#Total Commitment to Christ

[barbh]

Total Commitment to Christ: What is It? by AW Tozer [REVIEW]

SYNOPSIS I am the Light of the world; he who follows Me will not walk in the darkness, but will have the Light of life. – John 8:12Christians ought to be so totally committed to Christ that it is final. Of looking back over your shoulder to see if there is something better – let that never again be your experience. A short but inspiring booklet on how to follow Christ with your whole…

[t4ct1c4l-b4ckup]

Ok I just gotta. Ask a guy out. There is NO reason to be nervous. None at all. Nope. It's fine.

[unnamedcorvid]

i was relistening to Part 6 and just really love and want to think more about Arthur’s behavior here and the snapshot it gives into his character cause like. This is Arthur before pretty much all of The Horrors. He’s flourishing. Just out of a nice month-long nap and has a new mystery to solve. He’s in his element here! This is what he Does! It’s probably one of the closest peeks we get into what his life had been like before everything, how he did his detective work, all of that. We learn how he goes about his investigations (before any of the post-horror desperation and moral issues hit) and just. This is how he worked. This is what he Did.

and what do we see? CRIMES. this man commits CRIMES. on the DAILY. without a second thought. just acts like it’s totally and completely normal.

this man walks into a store and very casually, matter-of-factly lists off the items he wants. A .45 Automatic with bullets to go along, a flashlight, matches, and a way to force a lock. like. That shit outta put him on a list or something, ESPECIALLY when he’s asked for an ID he says he doesn’t have one, and just. buys a new (fake) one. like. Thank god that clerk was dirty or else he’d be arrested cause what the fuck kinda sketchy shopping list is that? my brother in christ I don’t think there is any legal reason to have a way to force a lock. not to mention that and a GUN

Then he promptly heads off to a recently murdered girl’s apartment, and when finding the door locked, just picks it. Without a moments hesitation. And he does it really fuckin fast too, like. You know that guy’s had a Ton of practice. he did that in like one single second while blind and without control of one hand. he even admits it, says he’s done this many times. this guy’s a fucking menace.

Once inside the apartment (that he broke into. also the apartment of a recently murdered girl, not just dead but MURDERED like. She was KILLED HERE not even a week ago. this was a CRIME SCENE) he just kinda. Rummages around and takes a book. I mean yeah, she is dead, but also. you can’t just break into someone’s apartment and snatch their shit my guy??

and then at the docks. oh my GOD dude. You’d THINK a GROWN ASS MAN would maybe CONSIDER the CONSEQUENCES of STEALING A WHOLE ASS FUCKING BOAT OFF A PUBLIC DOCK IN BROAD DAYLIGHT but NOOO. that’s actually his instant go-to. Can’t get a ride? cool, I’m stealing a boat. there wasn’t even a second of hesitation or deliberation. What to do next? Oh I know. Steal a fucking boat. doesn’t even think of the consequences or that there’s actively people here (and he just gave his name to one), just up and takes it. it’s such a normal thing to do.

anyway all this to say that Arthur Lester Malevolent has always been a feral little creature with no regard for conventional approaches. he’s always been like this. I mean yeah he’s gotten So Much Worse but like. he didn’t start from ground zero either. Even in Part 4, when he needed to distract Kellin, when his first idea to honk the horn on his truck was turned down, his next instant suggestion was SET HIS HOUSE ON FIRE. there is no middle ground with this man. he will always jump straight to crimes without a second thought and I love that for him

[lunar-years]

I wish we'd gotten to see more of Jonathan's reaction to El joining their family after Hopper's "death." It's not that I think he wasn't okay with El or didn't want her to live with them, moreso that I wonder if a part of him resented Joyce not for taking El in, but for not consulting Jonathan about it. Because even though Joyce is the parent and Jonathan is the kid, it hasn't actually felt like that for years and years. And now there's this whole other person that they (he) has to provide for and keep fed and watch over. It's already hard enough for him to think about leaving Will to go to college, but now there's this other kid who's just as traumatized and how is he supposed to just leave both of them and Joyce and ever expect them to be okay? Especially when he's already missed so many chances to be there for Will, and now El is even more unsafe (they have to live under government protection in California to protect her, for christ's sake).

So part of what's going on with him in season four is that he goes to California expecting to have to take all this extra weight on his shoulders, and be the one to step up like he always has, and that he alone will now have to care for all three of these grieving, traumatized people, and he's ignoring his own grief and trauma to focus on theirs and he's had to leave his girlfriend to do it and he's bitter at his mom (misguided though that may be) for not even asking him before adopting a whole 'nother kid. But then what actually happens is that there's not additional weight for him to take on at all, in fact his load gets a hell of a lot lighter, thanks to their government provided house (the nicest one they've ever lived in), and Joyce having a stable job, and everyone acting mentally well on the surface even if they actually, totally aren't. (and did Will start pulling away from him because he was always getting high, or was Will already pulling away from him, which contributed to Jonathan wanting to get high? chicken and the egg). Of course he crashes out, because he hasn't even had to do any of the caretaking things he came here bound and determined to do, but also because he feels like he's already made up his mind to put his family first over everything else before they moved, especially his own wants and needs and even above the girlfriend he's deeply in love with, and now he's sort of locked in to that choice. So he both feels more useless to his family and more committed to throwing away his own life for theirs than ever, resulting in...well! everything we see play out!

Add in the relief he must have felt at actually being there for Will when shit hit the fan (even though it's all shit, and El's gone, at least he's there to take action for once instead of "doing nothing" [not that nothing's actually what he's been up to in seasons prior, but i do think that's how he feels]), PLUS the vindication I imagine he feels when he finds out Joyce wasn't actually gone on a trip for work and instead went on a extremely dangerous mission to get Hopper out of Russia without telling him (not even vindication in a bitter way towards Joyce, moreso just confirmation of what he always felt was inevitable, that there was going to be a time when she was going to fall through in some way and he was going to have to step up) and well... no shit this man does not want to leave for College! no shit he has so many issues!

[gloomskulls]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ FAKE DATE? NO, THIS IS A HEIST [eddie munson x reader]

pairings: grown up!eddie munson x reader

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ There's a fancy family event you need a fake date for. Eddie agrees...but only if he gets to masquerade as a mysterious rich heir with a tragic backstory. Everything is smooth sailing until Auntie gets nosey and starts questioning him, and he totally commits to the act.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ none tbh, but lemme know if anything triggers you!

a/n: s5 is literally coming, and I can't be nothing more than nostalgic.

When you asked Eddie Munson to be your fake date for your cousin's wedding, you knew you were bargaining with the devil. Fun, quiet, and easy was far fetched with him. All you needed was a warm body to stand next to you and nod once in a while to relatives asking if you were seeing someone. This way, you could sidestep those pesky questions about 'when are you settling down?'

But Eddie? Eddie had other plans.

From the second you saw his attire, you knew, you were in trouble, when he walked up to your house in a proper suit; no band tee glamored blazer, no half-button with that signature 'I don't care' energy, but the 'i am so mature, but just for today'.

The suit was a bit too big on him (probably cause it was thrifted), curls a bit tidied up for the Eddie Munson to have, and worse yet, he had them sunglasses on indoors... At 6 p.m.

"Why do you look like you're about to sell me a stolen car?" You commented.

