HAPPY 4TH OF JULY~KONTALIA

Kyuutaro: The Unwilling Therapist

We need more fics of Kazuki forcing Kyuutaro to listen to his bi-panic about Rei by going to see him during business hours, and Kyuutaro is just forced to listen to him even as Kazuki scares customers away.

Kyuutaro: You know you can like both men and women, right?

Kazuki: Of course I know that. I’m not an idiot. But I only like women. Now, as I was saying, Rei’s tiny waist-

Kyuutaro: Someone kill me.

Vino y sangre

La música suena. Los invitados bailan. Los hombres ríen y las mujeres cantan. Se escucha un disparo, la sangre corre, las mujeres gritan, los hombres luchan. El enemigo ha llegado, con pistolas, bombas y sed de sangre. El palacio ahora está cubierto de sangre y vino, el bello color azul de las cortinas ahora esta manchado por un hermoso carmesí. El enemigo se ríe, sabe que todo se ha acabado, sabe que acabo la guerra y que él es el ganador. Ya no hay nadie que luche, nadie que le recrimine por la sangre en el suelo, ya no hay nada.

La chica llora, sabe que la encontraran, sabe que el enemigo está cerca y que pronto deberá luchar. Pero también sabe que no podrá hacer nada. Reza por su hermano y por su padre. No le importa el hecho de que no va a ganar cuando luche, mientras sea tiempo suficiente para que su familia escape. Agarra el cuchillo con fuerza y se pone de pie. El enemigo ha llegado. Y el momento de luchar también.

i like phil being near-immortal, and i like techno being near-immortal alongside him, but i think that it works better when their specific brands of immortality are different. u know?

so it goes a little something like this:

The first time they meet, Philza is still young. Not young, you understand, but young enough that he has not yet been cut down to stark and jaded utilitarianism. He sets out on a journey into the nether and feels a tug on his sleeve and looks down to see some wide-eyed little piglin child whose parents are nowhere to be found, and his heart stirs.

So he teaches him: combat and farming and life in the Overworld, all of the knowledge that he’s gained over the years. Raises the boy like a son.

It takes twenty years before war starts building in the neighboring empire. Twenty years before the piglin child — now grown, of course, but still so desperately young — offers his service. Like he wants blood on his hands, like he wants to make somebody pay.

Phil buries him before the war is over.

He’s lost people before, of course. So many people. But it’s been a long time since those people were family. He plants a tree on top of the grave, a tiny sapling behind their home — his home now — and makes a promise to himself to stop getting attached.

The second time they meet, the sapling is fully grown.

The soul that will one day call itself Technoblade comes gasping into the world again, trembling memories of wings and violence that flit around the edges of his consciousness when he’s suspended between sleep and wakefulness, and he grows up a fighter. Bruised knuckles and scars that crisscross his back and shoulders like delicate lace, and when he runs into a man who holds himself with world-weary poise and the same wings that have haunted Techno’s dreams, he feels a jolt down his spine.

“Sorry, mate,” says the man. “You just reminded me of someone I used to know.” “Oh,” says Technoblade.

They get four years together this time before Phil has to plant another sapling.

Techno lives through six lives before Phil’s certain that it’s the same man every time. There’s another voice added to the chorus in each one, another whisper in his ear demanding things of him; at night, his dreams are full of a man with long blond hair and gray-purple wings and cold blue eyes. The memories slip through his fingers like sand whenever he tries to get a solid grasp on them, but the surety with which he holds a sword can only come from years of muscle memory that he’s never practiced.

They say that ‘Technoblade never dies.’ And it’s a lie, but there’s some piece of truth in it: Technoblade dies, and then he comes home again.

There’s a room for him in Phil’s house, kept tidy and waiting in his absence. There’s a journal that Phil keeps, writing down the history of each new lifetime, so that when they find one another Techno will be able to remember. There’s a vault beneath the floorboards that holds bits and pieces of the lives that Techno’s lead, armor and items and memories. There’s a place for him in the world, and Phil keeps it carefully maintained for the next time he finds it.

One lifetime becomes ten lifetimes becomes a thousand lifetimes.

