Italian|29|she/her. I voted flour on the vanilla extract Tumblr Poll of 2023. My blog for personal art and/or writing, Saint Seiya nerdy (and mostly silly) stuff, cute animals, science, mythology, shiny and beautiful random things. Jane Austen trash, not-so vaguely obsessed with Pride and Prejudice. I tend to go on sprees of reblogging everytime I get a new obsession. The Old Guard owns my soul now. Free to take a look.
Since I tend to write posts that are long as fuck and require me days to build up, I thought that a masterpost where you can check if there are new additions without scrolling through my whole blog was in order.
concept: tog 2 theme is around family and stuff maybe. deals with nile pre-grieving her family and how she copes knowing she’ll outlive them. i know this was partially dealt with in the first movie but i want more and also the theme of that was more ‘what do you do with immortality’ imo and i want the second one to be 'how do you cope with immortality/how do you hold onto yourself when you’re going to live that long and change in ways you probably can’t imagine yet’. anyway all this is to say that there’s a my mother’s axe style exchange between andy and nile in which we see andy’s first death. uma thurman is andy’s mother
this is all just a long winded way of saying I Want Baby Andy
consider. seeing this bit with charlize theron and kiki layne. similar to the “you come from warriors” scene
The above examples have been provided with the authors’ permission to demonstrate what these look like.
Basic rundown:
They are all 3 sentences long
Perfect grammar, capitalization, and punctuation
Like absolutely flawless English teacher-style writing with only a single exclamation mark, ever
No mentions whatsoever of character names, settings, situations, or anything that could be tied to the story
The usernames may be identical to people who exist on ao3, but the name is not clickable, and no profile is associated with it EXCEPT when you directly search for that name. What this means: the comments come from an unregistered (not logged in) reader, bots scrape the site for real usernames, attach that to the comment, and post
Please spread the word about this so authors can filter comments and report them accordingly
There has been some speculation about why this is happening at all, and the best guess is that this is a feature that AI-training story-scraping tools are implementing to try and make their browsing traffic look legitimate
obviously dietary requirements aren’t a joke but my grandma sometimes runs errands for her church and i asked her what she’s up to today and she said extremely seriously “ive got to track down the body of the gluten free christ, julia”
When Yusuf returns to their room with his tunic bloodied, Nicolo
stills, prepared for the dozen or more eventualities that might spin out from such
misfortune. He is relieved that Yusuf has come back—the truce between them is
so fragile that he is often gripped by the worry that Yusuf might yet leave—but
relief wars with frustration at how rash Yusuf can be, how often he finds
himself at the wrong end of a blade. He looks Yusuf over from head to toe, rapidly
assesses his healing, and then drags his gaze back to Yusuf’s face, to the
expression of defeat he wears.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
“We will not be traveling to Cairo today,” says Yusuf, as if
this explains everything. He sits heavily on the edge of his rough bed.
Nicolo’s temper—the blistering, sharp-edge of his temper
that he has yet to master—flares. This man. This infuriating
man. His errand was so simple, and yet his arrogance, his stupidity, his
readiness to fight—which of these maddening qualities ruined their plans? He
swallows hard and opens his mouth that his feelings might pour out, tenses his
hand into a fist and …
… pauses.
Yusuf is not readying to oppose him. His shoulders are not
squared in anticipation of argument, nor his body poised to make his lingering
disdain for Nicolo’s company known. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady
in the way Nicolo has only observed when Yusuf prepares to pray. Something curls,
sour, in Nicolo’s stomach, concern rushing from beneath his breastbone to skitter
through his limbs, and he goes down to one knee, reaches out to touch Yusuf,
then reconsiders.
“What did he do to you?” he asks instead.
Yusuf laughs sharply, mournfully, and looks up. “You would not
understand.”
Nicolo watches him for a long moment. “You are not still
hurt?”
Yusuf shakes his head. “He …” There is a visible
struggle within him; his expression hardens, then softens again. “We could not
agree on a price. He rescinded his offer and we argued.”
“His blood or yours?”
“Both.”
Nicolo stays still. “And?”
Yusuf looks away and blows out a breath. “He offered the
curses of a schoolboy, the needling insults that a child might use.” He looks
back at Nicolo. “He said I was my mother’s great shame, my father’s undoing,
that my bloodline was cursed, that no son could dishonor his family more.”
Nicolo has witnessed by day and night Yusuf’s wrestling with
their destiny. To be thrown into company with an invader whose body knits
together like his own; to refuse to sink his blade into Nicolo’s gut despite
the provocations of the heavens; the decision—the awful decision—to exile
himself from his home lest he grieve his parents with the stain of whatever
dark magic animates their souls…
“You are none of those things,” Nicolo says earnestly, voice
no more than a whisper.
Yusuf makes a small choking sound, and presses his lips
together firmly.
“He did not see a truth in you,” Nicolo continues. “A charlatan
cannot.”
“And you do?” Yusuf asks bitterly.
Nicolo feels a strange and unfamiliar warmth creep up his
neck. “I am further along that path than some wastrel merchant.”
Yusuf meets his gaze and for a long, terrible moment,
neither of them speaks. “Perhaps,” Yusuf says nodding at last. “Perhaps you
are.”
It is an unexpected thing to find that this matters, this agreement,
the nearness of Yusuf’s body, the fact that Nicolo can find words enough to
craft comfort when Yusuf is distressed. There is something here, some puzzle to
unravel, but Nicolo cannot fathom the twists of his own mind on this
score. “You may take my clean shirt,” he
says, and stands again, dusting off his knee.
Yusuf nods and stands too, pulls his dagger from his belt
and lays it on the bed. “Thank you,” he says simply, and studies the blade.