Eddie grinned and flipped down his shades, "Because, darling," he drawled, pretending it was old Hollywood, "This is not just a fake date. This is a performance."

You groaned; this was already giving you regrets about your life choices.

From there, Eddie was fully committed to whatever persona he had just conjured in his mind. He strutted down the hallway with a sense of ownership, brazenly slinging his arm over your shoulder and casting his best toothy grin at strangers.

Now your favorite moment of the night. Aunt Linda.

Aunt Linda was the family's self appointed human lie detector. She knew one hundred percent when anyone was faking a relationship. This woman could smell a phony date like a bloodhound—and you were so close to fleeing her interrogation—until baam! She trapped you near the dessert table, glaring down Eddie like he was an alley alleyway dog she thought you picked up on the way.

"Oh, sweetling!" Aunt Linda cooed. "And who is this handsome young man?"

Eddie, with all the style in the world, defiantly withdrew his sunglasses (in slow motion for dramatic effect).

"Edwardo Von Munson," he said with a low sultry drawl, grabbing your hand, as if you were a delicate victorian woman suffering from a case of vapours.

You almost coughed on your drink. "Pardon?"

Eddie tightened his grip slightly. A signal. Don't go out of character.

"Oh my!" Aunt Linda beamed. "And what is it that you do, Edwardo?"

Eddie leaned in as though probing the depths of his very existence. "I am..." pause, dramatic effect, "An orphaned oil tycoon."

Silence.

You were staring at him in utter horror.

"Orphaned?" Aunt Linda echoed across the hall.

Eddie nodded solemnly. "Tragic accident. My parents...lost at sea. Swallowed whole by the cruel mistress they called the Atlantic."

Aunt Linda put a hand on her heart. "Oh, how awful!"

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you said, "Eddie—"

"Edwardo, darling," he corrected, smooth as ever.

You shot him a glare.

"But how did you two meet?" Aunt Linda pressed, practically drooling over this sordid narrative.

Your mouth opened to say something normal, like, 'Through mutual friends' or something cliché, 'At a record store.' But Eddie was already grasping your hand again.

"I saved her," he proclaimed, eyes sparkling with fake sorrow, "from a gang of highly trained jewel thieves."

Jesus Christ.

Aunt Linda was lost on the last bit. "Jewel thieves?"

He nodded seriously. "She was in dire peril. Surrounded. Nowhere to run. Nothing but her wits and her—" He turned to you. "What do you do again?" He whispered

You shot daggers at him. "Retail."

"—her wits and her retail expertise to protect her!" Eddie turned back to Aunt Linda, his curls bouncing as he threw himself into this insanity. "I swooped in, fought off seven armed men with nothing but a mini pocket knife I had in my pocket, and carried her to safety. She's been madly in love with me ever since."

Aunt Linda began trembling. "A mini pocket knife?"

Eddie nodded seriously. "A benchmade knife, Linda. They never saw it coming."

You were about to murder him.

But before you could actually kill him, your cousin, the bride needed you for some photos. You grabbed Eddie's arm and pulled him away from Aunt Linda before she could ask any more questions.

The second you were out of earshot, you turned on him. "Orphaned oil tycoon? Street fight? What the hell was that?"

Eddie grinned, hands in pockets. "I panicked."

"You panicked?"

"Look, you needed a fake date," he shrugged, "I gave you an experience."

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "You're lucky my aunt loves drama."

Eddie smirked as he edged closer. "Admit it. You had fun."

Staring at him forced a monotone face, but you finally cracked up at the whole ludicrousness of it—the crazy backstory, the overdramatic pauses, the fact that Aunt Linda now thought you were having a secret affair with a tragically mysterious orphan billionaire.

You huffed and shook your head. "You are a menace."

Eddie grinned. "Yeah, but now Aunt Linda thinks I'm a very rich menace." He chuckled. "And that, my dear, is what we call a successful heist." He added

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

[ecceagnesdarling]

The Catholic Church asks for pretty crazy things that require a total life commitment; "no longer I, but Christ living in me", "love thy neighbor as thyself", "as we forgive those who trespass against us"; and the one thing that makes people whine and complain about, that is "too hard to follow" is not to fuck unless you're married

[willowser-but-nsfw]

and if i said incubus bakugou. what then.

because think about coming home after a long, infuriating day of work; you're tired, your back hurts, you're hungry, you're sick of being in these stinky work clothes — and all you want is a shower.

so you go to run yourself the hottest one known to man, tossing your clothes haphazardly on the floor because you're irritable and want to be a bit of a brat because you couldn't be one at work. you get all the way through washing your hair, are rinsing the soapy suds off your body when you're finally starting to calm down. thinking about what to eat for dinner, if you'll get that takeout you've been thinking about all week. you think you deserve it.

and then a heavy hand is banging against the glass of the shower.

"jesus christ!" you hiss, curving into yourself as if he hasn't seen you naked multiple times now. on the other side, bakugou is glaring at you, his own arms folded like the GROUCH that he is. "what the hell is wrong with you?"

he ignores the question. "y'gonna let me in?"

the sight of his stupidly handsome, supernatural face has you gritting your teeth, mouth twisting into a scowl as he yanks the door open anyway. "since when have you ever needed my permission to do anything?"

bakugou bares his little fangs, temper flaring like the black wings that threaten to stretch out behind him. you hope they don't; you're tired of having to pick up everything he knocks over. "hah?" he hisses, crowding you into one side of the shower because of how big he is. "don't act like you ain't been begging me to fuck—"

"alright!" you snap, cheeks heating. his own nose scrunches up — in disgust, maybe — and you can't stand to look at how horrifyingly beautiful he is, so you turn away. after a minute of awkward silence, with him just looming behind you, you ask, "have you figured out how i can get rid of you yet?"

several bottles clatter to the floor.

"you're the one that fuckin' summoned me here, brat—"

"and i was trying to summon up some goddamn money!" you turn to glare at him over your shoulder, eyes dipping down when you see his totally normal and equally as handsome human form, as he collects your shampoo and conditioner from the ground. "it was an accident."

"yeah," he grumbles, "so you've said."

you turn away again as he rises back to his full height — still otherworldly, despite his disguise. the deep red in his eyes always makes you shiver, both terrifying and oddly sexy. "well," you pout, though he can't see it. "don't act like you haven't been enjoying it, too."

"that's my whole point, shitty human!"

you're demon-handled around rather roughly, as is typical, and he's got you spun to face him, back pressed against the shower tile as he gets all in your face. his blonde hair is flat against his head, dark eyelashes heavy and sticking together, making his eyes seem that much bigger and brighter.

you take the chance to commit his face to memory; most of the time, you either can't keep your eyes open to look at him or don't want to, because he's so incredibly infuriating.

— but so up close, you see the deep, unhappy lines of his face, how far down his eyebrows arch. his lips tremble, just the slightest, in their frown.

"that's my whole fuckin' point," he tells you again, quietly. "'s'all 'm good for."

it's startling enough that you feel — bad. guilty, like you're taking advantage of him in some way, though it's always him that's appearing on his knees in your kitchen or waking you up in the middle of the night with his hand in your underwear. you feel like you should offer some kind of comfort to him, despite the menace he's been, because you have found relief from the world with him. many times.

but the moment passes and before you can think of anything to say, bakugou's eyes are hardening and he's pressing his mouth to yours, as his hands begin to trail down your body.

