skirt of your uniform, knuckles brushing against your backside. You used to hate these 50’s style waitress uniforms, but now they didn’t seem so damn bad because Frankie’s movements were making you lightheaded. Snap out of it!
“Need help down?” Frankie asked, hand at the ready on your hip. 
You shook your head despite using his assistance anyway. You squatted on the table, black lace panties peeking out as you used Frankie’s broad shoulders as leverage. You put one foot down onto the linoleum and then the other, wiping your hands cleanly down your uniform as you both returned to look at the lopsided sign. 
You hoped it was enough. You hoped she appreciated it, especially all that she’s done for you over the years. Covering your shifts, leveling out the register when you accidentally gave someone the wrong change, tucking extra tips into your apron when she knew your rent was coming up. Everyone needed a Carla, not everyone was lucky to have one. 
“She’s gonna love it,” Frankie seemed to sense your nerves as he lifted his cap to bring some air to his sweaty dark curls before putting it back into place. “I’ll start workin’ on her special. Mushroom Swiss patty melt?” He said before disappearing into the kitchen again, only leaving once you gave him your little nod of assurance. You liked that he remembered.
---
“Happy birthday, Carla!” Uncoordinated voices cheered as Carla entered Tumbleweed right on time for her shift. 
Her face lit up, and she looked beautiful. She packed a little extra blush and eyeshadow to commemorate the special occasion. 
“Oh, shit- oh my- You guys! Thank you!” Carla made special eye contact with you, knowing you were the only one caring enough to orchestrate this shindig. 
Carla has this soulful charm about her. Raised in Louisiana, she loved to cook family recipes and bring the leftovers to work for you and Frankie to fight over. You remember she had three kids at home, so she had this curvy mom's body that put a proud sway in her walk. A playful and confident woman at heart, she was all the regular’s favorite to see. And she knew everyone. And she knew everything. She put Tommy’s back in business during the slower seasons. People would come to see her face on Sunday mornings over their coffee and runny eggs. 
“Oh, baby, thank you.” She cooed as she cupped your cheek and squeezed, making your face tick. “This the red velvet?” Her voice hummed as she observed the cake in your hands, pushing her finger lightly into the frosting to taste it. 
You had pulled one of the cakes from the display case and shitily piped it with chocolate sauce ‘HBD!’. 
“Of course, your favorite... Right?” You pursed your lips and snuck a nervous glance at Frankie before you set the cake down on the countertop. 
Carla looked beyond touched for something you’d consider a bit lackluster. “It’s my favorite ‘cause you made it. Thank you, baby.” 
You glanced around for the cake cutter, watching as Tina pushed a quarter into the jukebox and got the party started. Everyone was doing shitty dance moves, even the one or two customers that had filtered in for a cheap dinner. 
You sighed as you looked behind the counter for the cake cutter, grabbing the cake and its stand to haul it to the back. 
You thrust your shoulder blades into the swinging door, setting the cake stand on the counter as you started sifting through the different drawers to find the serving knife. 
Half a carton filled with cigarettes; Frankie’s. Matches from an old jazzy gentleman’s club; Rudy’s. Hair ties; yours. Where’s the fuckin’ cake cutter?!
The music from the jukebox was more faded in the kitchen. The serving window, professionally called the pass, was just big enough to see faces and hand plates through from the kitchen to the front. 
You made a face when you found the cake server inside a  large pot-- how, no, why? Jesus Christ. Fucking idiots. 
The swinging door to the kitchen wooshed in before slowly creaking closed, seeing Frankie coming to stand beside you in your peripheral. 
You carefully plunged the slicer into the soft sponge of the cake, carving a piece for Carla and setting it on a plate. You reached forward across the counter for another small plate, the short skirt of your uniform revealing the curve of your ass to an overly curious Frankie. You could feel his heat burning through his chest. 
“Could you be less obvious?” Your voice held teasing notes, putting another piece of cake on a plate and pushing them away to make space for more. 
He had tried this a handful of times with you, and he had yet to be successful besides that one time when you both drunkenly made out at the last December holiday party. You were pretty sure he had been hung up on you ever since. You enjoyed watching him try. 
Your eyes flitted over to his, observing his body and facial features. 
He looked gross, honestly. The two meals he cooked including Carla’s special before she came in for her shift made his face and neck sweaty and his hands greasy, his apron to match. It was white at one time, a long, long time ago. His stupid red bandana was still tied around his forehead, catching the spare sweat droplets, as the kitchen became unbearably hot in the middle of August.
You probably didn’t look much better. Hair all over the place with makeup you put on in the morning probably half smudged off by now. Your hands were checkered in pen ink, a spare papercut from snagging a receipt from the register. But still decent. He was still decent. 
His hand was back in dangerous territory, lingering low on your waist. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. You could feel warmth flooding your body, heat from the heart of his hand burning into your hip. He was admiring your body, slow and appreciative as he cupped the curve of your ass. And then he squeezed. 
Your shaky hands barely got the fourth slice you cut onto a small serving plate. The cake cutter clattered onto the metal counter as Frankie shifted his body behind yours, his watchful eyes on the pass. No one was watching, stupid and oblivious. You swallowed a lump down your throat, your small hands clenching the rim of the counter. His hips were flushed against yours. Worst of all was that you really fucking liked it. 
“This okay?” You’re flattered he asked after the fact. 
You leaned back into his touch, quietly humming on the brink of a little moan. You were a little desperate for touch, maybe you’d be on your period soon. “Mhmm..”. 
Frankie was a douchebag, but you two have been flirting back and forth with one another for years like an ongoing tennis match. He was older, he had years on you. Not an obscenely amount, but enough to make people raise an eyebrow. You were surprised he had the balls to actually make a move on you like he was right now. 
“Like you in black.” Frankie’s voice was cut down to a murmur, low and all-enveloping. You weren’t sure if he was referring to the black in your waitress uniform or your black panties. Probably the latter. 
His fingers brushed past your goosebump-covered ass and slipped between your legs to your clothed pussy. You softly gasped, eyes shifting closed as your hips involuntarily leaned into Frankie’s touch. You didn’t look subtle at all. You looked like you wanted to be touched, manhandled, kissed, fucked… 
“Open your eyes, baby girl.” He purred, your chest already heaving. “Act normal.” You forced your eyes open, looking back at him with wide, innocent eyes. Needy pupils connected with his blown-out ones. The back of your head brushed his shoulder, setting it there for just a moment before he looked straight ahead. 
Frankie nodded back to the pass, your eyes following his eye line to everyone distractedly dancing and sipping coffee mixed with bourbon on the floor. 
You bit down on your lower lip, knuckles cast over in a milky white with the iron grip you held on the metal rim of the counter. Frankie’s body heat had disappeared from your back, and now you felt it cast against the back of your legs. You glanced around, seeing him on his knees behind you with his mouth now latched to the back of your thighs. Oh, fuck. His kisses sponged up higher, towards your heat. 
Your eyelashes fluttered, Frankie’s act normal echoing through your hollow head. With distracted hands, you resumed cutting the cake. You probably looked slow and stupid, but feeling his patchy beard hair nestle between the sweet skin of your inner thighs had you in a haze. 
Frankie’s big hands reached under your skirt, lining the black panties that sat snugly on your hips with his forefingers. He slowly peeled them down, feeling the material roll as he stopped them to rest halfway down on your thighs. 
Your shoulders shuddered as your warm pussy met the slight chill of the outside world, panties adorning a little soaked spot. 
“Frankie,” Mm? “Someone’s gonna see.” But you weren’t stopping him. You weren’t telling him to fuck off. You weren’t kicking him right in the gut like you probably could. In fact, you were leaning into him. 
“Such a pretty pussy... Can’t stop, baby.” 
A helpless whimper left your lips, thighs shaking at his affectionate, warm kisses. 
Frankie’s hand swatted at the inside of your right ankle and then the other, hinting for you to spread yourself for him. You pursed your lips and shakily sighed, parting your legs as your sneakers lightly squeaked on the checkered floor. Fuck me, Frankie. 
You didn’t know how much longer you could be patient. The waiting was tantric, hypnotizing you into seduction. 
Spread for him and dripping, Frankie’s mouth finally attached to your slit. Your knee lightly jerked up and smacked a bus tub filled with dirty dishes, a few eyes on you through the pass as you nervously laughed. “S-Sorry!” 
Frankie couldn’t help but let out a warm puff of laughter against your cunt, and you swore your insides were twisting at the sensation. 
“Easy pretty girl… Don’t need us gettin’ caught. You want me to stop?” Frankie’s voice was husky, warm palms spreading your thighs, your body lightly bending over to lean on the counter. You tried to look busy with something, stupidly polishing a random fork. With the extra exposure, he had full access to your sex. 
“Does it look like I want you to stop?” You finally punched out through air-abducted lungs, anxiously chewing on the skin of your lip. “Frankie.” You said in a hushed warning tone, wanting more and not knowing how to ask nicely for it. But that’s what he liked about you. You weren’t nice. 
His lips finally attached properly to your pussy, his devilish tongue lining the center of your cunt and flicking off your clit. Your head dropped, ears ringing at the sensation. 
You wondered how good he would feel if he could take his time instead of giving you head quick while all your coworkers were distracted.  Maybe he could run his thumb over the front of your panties, trace the seam of your pussy, and feel how soaked you were for him and his attentive fingers. You thought Frankie had always been so down bad for you. He probably dreamed about getting this opportunity. He finally got you when you were just as horny for someone with a pulse. But this wasn’t all the time in the world; this was a slow shift at Tommy’s. 
You rut your hips back into Frankie’s face, hot pants fanning fog onto the cool metal of the counter. 
Frankie put his mouth where you needed him most, his tongue dedicating a poem to you. He flattened his tongue and licked a wide, wet strip up through your core, taking in all your juices. His tongue lapped at your weeping hole, thighs shaking against his head as you stifled a moan into the counter. 
He was good, manipulative, a fucking menace. 
Frankie’s tongue made precision flicks against your bundle of nerves, a gasp a bit too loud leaving the kitchen as you whimpered broken fragments of his name. 
You weakly looked up, seeing Tina pluck another quarter in the jukebox, cranking the volume to some seventies soul music. Fuck being quiet. 
Concealed by the groove of Stevie Wonder singing We Can Work It Out, your moans were hidden by the shake of a tambourine and plucks to an electric guitar. 
“Goddammit, Frankie, mmm, so fucking good,” a gasp and a moan followed suit, lazily smirking with your eyes closed. “So fucking… hot.” You murmured. 
Frankie’s mouth was a welcome wonder, dedicated to making you cum. He was swirling his tongue around your clit, weakly flattening your front over the counter again and pressing your cheek against the cool metal. Don’t be a douche right now, Francisco Morales. Make me fuckin’ cum. 
The kitchen door swiftly swung open, and your body flew up to stand straight as Carla waited in the doorway. 
“What’s taking you so long to cut my cake, baby? I know that bitch is stale as hell, but that don’t mean I don’t want it.” 
Your eyes were wide, lips parted in an attempt to speak, but Frankie’s movements didn’t cease despite Carla’s unexpected intrusion.  You bit back a whimper as he lined his tongue just barely into the tight entrance of your walls, his greedy fingers piercing into the flesh of your thighs to keep you spread. Thank god the counter covered your waist down. 
“I-I’m sorry, I’ll be out in a sec.” 
Carla looked you up and down, curious but ultimately not giving a damn. You could feel Frankie’s dirty smirk against your thighs. 
“Alright... Hurry up. I’m tryna get my dessert.” 
And with that, the door swished closed, and your back slumped at the relief. 
Frankie’s unexpected voice made you jump lightly, his words echoing against you. “Gotta make ya finish fast, princess. Want my dessert, too.” 
You whimpered but willed yourself to stand up straight and turn around to face him. He looked like a mess. Lust-filled black eyes and a cocky smirk to match. Your juices glistened on his lips and chin. Frankie would be incredibly hot if he knew how to keep his mouth shut. 
“Taste as good as you look, princess.” Frankie stood up, tall and broad body making a white hot spot form in your stomach. Fuck,  you couldn’t do this right now. Not right here. 
He could tell. He took a few cautious steps away, you watched him carefully like a rattlesnake. He knew when not to push you and when to let you make the decisions. He also knew how to give you orders when you were too pussy fucked to think straight. 
“Serve that cake and meet me out back.” He was looking over you, enjoying the few times you looked totally fucked like you did right now. He stepped back into your space and pulled your panties back into place, a sobby whimper leaving your lips as he gently cupped your aching mound with a smirk. “So fuckin’ needy, huh?” 
“Fuck off.” You mumbled, fixing the bottom half of your uniform. 
You watch as Frankie grabs the beer bottle you all used as a makeshift door prop and his half-carton of cigarettes you had brought out of a drawer in an attempt to find the cake cutter. He disappears out back into the alley. Shit, the cake. 
You hurriedly sliced the remainder of the cake, placing a few stray candles into the slices. You lit them once you greeted the group waiting on the floor, singing a shitty rendition of Happy Birthday.  Paul lights his cigarette from one of the candles, puffing smoke across the frosting. 
The crowd hastily grabbed one of the small plates and a fork. Most of you only tried a bite or two. The cake had been in the display case for far too long. 
---
Anxious and impatient, you slip into the back with everyone’s dirty dishes and sneak back into the kitchen. You do nothing more with them than chuck them into the sink for Lou to wash up at some point or another. Your eyes stare at the beer bottle keeping the back kitchen door ajar. You take in a deep breath, leaving a shaky sigh before following Frankie out into the alley. 
The air was warm, a welcome breeze passing over you. The alley was everyone’s hideaway, littered with crushed beer and soda cans, two large garbage dumpsters, and a large one for recycling. You could see the highway in the distance. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning purple and blue. You’d watch those cars drive right past your little town, paying no mind, probably off going to somewhere bigger and better. The only people from the highway who stopped to visit Tommy’s were people who didn’t know any better. 
A flick of a lighter crackled, dividing your attention. Frankie was smoking his cigarette, his back leaning against the brick wall of the diner. He was trying not to smirk. Seeing you out here was way too much power for him. He took a drag, the end of his cigarette lighting up in a glowing orange haze before he pulled it from his mouth. The smoke he exhaled was taken by the breeze. 
“Happy to see me?” His goading tone asked.
“No.” A challenge. A pause. 
“So, you want me to go back inside?” 
“No.” Another beat. A step closer to him, arms crossed. He’s smart enough to let his cigarette land on the ground. 
“So, you want me to stay out here?”
Silence. Staring. Gauging each other’s reactions. Your tight jaw meets his cocky smirk. Too stubborn to ask meeting too stubborn to give without begging. Fuck. 
Maybe it’s because you’re both desperate. Maybe because Frankie knows you. Knows you’re too stubborn to ask for him to fulfill your needs. Your inaction meets his unwillingness to waste another moment that he could be inside of you. 
Stomping on his cigarette before closing the distance between you two, he envelopes you in a kiss that robs you of your breath. He tastes musky and bitter. The smoke that recently captured his lungs was hot on your lips. 
Your heart was beating with excitement, happy to lose control for a moment as Frankie walked you blindly backward into the brick wall. Ouch. 
Your tongues danced in a rhythmic motion, seducing you into letting him take the power as the kiss deepened. The flavor was subtle but distinct. The Marlboro’s held an acrid undertone, an unexpected layer of the kiss you sort of liked. If he tasted like spearmint gum, it might have turned you off. 
It was like you were his cigarette now, breathing you in and clinging to you in addiction. It was his bad habit, but who were you to judge. You had a closet full of skeletons you weren’t open to anyone seeing. Maybe this was one of his. 
His hands were a welcome guest, feeling his warm palms explore a body he had probably fantasized about. 
“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle. 
You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight. 
Frankie guided you further from the backdoor, hearing voices enter the kitchen. Probably Paul and Lou to start working on closing chores. He took you behind the dumpsters and hiked up your dress. You decided to be useful and push your panties down. He rounded up the material that was tying you up at your ankles and shoved them into his pocket. You were not letting him keep those. 
You pushed his apron aside, fingers fussing over his belt buckle. He watched, amused, unwilling to help. He liked seeing you so desperate for his cock. Unbuttoned. Unzippered. Black boxer trim peaking out now. You made slight eye contact with him before you shoved his pants and boxers down to his thighs. Your heart clenches at how girthy he was. Fuckkk, this was gonna feel good. 
He didn’t take his apron off, merely shoved it to the side as it haphazardly swayed on his hip. He closed the distance between you again, a greedy kiss, a kiss to mark you with. You pulled away to spit into your hand, taking him by his base and squeezing. 
Frankie’s eyes shuddered closed, his head dropping as you took his manhood in the small of your hand. He was.. more than a handful. He was so meaty, not even able to wrap your fist fully around him. 
You purred out a little moan as you worked your hand over him, feeling him grow heavy in your hand as you lubed up his tip, slowly circling your thumb teasingly around the pulsing head. 
“Enough.” He muttered. He didn’t like you toying with him. 
Frankie hiked up your leg by the underside of your calf, hooking around his hip as you leaned your back against the cold brick wall. It wasn’t comfy, but when you fuck against a run-down diner, you don’t get many options. 
Your chest shuddered as you felt his cock heavy against your folds, erect and brushing up against where you needed him most. He was running his hand up and down himself now. You watched as he put down another line of spit from his mouth to his cock before his knuckles shuffled up and down his shaft a few more times. 
The sight made you reel your head back and stare up at the sky. As eager as you are, you’re worried about feeling how thick he is. He knows. 
“M’gonna go real slow.” He punches out, setting his forehead down against yours, and you shakily nod. Please don’t fucking split me in two, Frankie Morales. You still have a shift to finish, after all. You’re thankful he at least acknowledges his girth. It’s sort of the elephant in the room. 
You both look down at your centers, your dripping one and his angry, pink head meeting in unison. It’s sort of fucked up the way that you’re two horrible people. But you knew horrible people always seemed to find each other.  
You wet your lips and bite down. Hard. You weren’t a fresh spring virgin, but this wasn’t any other half-decent dick. 
You lay your head back against the wall as Frankie guides himself into your welcoming entrance. Your wetness lubes him up well, but he’s still large. 
