May 31
Sypnosis.
Chesed wireplay. That's it. Yep, exactly what it says on the tin.
"Hn," Chesed makes a sound that's not quite there, but also audible enough for you to hear.
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Sypnosis.
Chesed wireplay. That's it. Yep, exactly what it says on the tin.
"Hn," Chesed makes a sound that's not quite there, but also audible enough for you to hear.
Can I have your number?
Synopsis: Armin’s always being asked by shy pretty girls for Eren’s number at parties to the point where when you ask for his number he doesn’t know how to respond. (Italicized words are Armin’s thoughts.)
“Why me?” Armin shrugs his cotton blue hoodie off his shoulders. Fingers grazing over the zipper in earnest contemplation. “Why don’t they ever just go right to him?”
“I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, Armin.” Connie begins, finger tracing over the rim of his partially empty glass. “Well actually I’m not. You’re the approachable friend because Eren is so tall and sexy; and you’re puppy cute.”
“Puppy cute.” Armin spits, eyes uncharacteristically narrowing.
Sasha plucks the glass from Connie’s hand, “That’s enough outta you.” She huffs pulling the drink far from Connie’s reach. “Sorry Armin, it’s just cause he’s drunk.”
the naivety of youth
her touch was as soft as the feather of a dove. her body was as fragile as porcelain. her innocence was not only betrayed by her stature, but in her eyes as well. her eyes, as dark as the night sky, were wide and naive; ignorant of the horrors others have faced. her skin, darkened by her time in the sun, was speckled with brown freckles that seemed to flow endlessly throughout her body, like the stardust seen perfectly by the naked eye when the moon hid in the night. if one looked carefully enough, they would soon find that she too, had her own constellations written in her body, each one telling a different story of her life.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I've been feeling some kind of way what with vacation being over, the stress of work looming ever closer by the hour, and some other life events, and it's not an emotion i can easily place, so i found myself inspired by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver, to get back to some of my roots in poetry
There is a landscape within me
Much the same as the one without
Draped in downy blankets of snow
So delicate as to alight on breath or breeze
And the chill that settles in my bones is welcome
A signal of the season to rest and grieve
To breathe and gently exist
Amidst the verdant solidarity of silent pines
There are no seeds to tend this hour
Dormant as they are for want of warmer weather
No tender sprouts to herald spring
But the memory of seasons past and those to come, still cling to barren branches
In this I know I will move on
The gray pall of winter cast off the hills and valleys in my chest
I will have welcomed its stillness and solitude
Lighter in the knowledge that this season too shall pass
Prompt: Saying goodbye (possibly) for the last time
It was summer in Thedas, yet the frigid mountainous air casted a sense of doubt in everybody's’ minds (as they yanked their furs over themselves with haste) If they had enough mental aplomb to even consider the weather. The cold, hard dread which sat low in the seeker’s gut vied with the iced over lakes at the mountain’s base and the craggy ravines which lay ominously below them, tucked away beneath fluffy white snow drifts and impermeable rock.
With a buckram posture and a miniature box stuffed deep down in the pockets of her breeches, Cassandra stepped into the uncannily quiescent hall. The inquisitor’s throne was hollow, and its spikes glistened with an odd purity in the pale moonlight. For the briefest of moments, she wondered if there would be something akin to them shoved through her torso the following morning. She wondered about how many lives are yet to be claimed in the splenetic battle which would begin at dawn. She wondered if Josephine would somehow manage to seek asylum somewhere, find a quiet place in a distant place and settle down like she always wanted to. She wondered if Josephine would remember her if her life was sacrificed in turn for world peace.