[tanadrin]

"if she [supports indigenous self-determination], yell at her for that! christ almighty. this is peak twitter brain. "i will yell at someone for reasons that are obviously stupid and wildly exaggerated, but when this is pointed out to me, i will use their bad opinion on a totally different issue to justify it." just criticize them for the original bad opinion instead of acting like a complete dipshit." the bad opinion about how people ought to have self-determination, but maybe just specifically the jewish ones? how about you keep your mouth shut about jewish self-determination, please and thankyou.

ooh, spicy

but you must be new here. i reject nationalism ab initio as an unchallengeable rationale for any political project. i believe i am on record saying nationalism is akin to a toxic but contagious mental disorder. i am doubly unsympathetic to nationalism as a justification for dispossession of anybody. so i reject your framing of the issue. i could also add that indigeneity is a politically constructed category; that it's not carte blanche to commit genocide; that one people's theoretical historical relationship to a bit of geography by virtue of indigenity does not give them property rights that extinguish the rights of the people presently living there; and that even if it did, it seems likely to me that modern israelis are not more indigenous to palestine than palestinians (e.g., the spread of islam and the arabic language in the early middle ages mostly involved the conversion of preexisting populations, not the expulsion and replacement of those populations; the palestinians of 2024 are, afaict, by and large descendants of the same population that has been living there for two thousand years; jews and palestinians are, by and large, lineal descendants of the same population!).

so this effort to use leftier-than-thou language to try to "gotcha" me is silly. i don't think you're using this language sincerely; even if you were, i don't accept that this language is actually analytically useful; and even if it did have some utility, i don't think there's a framing of blood-and-soil nationalism (even through the lens of "indigeneity") that excuses the conduct of the israeli state, both for the reason that there is no ethical justification that could excuse the conduct of the israeli state and because i do not accept that states are in fact authentic vehicles for true national will, because, well, i'm not a 19th century Romantic nationalist, or someone who adheres to one of 19th century Romanticism's offshoot ideologies like fascism. good troll, though!

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

You know when this all started coming to light, I fully expected that leftists would try to downplay the horrific violence by acknowledging that it was "bad and our hearts go out to the victims and their families, but......" or by making a sharp distinction between civilians and soldiers (or even like, minors and adults), but the thing that's fucked me up is that nope! We sailed right past any attempt to even pretend at human decency and cut straight to "they deserved it."

Even the kids?? Yep, even the kids.

Like Jesus H. Christ y'all.

I'm used to people feeling like they need to at least gesture vaguely in the direction of giving a shit about Jewish lives and not justifying actual terror tactics and war crimes on civilians (you'd think for consistency's sake they might care about looking like they care for the credibility but..) even if we both know they really don't actually care about antisemitism in a meaningful way. We both know that they won't be there when it actually counts, and they sure as fuck aren't going to interrogate their own personal or group's antisemitism. But usually there's a fig leaf. There's at least a baseline assumption that they should care about antisemitism and Jewish people staying alive, even if they don't actually, so they'll say the minimum amount of correct sounding words and then quickly skedaddle onto whatever it is they actually care about.

And like, is that good? No, it's not. It's not good enough. I'm sick and fucking tired of people doing juuuuuust enough to pretend to care without ever addressing the real underlying issues.

But this? This totally floored me. This drops that baseline assumption that antisemitism and murdered Jews is a bad thing entirely and blatantly sides with literal actual terrorists committing unspeakable horrors while holding it up as "liberation."

And what's worse? Most of those were the further out fringe types (although there were a horrifying amount more than I expected) right? Most everyone else wasn't spouting off about how happy they were that vive la révolucion, right? You know what was really deafening?

The silence from everyone else.

Literally everyone except for maybe one or two gentiles I remember seeing kept their mouths shut. Everyone else? Not a goddamn word about how fucked up it was that people were crowing over our people's fresh corpses. The bodies hadn't even cooled yet and we had jackasses on here publicly celebrating with memes and gore videos, and not a word from 99.9% of you.

The people who did speak up? You have no idea how much it means, and I'm grateful. Truly.

Everyone else who was too gutless, spineless, or oblivious to realize how critical a moment this was for support and/or was more interested in protecting your image or whatever?

Let's just say: duly noted.

I may continue to work alongside you (what choice do I have?) but the trust is gone.

We're clearly on our own, with rare exception.

(This is a vent post I will not be adding any caveats to it and I will be blocking anyone who tries to be an asshole. I will lock reblogs if there's any discourse. Our lives are not up for debate you sick fucks.)

[dasketcherz]

I need all your varigo parallels IN MY SOUL 😭🫶🫶🫶

In other words what are your fav parallels?

WHY I'M GLAD YOU ASKED BESTIE (pulls up my varigo brainrot list)

Disclaimer (?): this is a mixture of interpretation based from "canon" information and personal headcanons (some that I will further elaborate on in the future with visual aids so besties stay tuned for that <3)

Immediate all time fave : they're both scientists with criminal backgrounds

People knowing/hearing about them via different aliases because of bullet point no. 1

They're both good people deep down who were just forced to take matter in their own hands and resorting to extra measures because their individual circumstance calls for it

At such a young age, both have felt like the whole world was against them, one way or another < /3

Both commit serious crimes at the same age of 14-15, simultaneously from each other

They're both multilingual biracial icons, like they might as well put linguist in their resume on top of being alchemists and royal engineers (and also educators and also royal librarians... like jesus christ the ecosystem is gonna fall apart without them at this point istg)

At some point accidentally hurt their parental figures (with a creation of their own making) because they wanted to prove themselves but also deep down they just only wanted to help

They're actually both good with kids, something something it stemming from them wanting to give other kids the things (like emotional support, verbal affirmations, self-love, etc) they didnt get to have when they were their age :'}

A pair of massive fuckin workaholics when they got a project they're intensely passionate about to get done (send help please tell them to get some fuckin sleep, drag them away from their lab i'm begging 😭)

Both are stubborn af when they feel so strongly about their convictions/what they believe in and often acts upon it, which is a trait that they totally gravitated immensely towards each other

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 5: WITH MORE ANSWERS COME MORE QUESTIONS

synopsis: you visit the library and have a breakthrough with viktor.

word count: 3.4k

ships: Viktor/isekai!Reader, Jayce Talis & isekai!Reader

notes: panting and covered in sweat IM BACK

ABoAB taglist: @th3stup1dcat , @patchs-curiosity-corner (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

A BLAZE OF ARCANE BLUE MASTERLIST

The book – whose title you translated as Grace of Janna or Curse of Tahm Kench?: The Mystery of Author Jameson Farrell – isn’t all that helpful. There are a number of passages of Farrell’s writing in the original English he wrote them in, but not a lot. Most of the text is written in Piltovan… unshockingly.

The most complete passage written in total English is the introduction to a musical Farrell wrote. Or was in the process of writing? It’s not entirely clear.

From how fast and loose Farrell was playing with the spelling, you can guess that it was written somewhere before the 19th century. It was probably somewhere in the ballpark of the late 1700s, when it was a generous estimate to say that around half of the population was literate.