You clench your eyes close and smile. The pain is always pleasure. “Fuck,” you mutter, your head wanting to come back down and watch. 
Frankie’s being gentle, an odd word you’d never describe him as. He’s grunting and impatient, but patient for you. He fills you up to the brim and your head is flooded with clouds. You’re in the sky, lightheaded, but so fucking horny. 
His hips meeting yours are a gentle greeting, both of your lips brushing as you shared pants of desperation as well as relief. Your stomach was tight, recoiling with the pressure he was providing to the inside of your walls.
“God-
“Jesus-
“-fucking damn.”
“Christ.” 
The two of you moaned in unison. 
Your nails are piercing into his shirt, bunching around the tops of his shoulders. You move to grip his apron for some sort of control. There is none. 
One of his hands is still supporting your leg wrapped around his hip, the other flattened against the brick wall beside your head. You took solace in his arm, resting your forehead against it weakly. 
He was cocky for a reason. His length in inches was his amount of reasons. 
“Fuck me.” You finally mustered up enough strength to demand. He shakes his head against yours. 
“Give it a minute.” He mutters, barely coherent. You’re scrumptiously tight around him, and you know it. You both do. 
“We don’t have a minute.” You feverishly bite back, attempting to shift your hips against his. He retaliates by planting his hips against you, fucking the final few inches of his dick into you as you both fell deeper into the wall. 
A hot moan rolled off your tongue, hiding your face away in his forearm and shuddering your eyes closed. Frankie’s hand slipped from your leg, cupping the globe of your ass in his warm hand. He squeezed and it made you smile as he reeled his hips slowly back. 
He grumbles something. 
“What?” You asked with a dopey grin. He pushes back inside you and wipes the smirk clear off your face. 
“I said… you’re so fuckin’ impatient.” His voice was tattered with grunts, your tight little pussy making it hard for him to breath. 
Now he was creating a rhythm, fucking you into the wall in steady thrusts. You were already feeling your insides tug eagerly in excitement, the hot pool he had created in your guts simmering to a boil. 
“Mhmm, mhm, mhm,” you moaned in silent begs, moans you had to read between the lines to understand. Fuck me, fuck me harder, fuck you feel good, I-I can’t think of anything other than fuck! Fuck me, Frankie!
He filled you up to a brim you had yet to discover you had. His tip tickled your cervix with each snap of his hips. He was getting greedy, a little sloppy. You’d judge him on this short-lived fuck later, for now, it was perfectly timed to get back into work without anyone noticing. 
Your eyes widened and met his murky brown ones as he moved the hand he had against the wall nudged between your thighs, circling your clit. It was messy at first, but he found what made you tick and adjusted. Now he was running tight circles around you, and you were finding it hard to stay silent. 
“Feel so fuckin’ perfect for me.” He murmured, his lips ghosting over yours in a teasing motion. You actually wanted to taste him again, so you leaned into it, your tongue lining his mouth and tasting his old cigarette with a moan. 
Now he was filling you up, no hesitancy in his hips as he snapped the full extent of his length into your cunt. Your head flew back against the orange and red brick, a fucked moan leaving your mouth. Neither of you cared. Frankie’s face was nuzzled against your jawline and neck, sloppy kisses tasting old perfume as the circles on your clit intensified your impending orgasm. 
“F-Fuck, Frankie, shit, I’m gonna-” You gasped and closed your eyes, clutching your arms weakly around his shoulders and holding him to you. His body enveloped you like a shield protecting you from anything in your surroundings. 
Your orgasm crashed over you, coursing through your body like a million volts of electricity as you whimpered and moaned into his neck. Your eyes were clamped closed, your walls clenching and fluttering around his sensitive cock. 
His moans were heavenly, guttural and deep, a little shaky even as he puffed them into your neck and shoulder. His hips twitched against the inside of your thighs as he came undone inside of you. It felt like he was cumming for days, filling you up with white rope after white rope of his semen and painting your insides with only remnants of him. 
You couldn’t think. You just focused on the distant sound of the highway, creating a bustling amount of white noise for you. You gently held his head to keep him close, your shaky hand winding into his hair as the two of you reconciled over your orgasms. 
He was the first one to move. He slipped himself from you and gave you a few lazy kisses. Your stomach fluttered before you shook your head.
Stop it, Frankie. 
‘M not doin’ anything. 
Teasing smiles. Hands softening their holds on each other’s bodies. Fixing hair. Fixing undergarments. 
He would have held onto your panties. He probably hoped you forgot about them. You tugged them from his pocket and attempted to slip into them with ease, but you ended up having to use the brick wall as a support to lean into. 
You steadied his apron straight, and he pulled the skirt of your uniform down. Teamwork. 
You don’t really talk, just clean yourselves up, nod, and dart back inside before anyone can really notice or give a damn that you were missing in action. You kept having to excuse yourself to the bathroom, feeling Frankie still seeping from you. It made your chest hot, an embarrassed smile on your face. 
Fuck it. That’s what Plan B is for. Or you can just wait to see if you get your period in a few days time. 
---
You and Frankie danced around one another during the closing shift. Carla went home and took the cake in a to-go container to give to her kids. It was shitty that she had to work on her birthday, but she said that getting to see your gorgeous face was a present of its own. 
You tiredly yawned, seeing it was a few minutes past ten. You helped Tina even out the cash register, putting today’s earnings in an envelope, then putting it in the safe for Rudy to take to the bank at the end of the week. 
“You sure you don’t mind cleaning up on your own?” Tina asked, giving her a tired smile and a soft shrug. 
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you Wednesday.” Despite her annoying singing, Tina wasn’t that bad. She gave you a big grin before she hopped off the stool and left out the front door. Lou and Paul had already left at the start of closing. You didn’t know if Frankie snuck out the back early. 
You did a double take to the jukebox, watching Frankie flip his baseball hat backward and push a quarter into the machine. Your face softened, seeing him flip between the different records before landing on one. 
Something by Fleetwood Mac started playing. You watched him reach up and untack your banner from the wall easily. You nodded softly before grabbing the spray bottle filled with disinfectant and began wiping down the counters, seats, and tables. 
He walked up to you once you finished cleaning, handing you your folded-up banner. You twisted your lips in thought, rolling the banner around in your hands. 
“Wanna help me burn this in the burn barrel out back?” 
Frankie sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Fuck it. Got nothin’ better to do.” 
---
With Frankie’s lighter, both of you watched with glassy eyes as the Happy Birthday! banner burnt to ashes. His face was lit up in orange and yellow hues. He haphazardly tried to lean into the flames with a cigarette dangling between his lips, a stupid laugh leaving you. He shrugged and put the cigarette behind his ear. 
“Fuck it.” He huffed, both of your eyes transfixed on the fading flames.
There was a beat of silence. 
Frankie’s eyes met yours. “We should do that again sometime.” 
Half of your mouth quirked up into a smirk.  “Do what?”
He cocked his head to the side in annoyance. “You know what.”
You shrugged and shoved your hands into your jacket pockets. The hum of the highway in the distance made you flashback to just a few hours ago with Frankie railing you against Tumbleweed. A black and purple-streaked night sky submerged the two of you, making you feel tiny. You sigh and shift on your feet, keeping your eyes on the flames that licked up the ay! in Birthday!
“Maybe.” 
He furrowed his eyebrows. “Maybe?” 
“Mhm.”
Frankie teetered on your half-ass decision. Even the notion of having an open door left for him to sneak in was enough to make him happy. “Okay. I’ll take a maybe.” 
God, you were bluffing so hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be sooo bad to throw him a bone every once in a while. 
Your fantasizing was cut short as ashes of the banner spewed up from the depths of the barrel and fluttered up into the air between you and Frankie, both of you taking a preemptive step away.
His lighter clicked again; he had to do it a few times before the end of his cigarette caught a flame. “I’ll see you when I see you.” He murmured. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was trying to walk you to your car, wanting to leave, but not until you started heading home, too. 
He swung his body into the driver seat of his beaten-up pickup truck. You decided to follow suit, sliding into your car. You saw Tommy’s fade away from the rearview mirror in the distance. But the thoughts of Frankie between your legs, fucking you into oblivion, and begging to serve your aching center would sit with you until your next shift at Tumbleweed. Sorry. Tommy’s Diner. 
---
here's my masterlist!
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kaiserin-erzsebet · 2 months
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I'm curious about the distribution here.....
*I know that these periodizations are all contested, broad, and depend on geography. That's why I am not putting years. Interpret them as you please depending on your particular field.
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cy-lindric · 1 year
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Hey! I'm a big fan of your historical work (especially your sewing!) and thumbed through your pinterest awhile ago (thank you for linking it at some point) and was wondering if you have any reference books for period fashion that you like! Not any period in specifics, just any literature or media that you've found helpful, or return to often! Thank yeww
Hello ! I've listed a few books that were useful to me to understand construction on historical clothing in this post, but I've used those books more in my little historical costuming hobbies than for design.
When it come to character design historical references, my main sources are portraiture and contemporary illustration and I find most of it on archives or museum's online ressources. The only physical book of that type I sometimes use is Racinet's Costume History. I have a few books for napoleonic uniforms that sometimes come in handy including a few from the Men-at-Arms series of Osprey.
I think my main hubs for design references are probably the online collection of the V&A and Gallica BNF (the online ressource of the french national library).
For medieval stuff, I like to look at digitized versions of heavily illuminated manuscript like Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry in the collection of the castle of Chantilly ( loads of colourful XVth century fashion) or the lovely Manesse Codex on the website of the Heidelberg University Library (14th century, some of these are the cutest stuff you've ever seen).
These days, for my revolutionary calendar project, I'm using a lot of illustrations from the Gallica digitizations of several "Cris de Paris " street studies, esp the ones by Vernet and Poisson, for reference of commonfolk clothing from the late 18th century and early 19th.
For 16th-17th century stuff, it's even earsier ; paintings from the early modern era depict garments very realistically both in upperclass portraiture and in scenes that represent lower class people like tavern scenes and the like. For these I honestly just rely on wikisource for high res files of classic european masters stuff.
To be fair I usually hang out on Pinterest, try to find stuff that looks credible and matches the vibe of whichever project I'm working on and work backwards looking for the sources if I don't know them already. A lot of old fashion plate books and manuscript can be found fully digitized online, no need for an expensive library and acres of shelf space ! Hope this helps !
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dionysus-complex · 5 months
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you mentioned you specialize in roman violence. can you rec any good works on the subject, especially during the late antique period? how much (or little) time/writing did latin authors spend on the question of the necessity/morality/glory of violence, especially when bound up with empire and borders? did rhetoric around domestic violence evolve?
It's obviously a massive topic, so it's difficult to know where to begin! For looking at violence in Late Antiquity, I highly recommend the work of Maijastina Kahlos as a starting point - most of her scholarship deals with tensions between religious communities in the Roman Empire in Late Antiquity, and I've found it extremely clear and illuminating. For Late Antique slavery, I'd look at Jennifer Trimble's work, especially "The Zoninus Collar and the Archaeology of Roman Slavery" (2016, JSTOR link here). On the intersections of violence and the legal system, I'd recommend Sarah Bond's 2014 article "Altering Infamy: Status, Violence, and Civic Exclusion in Late Antiquity" (JSTOR link here) as well as Julia Hillner's 2015 book Prison, Punishment and Penance in Late Antiquity. Amy Richlin is essential reading on Roman violence in general, and I'd highly highly recommend her piece "Cicero's Head" in Constructions of the Classical Body (ed. James Porter, 1999) if you have access to an academic library and can get a hold of it; it's explicitly framed as a Jewish, post-Holocaust reflection on the violence of the Roman proscriptions and civil wars and has been profoundly influential on my own thinking.
In general, Imperial-era Latin authors spend a lot of time thinking about the necessity/morality/glory of violence, to the point that I'd say violence is the key theme in Imperial Latin literature. It's often bound up with Stoic philosophy (in the 1st-2nd c. CE; Seneca's De Ira is a key text - you might take a look at sections 3.18-19 on torture under Caligula), and given the bias of our sources which skew toward the elite/senatorial-class perspective, it can be harder to track down texts that explicitly make the link between violence and Roman imperium. One famous example is the speech of Calgacus in Tacitus' Agricola 29-32 (link to a translation here), which purports to be the speech of a Celtic general in Britain rousing his troops to battle against the Romans in the 80s CE. Given that speeches in Roman historiography are generally regarded as being compositions by the historian, it's important to ask why exactly Tacitus of all people gives a prominent place to a scathing critique of Roman imperium - there are lots of ideas on this and few definitive answers, but it's a startling passage to say the least.
Imperial Latin epic poetry (e.g. Lucan's Bellum Civile; Statius' Thebaid) is well known for being graphically violent in the extreme (as in brutal torture, dismemberment, and one infamous instance of brain-eating in Thebaid 8), and there's a lot of work on how and why violence becomes highly aestheticized for Imperial Latin poets. There's also the genre of Roman declamation (difficult to explain, but essentially something like mock trial cases that were used for rhetorical education and showmanship), which frequently explores extremely violent scenarios involving torture, kin-killing, etc. Most scholars these days tend to read declamation as a space where (elite, male) Romans worked out and interrogated various cultural anxieties and taboos. Because of this, you get some of the strongest condemnations of violence found anywhere in Latin literature in the declamatory corpus, but it's difficult to extrapolate from that because again it's something like mock trial and rhetorical showmanship that does not necessarily map on to real-life Roman attitudes.
I've barely scratched the surface and there's a lot more I could say but I'll cut myself off here - I might be able to offer more specific recs if you're interested in e.g. violence as spectacle, aesthetics and artistic representations of violence, etc.
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Levi, Emotional Expression, and Social Interaction
I've seen different posts on Levi lately across different platforms that claim he is a cruel or mean person, which are fundamental misunderstandings of his character. I sort of see the problem as people mistaking Levi's emotional expressions (or lack thereof) as indicative of malicious intent or rude behavior. As such, I wanted to discuss how Levi's history and trauma have shaped how he expresses himself and relates to others. Once one has an understanding of that, it becomes evident that Levi's expressions should not be used to judge his intentions or feelings.
I wrote another post on how Levi fully meets the criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) on my main blog, and that diagnosis is important for understanding Levi as a character, as he's someone who's been largely affected by his trauma. To further expand on that post, we're going to discuss both Levi's affect and his ways of socially interacting with others, using concepts such as social modeling and self-monitoring.
What is Emotional Affect?
Affect, in psychology, refers to a patient's expression of emotion. Expression of emotion encompasses facial expressions, gestures, body language, tone of voice, etc. Mood, on the other hand, refers to the internal state of a patient's emotions sustained over a period of time. Affect helps us interpret a person's mood; however, there are such situations where affect can be considered inappropriate—that is, the person's affect is not entirely congruent (i.e., consistent) with the person's present mood and/or situation. A classic example of inappropriate affect would be laughing at a funeral, as that is incongruent with the context of the situation. Another example—a patient who is smiling and laughing after being involuntarily committed is considered to have an inappropriately euphoric affect.
Affect can be described across multiple dimensions, but the two most typically used are the quality of affect and the range of affect. Quality of affect is typically categorized as either euthymic (normal), dysthymic (depression, anxiety, guilt), or euphoric (an abnormally elevated sense of well-being, such as in mania). The range of affect can be labeled as labile, broad, restricted, blunted, or flat. Broad is considered the normal range of affect.
For the purposes of conciseness, we're going to focus on blunted and flat affects, as those are the range of affects that are best suited to describing Levi. Flat affect is when there is no variation in the patient's emotional expressions, regardless of their mood and situation. Blunted affect is similar, but it is a bit less severe—it means minimal variation. Practically, what do these mean?
Levi's Affect
When Kenny first finds Levi as a child, Levi is in a severe state of neglect; he is dying of starvation, he is wearing rags, his hair is unkempt, and he is sitting in the same room as his mother's decaying corpse. A typical child in this developmental range would be in extreme distress: crying, expressing fear, pleading for help, etc. However, Levi shows no such displays of emotions; he does not cry, he does not move, and he barely speaks. In fact, there is absolutely zero emotional expression, and there is no indicator he is upset about his situation (even as it is clear he must be). This is flat affect. Even in the short montage we see after Kenny has taken Levi under his "care", Levi never once shows variation in his emotional expression—no anger, no laugher, nothing.
Once Levi is an adult during the present timeline in the series, Levi exceedingly rarely displays his emotions. He often speaks in monotone, minimally varying the tone or volume of his voice—never yelling as well, even when angry. His smiles are so rare that it's a notable moment when he does smile (such as when Historia punched him at end of the "Royal Government" arc), and he never cries even after significant personal losses (except his one tear at the end of the series). His affect as an adult ranges from flat to blunted. This is significant too because we do know that his mood does vary, as it's clear from his verbal and body language the toll that different events take on him, and he does also display a sense of humor across the series. Again, though, his emotional expression does little to reflect how he's feeling.
What Causes Flat Affect?
To give a quick list of the most common causes:
Schizophrenia and other psychotic-spectrum disorders
Brain damage, such as from organic brain pathology or a traumatic brain injury
Neurodevelopmental disorders, such as autism spectrum disorder (ASD)
Severe psychological trauma, typically resulting in post-traumatic stress disorder
Major Depressive Disorder (MDD)
I will say outright that there is no evidence Levi suffers from schizophrenia, and thus, that is unlikely to be the cause of his flat/blunted affect, especially given the onset of Levi's flat affect and the exceeding rarity of childhood-onset schizophrenia. Similar reasoning applies to brain damage, so both of those can be excluded from the differential.
I do believe Levi meets the criteria for MDD in adulthood; however, that would be more so a comorbidity of his existing PTSD. Levi looked to be around 4-6 years of age at the start of Kenny's flashbacks, and MDD in that age group is quite uncommon, even when accounting for childhood-onset and adolescent-onset depression.
This leaves us with both severe psychological trauma and ASD as the two most likely causes of Levi's flat affect as a child and through adulthood. ASD can be a valid interpretation of Levi's significantly reduced affect display during childhood, as well as his consistent social difficulties throughout all of canon. Based on criteria laid out by the latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5-TR), Levi can be seen as having ASD (which I'll likely make a future post on). However, the presence of severe psychological trauma confounds this diagnosis. Despite this confounding diagnosis, it is still possible he has both PTSD and ASD.