It’s never quite the same, of course. Techno’s a grown man, battered and beaten and bitter but still standing tall; Techno’s a child, tugging on Phil’s sleeve like he did so long ago and asking if they’ve met before; Techno’s already in old age, battle-scarred but determined to track down the man he sees in his dreams. Sometimes they raze empires together, side by side in a blaze of glory. Sometimes they’re content to simply live in one another’s company. Sometimes they don’t meet at all.

Phil’s journal becomes a library, his vault an archive. The valley he lives in goes from open grass to a dense forest of trees that are planted in far-too-orderly rows to be natural.

And for every life that Techno leads, Phil’s always the one to bury him.

Maybe I'm also sad that Phil's love never counts as something worth living for

“What is love?” you ask me and I say “Love is what I see every time that I look into your eyes and I get lost in them”

Im sorry, I had to write it somewhere

it's the one year anniversary of the red festival and all i can think of is two minutes and forty six seconds.

that's how long c!techno stalled for.

two minutes and forty six seconds of him pretending schlatt wasn't asking him to kill tubbo, asking if he meant getting tubbo a coat when schlatt told him to 'take care of' him.

two minutes and forty six seconds of techno stuttering and turning ever so slightly towards his allies on the roof, not wanting to give up their position, knowing they couldn't do anything.

two minutes and forty six seconds of pretending that knowing if he tried to run or save tubbo, he'd likely die was 'mild peer pressure'.

and two minutes and forty six seconds of c!tubbo wondering what was going to happen, wondering if the ally he'd been promised wouldn't hurt him would do just that.

two minutes and forty six seconds that tubbo had to wait either to die or for his friends to try to save him, putting their lives at risk as well. two minutes and forty six seconds for his work as a spy to be over.

two minutes and forty six seconds for schlatt and this one event to drive a wedge between so many people, drive it in so firmly, that to this day the server is still feeling the effects.

What if Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written about John Watson? Everything is the same, except that we are reading Sherlock Holmes’s observations about his new flatmate Doctor Watson.

Things start out impersonal, intellectual, but fall right off that cold, craggy cliff before the first page is done with. The detective deduces the doctor from top to toes but by the second paragraph he’s forced to admit having a blush surprised out of him by Watson’s unlooked-for wonder and admiration. For accuracy’s sake and perhaps with a pinch of pride, he details everything that Watson had said in his praise, and ends up confessing to the pages how very agreeable it was to be met with applause instead of derision and doubt for once.

Holmes is later pleased to be written about in turn, but disgusted with the overly romantic tone Watson’s tale-telling takes. In a pique, he begins a paper on the man’s latest conquest, intending to show his flatmate how the wrong tone can ruin a story by using a cold, scientific tone to describe a passionate scene. Alas, the great brain meets a puzzle it cannot solve. Try as he will, his prose will not stay unmoved by its subject. Watson’s looks, Watson’s manners, Watson’s honesty and humor and curious mixture of humility and hubris; they poison Sherlock’s pen with admiration, and he throws the papers into the fire in the end, and tells himself it is proximity to the flames that heat his cheeks.

Doctor Watson has regular hours, but illness and injury do not. Holmes watches his flatmate dash away at all hours and in all manner of weather, leather satchel in hand and shoulders set for battle. He amuses himself by deducing the difficulties the doctor has ahead of him and predicting the hour he will return. If he foresees a particularly trying case for his friend, he ensures that Mrs. Hudson will send refreshments up at the proper time, and that he himself will be in the middle of playing one of Watson’s favorite airs to welcome him home. Between cases, Holmes assists by deducing diagnoses from symptoms related to him, and sometimes even accompanies Watson when he admits that an additional set of hands will not be unwelcome.

Their vocations even overlap now and again. Both Watson’s books and Holmes’s notes will at times mention the same names and places, with the doctor stitching up a man’s leg while the detective interrogates the other end of him. Their lives, their work, their stories grow more deeply intertwined as time passes, and what began as a scientific observation ends up as what can only be called a love letter.

lusan and the crane wives???

once upon a time, there was a player