There are a few identifiable characters: Henry Teller, Robert Rackett, and Cassie Haversham. (Though Farrell took the liberty of spelling Henry’s last name as ‘Tella,’ and Robert’s last name as ‘Rackitt.’) The text is abruptly cut off in the middle of Cassie’s verse and none of the text after that is in English – most likely just analyses of the musical written in Piltovan, pondering what Henry meant when he said that there was a “missing baby found in spider’s web,” or if they translated it accurately at all.

Can’t you have just one thing? Or is it fucked up that you continue to grow hungry when this feast has been placed in front of you? You have half a mind to pray to Christ, to Buddha, to Allah, to Waheguru, to Brahman, to whatever other gods are out there to let you have just one thing: a complete connection to your world. The flashback and the incomplete text aren’t enough – you need more.

Is it greedy? Yes. Is it sinful to be this selfish? Undoubtedly. But you were already going to hell anyway, for one reason or another. You doubt this will count much in the wall of text that is every transgression you’ve committed against God.

But in a way, the book is a comfort. Someone before you has gone through this. Yes, the person that went through it was a British man from the 1700s, but he still went through it. You’re desperate and grasping for connections, but you quiet that rational part of your brain and continue searching.

And what better way to search than in a library? You’re well-versed in the importance of public libraries, but the private one on the Academy campus squashes nearly every other library you’ve seen, both in beauty and sheer amount of knowledge.

Your footsteps echo as you walk the main corridor of the library. There are other people here, but most of them have their heads buried in books, either studying or researching.

The woman behind the book checkout desk sits tall and imposing, far more intense than any other librarian you’ve seen. She looks down her nose at you through her glasses.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” you say softly, minding the quietness around you. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but do you have any information on Jameson Farrell?”

The librarian stands and turns to the many filing cabinets behind her. She runs a nail across the metal, looking at each label, then opens one. Her fingers deftly sort through the many files, then she pulls one out and reads off the paper inside.

“Farrell, Jameson… Fine Arts. All his work is classified under Foreign Literature.” The librarian looks over at you. “Can you find that yourself?”

“Uh, no, ma’am,” you say. “I’m afraid not. I’ve never been in this library before.”

She snaps her fingers at a woman reading at a nearby table. “Swan-ee! Show them to the Foreign Literature section.”

Swan-ee, a short and stout woman, pops up from her seat, sliding a bookmark between the pages and closing her book. She gestures for you to follow her, and you do so after thanking the librarian.

You look around as you follow Swan-ee. The shelves holding the books are at least three times as tall as you, and you’re pretty sure you’re passing through the academics section (just judging by how big it is). Leaning ladders are littered about, each attached to the ground on a rail.

Swan-ee turns a corner and the section she guides you into is much smaller than the academics section. It’s still huge, but not as big as the section you just passed through.

“Here we are,” Swan-ee says, her voice quiet and babyish. “You were looking for Jameson Farrell’s work, right?”

“That’s right,” you say. “I was hoping maybe I could get a direct copy of his works? Not a translated version, or one critiquing it.”

“Don’t you know?” She looks over her shoulder at you, then starts scanning the labels on the spines of the books. “Most of his work was destroyed when he killed himself in that fire.”

Your face drops and you can feel your stomach twist. “Right. The fire.”

“Oh.” Swan-ee makes a face and glances at you out of the corner of her eye. “You didn’t know. Sorry.”

“Ain’t your fault,” you sigh.

“We do have one of his surviving works in storage,” she says. “If you want to see it.”

You feel your heart skip a beat and nod quickly. “Yes, please. If you’d be so kind.”

She turns and holds her hand out. “I’d just have to see your student ID.”

All the wind is taken out of your sails and you sigh. “I don’t have one. I’m, um… I’m helping Viktor and Jayce with their research. I guess I can’t get one since I’m not a student?”

Swan-ee’s eyes light up and she seems really excited for some reason. One of her feet tap rapidly against the floor and she looks up at you with big eyes.

“You’re the Americanite?” She asks, her voice hushed.

You smile embarrassedly and rock back on your heels. “Uh, yeah. I am.”

Swan-ee takes a large gasp of breath, smiling so wide it looks like her face is about to split. “Wow! What’s it like?”

“It?” You echo. “What?”

“America,” she says, her voice just as hushed. “Living in America.”

“It’s nice,” you say. “Most of the folk you come across are friendly, ‘specially in the South. There’s different religions, different cultures… lots of differences that a lot of people tend to enjoy.”

“What’s the food like?” Swan-ee turns and starts walking. You follow.

“Amazin’,” you say without hesitation. “Every animal you can shoot, every fish you can catch, every plant that grows – someone’s found a way to make it taste good.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I remember readin’ ‘bout someone down in Florida cookin’ up a feast for the displaced after a hurricane. Somethin’ about… shrimp, gumbo, grits, a load of seafood boil.”

“That’s so cool,” Swan-ee says, like you just recounted Jesus’ second coming down to the last detail. “Maybe I should visit the Florida coast…”

“Just be careful in the summer,” you say. “Sunburns can get real bad down there.”

She nods, then comes to a stop in front of a door. You didn’t really pay attention to your surroundings while you were talking. You’re still in the library, but there’s not a lot of people around – just you and Swan-ee.

“Where are we?” You ask, suddenly a lot more cautious.

“Storage.” Swan-ee fishes a keyring from out of her pocket and starts to sort through them. “I figured it must be important if the Americanite is asking, so… Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“I won’t,” you say. “I swear on my life.”

She opens the door and ushers you through. Inside is a room, well-lit by electric lights rather than natural lighting. There’s a wall of shelves neatly packed together. The shelves are all on a rail so that they can move freely, but now, they’re side-by-side. Each section is labeled in Piltovan.

You walk forward and push one of the shelving units to the side. It rolls on the rail, revealing rows and rows of books.

“Woah,” you breathe. “Ain’t that something?”

“Mister Farrell’s work is over here,” Swan-ee says. “But you can look around all you want.”

“No, I don’t wanna take up any more of your time,” you say. “You’re bein’ generous enough as is.”

You walk over to where she’s standing in front of a table with a glass cover. Inside is a journal, eaten away and disfigured by fire. You lean down and try to read the writing on the page it’s open to.

ROBERT (cont’d) TRY’D TO EARN AN HONEST BOB BUT A BOB IS JUS A ROBERT & A ROBERTS JUS A ROBB’R TO A T

You translate the poor spelling to readable English in your head – “Tried to earn an honest bob / But a bob is just a Robert / And a Robert’s just a robber to a tee.”

You bite the inside of your lip and suppress a sigh. You’ve read it before, in that book Viktor gave you. It’s the original, but it’s nothing new.

“D’you have any more documents like this?” You ask without taking your eyes off the journal. “That’re written in this language, I mean.”

“I think so,” Swan-ee says. She turns away and starts sifting through the metal filing cabinets that hold the storage index.

You go back to reading. Everything you can see without reaching under the glass and flipping the page is something you’ve read before. It feels like a loop, almost. You find something, you hit a dead end. You work your way around the dead end and find something again. You hit a dead end. 

Swan-ee breaks your concentration – “Over here! I’ve found something.”

You hurry over and take the papers that Swan-ee’s holding out. A cursory glance tells you that it’s written in English and rather long.

“It’s a copy of a diary, from…” She squints at the Piltovan label. “Morgan Yu.”