Cassandra paused. She was at her door. Muffled, disconsolate sobs slammed against the door and pestered the seeker’s half frozen ears until she had shoved the wooden slab past her beneath the guise of a long sigh. They stopped, for a moment, yet seemed to ooze from her twice as thick when her red rimmed grey and black irises met her own. There were no words for a while, and the only sonority which filled the distressfully silent office was rushed steps against the floorboards and the long, asperous sigh which broke free of the diplomat’s lips and spread in tendrils of heat on Cassandra’s shoulder. “Josie…” For once borne of something other than romance, the seeker was left speechless and was only capable of uttering her love’s name in an exhausted, scabrous timbre. “C-Cassandra, I’m scared.” The sudden desire to lie welled up and aggrandised in the taller’s chest; she wanted to say it’s going to be okay, to put both Josephine’s anguish and her own to rest. She didn’t want Josephine to worry, to weep silently at her desk and glance up at the sky when dawn would break in the morning. She didn’t want her heart to keep an irregular thump throughout the day and for her food to remain untouched. Yet what she wanted didn’t seem cardinally in reach at the moment, not until dawn broke and her adorned herself in the armour which she may utter her last stray breath in, not until she faced the monster behind it all… “I love you.” The declaration subconsciously uttered past Cassandra’s slightly chapped lips and her scarred muscular arms wrapped tighter around her frail lover’s torso. “I love you so, so much Josephine I-” She was hushed, gently with a soft press against her lips. It ended too soon; it wasn’t eternal. “I love you too. More than anybody could ever, ever fathom.” With no coherent response to respond with, the seeker’s dexterous fingers gradually grasped the small box and exposed its contents with a flick of her thumb.
There as a gasp, then a soft “no”. A soft sigh escaped the seeker’s lips. “This was Anthony’s ring. It brought him protection wherever he ventured. He gave it to me, the night I had to cross part of the waking sea to attend some business affair with my uncle. It is the earliest possession I have. If I don’t live-” “NO!” Heartache had flicked to hysteria which only a few, long kisses subdued.
“Do it for me. Please.” Hot tears angrily trailed a scalding path down her cool cheekbones and imitated Josephine’s own as she allowed the ring to slip onto her fourth finger on her left hand. The deep blue sapphire complimented her rich skin tone and the worn gold band slung loosely over her ink blotched digit. Josephine’s fingers were eagerly tucking her handkerchief into the breast pocket of Cassandra’s rough jerkin before she could protest. The smooth pale silk contrasted with the unkempt fabric and in a basic sense reflected their love.
After a while, the small sofa was the hero of the moment, as Sleep overthrew Josephine with crushing ease once she had stopped sobbing as much and had noted that her lover was still in her arms. “Please, come back to me.” Her voice was barely a murmur, and was the most placid she had been in the recent days which counted towards the end. “I will.” With every surge of adoration possible and a swell of oddly placed rage which plagued her heart, Cassandra paused until the diplomat had fully nodded off before she liberated her from the embrace and slipped back into the demoralised reality she faced.
The handkerchief never left her breast pocket.
Vicious
i felt this scene in particular is one of the more crucial moments in the show. it not only gives us insight into Vicious’ character, but the montage of Spike’s past as he’s falling from the Cathedral window, to the tune of Green Bird playing softly in the back ground is the first and only real view we get of Spike’s life in the syndicate before he escaped. Even if we can’t confirm for sure that Spike and Vicious were friends, they were definitely acquaintances and comrades who spent a lot of time working together while they were in the syndicate.
Throughout the show Vicious has been ruthless and relentless in his ambition to lead the syndicate, he’s referred to/often alluded to as a snake for good reason, he sinks his venomous fangs into anyone that gets close to him, friend or foe. He was successful in overthrowing and defeating the dragon(the Syndicate) in order to lead and control it, even if it was briefly.
i believe his reasoning for wanting spike dead is not because spike betrayed him by sleeping with Julia and trying to escape, but rather him holding anyone in contempt for not holding to the same ruthless and violent ideals the Crime syndicate stood for for years prior to Yenrai resolution to lead the organization to a peaceful route. Earlier in the episode he brutally murdered his mentor and the head of the crime syndicate(Mao) for trying to ally with their enemies and end the violence with the opposing syndicates.The first scene in which we are introduced to his character is painted in blood and debris despite the peaceful nature and tone of the scene prior to his entrance, which is extremely telling and reflective of his his character as a whole. In fact, upon meeting spike for the first time in years and having him cornered this is the first exchange they had:
Vicious: Are you pleading for your life?