Regardless, the most likely explanation for Levi's range of affect remains severe psychological trauma. In a child that young, something had to have gone extremely wrong in his early upbringing for his significantly reduced affect display. An entire separate post can be written on this topic, but Levi demonstrates clear signs of an insecure attachment style by the time he's discovered by Kenny; this indicates that Kuchel, despite having loved Levi, was simply unable to properly care for him, and this resulted in deep and ingrained psychological trauma that affected Levi's ability to socially relate and interact with others for the rest of his life. I intend on going into more detail in a separate post, but Levi's attachment style is likely insecure-avoidant or insecure-disorganized.
Observational Learning and Social Modeling
Albert Bandura's social learning theory posits that children learn through a combination of traditional behaviorist processes (classical and operant conditioning), cognitive processes, in addition to observation and modeling. In reference to Levi, observational learning is the most salient aspect of this theory.
In simple terms, observational learning refers to the way children observe the people around them. Individuals observed are referred to as models. Models can include, but are not limited to, parents/caregivers, TV characters, school teachers, and friends within a peer group. Basically, children pay attention to these models and encode their behavior into their memory. At a later time, this behavior is then imitated. This is referred to as "social modeling".
Who were Levi's models? Kuchel, Kuchel's patrons at the brothel she worked at, Kenny, and others who lived in or frequented the Underground City.
Given Kuchel's circumstances and the danger of human trafficking in the Underground, it is likely she taught Levi to avoid interacting with anyone in order to ensure his safety. Kuchel's patrons, in all likelihood, abused her and Levi was most assuredly witness to this abuse or the effects of it in some way. Then, Kenny—Levi's most significant parental figure—was a prominent serial killer who displayed and actively taught Levi violence.
All of this points to Levi never having had the opportunity to learn proper social interaction. In fact, he was actively taught inappropriate and unhealthy ways to socially interact. Not only was Levi's emotional development stunted and severely impacted as shown through his lack of affect, but his ability to socially interact and relate to others was inhibited due to both his insecure attachment and the absence of appropriate social models. How does this manifest in Levi?
Self-Monitoring
Self-monitoring is the degree to which people monitor and adjust their self-presentations when interacting with others and across different social contexts. Whether someone is a high or low self monitor can be affected by their natural personality, their experiences growing up, and/or their neuropsychobiology.
High self monitors tend to be actively aware of the social image they are projecting, and they will be adept at responding to social cues. They will also vary the image they project dependent upon who they are interacting with and what the social circumstances are. They have greater concern over situational appropriateness, and they are often perceived as more friendly and pleasant by others.
In contrast, low self monitors tend to exhibit emotional expressiveness and social responses more congruent with their internal states regardless of social context. That is, they do not adjust their beliefs, attitudes, and dispositions to be more socially acceptable. As such, they are often perceived as rude, socially awkward, and/or unaware of others' social needs.
Levi is a low self monitor. Regardless of who he is interacting with or what the situation is, he consistently maintains the same attitudes and beliefs; he is always honest and says what he's feeling. He never adjusts his social tone, even when it would make him more appeasing to others. Throughout the series, he's often referred to as rude, socially awkward, a lunatic, etc. for his inability to self-monitor. This is a likely a result of the aforementioned psychological trauma, his lack of appropriate social models, his innate introverted nature, and his potential ASD.
Summary
My goal with this post was to explain how Levi's trauma and experiences growing up have formed the way he expresses himself and interacts with others. Levi never sets out to be seen as rude, unkind, or cruel. In fact, I'd say he is by far the kindest and most compassionate character in all of Attack on Titan. However, because of his social disposition, he is consistently misperceived by both characters in the series, as well as readers/viewers. Levi, through a combination of his innate nature and the environment in which he grew up, simply lacks the social skills and affinity for social interaction to properly explain himself and come across as more palatable to others.
Note: I am a doctor of psychology student, so much of this information has been informed by my schooling.
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audreydoeskaren · 1 year
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Note about periodization
I am going to start describing time periods in Chinese history with European historical terms like medieval, Renaissance, early modern, Georgian and Victorian and so on, alongside the standard dynastic terms like Song, Ming and Qing I usually use. So like something about the Ming Dynasty I will tag Ming Dynasty and Renaissance. I already do it sometimes but not consistently. Here’s why.
A common criticism levied against this practice is that periodization is geographically specific and that it’s wrong and eurocentric to refer to, say, late Ming China as Renaissance China. It is a valid criticism, but in my experience the result of not using European periodization is that people default to ‘ancient’ when describing any period in Chinese history before the 20th century, which does conjure up specific images of European antiquity that do not align temporally with the Chinese period in question. I have talked about my issue with ‘ancient China’ before but I want to elaborate. People already consciously or subconsciously consider European periodizations of history to be universal, because of the legacy of colonialism and how eurocentric modern human culture generally is. By not using European historical terms for non-European places, people will simply think those places exist outside of history altogether, or at least exist within an early, primitive stage of European history. It’s a recipe for the denial of coevalness. I think there is a certain dangerous naivete among scholars who believe that if they refrain from using European periodization for non-European places, people will switch to the periodization appropriate for those places in question and challenge eurocentric history writing; in practice I’ve never seen it happen. The general public is not literate enough about history to do these conversions in situ. I have accumulated a fairly large pool of examples just from the number of people spamming ‘ancient China’ in my askbox despite repeatedly specifying the time periods I’m interested in (not antiquity!). If I say ‘Ming China’ instead of ‘Renaissance China’ people will take it as something on the same temporal plane as classical Greece instead of Tudor England. How many people would be surprised if I say that Emperor Qianlong of the Qing was a contemporary of George Washington and Frederick the Great? I’ve seen people talk about him as if he was some tribal leader in the time of Tacitus. European periodization is something I want to embrace ‘under erasure’ so to say, using something strategically for certain advantages while acknowledging its problems. Now there is a history of how the idea of ‘ancient China’ became so entrenched in popular media and I think it goes a bit deeper than just Orientalism, but that’s topic for another post. Right now I’m only concerned with my decision to add European periodization terms.
In order to compensate for the use of eurocentric periodization, I have carried out some experiments in the reverse direction in my daily life, by using Chinese reign years to describe European history. The responses are entertaining. I live in a Georgian tenement in the UK but I like to confuse friends and family by calling it a ‘Jiaqing era flat’. A friend of mine (Chinese) lives in an 1880s flat and she burst out in laughter when I called it ‘Guangxu era’, claiming that it sounded like something from court. But why is it funny? The temporal description is correct, the 1880s were indeed in the Guangxu era. And ‘Guangxu’ shouldn’t invoke royal imagery anymore than ‘Victorian’ (though said friend does indulge in more Qing court dramas than is probably healthy). It is because Chinese (and I’m sure many other non-white peoples) have been trained to believe that our histories are particular and distant, confined to a geographical location, and that they somehow cannot be mapped onto European history, which unfolded parallel to the history of the rest of the world, until we had been colonized. We have been taught that European history is history, but our history is ethnography.
It should also be noted that periodization for European history is not something essentialist and intrinsic either, period terms are created by historians and arbitrarily imposed onto the past to begin with. I was reading a book about medievalism studies and it talked about how the entire concept of the Middle Ages was manufactured in the Renaissance to create a temporal other for Europeans at the time to project undesired traits onto, to distance themselves from a supposedly ‘dark’ past. People living in the European Middle Ages likely did not think of themselves as living in a ‘middle’ age between something and something, so there is absolutely no natural basis for calling the period roughly between the 6th and 16th centuries ‘medieval’. Despite questionable origins, periodization of European history has become more or less standard in history writing throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, whereas around the same time colonial anthropological narratives framed non-European and non-white societies, including China, as existing outside of history altogether. Periodization of European history was geographically specific partially because it was conceived with Europe in mind and Europe only, since any other place may as well be in some primordial time.
Perhaps in the future there will develop global periodizations that consider how interconnected human history is. There probably are already attempts but they’re just not prominent enough to reach me yet. Until that point, I feel absolutely no moral baggage in describing, say, the Song Dynasty as ‘medieval’ because people in 12th century Europe did not think of themselves as ‘medieval’ either. I am the historian, I do whatever I want, basically.
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juletheghoul · 8 months
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A/N; I’ve decided to try and post a bit more consistently. The plan, for now, is to post twice a week—a series chapter update, as well as one of the standalone pieces I have in the works. My confidence lately has been the pits, but I’m not going to let it ruin my life, or my desire to write. This is fun, and I still want to share the things that I create. If you’re still here and reading, thank you, hope you enjoy 💜 (p.s., I know the picture I used isn't Max, but that's how I see this version of him. A little younger, a little leaner-hungrier) (p.p.s, right now there is no plan for a sequel, but I never say never. Asks are always open, and so are the dms)
Pairing: Max Phillips x F!Reader
Word Count: 8.2K
Warnings: (18+ NO MINORS) mentions of loneliness, and alcoholism, language, He's a vampire (went with classic vampire lore for this one, needs a coffin, no sunlight), piv sex (wrap it up!), vaginal fingering, violence, talk of death, blood and some non-graphic gore, period piece
Let me know if I missed anything!
reblogs are appreciated
Masterlist
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It starts with a prickle to the back of your neck, the hairs there standing on end, a shiver running along your spine. 
The main thoroughfare is busy as you make your way home, the lamplights illuminating the steps of your usual path. It's different tonight though, despite knowing the area like the back of your hand and recognizing more than a few faces as they pass, there is a tinge of something threaded through it all. 
You find yourself scanning every shadowy corner, peering through the windows on the businesses you pass, hoping to spot whatever it is that has your blood pounding loudly in your ears. 
Do I want to know? 
You catch yourself from stumbling at the thought, your imagination conjuring images of a dark, evil figure lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. You shake it off, scolding yourself for letting the fear get the better of you. 
Your home is visible now, just at the top of the hill and the relief is mounting, counting down the steps until you can tuck yourself safely inside, and lock the world out. 
“Excuse me, Miss.” His voice is low and pleasant, but it sends you a good few inches into the air from the fright. “My deepest apologies, I did not mean to scare you.” Your heart is pounding, your hand pressed up against your chest in some unconscious attempt to steady it. You let out a slow breath before answering, laughing shakily as you gather your thoughts. 
“Oh my, forgive me-” You let out another loud sigh, “You gave me such a fright.” You smile up at him out of habit, taking in his handsome face and worried expression. 
“No no, please–accept my sincerest apology.” He bows slightly, his head low in deference and you wave it away. “I saw you from across the street, and I thought, I simply must introduce myself.” He smiles now, and it’s a little jarring, his teeth are perfectly straight and bright white. “I’m Max.” He holds his hand out and you take it without thought, watch him almost in a trance as he brings it up to press it to his lips. The kiss is cool, and it brings curiously vulgar thoughts to the forefront of your mind. He tilts his head, expectant. 
“Oh! Sorry yes, It’s nice to meet you Max-” You cannot help but watch his mouth as you introduce yourself. “I’ve not seen you in town before.” You leave it there and his smile widens, his eyes scanning all around taking in your surroundings. You don’t fail to notice the expensive cut of his suit, the fabric rich, decadent.
“I’m new in town you see, just arrived this morning.” He towers over you, broad of shoulder, slim through the hip. “I see you are unaccompanied, which shocks me.” He offers his arm and again, and you move to take it without much thought. “May I walk you home?” 
“Yes, of course.” You agree, and begin to lead the way, ignoring every warning young women seem to learn practically at the breast, calmly walking with him up the street towards your home. “Where did you come from?” Your attention turns to the feel of his arm in yours, solid and strong underneath his layers. 
“Oh, I come from all over, I'm somewhat of a roamer.” His smile is roguish and you get the impression he might be remembering another young lady on another street, in an altogether different part of the world. “How long has this been your home?” He guides you gently as you make your way up the hill. 
“I have lived here all my life.” 
“Do you like it here?” He doesn’t ask it unkindly, there’s a genuine curiosity there. 
“I like it fine enough, but I have always wanted to see other parts of the world. It's difficult though.” You sigh, he frowns in the corner of your eye. 
“How so?” 
“Well, it is difficult to travel unaccompanied–it also requires funds I currently do not possess.” You laugh a bit awkwardly, surprised with your own candor. 
“Oh-” He seemed taken aback for a moment and you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes, men usually don’t pay much attention to the struggles of women. “-yes of course. How ignorant of me.” He was frowning at his feet. 
“This is me.” You pulled him away from his thoughts, gesturing to your house. 
“This is lovely, you and your family must be very happy here.” He smiled warmly, guiding you up the steps to the large wrap around porch. 
“Yes well, we make do.” Your tight lipped smile wasn’t getting past him, his hand held yours for a moment, pulling your attention from your door to him.
“I don’t mean to overstep–are you well?” He held your hand in both of his now, a worried expression plastered on his handsome face. 
“Yes-I, I’m sorry, yes. I’m fine-” He watched you intently, studying and suddenly the words were spilling from your lips, unbidden. “-I’m just alone most of the time, my father works, or drinks, and my mother disappears to avoid the melancholy. My sister is wed and living her marital bliss across the city and I am sort of left to keep everything together.” The thoughts were always present, hiding in your throat, in the pit of your stomach, in the clenching of your jaw when the house was continuously empty. It was a welcome respite to be able to let go of them, for a moment at least. 
He hummed his acknowledgement, the worried frown in place. 
“That is unfortunate.” He was choosing his words carefully. “If you are partial, I would very much like to spend more time with you.” He kissed the back of your hand once more and a momentary madness took hold of you. 
“Would you like to come in?” His eyebrows raised and you hurried to clarify, “I could make you a cup of tea, maybe you could tell me about your travels?” He nodded graciously and a slow creeping smile overtook the frown as he walked up the stairs towards your now open door. His eyes flashed with something but it was gone just as quickly–no sign of danger as he crossed the threshold. 
“You’re too kind, I would love to.” You closed the door behind him. 
He seemed bigger once inside, somehow broader than before. His eyes were bright within the dim foyer, the honey brown of them alert and lively and lovely. You led him towards the sitting room with a shy smile, the thrill of having a gentleman caller in your home without a chaperone sending your heart a flutter. 
Maybe I’m too trusting.
The thought crossed your mind, taking up space until his smile shooed it away once more. 
“How do you take your tea? Or would you maybe prefer something stronger? I think there’s some brandy hidden away for visitors.” Your hands felt numb, the nerves of being alone with him catching up to you. 
“What would you prefer?” He made himself comfortable on the settee, and you noticed his choice with interest. 
“Well, the brandy is rather nice.”
“Brandy it is. Can I help with anything?” He made to get up and you hurriedly put your hands up to stall him. 
“Nonsense, one moment.” You walked away quickly, ignoring the pounding of your heart and soon you were standing in front of him once more, brandy glasses in hand. He took one from you graciously and once you were seated beside him, you took a generous gulp, wincing slightly at the burning in your throat. He swirled the drink in hand, bringing it to his nose, taking in the aroma and for a moment you felt like your father, just knocking it without savoring. 
“It smells wonderful-” He brought the glass to his lips and you did your best to pace yourself. 
“So, tell me about yourself.” You put the glass down and waited, enjoying the feeling of warmth spreading throughout your limbs already. 
“Oh no, I’d rather hear about you.” He placed his glass next to yours, leaning back with open arms facing you. “I’m very curious as to how no one has snatched you up just yet.” He said it with a friendly smile. “You must be of age to marry?” 
“Yes, I am no more wise than you are on the subject.” You reached for the glass once more, needing something in which to focus the nervous energy in your hands, which led you to take another obscene gulp. Half your glass already gone, what would he think of you?
“Have you had many would-be callers? I would have thought your father would be fighting them off with a bat.” He picked up his glass, swirling it as he spoke. 
“Not really, there was a young man who came calling, but he was indifferent as to which sister would take him, so he left empty-handed.” Your nerves calmed with the third gulp, so did the burning and now there was a pleasant, full body buzz flowing through your veins. 
“Well. The men here must be blind.” His eyes flashed again, something vulgar and exciting all at the same time. He put his glass back down, moving so he was sitting a little closer. “Your father would have trouble keeping me away.” He took the now empty glass from your hand and set it next to his rather full one. 
“Why’s that?” You watched him with baited breath. 
“Well, because I would be ruthless in my pursuit.” He moved closer still. “Would woo you tirelessly.” His hand came up, his thumb resting softly on the plush of your bottom lip. You sucked in a breath, acutely aware of the hot spike of arousal in your belly. 
“And–and if I were to deny you?” your voice was curiously breathless, such was the effect he had on you.
“Would you?” He moved closer, his eyes fixed on where his thumb rested on your lip, “Would you deny me?” He was so close, the tip of his aquiline nose nuzzling softly against your own. His lips so close it would only take a nudge to kiss him.
“No-” You knew you wouldn’t, this enigmatic man who’d appeared out of thin air, appeared out of some long forgotten dream, or perhaps a prayer. “I would not.” 
“May I kiss you?” He nudged your nose with his once more, the clean scent of him engulfing your senses. 
“Please-” You didn’t get the chance to finish the word before his lips pressed against yours with an ardor that burned through your whole body. His fingers curled around the nape of your neck, caressing the sensitive skin there while his tongue sought entrance to dance with yours. He pulled a whimper from somewhere in your throat before he pulled away, kissing your cheek, and then again, just below your ear.
You’d been kissed before, but never like this. 
He smiled, his gaze roving over your face greedily, no doubt taking in the lust blown expression shining back at him. 
You gulped. 
“I would decidedly not deny you Sir.” You let out a shaky laugh, feeling as the excitement and arousal flowed through you. Dampening your undergarments, hardening your nipples. 
“I thought not.” His thumb came up to brush against your lip once more, his eyes focused on your face so intently, it felt as though everything else had disappeared. 
“Take me to bed.” The words spilled out of your mouth unbidden, shocking even you and your stomach sank well into the floor when his eyebrows raised. “I-I’m sorry to be so vulgar-”
“Do not apologize to me, there is no sin in desire.” He stood, holding his hand out for you to stand before him. “There is no vulgarity in pleasure between two people, so long as both are willing.” He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, moving to your mouth once more to take the remaining coherent thoughts right out of your head. 