“May I check this out?” You ask. You secretly hope that it’s in storage just because people weren’t checking it out and not because it’s restricted material.

“Sure. It’s just a copy,” she says. “I can always make another.”

“Are you sure?” You ask. “I don’t wanna be a bother…”

“It’s nothing!” Swan-ee insists. She smiles and looks to the side, almost bashful. “Besides, you’re the Americanite. Miss Tian – the head librarian – she won’t even notice before I replace it. Just take it.”

You smile and nod. “Thank you, Swan-ee. I won’t forget this.”

“You – um.” Her smile grows bigger and her ears start to turn red. “It’s no problem!”

“I’ll see you later,” you say. You turn and head towards the exit to the main library.

Swan-ee calls after you: “Uh, y-yeah! I’ll see you.”

You feel like bashing your head into a wall.

Viktor took pictures of the cipher in your dorm and copied it onto a blackboard in the lab. That’s not the part that’s frustrating. Morgan Yu’s writing is what’s frustrating you.

“Read it again,” Viktor says.

You stand from the workbench and walk aimlessly as you read what Morgan wrote out loud.

“This is not meant as a distress signal, nor is this a cry for help. It is simply my thoughts, and I am writing them as they come to me and as I see fit.

My name is Morgan Yu. I’m the vice president and Director of Research of TranStar Industries. I’m from the year 2035, and I live on Talos I – a research station that orbits the moon. I’m now in a kingdom named Demacia. I don’t recall how I got here or when I did. I woke up cradled between two boughs of a tree similar to oak, which is something I haven’t experienced since I was enrolled in college.

The people here take pride in their isolationism and militaristic tendencies. They viewed me with suspicion – rightfully so – and have locked me in a cell for the time being. Although I don’t agree with their decision, I respect it.

From what I hear from other prisoners, Demacia is on the decline. The Nobles are trying to prevent Prince Jarvan from ascending to kinghood. They want the throne for themselves and the Prince must fight them to take what is rightfully his.

I hear nothing of my old world. The prisoners don’t react when I tell them of the Earth, the singular moon, and other things intrinsic to my universe. They say I’m crazy and that my trial will come soon. I don’t know what I’m being tried for. I don’t think that my right to a fair and unbiased trial will hold much water here.

Back home, I’d already made my peace regarding death and what comes after. But what afterlife is there here, for someone who’s drifted so far?”

You look up from the first photocopy of Morgan’s diary. “He’s from the future, Viktor. And with the spelling and the reference to an unbiased trial, I think he’s from my future – my America.”

Viktor stands, leaning on his cane as he takes the first page from you. He looks it over with something like amazement written all over his face. You know he can’t even begin to try to read it, but he’s amazed all the same.

“This is a great revelation,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

“I just wish we knew more,” you say. “Someone drops in from nowhere and you ain’t the slightest bit curious? It doesn’t track – it doesn’t make sense.”

“What if I send a message to Demacia requesting access to records kept on Morgan?” Viktor asks. “My modern Demacian is not that strong, but I can try.”

“Please do.” You move over to the workbench, where books and journals are littered about.

You sit in Jayce’s chair and pull your legs up so you’re in a more comfortable position. You prop your head up with a fist and look over one of the last pages in Morgan’s diary.

It’s a drawing Morgan did of himself. It’s rather crude and geometric, more math than art, but you can still discern distinguishing features – upturned eyes, thin lips, a five o’clock shadow and black hair cut short. One of his eyes is bloodshot and red, and a note to the side accredits the cause as a repeated procedure called an “apto-regressive neurotomy.” Whatever that means.

“Does Yu’s work reference Farrell at all?” Viktor asks.

“I don’t think so.” You flip through the loose pages, skimming over Morgan’s handwriting (which is so small and neat it could be a font), and shake your head. “No. There’s… Alex, January, a whole bunch of others, but no Jameson.”

There’s the sound of chalk meeting a blackboard behind you. You turn in the chair to see Viktor drawing a long line, along with shorter lines running parallel to the main line.

“What the hell are you doin’?” You ask.

“Trying to… establish…” He makes a few marks along the lines. “A timeline.”

You stand and move to be by Viktor, trying to decipher what’s been written without him having to explain it. You can’t.

“This one is Farrell’s time.” He points to the top line. Then, he points to them in descending order: “Our shared reality, your original reality, and then Yu’s.”

“What’s with the markings?” You ask.

“They represent when someone was transported to Runeterra,” Viktor says. He draws a line connecting every line except his. “I believe that you, Yu, and Farrell’s realities are more closely related to each other than to this reality. So far, you all have referenced the planet as Earth instead of Runeterra – so you must have that in common, at the very least. Maybe…”

He mumbles to himself as he continues to write on the blackboard, the chalk making sharp sounds as he makes markers along the lines. A small smile spreads across your face as you take a step back and sit down. For a moment, you just watch him work – he’s so concentrated and so easily immersed in whatever happens to catch his eye. It’s impressive, and you would be lying if you said it wasn’t… you don’t know how to classify it. Cute? Sexy? Just attractive in general?

When you catch yourself thinking those kinds of thoughts, you scold yourself – you can’t be thinking about Viktor like that! He’s a stand-up guy who’s helping you the best he can. You need to check yourself and find a distraction before you do something inappropriate.

You go back to reading over Morgan’s diary: “Today is the third day since I woke up in Demacia. I want nothing more than to get the hell out of this primitive dungeon they call a jail.

Mom liked to tote around the quote ‘A coin a day makes a thousand coins in a thousand days. In time, a rope may saw through a tree, and dripping water can wear away stone.’ That’s by Zhang Guiya of the Southern Song Dynasty. I think we’re related somehow, but also I have reason to believe I’m related to Genghis Khan, so I’m not under the delusion that it matters much.

I find myself hating that quote more and more. I feel like the tree being roped down, or the stone being eroded. If Demacia has one thing on its side, it’s the ability to wear a man down – or maybe it’s the prison and the people in it. Maybe I’m wearing someone else down with my apparent insanity.

I also find myself missing home more and more. I haven’t thought about my family’s zupu in years, but here I am, wishing I was with Hao at the clan temple. Is he even the keeper of the book anymore? Does this universe experience time at a faster or slower rate than my home universe? Or would it be naive to assume that they operate the same, down to the millisecond?

I sincerely hope that this is a side effect of the neuromod removal. If this is going in a scientific paper – I’m referencing the repetitive apto-regressive neurotomy. The other scientists went in and scrambled my brain because of my insistence to continue the experiment… and maybe this is a side effect of that. I would hedge my bets on it being a prolonged seizure from serotonin flooding the brain, but I don’t know what to pin the visual hallucination on.

But then again, what do I know? I’m a doctor that runs experiments in a laboratory, not a doctor that treats human patients.”

You stare at the two last paragraphs Morgan wrote, then read them again to make sure you weren’t hallucinating yourself. Morgan was… experimenting on himself. Or – he was having other people experiment on him, messing up his brain somehow.

In other words, he was in a somewhat altered state when he was transported to Demacia. It hits you like a truck.

“Viktor!” You stand quickly, almost toppling the chair over. “Viktor, you gotta listen to this.”

