#What did you have to go through or have as an example to think mass genocide is you being the hero??

[hanzajesthanza]

you guys… we did it!!!

just wanted to thank you everyone for being a part of this blog… “big things to come soon”

[flowery-king]

Idk what type of denial I'm in but the defanged au is a fucking Philip redemption au what was I on to be constantly reassuring people it's not a redemption plot lmao open your EYES Flowery

[mammonsrockstargf]

Your most recent Luci fic—the one w the priest—is really good!

Not sure if you take requests rn, but I would love it if you could write something similar. For example, a fic about Luci with an ex-Catholic lover? Or maybe a lover who used to be a nun?

(I’m ex-Catholic, now agnostic-leaning-towards-atheist & when I was Catholic, I was in postulancy—training to be a nun—but…things happened lol)

hi, anon, thank you! <3 i'm glad you liked it. and wow, that sounds like quite the religious journey! i hope that you find something that makes sense for you. <3 i'm both baptized and confirmed in the protestant church but i'm an atheist now. (obv not the same at all, but i somewhat getchu >:D)

here goes! i hope you like it. <33

When you're first teleported to the Devildom, your reaction is to say a prayer. It falls off your lips so easily. Call it old habits, call it shock. You're even surprised by it yourself, staring wide-eyed at Diavolo as the prayer slips your lips.

“Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”

Everyone is shocked. The prayer in itself doesn't really have that much of an effect, your dear god cannot save you here (not that you expected him to), but a deep shiver runs down Lucifer's back. It's safe to say he hasn't heard that prayer in a while.

As if isn’t enough that you just prayed for protection against the devil, the prayer that mindlessly slipped out of you is the prayer to the archangel Michael. It strikes a deep cord within Lucifer. He doesn’t blame you, per se, he’s just very very shocked.

He takes it like a challenge, even if he isn’t aware of it. He’ll question your faith constantly. You aren’t really interested in getting into your religious beliefs with this stranger, not to mention demon, who practically kidnapped you. So you just kind of ignore his questions or avoid them.

“Were you born into religion or did you find it later in life?”

“What?” You look at Lucifer tiredly, trying to bottle your annoyance. That’s the fifth question he’s asked today, despite you expertly avoiding his last four.

You’re in his office, seated at a chair in front of his desk. He pulled you in, saying you couldn’t leave until you did the homework you’d been skillfully neglecting. Lovely education reform.

“Were you born into religion or did-“ Lucifer begins to repeat. He seems rather immune to your annoyance, seemingly thinking his pursuit of your personal information is justified. You’ve come to find that Lucifer generally thinks that anything he does is completely justified.

“I heard you.” you interrupt and send him a tight-lipped smile. “I just didn’t want to answer you.” you follow up. Lucifer tilts his head to the side, red eyes piercing through you.

“Why not?” he asks. You sigh. Does this man never run out of questions? “You’re never going to get my approval if you don’t let me get to know you.” he lazily states, flipping some of the worksheets on his desk.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You really don’t wanna get into it but you do need his approval if you want to help the brothers and Belphegor…

“I was born into it. My parents are very religious,” you state while staring at your homework, not daring to make eye contact. It feels as though his eyes are burning holes into you. A small hum leaves Lucifer. “Very interesting, indeed,” he says, voice sounding almost melodic. When you finally look up at him, he’s grinning, while twirling his pen with his fingers. He thinks he’s won this round. Stupid prick.

Months later, when you’re lying in his bed with his arms wrapped around you, you finally breach the subject. “I was in postulancy for a while,” you say, completely out of the blue. You’re laying on his chest with his arm around your waist, the other caressing your hair.

You feel his body tensing underneath you for a few seconds before he softens again. You look up at him but he’s staring at the ceiling. “I practically grew up in the church. Mass every Sunday, youth choir every Tuesday, summer camp once a year…”

You lay your head on his chest again, looking at the wall. Lucifer doesn’t say anything, but his fingers move from your hair to rub soothing patterns into your back, encouraging you to continue. “It seemed the natural next step for me to become a nun. My entire community was the church. My parents were so proud as well. Their status in the church meant everything to them.”