-
Up until today, your life had been, for the most part, predictable. There had been a basic formula to how your hours were spent, where you’d go, what you’d see, even who’d you speak to. You’d thought about it that very morning, the errands you’d have to run-what you’d wear. Whether you’d see your father intoxicated or not. 
Seeing a beautiful, naked man was not on the list of possibilities. For that gorgeous, naked man to have you practically mewling underneath him would never have crossed your mind, at least not that early in the day. 
The bed creaked with every thrust of his hips between your legs, his cock hard and heavy inside the wet clutch of your cunt. 
“Does that feel good?” He huffed out a laugh, his white teeth flashing as he moved a little harder. It was hard to articulate exactly how good it felt and he took your quiet moans as a challenge. “More? Is that what you want my darling?” his elbows came up to rest beside your ears, bracketing your head before he snapped his hips faster, smiling at the way your mouth opened in a silent scream. “There it is, that’s what you like huh?” His voice should have been breathless with the amount of exertion he was exhibiting–but every thrust knocked any coherent thought right out of your head. He shifted to one side, reaching down to slide his fingers around the pearl of your pleasure, thrusting you headlong into your climax. He slowed down, grinding slowly while you crested, no doubt making a mess of the sheets underneath you. 
“I could stay here for days.” He punctuated his words with a delicious swirl of his hips, burying his face into the crook of your neck while you caught your breath, your hands finding their way into his hair. 
“If it’s to be like this every single time–I’m inclined to let you.” You pulled his face up to kiss, needing to taste his mouth again. 
“Oh it definitely would.” He bit his lip, watching you as he spoke. 
“You’d ruin me for all others.” You ran your nails down the muscles of his back, feeling how they corded and bunched with each movement, the coolness of him perfectly complementing your almost feverish warmth. 
“I plan on it, plan on spoiling you rotten.” He kissed you quickly before pulling away and for a moment you thought he might spill his seed on your belly, but he made to move you.
“I would ask you–” Your tone made him pause, a frown on his face. “Beg of you, not to spill inside, I don’t wish to have any children.” It might have ruined the mood of the night, but a child would have ruined your entire life. His features relaxed, a soft smile blooming on his handsome face. 
“I cannot make children, I am sterile.” He pulled you up from your place, both of you kneeling on your bed, his tone sincere. “And even if I could, do you think I would just abandon you?” His hands caressed your back, moving down to hold onto your backside. It was so lovely to have intimacy like this, the loneliness of your days highlighted now in the comfort of his touch. 
“Well, to be quite honest I’m not sure what you’d do. I’ve only just met you–” You sighed, his mouth kissing a trail from your shoulder up to the sensitive skin of your neck, “-you should know, I don’t usually do this. I’m not in the habit of taking men into my bed so quickly.” Your fingers curled in the short locks of his hair. 
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, pretty.” His lips were still pleasantly cool, all of him was. “I just want to make you feel good.” His hands came up to cradle your jaw before he licked into your mouth, giving you the kind of kiss you’ve only dreamt about in the dark quiet hours. “Now turn around, I want to take you from behind.” he bit your lip, a tiny little nip that had you dripping and you turned to obey. 
His big palm pressed against your spine, pushing your top half down into the mattress before he grabbed your hips, pulling you to him a little rougher than you expected. It made you gasp and within a moment he sheathed himself in your tight heat. A hard thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs. 
“Your wet little cunt is dripping around me-” He sounded as wrecked as you felt, his words fueling the fire of your arousal, “-come up here.” He pulled you up, his arm wrapped around your middle to press you up against the solid wall of his chest, his chin instantly settling on your shoulder, lips pressed against your ear as he set a brutal pace. He sang the song of his pleasure directly into your ear, it flowed all around you, combining with the wet obscene sounds of your joining to push you further and further into a bigger, more intense climax. 
One of his hands moved down, slipping between the lips of your sex to pull you apart, the other sliding up to palm your breast. With a few perfect circles you screamed, digging your fingers into his arm as you clenched around him.
There was a sting. 
A sudden sharp pain at your neck that pulled you out of the haze of pleasure for a moment before it was replaced with something otherworldly. A direct current flowing through your fingers and toes, through your nipples, through the gates of heaven between your legs. 
It was enough to make you lightheaded. 
You blinked, finding yourself laying back on your bed with Max standing near the door, fixing his overcoat. 
How did you get dressed so fast? Why am I so exhausted?
You tried to call out to him, surprised to find your limbs heavy, your eyes fluttering closed. 
“Sleep now, my love.” You heard him speak, his voice sounding so far away. “Sleep, I will see you soon.” A cool, feather light kiss was pressed to your brow before the world went dark. 
-
Whether it was the sunlight streaming in through the lace curtains, or the nightmare, or possibly a combination of both that pulled you out from the depths of sleep, you’d never truly know.  A vision of something hunting, something tearing at flesh, a bone crushing bite flitting through your mind in those first few seconds upon waking making you shudder and turn towards the darker side of the room, avoiding the glaring light in your eyes.
What a horrible dream—wait, what happened again?
It had just been there but now it felt like mist, dissipating far too quickly for you to grab a hold of. 
It was gone.
A knock at your door had any remaining musings about it evaporating into nothing. 
“Yes? Come in-“ You croaked out the words before clearing your throat. 
Your mother waltzed in, already dressed for the day making you frown. She was fussing at her skirts, unbothered—or uncaring that you were still in bed, instead she spoke about a trip she and your father were taking, how the house would be your responsibility for the next few days and that she would see you when she got back. She didn’t wait to hear your thoughts or concerns, or to even ask if you were feeling well, she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared. Leaving you still in bed, studying the time on your pocket watch with confusion. 
Something seemed off, a long stretch highlighted the pleasant soreness between your thighs and then his face popped into the forefront of your thoughts. How could you have forgotten? 
The events of the night before were crystal clear, to a point. You’d been walking home, he’d introduced himself and things had gone well. You’d invited him back to your home—to your bed. Everything was replaying as though you were reliving the night itself, up until he’d pulled that second climax out of you, after that, things were blurred. 
No.
Not just blurred, not just hazy. That would imply there were memories to fog up, this was something else, something aggravating. 
You let out a frustrated groan, tossing in your bed to bury your face into your pillows. 
I wonder where he is now, wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
The jaded, realistic part of your brain said don’t count on it, and after all, why would he care to come back? You’d opened up your doors and your legs, gave him everything you had to offer and he’d left without so much as a fare thee well. At least, not one that you could remember.
Face the facts, you gave it up, and now he’s gone.
-
You were out of breath and not for the first time since waking that morning. Your heart raced as you stopped just outside the general store, needing a moment before starting your usual trek up the hill. The night was blessedly cool, a gentle breeze ruffling the sleeves and collar of your dress and it was only while you were distracted that he found you once more.
“Hello my sweet, I hoped to find you out and about, and so I have.” He smiled his bright white smile, reaching out to bring your hand to his mouth. 
“Max-“ you frowned at him, unable to hide the shock of actually seeing him again. “I—hello, I’m sorry I-“ you floundered, unsure what to say. He seemed taken aback by your response.
“My apologies, did you not wish to see me again?”
“No! It’s not that, no I’m very glad I just—well to be perfectly blunt I didn’t actually think I would.” You blurted the words out, throwing caution to the wind. He brought that out in you it seemed.
“Oh-“ his eyebrows raised into his hairline. “I see. You thought I’d seduced you and then left you to pursue other conquests.” His tone was light, but there was a hurt in it and it made you feel guilty.
“Forgive me, I misjudged you. I am very happy to see you again.” You gave him your biggest smile and he returned it, forgiven.
“No need.” He kissed your hand once more, pulling you to hold onto his arm. “May I accompany you home?” He gestured towards the hill.
“Yes, that would be very helpful, I am feeling a bit lightheaded today I’m afraid.” You laughed, lighthearted but he didn’t join.
“Are you well?” He matched your pace, pulling you slowly towards the house.
“Oh yes, nothing to worry about. Must have been that brandy yesterday. Doesn’t tend to agree with me.” You patted his arm and he dropped the subject.
“Aside from the brandy, how has your day been?” He smiled warmly, his stride slowing down to match yours.
“Well enough.” You sighed, “My mother and father have gone away for a few days, so I have been alone.” You tried to keep your voice neutral but his expression told you he wasn’t buying it. “It is the way things are.”
“Do they not worry about you?” His eyebrows were drawn together in confusion. “Do they not care?”
“I’d rather not know the answer to those questions.” You left the rest unsaid, he didn’t press the issue. “Let’s speak of happier things. How have you been settling in? Are you close by?”
“Yes, just down the lane, a street over. My house is nicely settled but my days are too busy to go out and meet my neighbours. Thankfully I’ve met you though.”
“It isn’t a very big place, there are people no doubt dying to meet you.” You thought about the debutants, the rich single ones who would have taken one look at Max, and gobbled him up. 
“Anyone in particular I should avoid?” He said it conspiratorially, leaning into you and you couldn’t help but laugh.
“No one too villainous.” You patted his arm as you reached the little walkway outside your house. “Come in, sit with me a while.”
“Of course, I’d love to, I need to hear all the local gossip.” 
-
You’d really only meant to invite him in for conversation this time. To have him sit with you in the dim light of your sitting room, listening to him speak about any and everything but somehow- you’d found yourself underneath him once more. 
Your face was pressed against your pillows, your hands like talons, gripping onto your sheets while he straddled your thighs. His hands were holding the globes of your backside open while his cock speared into you again and again. 
He kept your legs closed making his sex feel so much bigger, made it feel like he was splitting you open in the best way. 
You panted into the fabric, dampening it with your breath as he fucked into you—moving your body a fraction with every thrust, the friction of it against your nipples made you ache with arousal. 
“You’re so wet for me my sweet, so tight around my cock.” He spread you open lewdly and you knew he was staring at the place you were joined, no doubt watching himself disappear into your body. “You’re going to milk me dry—reach down and touch yourself, I want you to come before I do.“ he sped up, groaning when you clenched around him. 
You swallowed thickly as you reached down to obey him, shocked at how much arousal he's pulled out of you, feeling the soaked-through patch of the sheet on the back of your hand. 
It only takes a moment, your fingers slipping through your folds with a well practiced swirl and your body tightens up, the coil winding tighter and tighter and you feel him press his chest to your back, his breath in your ear and when the pleasure finally bursts like a firework—a sting.
Euphoria—a wet gush somewhere below you and a pained moan from you, or him, maybe both of you, it’s hard to tell.
You blink.
Or, you try to blink. 
Your eyelids are so heavy, it’s hard to open them but you finally do. Light is streaming in through the window, that cannot be?
Your brain feels slow, like molasses on a cold day, your limbs are so heavy and it takes what feels like hours before you can lift your arm to check the time. 
It is well past noon, and it doesn’t make sense. 
There’s a note on the table where your watch is and you stare at it for a moment, trying with all your might to read the words;
It was lovely to see you again my darling, I had a wonderful time. If you’re partial I would love to call on you again. I hope you slept well, you looked so peaceful when I left. See you soon.  Max
You put the note down and focused on gathering your strength, ignoring the ache in your body, and the fear in your gut.
-
You moved at a glacial pace, both physically and mentally and you ignored the deep-rooted fear in your belly, that you’d caught the coughing sickness. 
Does it start like this? Will I feel weaker and weaker until I cannot move? When does the coughing start? 
You shuddered and shook your head, afraid of the loops your mind was jumping through, trying with all your might to focus on the tasks at hand. Your room needed to be tidied, the linens on your bed had to be cleaned and so you went about stripping the bed. A few drops of something dried a dark brown had stained part of the sheet, your stomach sank further still when you realized it might be blood. 
Okay, just calm down. Everything will be fine, you are not sick.
You gathered the sheets, and your strength, and went about doing what needed to be done.
It took a long time, too long and instead of heading out to run your errands you decided to stay in. Make yourself something warm and hearty for dinner, make yourself a tonic. That would have to work right? 
The sun set as you finally settled in to sit by the fire for the evening, falling into your fathers chair with a groan. The doorbell rang though and you seriously debated not answering, your eyes shut tight, the internal battle raging between your health, and your manners.
“My sweet? Are you well? It’s Max-“ he spoke loudly and your heart raced, making the decision for you. 
“Yes! One moment Max!” You rose unsteadily, inching your way towards the door as quickly as you could with how you were feeling. His face lit up when you opened the door, it fell soon after though, seeing the strain of it plain on your face. 
“Oh–” He made his way past you into the foyer. “-Are you quite well?” He moved to help you over to the chair, kneeling before you once you were seated.
“No Max, I’m afraid I’m a bit under the weather.” You tried to keep your voice light, tried to avoid his penetrating gaze. “You shouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t want you to catch whatever it is.” You pulled the light blanket higher up on your shoulders.
“Oh I very much doubt I could catch anything you might have.” He took hold of your hand, kissing the back of it quickly before moving to sit in the chair opposite. “What are you feeling?” His brow was furrowed, the gears in his mind turning smoothly.
“I feel tired.” The words were a sigh, compounding the sentiment. “Just bone tired, almost as though I cannot catch my breath.” Your hand came up to rest on your chest as you spoke. “My thoughts are slow, every part of me feels like it’s been slowed down—including my wits I think.” You took a deep breath and let out a deep sigh. “Worst is I cannot contact my mother and father, I fear something may happen to me while they are away.” 
“I can stay with you for a few hours, but something tells me you’re going to be just fine.” He winked and you couldn’t help but smile at his optimism. “Do you need anything? I can make myself useful.”
A thought popped into your head then, a fear—the fear.
“Would you mind laying with me for a time? In my bed? Just laying and talking?” It felt almost pathetic to ask him, this young, vibrant, healthy man—spending his night with a young, possibly very sick woman. 
“Of course my darling, I would be happy to. Come, I will help you.”
-
To your credit, you’d both laid there in the soft candlelight for a long time, talking about all of the different places he’d been and all of the different places you wanted to visit. He made you laugh, made you forget about how horrid you felt; made you feel special and wanted and so it inevitably led to you both being naked in your bed. 
Your feelings of weakness were now replaced with a mounting pleasure. His mouth was a steady suck at your nipple, his tongue circling the sensitive tip mercilessly while his hand worked away between your spread legs. Two thick fingers pumping, a thumb gliding, his tongue–a gorgeous dance being led to the tune of your pleasure. 
His cock was flushed with blood, hard and heavy against your thigh and leaking his pearly arousal onto your skin. You couldn’t help but reach down and wrap your hand around it, collecting everything that leaked from the tip to give him a stroke; try to make him feel at least half as good as he was making you feel. 
He moaned onto your skin, his hips chasing the friction of your slick fist, quicker and quicker until he groaned deeply, spilling his passion onto your thigh. And then his eyes found yours, the whites of them gone–the whole of them blacker than night and terrifying and then you felt it. 
A prick. 
Strangely familiar. 
There was no time to dwell on any of it though because his fingers were still pumping, his thumb still swirling and the force of your climax was enough to make you scream, then the darkness came. 
-
Glimpses of light plagued you, much like the dreams. One moment you were being chased by some huge, unseen monster, skirts whipping behind you through the night, a bloody grin never far behind. Then you’d open your eyes and be tossing and turning, sweat soaked and feverish in your own bed. 
It felt like hours. 
Hours of running, hours of tormented sleep, hours of confusion and god knows what else. 
I’m dying.
The thought came to you during a precious moment of clarity and all it did was scare you. 
Your eyes opened again, the light had faded, was it night? How many hours, days had gone by?
“Max?” It felt like another dream, this one cruel because he was there, healthy and glowing and sitting by your side. 
“I’m here, my darling.” His voice cut through the delirium, his hand a cool respite from fire burning just underneath your skin.
“Max-” Your voice was a hoarse croak, “I-I think I’m dying.” Tears streamed down your face, leaning into his hand with the little strength you had left.
“Yes, you are my love, but you don’t have to.” He stroked your face, leaning close to press his lips to your feverish brow. “You have a choice.”
“I don’t understand-” Was this another dream?
“If I leave you now, you will be dead by morning.” His voice was steady, “But there is another way. I could make you like me and then we can be together forever.” 
You couldn’t die now, there was so much to do, so much to see, and Max–he could have been the great love of your life and it wasn’t fair. 
“Like you? Max, I don’t want to die.” The tears flowed faster, fear and despair running rampant. 
Why couldn’t I have met you years ago?
“You don’t have to, I can make you like me.” He lifted your hand in his, placing a soft kiss at your wrist. “Would you like that? Do you want to be with me forever? I cannot help until you say yes.” He wiped away the tears and waited.
“Yes Max, I want to be with you forever.” He smiled a sharp smile, and in a flash he was at your throat, his kiss had teeth and it made you whimper, made you close your eyes and fall limp in his arms. There was a moment when you thought you’d lost consciousness but then there was something in your mouth, a thick liquid crawling down your throat and into your bloodstream. It was a balm, something to soothe the ache and the pain but it turned to acid in a flash. The web of hurt spreading like a lightning strike and burning twice as hot. 
It was agony. 
You’d been burned once as a child, your mother had been ironing one of your fathers suits. The red hot iron had merely grazed your arm, but the pain lingered for days, caused you sleepless nights and tears to spare. 
Compared to this, that burn was a kiss. That burn was the soft caress of a lover, a cool scrap of silk against your skin. 
“Max, what is happening to me?” Your voice is a strangled cry, the linens under you felt like steel wool. He answers and he's so much closer than you expected him to be while you thrash blindly. 
“It is almost over my love, soon the pain will pass.” His hand found yours through the chaos of the pain, a lifeline in the middle of a deep, dark, ocean. 
-
It could have been minutes, or hours that passed. It could have been years, but eventually the storm abated, and with it went the pain. 
“Max?” Your fingers flew up to your mouth, pressing against your lips, shocked at the way your voice sounded. Still your voice, but somehow more. 
“Yes my love, I am here.” His voice sounded different too, so much clearer—everything sounded clear. Too clear, the sound of the floorboards creaking under his steps so much louder than you’d ever heard it. “You will adjust.” He crouched beside your place in the bed and your eyes widened when you took him in. It was as though he’d been hiding behind a paper screen before, the shape of him clear enough to distinguish him from another, but somehow vague. 