He turns and looks at you, his eyebrows drawn together from your sudden outburst. Without taking your eyes off the paper, you blindly grab for the chalk in his hand. You grab his wrist, then fumble through finding the chalk in his grip and take it from him.

You round the other side of the blackboard and erase the cipher between Piltovan and English with your sleeve. You don’t really care that you wiped away what Viktor tediously copied – you’re too excited, and besides, you can just help him write it later.

“Morgan’s brain was messed with.” You start to draw a mind map with idea bubbles and lines connecting them. “He had a lotta apto-regressive neurotomies. Now, I ain’t no scientist, but it sounds like he was resettin’ his brain back to a… specific point in time, maybe? Other words – he was in an altered state that I’m assumin’ didn’t get fixed before he came to Demacia.”

You start to draw arrows, denoting relationships and cause and effect. “I never thought it was relevant, but I was high off my ass the night I was transported. I… honestly plumb forgot with all the mess I’d created. So my workin’ theory is that I need to get back into that state to get home.”

You circle the bubble that says ‘crossfaded as fuck’ multiple times and turn to Viktor. “In conclusion, we need to get high as hell. For science.”

[thewordfortheday]

Titus 2:14 

He gave His life to free us from every kind of sin, to cleanse us, and to make us His very own people, totally committed to doing good deeds.

You don’t have to live with guilt, regret, or shame anymore. Too many people are stuck with memories from their past that they can’t get over. Either you’ve been hurt and have resentment or you’ve hurt someone else and you have guilt. God doesn’t want you to carry that heavy baggage throughout your life. He wants you to be free. 

That is why He carried your sin, sickness and shame on the cross of Calvary.

Christ Jesus paid a debt that I could never pay. Jesus paid it all!

[fenrysmoonbeamswife]

Okay okay okay I don't know if this will even make sense or just sound dramatic or like rambling so bare with me I guess

I keep seeing people saying "oh you don't think reading should be made political but you read books like ACOTAR and xyz?" and while I totally get the point and agree with it, let's just look at this particular example for a second because it's completely unsurprising.

Let's be real, the majority of the people who read ACOTAR praise the "inner circle". They see them as the good guys, the best of the best, "goals", whatever. It has gotten to the point that it's almost cult-like, I mean I've seen people who haven't even read the books already in love with the inner circle just because fans basically convince them to be.

Anyway, even just their name is already starting off bad, the inner circle? By actual definition an inner circle is a curated group who move in the same circle. AKA the elite few chosen out of complete bias by the leader (not for any particular care for their people or political savvy because we know they have none of that) just because they're "besties"

This particular inner circle consists of

1. A man who has committed sexual assault, abuse, war crimes, murder and more. Has quite literally segregated his own people and abandoned 2/3s of his court. Knows about and allows the unrelenting physical, mental and sexual abuse of the women and children he is responsible for. Locked up survivors of sexual abuse and uses them for free labour and pretended it was some sort of charity.

2. A man who obliterated a village because of his own rage. Committed physical and emotional abuse and sexual harassment. Takes some sort of pleasure out of seeing women in pain.

3. A literal torturer (granted he doesn't seem to actually enjoy his job but he still does it)

4. A woman who abandoned all of the other women who are abused the way she was even though she's quite literally in charge of the place. Who also said that a woman at her worst mentally after severe trauma should be punished by being put with her abusers.

5. And literally a 1000+ year old ex-inmate of the Prison. Baring in mind we don't know why she was in the Prison, she wasn't pardoned or anything similar she escaped so she is still a criminal as far as we know and she is the nastiest skank ass bitch ever so I can only assume she did something horrific based on everything she's ever said. Ever. (this is mostly a Mean Girls joke because Rhysand is literally a Regina George wannabe but also Amren is the nastiest skank ass bitch)

These are the same people who are pretty racist towards Illyrians, make borderline vicious animals out of Illyrian men and allow them to do as they please so that they have disposable pawns to fight their wars and have left the Illyrian women and children to be abused by them. The same people who have decided that the entirety of Hewn city are abusive, not that there could possibly be any other women or children in similar situations to Mor. The same people who, while they build their *checks notes* fifth mansion, tear down buildings for funsies because they can't abuse whoever they want to use their powers. The same people who got pissed off about someone *double checks notes* saving another world and their own.

I'm sorry (not) but the same people who support and adore and worship these characters are typically the ones who "don't want to bring politics into reading" and say things like "it's just fiction". It isn't just fiction. There is no such thing as just fiction.

Reading will always be political. And I'm using ACOTAR as an example because I'm seeing it used and found it ironic in a way but christ nearly every fantasy book if not literally every fantasy book out there has politics that can be directly correlated to our own. I mean I always say that if someone told me that different people wrote ACOTAR and Throne of Glass I would believe them but at the same time that's mostly a joke because of how drastically different they are. I found Throne of Glass so deep, so much more focused on the underdog, the seemingly smaller stories that add up the the bigger picture, the end result of everyone not just the select few (the inner circle). Don't get me wrong, there are problems with it but a lot of them are called out in the writing and you can see that for the most part it's the writing of a young dreamer. And then you have ACOTAR and it's just so privileged and biased and trying so hard to tell you that the elite are at some sort of disadvantage and like basically you could convince me it was written by a straight white man with 0 effort.

Moral of the story is, when someone like SJM uses Breonna Taylors death to hype up her own book, it's not just fiction. When SJM who very clearly self inserts into ACOTAR and puts her own beliefs that she's taken from the real world into these stories that she writes, it's not just fiction. When she takes real world examples of abuse and privilege and segregation and misogyny and whatever fucking else and puts them into her stories, it's not just fiction. When what you're reading directly correlates to or effects your own political beliefs, it's not just fiction. When what you're reading can be translated to the real world in a scarily realistic way, it's not just fiction. When we could wake up tomorrow and be in the exact same situations we read about, it's not just fiction. Fiction is fiction sure, but it will always be based on real life. There is only so much the imagination can do, it needs a base point and that is the real world. So it is never just fiction

[imaginespazzi]

Alright it's time to bracket yap!

Spokane 1

First of all, I would like to once again reiterate that I called UCLA being the #1 overall seed and as much as the media wants to push the narrative that it wasn't deserved, it very much was and I've already explained why.

I think UCLA should come out of this bracket pretty unscathed, mainly because I just don't really see anyone who has the size to contain Betts but having said that if LSU is fully healthy (and can overcome both FSU and NC State) then, I think they would be the ones I would most expect to upset UCLA.

Upsets I see in this regions:

#5 Ole Miss over #4 Baylor - not really a major upset because it's just 4 over 5 but Baylor doesn't move me (I've barely watched them) and I think Coach Yo is pissed about not hosting and that'll reflect in their fire.

#6 FSU over #3 LSU and #2 NC State - so I didn't pick this in my main bracket but I did pick it in a couple of my "just for funsies" brackets because this absolutely could happen and it wouldn't shock me but I don't know if I necessary am fully committed to believing it will. I'm definitely rooting for it though!

#10 Harvard over #7 Michigan State - in Harmoni Turner I trust periodt.

Birmingham 2

Idk what SC or their coach is complaining about because jesus fucking christ if this isn't the easiest region and SC is gonna walk out of this with absolutely no issue. Maybe if a team gets really hot? But yeah I don't see how anyone but SC ends up winning this regions.