A lump grows in your throat. “Sorry, I haven’t talked about this in so long, I’m rambling-“ you whisper. Lucifer's hand moves from your back to your chin, turning your head towards him. “Don’t apologize, little lamb. I am very proud of you for opening up to me,” he says and your breath slightly hitches. He smiles fondly at you and strokes your cheek. His smile then fades slowly. “It occurs to me that I haven’t been fair to you. I’m sorry that I was so insensitive when we met.”

You huff. “You were a dick,” Lucifer glares at you and pinches your cheek. “Now, now. I’ve admitted my faults, let’s not delve into it,” he says and you wince, gripping his hand and intertwining your fingers.

“Yeah, yeah, old man, I’ll consider if you deserve my forgiveness,” you say and settle your head on his chest again. A small chuckle vibrates through Lucifer before a comfortable silence falls over you.

“What made you change your mind? Why aren’t you a nun, my little lamb?” he asks after a while. You think for a while, looking at your intertwined hands. His thumb presses small circles into the back of your hand.

“It just didn’t feel right, I guess,” you mumble. Lucifer nods. “Well, I, for one, am glad you didn’t go through with it. It would all be terribly complicated if you were already in a relationship with my Father.”

You let out a surprised laughter and push yourself up so your face is directly over his. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing patterns into your bare skin, where your shirt has ridden up. “What a weird thing to say,” you giggle and Lucifer's brows furrow. “Well, it’s true-“ he begins, but your lips press to his before he can continue his weird family rambles. It’s a chaste kiss and you quickly press another to the corner of his lips and then one to his cheek and jaw.

After that, Lucifer is very gentle with you on the subject. He never prods or questions and only talks about it if you start the conversation. He'll even subtly change the topic if someone else brings it up. It's like a little secret between the two of you when he sends you confidential glances, making your heart flutter.

You're in a beautiful meadow. The sky is purple and you're wearing a heavy rosary with white beads around your neck. A pack of doves fly above you, circling like vultures. They begin diving for you, pecking you with their beaks, pulling at your skin and hair. You try to shield yourself with your arms, but it's useless against the many doves, plunging down. Their shrieks fill your ears and you cover your ears, but it's useless, the sound ringing in your head. You try to run, but the rosary has grown in size, pulling you down towards the ground. 

You wake with a fright, covered in sweat. Your breathing is heavy as you gasp for air. You put your face in your hands and run them through your hair. Your heart is beating harshly against your ribcage. Lucifer. You need to go to Lucifer. 

You stagger towards his room, weakly knocking on his door. "Come in," he sounds from the other side. You brace yourself against the door. "Lucy," you weakly say and the door immediately opens causing you to practically fall into him. 

In a flash, you're in his lap on his couch. He worriedly grabs your face and examines you. "What's wrong, my love?" he asks and you wrap your arms around him, sinking your face into the crook of his neck. "Nightmare," you mumble. You feel Lucifer physically relaxing underneath you as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel your heartbeat slowing, as you're finally able to relax again.

"Wanna tell me about it?" he asks and you explain your dream, voice muffled against his skin. His hand finds your collarbone and he pushes you, just far enough so he can press his forehead against your own. You pout and furrow your brows. "It was so real, I swear I can still feel their beaks on my skin." 

"Where do you feel it?" Lucifer asks and you shrug. "Everywhere..." His gaze is soft as he grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips. "You feel them here?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His lips trail up your arm. "Here?" he asks, eyes still on you. You nod and he presses a kiss to your arm. "Your shoulder as well?"