He was devastatingly handsome, his skin smooth as polished marble, his eyes every shade of honey brown at once. 
“What did you do to me?” You reached out to touch him and you noted the perfect skin of your hands, almost doll-like.
“What you asked,” he grasped your hand in his, placing a kiss on your palm. “I have made you like me. Come—get dressed and we will eat.”
His words were like a punch to the stomach, hunger spreading like a bruise throughout your body, the pain of it almost debilitating.
“I might faint of hunger Max, where will we eat?” You dressed as quickly as you could, ignoring the slight tremble in your hands.
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something.” He helped you dress, pulling you from what you’d come to believe was your deathbed and out into the night but before you’d made it out the door, you caught your reflection and gasped.
It was you, that was to be sure but it wasn’t the You you’d come to expect to see. The woman in the mirror has your face, and your eyes, your hair—but she was different. Her skin was perfect. Her eyes sparkled, her teeth shone so white.
 It was mesmerizing.
“Is that me?” You watched the reflection, her beauty shifted, something predatory in the eyes.
“Yes my love, that is you.” He placed a kiss on your neck. “Come, before the sun rises.” He pulled you away from the mirror, and into hell.
-
“It’s overwhelming, I know, but you will adjust, as I did.” His voice is the anchor, a tether holding you from getting lost in the chaos. Has it always been this bad? This loud? Your feet carry you through the streets, with his hand guiding you along and the closer you get to the thick of it–to the crowd milling about the high street where the worst it is. 
“I know my love–” His arm slips around your waist, pressing you close. “-Just a little further, and I will find you what you need.” Your stomach roils, the hunger-the thirst rips a swathe through your being. 
“Why am I so hungry Max?” You stumble over a loose cobble but he steadies you, lifting you back onto your feet as though you were made of paper and it almost scares you how strong he is. 
“Because you have not eaten.” His words are casual, a seemingly simple answer for a seemingly simple question. It didn’t feel simple though, not with the way you could barely concentrate. Everything seemed to be amplified, the dial on the radio turned to an uncomfortable volume and there was no way to turn it down. Distorted voices, an incessant thumping so loud it made you blink to its beat. 
Worst of all, was the smell. 
The city smelled rotten. The cloyingly sweet smell of overly ripe fruit, the sour smell of unwashed bodies, the moldy smell of old bread, hard packed dirt filled with worms, but threaded through it was the rich smell of butter and fine wine–the green of summer grass. Underneath everything though was something else, something mouth-watering–something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 
He led you towards the park, the vast, open, green space where you would have never gone unaccompanied, much less at night. It was hard to feel afraid with Max though, it was hard to feel anything but intense hunger. 
“That one there is a good candidate.” He gestures to a middle aged man. “He won’t be missed.” He watched you, an encouraging smile on his handsome face, you frowned in response. 
“I don’t understand–” You looked at the man again, he must have been in his late forties, maybe even early fifties. 
“You are hungry my love, eat.” He gestures again and your stomach sinks. “Oh come now, no need to be coy with me my darling, I can feel your hunger.” He smiles not unkindly at what must be a shocked expression. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s the worst sort of person. I can hear it in his mind, believe me, you will be doing this world a favour.” He kisses the back of your hand, soothing. 
“I don’t want to hurt anyone, Max.” Your hands tremble, “I cannot–” The man walks closer and the smell of him almost knocks you off your feet, the thumping is back and you’re horrified to realize it’s his blood. A thunderous sound pounding through his body and through your head, and before you realize what you’re doing, your feet are carrying you to him. 
It felt as though someone else was controlling you, something else entirely had taken over your senses, your limbs.
“Well aren’t you a pretty little thing.” The older man spots you then, his eyes light up with something altogether unwholesome, “What are you doing out this late, and all alone?” His eyes rake over your body in a way that would have scared you had you not been so focused on the sound his blood was making. 
“So… hungry…” You barely heard yourself over the sound of his heart, barely saw anything but the seemingly glowing network of veins in his skin, all of it a gorgeous lace pattern. 
“What’s that sugar-” He didn’t get to finish his question. Something in your body, something in your very being sprung out, a sudden, awful ache bloomed in your upper jaw before you bit into the salty flesh of his neck, piercing the brightest, thickest vein. 
Euphoria. 
Your body was curled around him, fingers digging into his arms, clutching him ever closer, your fingers so like the talons of some monstrous bird of prey.
He was silent as you took your fill, pull after pull of what tasted like the thickest, most delicious wine. 
“That’s enough my love, not too much.” Firm, strong hands managed to break your hold on the man much too soon. “You cannot drain him. I know, I know.” He soothed your pained expression, wiped at your mouth with his thumb, sticking it into his mouth with a sharp smile. “Believe me, it’s better to stay hungry than to kill outright. Could make you very sick. Come–let's go home.” He fussed at your clothes for a moment before dragging the man over to a bench. You glanced back at him as Max led you away, to anyone walking by, he was just some tired, old man—resting alone.
The walk back to his home was only slightly easier to handle, the sounds, the smells, the cloying press was almost tolerable now that your stomach was full. 
“Here we are, just here.” The house is much bigger than you’d anticipated, grand, but still tasteful. Years worth of ivy had already conquered most of the facade, giving it a cottage-like appeal and drawing your eye as he guided you inside. “The sun will be up soon, we must get into bed.” 
“Why?” Your eyes roamed throughout the space, noting the almost clinical cleanliness of the place. The rug under your feet, perfectly laid, cushions on the settee without a single sign of ever having been sat on. 
“Well, because the sun would kill us, my love.” He says it offhand, making your eyes widen at the back of his head. “We are impervious to almost everything, except that.” He opens a set of double doors at the top of the stairs and what greets you stops you in your tracks, eyes wide and full of terror. 
“Max, why is there a massive coffin in here?” You stand at the door, frozen in place. 
“Come now, there is nothing to be afraid of, it is where I sleep, where we will sleep–until I purchase you your own.” He smiles, his hands smoothing the worry on your face away with a welcome tenderness. “Believe me, once you get in, you will sleep just as soundly as you ever have in a regular bed, I promise you.” He pulls your gaze from the morbid thing to his own eyes, and in them you cannot help but find comfort, and honesty. 
“Promise?” You press yourself a little closer and he smiles, nodding before placing a cool kiss to your forehead.
“Of course, come–we haven't much time.” He places another quick kiss at your brow before starting to undress. You follow suit and once completely nude, he opens the box and lays in it, opening his arms to you. You hesitate for a second, but get in just the same, he closes the lid and plunges you both in complete, and utter darkness. 
 “That’s my good girl, are you comfortable?” There is just enough room to fit into one another's arms, even with your heightened senses–it is difficult to make out anything within the confined space. 
“Yes, there’s not much room, but I’m okay.” You scoot as close as you can, your face pressed into the crook of his neck. “Have you always slept here?” Your hand rests against his chest, just as his strokes at the skin of your back as best as he can. 
“Yes, since I was turned.” He moves his face, and finds your lips in the dark. “It’s nice to have you in here with me.” He kisses every inch of your face he can reach. Soft, chaste kisses that make you smile, until he deepens it. His tongue tastes sweet but you pull away before it can turn into anything more just yet. You smile when he chases your mouth. 
“Max-“ He finds your mouth again, cutting off your words and replacing them with a moan, “Max, tell me what you’ve done to me.” Your fingers thread through the short crop of his hair as he moves his kisses to your neck, to the base of your throat, and further still to the stiff peaks of your breasts. You bite your tongue as he takes on into his mouth, managing to distract you for a moment. 
He hums around a nipple, biting at it before soothing it with his tongue. You don’t know how, but you find your voice amid this assault.
“Max, tell me—oh-“ he manages to get you on your back within the small space, manages to squeeze himself between your legs and before he can distract you with his tongue again, you yank his hair back, silently relishing the deep groan he gifts you with. “Focus Max, I need you to answer my questions, I am at a loss and very confused.” You stroke the place where you yanked at his hair, “Please, Max, I need to know what you’ve done to me.” 
“I have made you into something else, something more. I have turned you into a vampire like me. Now we can be together forever.” He presses another kiss to your mouth, once again chaste. “You are neither dead, nor alive. You simply exist, as I do. You will need blood to sustain you, and a coffin at night to sleep in. You will never grow old, you will never get sick-“ he presses kisses to your neck between his words, “-you need never fear anything, and with me, you will never want for anything, ever again.”
“I am… not myself anymore?”
“You are more, you are better, you are at your full potential. You are mine, and I am yours. Neither of us ever need be alone again.” 
It was almost too much to bear, the change you now felt so keenly. His weight on top of you was nothing, the difference in your senses, the difference in your body, it was all almost too much and for a moment you thought you might drown in it.
“Peace, my love, be at peace.” He heard the sob crawl out of your throat, the emotion of it all getting the better of you. With an awkward shuffle you were in his arms again, weeping into the skin of his neck. “I know it is a big change, but I am here to guide you through it.” 
There were many and more questions you needed answered, but there would be more than enough time for that later. Eventually, the darkness of the space, the feel of him wrapped around you, the comfort in the steady sweep of his hands on your skin lulled you into just what he’d promised it would; warm, comfortable and dreamless sleep.
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floatingcatacombs · 3 months
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Go Nagai was insane for this one
12 Days of Aniblogging 2023, Day 8
I like to always have manga of dubious quality on tap for when I’m having trouble sleeping. Ideally, reading a few chapters will distract me, but I won’t want to stay up late shotgunning volumes. Devilman Lady was the ideal manga for this, and this is maybe the last time anyone will ever describe Devilman Lady as "ideal".
An extremely brief introduction is in order. If Osamu Tezuka is the godfather of manga, then Go Nagai is manga’s weird horny uncle. He’s arguably just as influential, the two of them just moved in different circles, each reifying entire genres. Nagai is more or less responsible for magical girls, super robot, and ecchi, and also spent a lot of time in the sphere of supernatural and post-apocalyptic manga. These are fundamentally genres of extremity and ridiculousness, and Nagai dials every one of his works up to 11 by the end, one way or another. Devilman is probably his most famous work over here, and it’s a stone-cold classic for a reason. Nagai has kept revisiting it over the years, with side stories, alternate universes, manga cameos, and even entirely new series that function as stealth sequels such as Violence Jack. But his most notable attempt is Devilman Lady, which is far more than a simple gender-swap of the original.
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Devilman Lady is about swimming deep in filth. It’s easily the most disgust-provoking manga I’ve read, with pretty much every content warning under the sun applicable. This is a truly rotten and conspiratorial world that Nagai is depicting. Societal decay manifests in countless forms, including rape, child abuse, homophobia, militarism, and hatred towards immigrants. Anything that could be potentially understood as fanservice is placed right next to or directly within the atrocities at hand, and it's genuinely unclear how much Nagai intended that as commentary. His intentions throughout this whole manga are a bit of an enigma, but what's clear that he is firing on all cylinders.
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This is an extremely zeitgeisty 90’s work, with intelligent design debates, the mapping of the human genome, new age paranoia, religious zealotry, and anxiety over pollution all playing out on the pages. Where it breaks from many of its contemporaries is a decisive rejection of the end of history. This is the kind of thing you write when you’re still reeling from the subway sarin gas attacks and your country's role in the Gulf War and subsequent militarization. It’s the perfect manga for capturing a time period when ten to twenty percent of Japan’s population were estimated to have belonged to a new religious movement.
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The punchline to all of this is that he doesn’t know how to draw women.
By the back half of Devilman Lady, Nagai’s depictions of hellscapes and grotesque monsters reach near-Berserk levels of detail and technical competency. And yet his female protagonists are still drawn in a drastically simpler 70's style, only now with giant spheres grafted to their chests. Either humans and the infernal are two completely different skillsets, or this was a deliberate artistic decision, and both are difficult to swallow. Either way, we just have to accept the juxtapositions.
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one of my favorite pages to show people devoid of context
The finale is just nuts. Go Nagai makes textual the homoeroticism and gender deviance of the original Devilman manga, as the world burns in both nuclear warfare and demonic hellfire. The story starts accelerating at an unfathomable pace, the most inscrutable double mobius reacharound yaoiyuri occurs, and the universe resets once or twice. It makes the endings of Jojo Part 6 and 7 look tame by comparison. There is no way to parse this like a normal manga with a plot and narrative. It is raw id.
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This has been a year where I’ve tried to deliberately broaden my comfort zone by engaging with more potentially upsetting works if I think they'll have something interesting to say. This was like jumping into the deep end. Devilman Lady may very well be Go Nagai’s magnum opus. It’s not nearly as tight as the original manga, but it’s a glorious mess, just as radical to its own time as Devilman must have been in the 70s. It made for spectacular insomnia reading. And there’s no way in hell I can ever recommend it.
At age 19, Nagai went through a bout of diarrhea so bad that he convinced himself it was colon cancer, and that he was at death's door. He vowed to leave something behind for the world to remember him by, and began laboring away on manga. And for the last 60 years of his career, he’s written and drawn with the fervor of a man who’s about to shit himself to death. Maybe that’s the real secret.
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steviewashere · 2 months
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City of Stars (Are You Shining Just For Me?)
Rating: Teen and Up CW: Use of Period Typical Homophobic Language (Steve referencing a slur that his dad used), Brief Mention of HIV (In reference to those tabloids in 1986 that were discussing Freddie Mercury's health), Steve Has Bad Parents Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Dialogue Heavy, Referenced Coming Out, Love Confessions, Protective Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is so Incredibly Smart, Steve Loves Shakespeare (More so in Passing, but I do reference Romeo and Juliet), Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Fluff, Getting Together
For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is What Makes You Brave"
💕—————💕
Steve and Eddie’s hang outs tend to land them on their asses at one another’s houses. But tonight, the sky is clear and the moon is out and everything seems to be painted by the soft glow of stars. Because Steve’s parents are home. And Wayne’s got the day off, so he’s asleep early in the living room at the Munson’s. Neither of that will stop them, though. Steve picks Eddie up thirty minutes before the sun has to set, a little Melvald’s bag in the backseat filled with food and a soft throw blanket.
They go out to a clearing a few minutes outside of Hawkins. Just off the side of the road. No other people. No other wildlife, really. And they sprawl out on that blanket, over the chilled late autumn grass, eating from the same bag of barbecue chips. Eddie sits back on his palms, looking up to the stars.
His hair is tied up in a loose bun. He’s sporting one of his quarter sleeve shirts, blank of the Hellfire Club logo. Classic ripped jeans and his Reeboks. But the way his hair isn’t blocking his face gives Steve one of his new favorite views. The stretched line of Eddie’s neck, his slight stubble painted jaw, his plump pink lips, the rounded tip to his nose, his fanned long eyelashes. A breeze cuts through Eddie’s bangs, one of his hands flies up to keep them steady. Steve mourns the skin he can’t see there, because he’s thought about it: There’s enough room for every forehead kiss he’d ever want.
And, oh yeah, he should probably acknowledge his massive harboring crush on Eddie. That he’s excited to be laying on his back, looking at his face instead of the stars. The small smile that graces his features. The marred edge of his facial scar bunching with his grin. It’s cute. He’s attractive. Steve wants to hold his face between the cupped palms of his hands.
But he looks away, back at the stars. The movement of his head makes his hair scrape the blanket. And he settles in, one arm tucked under his head, the other laid over the steady rise and fall of his belly. He clears his throat. And softly, “This is so much better than being with my insufferable parents.”
Eddie snorts beside him. He leans down onto his elbows. “Yeah? What were they doing this time?” Because, oh yeah, Eddie knows that Steve’s parents are shitty people. And, oh yeah, he likes to hear Steve bitch about them. It gives Steve butterflies.
“The usual, I guess.” He shrugs, even though he’s ninety percent sure that Eddie isn’t even looking at him. “Complain about the chores not being done. Even when they’ve been done. Complain about there not being enough groceries. Sorry, Mom, that you aren’t ever around to even fucking eat them. Complain about how disappointing I am or how disappointed they are or what my life should look like or how I’m barely their son,” he lists off. Then, shrugs again. “The Usual.” 
“Jesus, Stevie,” he hears Eddie breathe. “Wish there was space at the trailer for you. I hope my company is enough for now.”
Steve sighs. “It’s enough,” he mutters. “It’s more than enough.” And finds himself meaning it.
That’s another thing he should probably get around to acknowledging. He’s getting dangerously close to tiptoeing over the edge of this precipice. From opening his mouth—soft tongue, barbecue chips and all—and just saying what he wants to say. Things like how Eddie is beautiful and caring and how he adores his company. Something like, “But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Edward is the sun.”
Yeah, something like that.
He shifts against the blanket again. “They found me out this morning,” he says. “I’ve been outta the house since. That’s why we’re out here.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” Steve hums. He knows it’ll ruin the mood, but he can’t help the need to explain. “Dad was reading something; must’ve picked up one of those tabloid magazines instead of his usual. I guess the word got around that Freddie Mercury’s been tested for HIV? I’m not entirely sure, it’s truly, none of my business. That’s between him and his doctor. But, y’know what people come to think.”
Eddie sighs next to him. “Yeah,” he’s muttering, “I do unfortunately know.”
“It’s just—“ Steve groans. “Dad was being shitty. Saying anything and everything you could probably think of. Every slur. Every slur.” He sits up, crossing his legs, hands drifting to tug at tufts of grass below him. “Was talking about one of my favorite singers like he was just—like fucking Freddie Mercury was some low life, some leech or something. I couldn’t—It made it hard to just breathe. And then he—“
“Steve,” Eddie’s murmuring beside him. Blearily, Steve accounts Eddie’s hand reaching out for him. But he’s restless with his rage.
“—Then he was saying shit about my friends! About you and Robin and the Byers. As if you guys weren’t people. As if he was faring any better!” He scoffs. “Can you fucking believe the gull on him? I wanted to grab him by his nuts and throw him to Timbuktu.” He turns to better face Eddie, coming to his look of barely contained anger, yet grimaced by that expression of, You know he’s not all that wrong.
“No!” Steve exclaims. “No, don’t fucking give me that look, Eds. Like he’s fucking right,” he spits. “He’s never right. He barely ever knows what he’s talking about. He just thinks because he knows the term ergonomic that he’s like—That he’s better for it! He’s dumb, Eddie! He doesn’t even know my favorite color!”