Upsets I see in this region:

#5 Alabama over #4 Maryland and #9 Indiana over #8 Utah - again not really "upsets" per say but I feel more confident about the lower-ranked teams in these matchups

#14 Oregon State over #3 UNC and #6 West Virginia - this is a vibes pick because I just really want Oregon State to make a run for it

#7 Vanderbilt over #2 Duke - listen I understand Duke made hell of a run in the ACC tournament and their defense is something wonderful but I'mma bet on Khamil Pierre and Mikaylah Blakes and their offense

Birmingham 3

So I was convinced that Texas would be the #4 overall and USC would be #3 but you know, in hindsght maybe don't lose to an unranked team Lindsey and you wouldn't be losing your damn mind feeling disrespect over being one spot lower than expected.

This is the bracket of death and is absolutely the hardest region to win and I expect it to be total mayhem if we're honest.

Upsets I see in this region:

#9 Creighton over #8 Illinois and then #1 Texas - call me insane, call me delusional but if Creighton gets hots from 3? They absolutely could beat Texas and their stagnant as hell offense.

#12 USF over #5 Tennessee and then #4 Ohio State - am I convinced this will happen? Not necessarily. But do I believe it could? Absolutely.

#6 Michigan over #3 Notre Dame - is this driven by hatred? Why yes, yes it is. But do I also fully believe this could happen because ND's defense can be tragic and if they make dumb decisions on offense which they have been Michigan could easily capitalize on it? Yes, yes I do.

Spokane 4

This region is made for TV basically. At least two of these potential matchups are ratings-driven (and also revenge-driven) and it's interesting because I don't know if both of them are going to happen. But I also think a USC-UConn matchup wasted in the Elite 8 from a TV perspective is also not the smartest choice but what do I know.

Upsets I see in this region:

#12 Fairfield over #5 K-State - based solely on the fact that I don't know what the hell is happening with Ayoka Lee

#6 Iowa vs #3 Oklahoma - I've barely watched Oklahoma this year but this just feels like an upset waiting to happen and I would like to get revenge on Iowa and Paige fucking hates Lucy Olsen

#10 South Dakota State over #7 Oklahoma State - South Dakota State has been here before, knows how to win here and I don't know much about Oklahoma State but I do know they're live and die by the three and I think this is gonna be a die situation

#4 Kentucky over #1 USC - so I don't necessarily have this one picked out on my main bracket either but I just think Georgia Amoore. That's all.

It's gonna be a fun March Madness you guys and like I always say, I want upset, I want chaos and I want UConn to win the damn thing :)

[fruitcoops]

Hopelessly Devoted

O'Knutzy Week Prompt C2: "Hello, There". Prompts by @oknutzy-week-2024, and characters (of course) (with love) by @lumosinlove <3

TW for joking mentions of romance-novel smut

Leo had never seen someone work as hard as Finn O’Hara. He saw it in the straight line of Finn’s back and the solid set of his shoulders, even when he was calm. He saw it in everything he did—in love and, up until recently, in hockey. He was unequivocal dedication, embodied.

He was sure Finn would say the same about him; he was sweet like that, pretty face and prettier words that were always so honest they made Leo’s ribs hurt with the pounding of his heart. Finn liked to call him brave. Leo had started believing it after the last decade had proven it true in more ways than he cared to count.

And, Christ, Leo counted everything. Endless cycles of goals-assists-saves-loss-win-horror-victory that left him bolting upright at two o’clock in the morning well into his first season of retirement. Netminders kept perfect track of the game and every player coming at them. Remus’ mental playbook of every player in the NHL was only uncanny because he was out of the goal. Leo still remembered the tics and tells of most everyone he’d ever faced.

But what was there to count, now? Beautiful mornings? Those happened every day, though he hadn’t been awake for sunrise in three blessed years. Exotic vacations? He had a wonderful time on their honeymoon (all three of them), but he’d always prefer visiting one of their families.

The pan sizzled softly when he flipped the bagel with a practiced flick of the wrist. Leo smiled to himself. Maybe he should start counting Finn’s annual bacon-egg-and-cheese total. He’d probably come up with the same number if he bought a calendar and ticked the days by hand.

Finn’s commitment to his mid-morning snack was rivaled only by his unwavering passion for bodice-ripper novels, and the evidence of said passion filled their kitchen with a flurry of furious clicking while Leo slid the bagel carefully onto a plate.

See, Leo thought it was a joke, at first. A funny little prank Finn was playing on his new rookie roommate, tucking raunchy paperbacks into the bookshelf between Brontë and Dickens to make him blush. Har-dee-har-har, you got me, I’m such a prude.

Finn had not been joking.

And then it was endearing, like all the other Finn-isms of which he was so fond. It was just…such a silly hobby for an athlete—a former frat boy, no less!—to have in an environment like the NHL. It felt absurdly right that Finn, with his big smile and open heart, would unabashedly love books with oil-paint cover art of a lady fainting into the arms of a conveniently topless bodybuilder. Leo had tucked it into his heart and let it lie.

Finn retired.

Finn was utterly horrific at sitting still.

Finn started with Marie Adkins’ 1942 classic A Rogue for a Lady and ended with Eleanora Zimmerman’s yet-unpublished installment of Zoe Cross’ Cross-Continental Affairs: Volume III, officially clearing the romance collections of all three public libraries near them. His whoop of joy when Ms. Zimmerman answered his email inquiry with a PDF of her manuscript had startled Logan so bad he spilled coffee across the kitchen island and into his lap.

But reading—devouring—the books wasn’t enough. Finn’s systematic rip-through of every literary soap opera he could get his hands on came with an elaborate Goodreads account as well as a nightly debrief.

Leo fucking loved it. Listening to Finn parse out his opinions like an Ivy League lecturer quickly became the best part of his day, especially when the season wound down. It was permanence and consistency while his head whirled with thoughts of this one, just this one single last year and then I’ll really be done, this time for sure. Finn loved hockey like everything else: with no holds barred. He left it, and he was okay. More than okay—he was thriving.

But no hobby was without its faults.

So fucking stupid, Finn had muttered with a sharp shake of his head. I just can’t. It’s a disappointing plot and, worst of all, it’s poorly paced.

Leo and Logan had shared a look across their spaghetti. Finn could give no greater insult to books known for their overdramatic style than ‘poorly paced’.

Well, Logan had said, carefully, almost casually. We all know you’d write it better.

Damn right I would, was Finn’s forceful answer as he stabbed a noodle onto his fork.

Then do it.

Leo had to admit even now that he hadn’t expected that. Perhaps he should have, from Logan. There’s an issue? Solve it. His ‘no more running, no more bullshit’ oath when they were first starting latched into most things he did.

Finn had wavered about it for three days. Once (and only once) he nudged Leo awake at 7:30 in the morning, still sweaty from his run, to ask him if he thought publishing under his real name was a bad idea. He had been forced to mull that one over on his own when Leo banned him from post-shower, mid-coffee cuddles for the crime of dripping sweat onto his pillow.

Finn decided to start writing a book on a Thursday morning in the middle of March, bought a new notebook and a nice pen, and promptly didn’t write a word until his birthday in August.

I’m a failure, he had moaned into Leo’s chest, half-suffocated by the thick fabric of his hoodie. I’m so stupid.