"Yes," Another kiss is pressed into your shoulder, then your collar bone, your neck, your jaw, your cheeks, your nose. You let out a giggle and he presses a last kiss to your forehead. "Did I miss anywhere?" he asks and you nod. His eyebrows raise. "Really? Where?" he ponders and you bring his thumb to your lips. "Here," you say and this time you're the one pressing a small kiss to his fingertip. 

"Oh," Lucifers says, eyes following your every move. He takes a sharp breath and pulls on your bottom lip. "We can't have that, now can we?" he says and you shake your head. He leans and kisses you and you kiss him back slowly. 

"Thank you, Lucy," 

"I'll always be here, my love,"

a/n: aaa thank you for reading, guys, i hope you liked this one!! you can find my other stuff here. <333

Divider by @/cafekitsune.

[cazzyf1]

pls tell me everything you know about the 1982 drivers strike i think about it often

Right I about to go into as much detail as possible about the driver's strike while hopefully keeping it comprehensible.

*cracks knuckles*

Let's go.

So to give some overall context to the situation, Bernie Ecclestone was doing some meddling. He had control over the Formula One Constructors Association (FOCA) which meant he could negotiate contracts between teams, track owners, television rights, etc. Realising the sort of power Bernie Ecclestone was getting, the Federation Internationale de I'Automobile (FIA) put Jean-Marie Balestre in charge. There was a big power struggle between these two however both Ecclestone and Balestre united against the drivers in 1982.

At the start of the 1982 season, a new license called a 'super license' was put forward for the drivers to sign. This license was based on other sports, like football's transfer systems, meaning the drivers had fewer rights - their team owners essentially owned them. For example, the super licence meant a team could keep drivers to one team for up to three years, even if the drivers wanted to leave. This happened after, in 1981, Alain Prost was racing for McLaren, and he became convinced that the car wasn't safe. He refused to drive for the team, though he had a contract. He said if necessary, he would walk away from the sport altogether. Then Renault approached Alain Prost, and he joined them. A new license was created to prevent this situation from happening again.

1982 was also the season that (at the time) 2x World Champion Niki Lauda decided to come out of retirement. In 1979 he had been racing for Bernie Ecclestone's team 'Brabham', but halfway through the season, he walked away, finding no more interest in the sport. Eventually Ron Dennis, who ran the team 'Mclaren' tempted Niki back into the sport.

Niki was sent the super license a few days before the start of the season to sign, and being a stickler for detail he made sure to read through all of it. In reading it, Niki realised the control the team owners would have over the drivers and did not approve of it. Quickly, he rang up Didier Pironi who was head of the drivers association, to talk him through what he had found. Didier agreed that these licenses were bad and then called all the other drivers, telling them not to sign the licence. They had been late though, as 24 had technically already signed as they hadn't properly read the licence. The only ones that hadn't were Lauda, Pironi, Villeneuve who had seen something similar in ice hockey and didn't like it, Arnoux, Giacomelli and de Cesaris.

In South Africa, Kyalami the track was prepared for the drivers to start practising, and the drivers were arriving in their normal cars. But before they could get out on track, a bus pulled up with Niki Lauda and Pironi in it. Without their knowledge, Niki and Didier had managed to borrow a bus from Trevor Rowe and were ready to take the drivers back to their hotel at the Kyalami Ranch. They rounded up all the drivers and told them of their plans, and while they were hesitant, eventually, most of them were convinced to get onto the bus. Only two didn't. Jochen Mass, who was late (He's always late, someone said) and Jacky Ickx.

The team owner of March, John McDonald, caught wind of what was happening and tried to prevent the bus from leaving by parking a van in front of the bus. Jacques Laffite got out of the bus to move the van, accidentally stalled it, but eventually got it out of the way. The bus then set off, taking the scenic route back to the Sunnyside Park Hotel while every news van and car chased after the bus, getting clips of Niki Lauda looking out the back of the bus and waving at them.