“Steve, that’s…That’s not what you think—“
“But he just kept talking like I wasn’t ‘one of those faggots’ that he was referencing,” he barrels on. “As if my life doesn’t matter. And…God, Eddie,” his voice squeaks, breaking in two, “Eddie, I don’t think it does to him. He’s never—He’s such a terrible person. I couldn’t stand it anymore. The way he was talking, it made me grow balls.
“So I just blurted it out: ‘I’m a queer!’ And then the room got scary quiet. I realized what I had said and so I left.” There’s grass between his fingers and a warm body on his right. Chip crumbs stuck between his teeth, a cold breeze on the bare skin of his arms. But…the stars, the stars are shining down on them. And he’s still brave. He’s brave and he’s better for it.
He shudders at Eddie’s gentle touch. The palm to his shoulder. The grip of his fingers.
“Steve,” Eddie is murmuring once more. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you had to do it that way.”
And, it’s not funny, none of this is funny. But Steve laughs anyway. All sharp and jagged. Loud. Abrasive as he is prone to be. He’s got his crush apologizing to him, on behalf of Steve himself. Got his warm palm. His low timbered voice. His beautiful curls sitting messy like drooping chocolate ice cream atop his head. And he’s laughing. 
In the face of his domestic world ending—not the literal world, not the world infected by monsters—he’s laughing for being courageous.
Eddie is there. He’s still here. Holding onto Steve so carefully, like Steve may just fall through the cracks of the dirt and melt into the magma below it. His eyes are big and soft. And his lips are stretched perturbed. His hand is squeezing at Steve’s shoulders as if he thinks Steve is on the verge of breaking.
Which in turn, makes Steve laugh harder, but also causes his stomach to flip all too easily. Easy enough that he’s collecting his wits and painting his face with courage and he’s leaning into the touch. And he’s cackling out, “I love you! Isn’t that the craziest part?! That I love you and I love you and I—I don’t know how to not!” He’s throwing his head back, sure, a little deranged. But at the same time, alighted with a warm flame, coaxed by the moonlight, bathed in the stars.
“What?” Eddie squeaks. “Dude, are you—What?” But he’s nervous. He’s lifting his free hand to his hair, trying to cover the small smirk on his face. He’s shifting his lap from side to side, rocking with the motion, getting giddily anxious. And he’s cute.
“When I told ‘em,” Steve wheezes. “When I told ‘em, all I thought about was you. All I thought about was you, standing on a cafeteria table, yelling. Isn’t that so—“ He chuckles, trying to come down from this dangerous ledge he’s gripping to. His stomach hurts with his joy. His chest is full. He’s warm. “I thought about the other night when you woke up in my house and we were eating breakfast and you were laughing so hard that you choked a little bit on the sausage. I was thinking about your stupid dick sucking joke. I was thinking about—I was thinking about that last look you gave me before Vecna.
“How brave you were. I was thinking about my name on your lips. And how I just couldn’t care anymore about what they thought.” He leans in a little closer, practically pressed into the fragile line of Eddie’s side. “I couldn’t care. I’ve nearly died like four times, Eddie. You almost died in our arms. I was thinking about being alive and how I couldn’t care. And, I was thinking—“ He takes a deep breath. Continues, his voice airy and gleeful, “I was thinkin’ how either of us could be gone tomorrow. And that in all my time worrying about what my stupid fucking dad is thinking about me, I didn’t tell you how I feel. It doesn’t matter that I’m queer, Eddie. It won’t matter if I don’t get to fall in love at least once.”
He relaxes, finally. Completely. Shining with passion. With contentment.
“You make me fall in love everyday, isn’t that something, Eds? I’m a queer, my parents are bullshit, and I’m in love with one of my favorite people. That’s something,” he breathes, “you’re something more than any of what my dad could ever say.”
Next to him, Eddie chuckles lightly. Like it’s clicking for him, too. The pieces finally matched up. The key turning the lock. “You’re something, too, you know that?” He murmurs. His hand moves from Steve’s shoulder, instead wrapping around both shoulders, tucking Steve close to his side. His fingers leave little circles on the exposed slip of skin from beneath the sleeve of Steve’s own t-shirt. He’s holding him in so tight, it’s like he’s merging their bodies. He continues on, whispering, “You’re beautiful and you’re so fucking smart and incredibly brave. And you’re right. None of this matters to me if I don’t get to fall in love. We almost died and seen true horror shit. None of this matters without you. You’re something, Steve Harrington.” He sighs, face pillowing into Steve’s hair. His breath is light, warm. “And I love you.”
The autumn breeze is chilling the air. The day is boiling down to this.
Stars and moon. Night sky, green grass. Barbecue chips and a soft throw blanket. Eddie’s warm side, his squeezing arm, his mess of curls. They love one another.
Steve is warm with contentment. Lit by the flames of ever passionate love.
And he’s brave. Incredibly, wondrously so. 
His hand wrangles in Eddie’s free one. Intertwining their fingers, kissing their palms. He sighs. The sun is next to him. The moon above him. And some time in the morning, he will collect his bearings and face an unruly wrath, he’s sure of it. But for tonight, he can’t help but wonder, How could any of this be bad?
💕—————💕
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demonwoman · 5 months
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shared controllers chapter 9 [a jjk streamer au]
summary: the morning after, followed by some classic conflict and resolution.
cw: angst. mentions of sex
wc: 2.2k // pairing: streamer!gojo x streamer!reader
a/n: so...this is it. this is the final chapter. i mean, not really, i'll be posting a bonus smut chapter next week that has nothing to do with the plot. but i'm done with this story. i'm glad to be done. and honestly, i just did something similar in my real life, so writing this was rather cathartic on my end. i apologize for any grammar or readability issues, i'm not going to double check my drafts. i want to move on. please let me move on.
but thanks for enjoying the story. i'm sorry if you were hoping for it to be drawn out longer. i'm not sorry however, for ending it where i did
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That night ended up being one of the best nights you’ve had in a while. Satoru’s refractory period was shorter than you anticipated, and it didn’t take long before you were reduced to a crumbling, whining mess in his bed. After he was satisfied keeping you up until the wee hours of the night, you fell asleep tangled in Gojo’s arms. He only got up to clean off the both of you, before settling back in and sneaking an arm around your waist, with the other resting gently on your ass. 
You woke up that morning groggy, but with a small smile on your face. It had been a long time since you had fallen asleep with someone, and being with Satoru was everything you could’ve asked for, and more. It was hard to believe that over the course of weeks and months, someone you had only perceived as pixels on your screen became real, and they were now in your life. Gojo registered your stirring and without even opening his eyes, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead. 
“Mornin’, sleepyhead.” Gojo’s voice was rough and darker than you had ever heard it, which made you shiver and snuggle into his arms more. He chuckled, and brushed some strands of hair framing your face before opening his eyes to meet yours. You two stared at each other in silence for a beat, then two. Then he nuzzled in further, before squeezing you tightly and releasing you with a satisfied noise. You felt a thumb brush over your tits gently, making your nipples perk up slowly. 
“Again, Satoru? Are you sure about that?” You giggled, before cupping his face in your hand. He pressed a chaste kiss to your nipples, earning a shiver and a quiet hum. 
“Do you wanna?” His eyebrows waggled up and down in an exaggerated cartoonish gesture, making you laugh harder. 
“I’m still tuckered out from last night! You are insatiable, ‘Toru.” You slapped his arm gently, before peeling yourself away and sitting up in his bed. 
Satoru rubbed the sleep from his eyes before sitting up with you, and pulling you closer to him. “Did you like it?” He mumbled, pressing languid kisses into your neck. 
You laughed lightly. “Of course. But I definitely am gonna be late for work if I stay here any longer.” You scooched from the edge of the bed totally naked, searching for your clothes to see where they had landed from last night’s activities. You found the floor surprisingly clean of both your clothes, which confused you. 
“Satoru…where are my clothes?” You turned to him, putting your hands on your hips. Even though you were buck naked, you weren’t really concerned about the brazen show of nudity. He yawned, before stretching his arms like a cat and getting off the bed. 
“Someone did laundry last night, they’re still drying I think. I didn’t do it.” He said in between yawns. Huh. Suguru did the laundry? Something about that felt a little weird, but you got up to see if your clothes were where Satoru claimed they were. You hobbled over to the laundry room on the opposite side of the hall, but as soon as you stepped out, you heard unknown footsteps shuffle around from the spare room. Someone was in there…panic mode settled in and you made a little “eep!” sound before darting into the laundry and slamming the door. Thankfully, you found your clothes within minutes and rushed to pull everything from last night onwards. You knew your hair was a mess, and you needed to go to the bathroom, but as soon as you were fully clothed, you opened the door and your eyes were met with dark, raven ones. Not the crystalline ones you were hoping for. 
“Oh, so that’s who slammed the door.” Suguru chuckled, and you felt heat rise to your face in record time. You didn’t even say anything back, you just sidestepped his body and ran towards the bathroom, shutting that door behind you too. You didn’t want to talk to him this early in the morning, you didn’t even know he was here! Did he hear you last night? Was he really around when you and Satoru were fooling around? More thoughts began to swirl in your head as you sat on the toilet and took care of your business. After finding a spare unopened toothbrush, you groomed yourself the best you could with Satoru’s toiletries and washed your face, before opening the bathroom door again. Suguru was still outside the laundry room, with some towels and other clothing items draped over his arms. 
Suguru locked eyes with you, and you squeaked before darting back into Satoru’s room. Satoru was still in his bed, just scrolling on his phone mindlessly. He saw you come in quickly, and asked what was wrong. 
“S-Satoru, why is–” you pointed your finger to the hallway. “Why is he here!” You spat quietly, before you felt a taller body join you just behind. 
“Who, me?” Suguru bent down to whisper in your ear, making you squeal and push him away. “Stop doing that! You’re like a ninja sneaking around, it scares me.” You frowned, making him laugh heartily. He looked at you and Satoru once over. Satoru was still shamelessly naked, and without looking up he flipped Suguru the bird. 
“I see you two got busy last night.” You turned around to see Suguru’s lips lift into a forced smile. His eyes darkened when they met with yours. 
“You sure as hell heard us too.” Satoru chimed in, grin spreading across his face. 
“Huh?” Your eyes narrowed, eyeing Suguru. But he was just as displeased with Satoru’s brazenness as you were. 
“Don’t worry about it.” Satoru shrugged, before getting up and digging around for his boxers. A pair of clean underwear was thrown at his head with lightning speed and precision. 
“No, I think I should worry about it.” Your tone raised in anger. “I don’t like being left out of the narrative, Satoru. What are you really trying to imply here?” 
“I’m not implying anything.” Satoru gestured at Suguru. “Look at his face. He has that guilty look plastered all over - it’s painful.” Satoru opened his mouth to point and gag. 
The energy in the room changed significantly after your boyfriend spoke. A dark aura surrounded Suguru, and it felt suffocating - you could barely stand to look at him. Why would he be guilty? What could he have possibly done that would warrant his actions now? 
“What happened, Suguru?” You asked, trying to level your voice so it would not come off as accusatory. He shook his head, sighing and turning to leave. It was clear he didn’t want to speak about whatever it was that was plaguing him, and as much as you wanted to know, you had to respect the boundary he clearly placed. 
After his footsteps trailed off, you turned to Satoru with an angry gleam in your eye. “What the fuck was that about.” You muttered under your breath. The seriousness in your tone alerted Satoru, who jolted back just ever so slightly. 
“C-c’mon, I was just joking!” He tried to laugh it off, but you knew his excuse was useless. 
“I don’t think you were, Satoru. And neither did Suguru.” You pointed a finger at him. “You’re messing shit up with my boss! Do you understand how complicated my job might get, now that you’ve introduced whatever it is you’ve introduced in there?!” You exclaimed. 
“Chill, ___. I’ll take care of it, I promise.” Satoru showed his hands, palms out in a surrender-type gesture. But his unserious grin just pissed you off more and more. 
“Oh really!” Your voice was getting higher and more pent-up. “I’d love to see that happen.” You folded your arms and stormed out of the room, huffing an audible sigh. 
The shuffling of quiet socks alerted your ears, a breath exhaling. Suguru was behind you, and he looked extremely apologetic. 
“I’m so sorry, Suguru.” You reached over to touch his shoulder. 
“You have nothing to apologize for, ___.” Suguru’s voice shook just ever so slightly. “But we’re both gonna be late for work so…I need to get up to headquarters today for my meetings. I’ll see you later.” And with that, he headed off. 
The rest of your day went on rather uneventfully. People definitely took notice of the air surrounding you and your boss, but said nothing to either of you. Every time you tried to look at Suguru, he would cast his gaze away, which made you feel awful. And by the time you went home, Satoru was noticeably more sullen too. It seemed that the consequences of his actions were catching up to him, and it was frustrating you beyond no end. Suguru came home shortly after you did, with some takeout and the three of you ate in silence. 
“Ok, fine!” You snapped out loud, scaring your boyfriend and his friend. “I’m tired of this shit. Can we please come clean and talk about what happened?” 
You saw Suguru’s spine stiffen, but he slowly turned to face you. “I…don’t think it’ll be wise for me to share what happened, ___.” He said remorsefully. 
“Can you elaborate on why?” You asked, in a flat tone. 
“Because…it’s…embarrassing?” He looked at you incredulously. Satoru snickered, and you slapped the back of his head so hard he almost fell into his bowl of noodle soup. 
“Hey!” He whined, but your glare was enough to silence him. 
“I…overheard you guys fucking last night.” 
Both you and Satoru’s eyes widened slightly. 
“And I…might’ve…jerked off to it.” Suguru’s voice was barely above a whisper. 
Your mouth dropped open in shock while Satoru’s eyes were lit aflame. With anger or something else, you couldn’t tell.  “Suguru…” Your voice trailed off. 
“It’s not like that! I promise it’s not. I don’t like you like that, ___.” Suguru spoke too fast, words tripping over the next. “I just…I don’t know what came over me, to be honest. I mean, I do like you, as a coworker. But I would never…Satoru I would never…” He looked to his friend, whose gaze was pure ice. 
“You would never what?” Satoru’s teeth grit. “Steal my girlfriend? Like you poached my team members after splitting up my team?” 
Suguru’s eyes darkened. “It’s always all about you, huh.” He put his chopsticks down forcefully. “I’m not trying to steal ___ you idiot. And your team members left because of your fucking attitude, remember?” His hand pointed directly at Satoru. 
“Oh fuck off!” Satoru fired back. “You didn’t have to leave, you know.” You heard the slightest sniffle. The slight quiver in Satoru’s lip confirmed it: this wasn’t about you anymore. 
“Yes I did, Satoru.” Suguru sighed. “It was time. You know how I feel about this industry. I don’t have the natural talent you have at this, so I wanted to excel in something else. You’re the best, and why would I mess that up.” His eyes cast away, but his tone never wavered. It was clear to you that Suguru had come to his convictions a long time ago, which made you respect him more in that moment. 
“We could’ve been the best together, you know.” Satoru muttered. 
“No. There’s everyone else and then there’s Six Eyes. You stand in a league of your own.” Suguru picked up his chopsticks again, before toying around with his food. 
“I don’t like being alone.” Satoru sighed, and you took the opportunity to reach your hand out to touch his. He stiffened, almost forgetting you were there, but he took your fingers and squeezed them reassuringly. 
“You're not alone anymore, Satoru.” Suguru rolled his eyes. “You have ___.” 
“Yeah, ‘Toru.” You spoke up timidly. “Aren’t I enough?” Your voice wobbled with uncertainty. 
“Of course you are, sweetheart.” He reached over to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I’m sorry my love.” Satoru apologized, but somehow it felt like it was both to you and Suguru, if that was even possible. 
“I’m sorry for neglecting your feelings, ___. And for bringing up old shit, Suguru. You two are endlessly more mature than I’d like to admit.” Satoru’s lips pressed into a thin grimace. “Can we move on from this, please?” 
“Yes.” Both you and Suguru spoke at the same time, prompting a short laugh from everyone. It seemed the relief had drained all the cloudy energy from the room, and the atmosphere was brightening up again. 
In all honesty, you weren’t sure if Suguru had repressed his feelings deep down for you. But it seemed like he was willing to forgo it in the name of professionalism. And you liked your job and your relationship with Suguru the way it was. It was clear from this conversation that the connection between your boss and your boyfriend was far deeper than you anticipated. But in some ways, you preferred where you stood. The dynamics between you three were messy, and some part of you wished it was more clearly defined. But that’s life, isn’t it? 
You knew mistakes would be made in the future, and that this relationship with Satoru would not be free of hurt feelings or pain. But you had faith in him, and faith that your relationship would continue to blossom. And in his heart, although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, he had that same faith in you. And that was really all that mattered. 
FINÉ
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legacy tags: @public-safety-network @dearestgojo @drunkenlion @strawberrystepmom @rossithepixie - sorry i can't remember the rest of the taglist :>
banners by @saradika @benkeibear or @cafekitsune
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🦐 to recognize my post
Am I the asshole for asking my grandmother if I can move in with her?
This’ll be one of your classic reddit-style family dramas, I think. Back in late 2019 just before COVID, I (freshly 18 at the time) had run away from home with my mom and moved in with my best friend (R, 17 in 2019) and her (60s, deeply depressed) dad. Her dad and I were on good terms for a long time, but respectfully, he has a tendency to repress any issues he has with someone until they build into a bigger issue. Near toward November of 2020, he kicked me out on account of ‘not keeping a job and not doing anything around the house’ (I washed stagnant dishes often, took care of their several animals, and took out trash whenever I could, R and I think he was projecting his shitty roommates from when he was 20 onto me), so I needed a new place to move.
My own beloved father lives ten hours away, and offered for me to live with him. For months, I was preparing to pick up my entire life from the hometown I had lived in since I was 2 years old to move to a new state, and in the last month, I got cold feet and said I couldn’t make such a large change like that. My dad completely understood, and I went to look for a new place to stay, still living with R and her dad at this time.
During this period, I was getting closer with my grandmother on my mom’s side again. She was one of the few family members I felt comfortable with, and we often went to Panera for lunch dates to catch up on things. I won’t go super deep into why I’m so anxious about the rest of the family, because that would require an entire several page google document to explain (especially now that we’re actively banned from holidays).