No, baby, you’re not stupid, Leo had soothed. It was a little hard to breathe with the full weight of him splayed useless across Leo’s body, but that was nothing new.

I’ll never write a word. I’m cursed to keep reading forever and being mad about shitty romance with bad, boring characters. The 70s did it best.

Leo remembered sighing in sympathy. But they’re all straight.

But they’re all fucking straight! Finn had groaned. He didn’t move from his puddle of misery and writer’s block until Logan came home and knocked on the back of his head with a pack of pre-sharpened pencils and a cow-print composition book.

Goodreads reviews became graphite smudged on Finn’s hands and cheeks. Small spiral notebooks cropped up around the house, and eventually settled as Finn’s stalwart companions on his morning jogs. When the pencils wore down to nubs, he bought the crappiest pen Leo had ever seen in his life—when that ran dry, he bought another, and a third, and then all the notebooks grew into a teetering tower on Finn’s desk overnight.

A stapler followed, and red pens.

March rolled around again and the tapping of Finn’s laptop became a comforting ‘hello’ when Leo came home from practice. Finn didn’t talk about his book, but Leo didn’t mind. As long as Finn was happy, he could be patient, even if curiosity chewed at him day and night.

When do I get to read it? Leo had finally begged in the heat of June, turning over in bed four nights after his final NHL game. He was restless already and hardly sleeping. He needed something other than endings to occupy his mind.

Finn had smiled at him. The point of his nose pressed to Leo’s. I sent the manuscript out last week. The first copy is yours, Peanut.

Leo had kissed him for that most thoroughly.

“Hello, there.”

Leo smiled into a hidden freckle behind his ear and wrapped his arms around Finn’s chest, giving him a squeeze. “Hey.”

“This for me?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Yeah.” Finn’s head rested back on his shoulder. Leo took the weight happily. “But not really. Ugh, my eyes hurt.”

“Wear your glasses.”

“I wore them yesterday.”

“Didn’t realize they had a recharge time.”

“You know, plastic and glass can be really high-tech these days.”

Leo covered Finn’s eyes with one palm; his lashes fluttered and his chest shook with a laugh. “Glasses,” he insisted, dragging his hand up to Finn’s forehead to tilt his face all the way up and meet his gaze. “Keep this shit up and I’m not putting special sauce on your bagel sandwiches anymore.”

Finn’s soft doe eyes went bright. “What special sauce?”

Leo quirked a brow at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“C’mon, that’s not—”

“Glasses or I eat it and you never, ever get to try it.”

Finn gasped. “You’re starving me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Fucker.”

“You’re just mad yours never turn out as good as mine.”

“Poltergeist.”

“It’s because you don’t heat the pan enough.”

“I do!” Finn protested, sitting up and turning sideways in his chair to face him. “I did everything right when you showed me. It doesn’t taste right.”

Leo shrugged. “You’re cursed. Sucks to suck.”

Finn groaned and thumped his forehead against Leo’s collarbone. The hair at the back of his head was soft when Leo scratched through it; the muscles of Finn’s neck relaxed on a slow exhale.

“Same or new?”

“New,” Finn mumbled.

Leo hummed. For three weeks, he had been waiting for Finn to scatter his attention to the handful of ideas that had been left in the void. He refused to send books to his publisher until he could read them aloud to his captive audience of two without turning five shades of red and blowing a frustrated raspberry at the draft. Many had not yet passed that test. “From your list?”

“Nah.”

He nuzzled his nose into the top of Finn’s head. “ ‘S it about, then?”

“A prince.” Finn raised his head slightly. A kiss found the neckline of Leo’s shirt. “And a knight.” A second alit on his bicep, lingering long enough to feel his lips move. “And the sun.”

“That’s cheating,” Leo whispered through his smile. “You’re not supposed to write about us.”

“The New York Times bestseller list disagrees.” Finn lifted his head. His nose scrunched. Confidence rouged his cheeks, and Leo wasn’t a writer, but he’d pen poetry about that any time. “My self-imposed rules can wait. I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Finn raised his eyebrows and leaned close like he had a secret. The plate with his cooling sandwich chimed at a tap from his pen. “It’s funny. Something tells me they’re gonna end up together in the end.”

Leo looked at him for a long moment, then darted a kiss to the bridge of Finn's nose. "Are you putting porn in it?"

"Are you going to let me eat my bacon-egg-and-cheese with the special sauce that you made because you love me so much and you think I'm so cute and sexy?"

"Yes."

"Sunshine, I will write all the porn you want."

"Hmm." Leo let his eyes drift to the laptop screen (just a little peek, a tiny one, not even a real spoiler) but Finn's hand lowered it before he could catch more than a glimpse. He made a disgruntled noise and straightened. Foiled again. "Wear your glasses and I'll make you one tomorrow, too."

[licncourt]

Sorry if this is kinda a weird question but ur most recent fic got me thinking

What do you think human/early vampirism Louis’ relationship with sex was? There are so many different takes on it (namely ‘94’s inclusion of him with a prostitute vs. others’ complete abstinence)

I was wondering what you typically imagine this relationship as, especially with what you put in the fic

I love a weird question, it’s my favorite kind actually!! Especially when it’s about Louis doing his behaviors.

There are a couple answers to this that I enjoy! The main one is that Lestat was the first man he’d been with in any capacity, but that he’d had sex with women to prove something and in attempts to like. DIY conversion therapy. I tend to assume they were prostitutes because it’s a very transactional situation. Quick, easy and she’s being paid not to laugh at him, so no worries about wooing any girls or being talked about among peers. If he embarrasses himself then he can just run away into the night. I can’t imagine those encounters went very well considering he was drunk and gay but I think he was trying it.

He seems pretty susceptible to attractive men even under questionable circumstances so as a kid and teenager, I always picture a boycrazy little cow-eyed freak who falls in love with every boy who’s nice to him and maybe even some that aren’t. Suffering like Christ at boarding school surrounded by cute guys who want to roughhouse and swim naked. Also it feels very possible that his family was a little bit onto him, except Paul who was oblivious.

This isn’t my main theory, but I also like the possibility that he had some guy at school that he was playing gay chicken with. I don’t believe that went anywhere, but if it did, it was a little kiss and fumble situation that ended abruptly for one reason or another (bf moves away, someone was suspicious of them, whatever).

He also strikes me as an early bloomer and then pathological masturbator mainly because he tries to not do it all ever for any reason and the not doing it at all makes him even more obsessed. Same vibe he brings to blood drinking. There’s this Tiktok I screenshotted and sent to Daniel once that was like “remembering I didn’t know not to hump the couch in front of my parents when I was 8” and it made me laugh so fucking hard because I thought of Louis.

Early in vampire living seems like it would have been a pretty tumultuous time in Louis’ sex life, whether it’s human sex or blood sex. Regardless, what I kind of included in my fic is what I would imagine was going on for him. Maximum turbo horniness but also a total commitment to abstinence that has him slingshotting back and forth pretty much daily or hourly.

Really the sky’s the limit here, he’s such a weirdo. I will say though, the one thing I’ll stand firm on is that he doesn’t have virgin energy to me. It just isn’t the type of loser that he is. Also, if he was I feel like Lestat would have brought it up at some point. Same rationale for why I believe Lestat about his height, Louis would have told us if he was short.