Eventually, they arrived, and all of them strutted past the journalists and went into the hotel. Thus ensued a fun time for the drivers relaxing around by the pool for the day. However, things back at the track were not shaping up well.

Bernie Ecclestone and Jean-Marie Balestre were pissed. The race organisers threatened to impound the cars, Bernie Ecclestone threatened to sue the drivers, and Balestre announced if the drivers didn't come back, then they would all be fired. Bernie Ecclestone had already fired the drivers from his team, Nelson Piquet and Riccardo Patrese. The mechanics put signs out joking advertising for new drivers. Didier Pironi was doing the main negotiations for the drivers at the track and reporting back to Niki Lauda at the hotel on how it was progressing. During the evening, when dinner was being served, the driver's wives and girlfriends, who were still at the track, started throwing bread rolls at Balestre.

Didier Pironi arrived at the hotel and explained that if they didn't return and drive immediately, they risked life bans. Niki Lauda realised that this strike would last the night, and he knew that if all the drivers returned to their own rooms, the team principles would easily be able to convince them to abandon the strike. They needed to stay united, which meant literally sticking together. He arranged to take over the conference room in the hotel and have all the spare mattresses brought into the room.

All the drivers moved into this one big room, and soon, the entertainment started. Many of the younger drivers felt quite panicked about the whole situation, worried that they would be fired for going on strike, which would have ended any career in motorsports, so they went to the older drivers like Niki for reassurance. Niki tried to lighten up the atmosphere by telling dirty jokes. Bruno Giacomelli, who was quite passionate about machine guns, got his hands on a chart and gave a presentation on how to take a gun to bits. There was also a piano in the room, and driver Elio de Angelis, trained to play the piano, performed for all the drivers. Everyone there said it was the most beautiful playing they had ever heard. Gilles Villeneuve also had a go playing a few joyful pieces.

The team owners and journalists had by now discovered that all the drivers were hiding out in this one big room, and they were trying to get in. At first, Niki gave an interview by the door, but he ensured no one would leave the room. One of the team principles, Mo Nunn of Ensign, had brought the driver, Guerrero's girlfriend, along as a bargaining trip. Niki made sure to accompany Guerrero to see his girlfriend. He said that the situation could have brought a tear to your eye. Eventually, they got the girlfriend away from the team principal and into the room. Team principal Jean Sage of Renault tried to get to Prost and Arnoux but was beaten off.

At this point, the team principals grew frustrated and decided to break into the room, so the drivers had to use the piano to barricade the door.

Then night came, and it was time for the drivers to get even closer. There were not enough mattresses for one each, meaning all the drivers had to bunk up. Many funny photographs have come from this event. Alain Prost and Giles Villeneuve shared a mattress, which led to Patrick Tambay saying if a child came from this, all the others might as well give up.

There was a problem with the toilet as there was only one and it wasn't in the room. There was a key to the toilet and so the drivers agreed to leave it in the middle of the room so they would know if someone left to the toilet and didn't come back. One driver, Fabi, ended up going to the toilet but did not come back.

During the night, Carlos Reuntemann or Keke Rosberg snored so loudly that Gilles Villeneuve threw a blanket over them to cover the sound.

In the morning, all the drivers got up, trying hard not to sniff the odour of the room and got ready to head to the track as Didier Pironi had been able to successfully negotiate a licence they were happy with. No drivers were fired, Nelson Piquet and Riccardo Paterese were rehired, and the race was successful. There were fears that the drivers could be arrested at the airport, but thankfully, that didn't happen. Instead, they were fined for taking part in the strike, which, while it didn't affect some drivers who already had plenty of money, it wasn't ideal for the drivers who were just getting started.

This is as much as I am able to remember; if you know anything more or if there is something wrong in this let me know in the comments below! Hope you enjoyed the read :)

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

Is there anything support the populat interpretation that old valriya and valryians in general are more feminist, and progressive than the rest in Asoiaf?