It was around this time I asked my grandmother if I could move into one of her five or six spare rooms upstairs. My grandfather had died in the last couple of months, and I was confident that if she needed any help (she’s in her mid eighties) moving things upstairs or cleaning the house, I would be beyond glad to do it for her. She then hesitated and said it may be a better idea for me to move in with my dad after all (which was odd, because she hates my dad’s guts, as does the rest of my family), and I let it go after that. I didn’t push, I would just need to find a new place. 
Well, word got around, and she told my aunts and older cousins in passing. I don’t remember if I got sent anything in specific, but one of my aunts (mother’s older sister who I'm genuinely terrified of) absolutely fucking exploded on my (54 at the time) mom, giving her a several paragraph long shitstorm of a message saying she was a terrible mother for letting me take advantage of my grandmother, calling her horrible things, slurs, and insulting her wife, and it got back to me somehow. I was fucking shredded apart emotionally.
Since then, I have moved back in with my mother out of necessity and we have totally reconciled our relationship in the three or so years I’ve been home, and my entire mother’s side of the family- aside from my grandmother- has completely cut contact and don’t invite us to holidays anymore, for significantly more ridiculous reasons than me asking my grandmother what I did.
My mother’s side of the family ostracized her, myself, and my sister since my mother first married my dad 25ish years ago, and has just never treated her the same since, which explains some of the hostility (I want to specify, I’m confident that my mother did nothing outright wrong for this, my family is extremely far-right and EXTREMELY judgemental, and my mom bore unnecessary vitrol for everything she went through), but I need to know if I was actually the asshole for asking to move in with my grandmother, who even now still cares about me as family and lives alone. I could give less of a shit what my aunt thinks now (she lives an entire day’s drive away, in a different state as well), but I can’t help but shake the fear that I was actually taking advantage of her kindness or something of the sort. Was this a wrong thing to ask? Was this actually too much, and should I not have bothered?
What are these acronyms?
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ironwoman359 · 8 months
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i saw your tag about how in 500 years we WON'T be calling britney spears' "toxic" classical music, and i am willing and able to hear this rant if you so wish to expand upon it :3c
You know what, it's been over six months, so sure, why not, let's pick today to have this rant/lesson!
To establish my credentials for those unfamiliar Hi my name's Taylor I was a music teacher up until last year when the crushing realities of the American Education SystemTM led me to quit classroom work and become a library clerk instead. But said music teaching means that I have 4+ years of professional classical training in performance and education, and while I'm by no means a historian, I know my way around the history of (european) music.
So, now that you know that I'm not just some rando, but a musical rando, let me tell you why we won't be calling Britney Spears or [insert modern musician(s) that'd be especially humorous to today's audience to call classical] "classical music."
The simple answer is that "Old music =/= Classical music," which is usually the joke being made when you see this joke in the first place.
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As funny as this joke can be when executed well (this is one of my favorite versions of said joke, especially since this is a future world where there's very little accurate surviving info about the culture from the 21st century), there is VERY little likely of this actually being how music from today is referred to in the future, because, again, music being OLD does not automatically make music CLASSICAL.
If you'd indulge me a moment, have a look at these three pieces from the early 1900s, which is now over 100 years ago. That's pretty old! You don't have to listen to the whole of all of them if you don't want to, but give each around 30 seconds or so of listening.
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All three pieces are over 100 years old, but would you call "In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree" classical? Or "The Entertainer?" Most likely not. You'd probably call these songs "old timey" and you may even be savvy enough to call "The Entertainer" by it's actual genre name, ragtime. But if either of these songs came on the radio, you wouldn't really call them classical, would you? They're just old.
Whereas Mahler's Symphony No. 5, now that sounds like classical music to you, doesn't it? It's got trumpets, violins, a conductor, it's being played by a philharmonic! That's a classical musicy word!
The short answer of why we in the real, nonfictional world won't be calling Britney Spears's "Toxic" classical music in 100 years is it simply doesn't sound like classical music.
.....and the long answer is that Mahler's Symphony No. 5 isn't actually classical either.
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See, music, just like everything in culture from dress to art to architecture changed with the times, and therefore 'classical music' is technically (although not colloquially) only one of about four to five musical periods/styles you're likely to hear on one of those "classical music tunes to study to" playlists.
Our dear friend Mahler up there was not a classical composer, he was a composer of the late romantic era.
So now, because I have you hostage in my post (just kidding please don't scroll away I had a lot of fun writing this but it took me nearly 3 hours) I'm going to show you the difference between Classical music and the other musical eras.
These are the movements we'll be dealing with, along with the general dates that define them (remembering of course that history is complicated and the Baroque Period didn't magically begin on January 1st, 1600, or end the moment Bach died) :
The Baroque Period (1600-1750)
The Classical Period (1750-1820)
The Romantic Period (1820-1910)
The Impressionist Movement (1890-1920)
You'll notice that as time goes on, the periods themselves grow shorter, and there starts to become some overlap in the late 19th to early 20th century. The world was moving faster, changing faster, and music and art began changing faster as well. Around the beginning of the 20th century music historians quit assigning One Major style to an entire era of history and just started studying those movements themselves, especially since around the 20th century we were getting much more experimentation and unique ideas being explored in the mainstream.
Even the end of the classical to the beginning of the romantic period can get kind of fuzzy, with Beethoven, arguably one of the most famous classical (and yes he was actually classical) composers in history toeing the line between classical and romantic in his later years. The final movement of his 9th symphony, known as Ode to Joy, far more resembles a romantic work than a classical one.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
To oversimplify somewhat, here are the main characteristics of said movements:
The Baroque Period (1600-1750)
Music was very technical and heavily ornamented. This coincided with a very "fancy" style of dress and decoration (the rococo style became popular towards the latter half of this period). The orchestras were far smaller than we are used to seeing in concert halls today, and many instruments we consider essential would not have been present, such as the french horn, a substantial percussion section, or even the piano*. Notable composers include Vivaldi (of the Four Seasons fame), Handel (of the Messiah fame) and Bach:
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*the piano as we know it today, initially called the pianoforte due to its ability to play both softly (piano) and loudly (forte) in contrast to the harpsichord, which could only play at one dynamic level, was actually invented around 1700, but didn't initially gain popularity until much later. This Bach Concerto would have traditionally been played on a harpsichord rather than a piano, but the piano really does have such a far greater expressive ability that unless a group is going for Historical Accuracy, you'll usually see a piano used in performances of baroque work today.
The Classical Period (1750-1820)
In the classical period, music became more "ordered," not just metaphorically but literally. The music was carefully structured, phrases balanced evenly in a sort of call and response manner. Think of twinkle twinkle little star's extremely balanced phrasing, itself a tune that Mozart took and applied 12 classical variations to, cementing it in popularity. And speaking of twinkle twinkle, memorable melody became more important to the composition than ornamentation, and many of our most universally known melodies in the west come from this period. The orchestra also grew bigger, adding more players of all kinds as now we didn't have to worry about overpowering the single-volume harpsichord, and additional instruments like more brass and woodwinds were added. Notable composers include Haydn (of The Surprise Symphony fame) Beethoven (of, well, Fame), and Mozart:
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Pay attention to the size of the orchestra here, then go back to the Bach concerto. Notice how in that very typical Baroque setting, the orchestra sits at maybe 20 people, and that here in a Classical setting, there's nearly two times that!
The Romantic Period (1820-1910)
In the romantic period, it was all about BIG FEELINGS, MAN. It was about the DRAMA. Orchestras got even bigger than before, the music focused less on balance and became more dramatic, and there was a big focus on emotions, individualism, and nationalism. Discerning listeners will notice a lot of similarities between romantic symphonies and modern film scores; John Williams in particular is very clearly influenced by this era, any time I'd play the famous Ride of the Valkyries by Wagner in a class, the kids would remark that it sounds like it should be in Star Wars. A lot of romantic composers were German, including Beethoven, if you want to call his later works romantic (which I and many others argue you can, again, compare Ode to Joy to one of his earlier works and you can hear and see the difference), but you also have the Hungarian Liszt (of the Hungarian Rhapsodies fame), the Russian Tchaikovsky (of the Nutcracker and 1812 Overture fame), and the Czech Dvořák:
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See how this orchestra is even bigger still? Modern orchestras tend to vary in size depending on what pieces they are playing, but the standard is much closer to this large, romantic size, and it's far less typical to see a small, intimate Baroque setting unless specifically attending a Baroque focused concert. Also I know I embedded Dvořák because Symphony From a New World slaps but please also listen to Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No.2 it's one of my all time favorite pieces and NOT just because of the Tom and Jerry cartoon, alright? Alright.
The Impressionist Movement (1890-1920)
A bit after it began but definitely still during the romantic period, a counter movement began in France that turned away from the emotional excess of romanticism and focused less on standard chord progression and explored more unconventional scales. This music was less worried about how it 'should' sound and was more concerned with evoking a certain emotion or image, giving you an "impression" of an idea. Debussy is by far the most well known name in this movement, even though he personally hated the term 'impressionism,' lol.
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Notice the way the periods build on each other naturally, literally, physically builds on the orchestras that came before, evolving in style and structure until you get to the late 19th and early 20th century when things were built up so big that a response to that excess started to develop, first in the impressionist movement, and then into 20th century music in general, which got much more experimental and, as we say, "weird." (frickin 12 tone scales, man)* *i do not actually dislike the sound of 12 tone, it's interesting and unique, but it is HELL to analyze in music theory, which is unfortunately when a lot of us classical musicians are first introduced to it, therefore tarnishing our relationship to the genre as we cannot separate it from our own undergrad anguish
Even if you're not a super active listener and you have a harder time discerning the difference between, say, late baroque and early classical, you cannot deny that the first piece I've linked by Bach and the last piece I've linked by Debussy sound completely different. They're both orchestral pieces (I intentionally chose all orchestral pieces as my examples here, getting into solo works, opera, and chamber ensembles would take too long), but other than that, they couldn't be more different.
Wait, so what are we talking about again?
Classical Music is first a period of music, a specific artistic movement with music typically written in Europe between 1750 and 1820 with a specific sound that is distinct from these other styles I've outlined here.
And Classical Music is second a genre. Because while academically and historically Baroque music is not classical, and Romantic music is not classical...colloquially it is. They sound similar enough that it makes sense to put them on the same playlists, the same radio stations, the same 'beats to study to' youtube compilation videos. While individuals may have favorites and preferences, it's not far fetched to say that if you like listening to one of these styles, you'll at least like one of the others.
But whether you're being broad and referring to our modern idea of the classical genre, or you're being pedantic like me and referring to a specific period of musical history (or modern compositions emulating that style, because yeah, modern compositions of all of theses styles do exist), I think we can all agree that, as much as it slaps, "Toxic" by Britney Spears is not classical music, and 500 years is unlikely to change our perspective of that.
A Traditional Ballad though?
Yeah, I can see us calling it that in 5 billion years.
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(the full version of this scene is age restricted for some reason, but you can watch it here)
Anyway, thanks for reading y'all, have a good one!
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fdelopera · 5 months
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Hey! Hope you’re doing well amidst everything going on. I saw one of your posts talking about Jewish history and something kind of clicked in my mind… because you’re right. I have never once been taught a single droplet of history about Jews besides the Holocaust. I want to turn that around, and learn more, because I find Judaism really cool and I want to learn more about it.
So, do you know where to begin when reading about Jewish history? I know it’s probably going to be extensive, but history is already extensive, and I wish I got taught more than just Christian ideology. This goes the same for any religion beyond Catholicism and Christianity. I really wish I was taught more about it.
Thank you!! Hope you have a good day :)
Thank you for your kind message. I really appreciate it. And thank you for wanting to learn more about Jewish history.
This past month especially has made me realize just how little most gentiles (non-Jews) know about Jewish history. It's been eye-opening, for sure.
It's also been horrifying to see the amount of white supremacist, antisemitic propaganda that people have been spreading online. Some people have been spreading this Nazi rhetoric intentionally, but many others have been spreading it because they don't have the context to understand that they are repeating Nazi dogwhistles. This month, I've seen more of Richard Spencer's Neo-Nazi talking points here on Tumblr than I ever have before. For context, Richard Spencer is this Nazi who got punched in the face.
In talking to gentiles, I often find that their knowledge of Jewish history extends to a few facts about the Holocaust. Some gentiles who have studied European history and political science may also have a general understanding of Hitler’s rise to power.
But that’s only the past several decades of Jewish history! And it's limited almost entirely to Europe!
Jews are a Levantine people from Judea (the area currently called Israel/Palestine), and our history goes back thousands of years to the Late Bronze Age.
For a good overview of Jewish history, from the Late Bronze Age to the present, I would recommend two YouTube channels. That’s a good place to start. There are many history books on the subject, but a lot of them are quite dense, and the videos from these two historians will give you a good general overview if you want to learn more.
Sam Aronow:
Sam Aronow covers the span of Jewish history, from the Late Bronze Age to modern times. It is an ongoing Jewish history project that he’s been producing for the past three years, and it is in chronological order. He is currently in the early 1900s, and he comes out with a new video every month or so (he's just released a new video this month).
Click here to go to Sam’s YouTube channel, and then you can scroll back to watch his videos from the beginning, or you can decide what time period of Jewish history you’re most interested in learning about first.
Useful Charts:
Matt Baker, PhD runs the YouTube channel "Useful Charts," and he often works with Sam Aronow's channel. He has a PhD in education and religion. Matt has a very interesting story. He converted to Judaism as an adult; when he was a young man, he escaped a Christian doomsday cult, which he was born into. This gives him a unique understanding of Jewish history, especially how the "Old Testament" is often weaponized by Evangelical Christians to advance specific right-wing agendas. (As I explain below, the Old Testament is NOT the Hebrew bible. It is a chopped up, reordered, edited, and mistranslated version of the Hebrew bible.) Matt's videos on the history of Judaism are well-researched, and he breaks down different aspects of Jewish history into easy-to-follow segments.
I) Jewish History series:
Which Bible Characters are Historical.
Kings of Israel & Judah Family Tree.
Maccabees & King Herod Family Tree. (by Sam Aronow)
Classical Rabbis Family Tree.
Judaism and Jewish Denominations Explained.
Jewish Streams (Denominations) Re-Explained. (by Sam Aronow)
II) Who Wrote the Tanakh and the New Testament series:
NOTE: The Tanakh (the Hebrew bible) is an acronym that stands for Torah (Instruction), Nevi'im (Prophets), Ketuvim (Writings). It is NOT the same as the "Old Testament" in the Christian bible. The Christian editors of the "Old Testament" cut up the Tanakh and reordered it in a way that doesn't make any sense for Jewish practice. Many Christian bibles (such as the King James Version) also intentionally mistranslate the Old Testament to advance specific religious, political, and social ideologies of their time.
Who Wrote the Torah.
Who Wrote the Prophets.
Who Wrote the Writings.
I am including links to Matt's series on who wrote the New Testament, because many people who were raised Christian were never given a historical context for the people who wrote the books of the New Testament.
Who Wrote the Apocrypha. (The Apocrypha are later-written Jewish books that are not included in the Tanakh, but do appear in some Christian bibles, like the Catholic bible)
Who Wrote the Epistles. (Paul's Epistles were written before the Gospels, which is why the Epistles are linked first.)
Who Wrote the Gospels and Acts. (The Gospels were all written long AFTER Jesus' lifetime, and AFTER the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 AD. They were NOT written by the people they are attributed to.)
Who Wrote Daniel, and Who Wrote Revelation. (Matt includes Daniel from the Nevi'im [Prophets] as well as Revelation from the New Testament in this video to discuss apocalypticism in Jewish and early Christian tradition.)
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gemsofgreece · 3 months
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Can you make a post about the evolution of Greek art from the ancient times until now in modern age?
Because we often talk about the evolution of art but unfortunately we don't appreciate after ancient times the other art movements Greece went through the centuries.
That’s true! I am sorry for taking ages to answer this but I don't know how it could take me less anyway hahaha I made this post with summaries about all artistic eras in Greek history. I have most of it under a cut because with the addition of pictures it got super long, but if you are interested in the history of art I recommend giving it a try! I took advantage of all 30 pictures that can be possibly attached in a tumblr post and I tried to cover as many eras and art styles as possible, nearly dying in the process ngl XD I dedicated a few more pictures in modern art, a) because that was the ask and b) because there is more diversity in the styles that are used and the works that are available to us in great condition in modern times.
History of Greek Art
Greek Neolithic Art (c. 7000 - 3200 BC)
Obviously, with this term we don’t mean there were people identifying as Greeks in Neolithic times, but it defines the Neolithic art corresponding to the Greek territory. Art in this era is mostly functional, there are progressively more and more defined designs on clay pots, tools and other utility items. Clay and obsidian are the most used materials.
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Clay vase with polychrome decoration, Dimini, Magnesia, Late or Final Neolithic (5300-3300 BC).
Cycladic Art (3300 - 1100 BC)
The art of the Cycladic civilisation of the Aegean Islands is characterized by the use of local marble for the creation of sculptures, idols and figurines which were often associated to womanhood and female deities. Cycladic art has a unique way of incidentally feeling very relevant, as it resembles modern minimalism.
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Early Cycladic II (Keros-Syros culture, 2800–2300 BC)
Minoan Art (3000-1100 BC)
The advanced Minoan civilisation of Crete island was projecting its confidence and its vibrancy through its various arts. Minoan art was influenced by the earlier Egyptian and Near East cultures nearby and at its peak it overshadowed the rest of the contemporary cultures and their artistic movements in Greece. Colourful, with numerous scenes of everyday life and island life next to the sea, it was telling of the society’s prosperity.
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The Bull-leaping fresco from Knossos, 1450 BC.
Mycenaean Art (c. 1750 - 1050 BC)
Mycenaean Art was very influenced by Minoan Art. Mycenaean art diverged and distinguished itself more in warcraft, metalwork, pottery and the use of gold. Even when similar, you can tell them apart from their themes, as Mycenaean art was significantly more war-centric.
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The Mask of Agamemnon in the National Archaeological Museum of Athens. The mask likely was crafted around 1550 BC so it predates the time Agamemnon perhaps lived.