Spike: Hardly, begging doesn’t work on you, remember? Even if it’s coming from the man who took you in and made you what you are.
Vicious: Perhaps, but he was a beast who lost his fangs; that’s why he had to die Spike. And that’s why you have to die…
i think its a safe bet to say that the syndicate was Vicious’ life, and probably the only thing he really knew and was comfortable with, he lived to be a beast fighting for an organization amidst the blood and chaos. He ultimately saw Spike and Mao actions as treason, he felt that they deserved to die for turning their backs on the corrupt ideals and violence that had been representative of the syndicate for so long.
Vicious: You should see yourself. Do you have any idea what you look like right at this moment, Spike?
Spike: What?
Vicious: A ravenous beast. The same blood runs through both of us. The blood of a beast who wanders, hunting for the blood of others.
Spike: I’ve bled all that kind of blood away.
Vicious: THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!
Vicious states that he still sees Spike and him as the same beast, which is a quote that is extremely indicative of Spike’s dark past, but also serves to prove how disillusioned and detached from reality Vicious was. Spike then proceeded confesses to Vicious that “he’s bled all that blood away” which i took to mean that he no longer sees any need to wander or kill any longer. It’s clear that since meeting Julia he has changed his morals and discovered better and a more peaceful way to live his life that he had never contemplated prior to their meeting and subsequent romance. Without going to much into it, she gave him reason to live made him realize he was not previously doing so and realize how unsatisfactory and minuscule his existence in the syndicate really was.
The way Vicious took in that quote i feel further reiterates that because he immediately took on a look of disgust and wounded him before throwing him out of the cathedral to die.
It took my wasn’t until my second rewatch of the show that i realized that it was the Elders of the syndicate that sent the hit to kill Julia and Spike, and not Vicious. I say this because i doubt that during their relationship that Vicious ever really thought of Julia as more than a play thing. He never searched for her for all those years and rarely spoke of her. He also did not flinch or show any emotion when Spike announced her death. I feel Vicious’s only relationship was the one he had with Spike ,they were polar opposites and thus attracted one another. Spike the good and Vicious the bad. they we’re both aware of this and knew that they were the only one’s capable of killing one another as a result.
Love Song #5: Minute Whispering
Explain to me the language of your body, Assure to me its ulterior meaning, Pure like an angel’s wing, or else, Perhaps, Let me discover The ghosts of its meaning, something more akin to the Fleeting flecks of the flowers in our irises, or The fatal hints of the Siren’s whispers, Where words meet their end and slowly becomes a barrage of Touches—meaning finds itself more comfortable in The oils of our skin than the notes of our tongue. The burnt pink tips of my fingers brushes across fields of purple wheat, who’s Edges are scorched a soft brown, like a frothy nebulae…
It asks:
How is your hair like the wheats of the English?
How are your lips like the kiss of the Italians?
Your eyes like the glances of the Arabic?
A pink summer, Duly fitted around the pale azure of your oceanic figure, and softly beckons to the oval Leaves that were left, Bled from decaying trees…
You love me, I want to assume. For what other reason Would anemic sunlight be weaved into you Hair that’s speckled with mourning dew? And lately the walls have been green with some Festering memories from Yesterday but The faint and sweet smell of sugar is enough to Convince me otherwise of oblivion.
How are your eyes like the cosmic s c a r s, Laced with an ardent yellow between an all-consuming purple and Flecked here and there with Pollocks of white and blue, streaked with Light orange along the dark celestial rip a charcoal black…? I love you, Perhaps… But can a door compose its candor without rusty hinges? Perhaps…