Geometric Art (1100 - 700 BC)
Corresponding to a period we have comparatively too little data about, the Geometric Period or the Homeric Age or the Greek Dark Ages, geometric art was characterized by the extensive use of geometric motifs in ceramics and vessels. During the late period, the art becomes narrative and starts featuring humans, animals and scenes meant to be interpreted by the viewer.
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Detail from Geometric Krater from Dipylon Cemetery, Athens c. 750 BC Height 4 feet (Metropolitan Museum, New York)
Archaic Art (c. 800 - 480 BC)
The art of the archaic period became more naturalistic and representational. With eastern influences, it diverged from the geometric patterns and started developing more the black-figure technique and later the red-figure technique. This is also the earliest era of monumental sculpture.
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Achilles and Ajax Playing a Board Game by Exekias, black-figure, ca. 540 B.C.
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Kroisos Kouros, c. 530 B.C.
Classical Art (c. 480 - 323 BC)
Art in this era obtained a vitality and a sense of harmony. There is tremendous progress in portraying the human body. Red-figure technique definitively overshadows the use of the black-figure technique. Sculptures are notable for their naturalistic design and their grandeur.
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The Diskobolos or Discus Thrower, Roman copy of a 450-440 BCE Greek bronze by Myron recovered from Emperor Hadrian’s Villa in Tivoli, Italy. (British Museum, London). Photo by Mary Harrsch.
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Terracotta bell-krater, Orpheus among the Thracians, ca. 440 BCE, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Hellenistic Art (323 - 30 BCE)
Hellenistic art perfects classical art and adds more diversity and nuance to it, something that can be explained by the rapid geographical expansion of Greek influence through Alexander’s conquests. Sculpture, painting and architecture thrived whereas there is a decrease in vase painting. The Corinthian style starts getting popular. Sculpture becomes even more naturalistic and expresses emotion, suffering, old age and various other states of the human condition. Statues become more complex and extravagant. Everyday people start getting portrayed in art and sculpture without extreme beauty standards imposed. We know there was a huge rise in wall painting, landscape art, panel painting and mosaics.
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Mosaic from Thmuis, Egypt, created by the Ancient Greek artist Sophilos (signature) in about 200 BC, now in the Greco-Roman Museum in Alexandria, Egypt. The woman depicted in the mosaic is the Ptolemaic Queen Berenike II (who ruled jointly with her husband Ptolemy III) as the personification of Alexandria.
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Agesander, Athenodore and Polydore: Laocoön and His Sons, 1st century BC
Greco-Roman Art (30 BC - 330 AD)
This period is characterized by the almost entire and mutually influential merging of Greek and Roman artistic expression, in light of the Roman conquest of the Hellenistic world. For this era, it is hard to find sources exclusively for Greek art, as often even art crafted by Greeks of the Roman Empire is described as Roman. In general, Greco-Roman art reinforces the new elements of Hellenistic art, however towards the end of the era, with the rise of early Christianity in the Eastern aka the Greek-influenced part of the empire, there are some gradual shifts in the art style towards modesty and spirituality that will in time lead to the Byzantine art. During this era mosaics become more loved than ever.
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A mosaic from the island of Kos (the birthplace of Hippocrates) depicting Hippocrates (seated) and a fisherman greeting the god Asklepios (center) as he either arrives or disembarks from the island. Second or third century CE.
Introduction to Byzantine Art
Byzantine art originated and evolved from the now Christian Greek culture of the Eastern Roman Empire. Although the art produced in the Byzantine Empire was marked by periodic revivals of a classical aesthetic, it was above all marked by the development of a new aesthetic defined by its salient "abstract", or anti-naturalistic character. If classical art was marked by the attempt to create representations that mimicked reality as closely as possible, Byzantine art seems to have abandoned this attempt in favor of a more symbolic approach. The subject matter of monumental Byzantine art was primarily religious and imperial: the two themes are often combined.
Early Byzantine Art (330 - 842 AD)
The establishment of the Christian religion results in a new artistic movement, centered around the faith. However, ancient statuary remains appreciated. Most fundamental changes happen in monumental architecture, the illustration of manuscripts, ivory carving and silverwork. Exceptional mosaics become integral in artistic expression. The last 100 years of this period are defined by the Iconoclasm, which temporarily restricts entirely the previously thriving figural religious art.
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Mosaics in the Rotunda of Thessaloniki, 4th - 6th century AD.
Macedonian Art & Komnenian Age (843 - 1204 AD)
These artistic periods correspond to the middle Byzantine period. After the end of the Iconoclasm, there is a revival in the arts. The art of this period is frequently called Macedonian art, because it occurred during the Macedonian imperial dynasty which generally brought a lot of prosperity in the empire. There was a revival of interest in the depiction of subjects from classical Greek mythology and in the use of Hellenistic styles to depict religious subjects. The Macedonian period also saw a revival of the late antique technique of ivory carving. The following Komnenian dynasty were great patrons of the arts, and with their support Byzantine artists continued to move in the direction of greater humanism and emotion. Ivory sculpture and other expensive mediums of art gradually gave way to frescoes and icons, which for the first time gained widespread popularity across the Empire. Apart from painted icons, there were other varieties - notably the mosaic and ceramic ones.
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Paris Psalter, 10th century AD. Prophet Isaiah from the Old Testament in the company of the symbolisms for night (clear inspiration drawn from the ancient deity Nyx) and morning (Orthros, not to be confused with the mythological creature).
Palaeologan Renaissance (1261 - 1453)
The Palaeologan Renaissance is the final period in the development of Byzantine art. Coinciding with the reign of the Palaeologi, the last dynasty to rule the Byzantine Empire (1261–1453), it was an attempt to restore Byzantine self-confidence and cultural prestige after the empire had endured a long period of foreign occupation. The legacy of this era is observable both in Greek culture after the empire's fall and in the Italian Renaissance. Contemporary trends in church painting favored intricate narrative cycles, both in fresco and in sequences of icons. The word "icon" became increasingly associated with wooden panel painting, which became more frequent and diverse than fresco and mosaics. Small icons were also made in quantity, most often as private devotional objects.
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Detail of Anástasis (Resurrection) fresco, c. 1316–1321, Chora church, Constantinople (Istanbul) (photo: byzantologist).
Cretan School (15th - 17th century)
Cretan School describes an important school of icon painting, under the umbrella of post-Byzantine art, which flourished while Crete was under Venetian rule during the Late Middle Ages, reaching its climax after the Fall of Constantinople, becoming the central force in Greek painting during the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries. By the late 15th century, Cretan artists had established a distinct icon-painting style, distinguished by "the precise outlines, the modelling of the flesh with dark brown underpaint, the bright colours in the garments, the geometrical treatment of the drapery and, finally, the balanced articulation of the composition". Contemporary documents refer to two styles in painting: the maniera greca (in line with the Byzantine idiom) and the maniera latina (in accordance with Western techniques), which artists knew and utilized according to the circumstances. Sometimes both styles could be found in the same icon. The most famous product of the school was the painter Domenikos Theotokopoulos, internationally known as El Greco, whose art evolved and diverged significantly in his later years when he moved in Spain and was involved in the Spanish Renaissance, and though it often alienated his western contemporary artists, nowadays it is viewed as an incidental early birth of Impressionism in the mid of the Renaissance’s peak.
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Icon by Andreas Pavias (1440-1510), Cretan School, from Candia (Venetian Kingdom of Crete). The Latin inscription suggests the icon was meant for commercial purposes in Western Europe. National Museum, Athens. (Source: https://russianicons.wordpress.com/tag/cretan-school/)
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Crucifixion (detail), El Greco (Doménikos Theotokópoulos), ca. 1604 - 1614.
Heptanesian School (17th - 19th century)
The Heptanesian school succeeded the Cretan School as the leading school of Greek post-Byzantine painting after Crete fell to the Ottomans in 1669. Like the Cretan school, it combined Byzantine traditions with an increasing Western European artistic influence and also saw the first significant depiction of secular subjects. The center of Greek art migrated urgently to the Heptanese (Ionian) islands but countless Greek artists were influenced by the school including the ones living throughout the Greek communities in the Ottoman Empire and elsewhere in the world. Greek art was no longer limited to the traditional maniera greca dominant in the Cretan School. Furthermore, the Heptanesian school was the basis for the emergence of new artistic movements such as the Greek Rocco and Greek Neoclassicism. The movement featured a mixture of brilliant artists.
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Archangel Michael, Panagiotis Doxaras, 18th century.
Greek Romanticism (19th century)
Modern Greek art, after the establishment of the Greek Kingdom, began to be developed around the time of Romanticism. Greek artists absorbed many elements from their European colleagues, resulting in the culmination of the distinctive style of Greek Romantic art, inspired by revolutionary ideals as well as the country's geography and history.
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Vryzakis Theodoros, The Exodus from Missolonghi, 1853. National Gallery, Athens.
The Munich School (19th century Academic Realism)
After centuries of Ottoman rule, few opportunities for an education in the arts existed in the newly independent Greece, so studying abroad was imperative for artists. The most important artistic movement of Greek art in the 19th century was academic realism, often called in Greece "the Munich School" because of the strong influence from the Royal Academy of Fine Arts of Munich where many Greek artists trained. In academic realism the imperative is the ethography, the representation of urban and/or rural life with a special attention in the depiction of architectural elements, the traditional cloth and the various objects. Munich School painters were specialized on portraiture, landscape painting and still life. The Munich school is characterized by a naturalistic style and dark chiaroscuro. Meanwhile, at the time we observe the emergence of Greek neoclassicism and naturalism in sculpture.
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Nikolaos Gyzis, Learning by heart, 1883.
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Rallis Theodoros, The Booty, before 1906.
20th Century Modern & Contemporary Greek Art
At the beginning of the 20th century the interest of painters turned toward the study of light and color. Gradually the impressionists and other modern schools increased their influence. The interest of Greek painters, artists changes from historical representations to Greek landscapes with an emphasis on light and colours so abundant in Greece. Representatives of this artistic change introduce historical, religious and mythological elements that allow the classification of Greek painting into modern art. The era of the 1930s was a landmark for the Greek painters. The second half of the 20th century has seen a range of acclaimed Greek artists too serving the movements of surrealism, metaphysical art, kinetic art, Arte Povera, abstract excessionism and kinetic sculpture.
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Yiannis Moralis, Two friends, 1946.
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Art by Giannis Gaitis (1923-1984), famous for his uniformed little men.
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By Yorghos Stathopoulos (1944 - )
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Art (detail) by Nikos Engonopoulos (1907 - 1985)
Folk, Modern Ecclesiastical and Secular Post-Byzantine Art
Ecclesiastical art, church architecture, holy painting and hymnology follow the order of Greek Byzantine tradition intact. Byzantine influence also remained pivotal in folk and secular art and it currently seems to enjoy a rise in national and international interest about it.
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A modern depiction of the legendary hero Digenes Akritas depicted in the style of a Byzantine icon by Greek artist Dimitrios Skourtelis. Credit: Dimitrios Skourtelis / Reddit
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Erotokritos and Aretousa by folk artist Theophilos (1870-1934)
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Example of Modern Greek Orthodox murals, Church of St. Nicholas.
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Ancient Greek philosophers depicted in iconographic fashion in one of Meteora’s monasteries. Each is holding a quote from his work that seems to foreshadow Christ. Shown from left to right are: Homer, Thucydides, Aristotle, Plato and Plutarch. This is not as weird as it may initially seem: it was a recurrent belief throughout the history of Christian Greek Orthodoxy that the great philosophers of the world heralded Jesus' birth in their writings - it was part of the eras of biggest reconciliation between Greek Byzantinism and Classicism.
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Prophet Elijah icon with Chariot of Fire, Handmade Greek Orthodox icon, unknown iconographer. Source
If you see this, thanks very much for reading this post. Hope you enjoyed!
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kaelidascope · 4 months
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Dude, I love this fanfic so much! I just wanted to ask where you got the idea from. Did you have any inspiration from anyone? Also, what's your favorite fanfic? And want do you recommend ?
AWE bless!! Thank you so much I'm glad you're enjoying it <33
So actually a good 80% of this is written from personal experience LOL I used to dance and was into drift building/racing in my late teens/early twenties! Most of the references or scenes in Midnight Menagerie are references to things I've seen or done in real life, OR stories friends have told me within the same field. (Nora is literally just a rebranding of this one mutual friend we had who just. Absolutely fucking unhinged) Like for example, the anticipated Hangover Chapter is just a retelling of an insane Summer weekend I had in 2017 ☠️ it's a personal delight being able to translate things into the narrative, even more so knowing people find my stupid, terrible decisions as amusing as I do in current times lol
My general rule of thumb is to write from experience. Things I understand either on a technical point or emotional connection. So, if you've read it in my work, it's probably something I've done LOL
Another reason I find drive in writing this type of narrative is that MM!Blake's type of dissociative PTSD is something I haven't seen much in media in general. I've seen people depict her in various ways (some of them good!), but none of them ever really apply directly to me, so I wanted to make something that I could relate to and how to properly navigate life, given the environmental circumstances. Plus some us need better examples on how to juggle mental illness as adults and also be in healthy long term relationships because damn I have zero reference LOL
For the fic recs, oh boy I have so many LOL time to be a pathetic fangirl on main but okay here's the ones that immediately jump to mind (also heads up most of these are mature or explicit rating);
Certified Kaeli Fresh Fics
Let You See My Wilder Side (If I Can See Your Bones)
We all know this one but it is, hands down, my favorite piece of literature of all time. Masterfully crafted and a timeless classic worth several rereads (and I have. Embarrassingly so)
Written by @/lucytara on tumblr || @/explosive_sky on twitter
honestly all her works are immaculate and beyond compare. Also a major fan of I Have A Bullet With Your Mouth On It (That was first RWBY fanfic I ever read LMAO a friend recommended it to me before I even watched the show) I aspire to write like her some day. It's what got me writing fanfiction in the first place. So, credit goes to Erin for inspiring me to post my manuscripts at all. Words cannot express my gratitude and appreciation. I have two book series in the process of being published now and I wouldn't have had the nerve to do it had it not been for this specific fic.
2. One Day At A Time
Also one of the earlier fics I read before getting into the show LOL I love all of @/Frenchsoda 's work, the full list is also worth checking out. I'm a fan of disgruntled Blake who doesn't understand her attraction to Yang but it's so god damn sweet ugh
3. Fucking In Love
Written by @/Set_WingedWarrior and @/Softlight
This one circulates a lot in my social circles. Everyone I know LOVES this one and after reading it earlier this year, now I see why. As someone who worked in the sex industry for a brief period of time, this one's not only accurate but also A DELIGHT to read. The premise is fun, captivating, and worth the wait. I actually discovered a chapter update earlier this year and sent the gc into hysterics because we thought the fic was dead LMAO props to these authors!! They're doing an amazing job and deserve praise
4. You're A Mountain, Full Of Glory
written by champion author @/lescousinsdangereux
I should just preface already that every book Blake reads in MM is a fanfiction that exists because I love Easter eggs. Everyone knows I had Blake reference this in chapter 3 LOL but it's equally as immaculate as Erin's work. I LOVED especially the dynamic between Weiss, Yang, and Ruby in this one. Baby, we're complicated fucking murdered me 😭 also that fuckass Christmas scene, that's my favorite Christmas song LMAO
5. The Home Inside Your Head
Written by the ever skilled @/writeriguess . I found this fic by accident by seeing fanart for it floating around on this site. Got curious, picked at it, and. Oh, my god. It's not very often my brain gets scratched in the right way, but boy this one does it. This author does something specifically unique I haven't seen many do before, and I applaud them for it. There's great detail on the scenes that matter, and the fucking organic build up between Blake and Yang is just. God. Chef's kiss. Truly. It feels so god damn natural and healthy and it's already crossing off several of my agendas already. Give this one a read and give the author some love. SENSUAL FACE TOUCHING? CHAPTER 13????? BOOOOOOOYYYYYYY I'm normal about it
6. You'd Be Paranoid Too (If Everyone Was Out To Get You)
Written by @/WabaJaba_ on twitter
Okay so this one's completely different than what I've previously listed but HOLY FUCKING SHIT IS IT A THRILLER. It doesn't nearly have the amount of love and attention it truly deserves. A friend of mine recommended it to me because it shook them so fucking hard they were in total brainrot hell for a MONTH. NOW I UNDERSTAND WHY LMAO God I was obsessed with this for weeks myself. It obviously lives up to it's rating, horror fics aren't for everyone. But if you're able to read it, good lord you should. It's chilling, captivating, and had me on the edge of my fucking seat the entire time. Both endings are good, I still can't decide which one I prefer but RAH I will make sure this is seen god dammit
and last but certainly not least
7. You And Me and This Temptation
written by talented author @/ProfessorSpork
Okay this one was an accidental find as well. A friend sent it to me because THEY found it by accident, I clicked on it for later, went looking for a completely different fic that I mistook for this one, started skimming and realized 'wait a minute LMAO I don't recognize this'. But the thing you have to understand is I hate reading. I'm not a reader, I'm picky and it needs to be worth sitting down for long periods of time. This is one of the rare instances where I was so captivated by it I kept reading more and more from the middle where I landed, and eventually just said ykw let me just start from the beginning cus LMAO context.
This one is, by far, one the healthiest and loveliest depictions of first times I have ever seen. This shit was so inspiring to me that it literally kickstarted an essay in someone's DMs why depictions like this are so important. I didn't have this experience irl, and why MM is written the way it is is because its meant to serve as a lighthouse for those who, like me, haven't. This fic however I feel like should be a required read for anyone getting into relationships for the first time because if it's not like how these two interact, LEAVE IT. This is the standard. This is amazingly written, it's the closest I've ever seen canon Yang and Blake be written to date. The fucking souvenir bit 😭 NJKFGNFJKGNGJ killed me, I was kicking my feet laughing for a good minute. This is the kind of standard everyone should look at and go 'yeah, I want what they have' BECAUSE IT'S CORRECT. LOUD CORRECT BUZZER NOISES
Honestly everything in my bookmarks is certified Kaeli Fresh but these 7 are my top faves. They're probably also really commonly known I'm sure but LMAO like I said I don't read much 😭 which is heavily ironic considering I write myself. Anyway this ended up way longer than I intended but LOL <3 <3 go give these incredible authors love!!
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