Anon, thank you! I've been wanting to address this for awhile, so I'm going to actually answer this really fully, with as many receipts as I can provide (this ended up being more of an essay than I intended, but hopefully it helps)

I think there's in fact plenty of evidence to suggest that Valyria and the Valyrians in general were anything but progressive. Valyria was an expansive empire with a robust slave trade that practiced incest based on the idea of blood supremacy/blood purity. All of these things are absolutely antithetical to progressivism. There is no way any empire practicing slavery can ever be called progressive. Now, the Targaryens of Dragonstone have since given up the practice of slavery, but they certainly still believe in the supremacy of Valyrian blood.

And I'll see the argument, well what's wrong with believing your blood is special if your blood really is special and magic? Which is just-- if anyone catches themselves thinking this, and you sincerely believe that GRRM intended to create a magically superior master race of hot blondes who deserve to rule over all other backwards races by virtue of their superior breeding which is reinforced through brother-sister incest, and you've convinced yourself this represents progressive values, then you might want to step away from the computer for a bit and do a bit of self reflection.

And remember-- what is special about this special blood? It gives the bearers the ability to wield sentient weapons of mass destruction. It's also likely, according to the most popular theories, the result of blood magic involving human sacrifice. So there is a terrible price to pay for this so-called supremacy. Would any of us line up to be sacrificed to the Fourteen Flames so that the Valyrians can have nukes?

And if you are tempted by the idea that a woman who rides a dragon must inherently have some sort of power-- that is true. A woman who rides a dragon is more powerful than a woman who does not ride a dragon, and in some cases, more powerful than a man who does not ride a dragon, but that does not make her more powerful than a man who also rides a dragon. Dragonriding remained a carefully guarded privilege, and Targaryen women who might otherwise become dragonriders were routinely denied the privilege (despite the oft repeated "you cannot steal a dragon," when Saera Targaryen attempted to claim a dragon from the dragonpit, she was thrown into a cell for the attempted "theft,"words used by Jaehaerys). The dragonkeepers were established explicitly to keep anyone, even those of Targaryen blood, from taking them without permission. Any "liberation" that she has achieved is an illusion. What she has gained is the ability to enact violence upon others who are less privileged, and this ability does not save her from being the victim of gender based violence herself.

Politically speaking, it is also true that Valyria was a "freehold," in that they did not have a hereditary monarchy, but instead had a political structure akin to Ancient Athens (which was itself democratic, but not at all progressive or feminist). Landholding citizens could vote on laws and on temporary leaders, Archons. Were any of the lords freeholder women? We don't know. If we take Volantis as an example, the free city that seems to consider itself the successor to Valyria, the party of merchants, the elephants, had several female leaders three hundred years ago, but the party of the aristocracy, the tigers, the party made up of Valyrian Old Blood nobility, has never had a female leader. Lys, the other free city, is known for it's pleasure houses, which mainly employ women kidnapped into sexual slavery (as well as some young men). It is ruled by a group of magisters, who are chosen from among the wealthiest and noblest men in the city, not women. There does not seem to be a tradition of female leadership among Valyrians, and that's reflected by Aegon I himself, who becomes king, rather than his older sister-wife, Visenya. And although there have been girls named heir, temporarily, among the pre-Dance Targaryens, none were named heir above a trueborn brother aside from Rhaenyra, a choice that sparked a civil war. In this sense, the Targaryens are no different from the rest of Westeros.

As for feminism or sexual liberation, there's just no evidence to support it. We know that polygamy was not common, but it was also not entirely unheard of, but incest, to keep the bloodlines "pure," was common. Incest and polygamy are certainly sexual taboos, both in the real world and in Westeros, that the Valyrians violated, but the violation of sexual taboos is not automatically sexually liberated or feminist. Polygamy, when it is exclusively practiced by men and polyandry is forbidden (and we have no examples of Valyrian women taking multiple husbands, outside of fanfic), is often abusive to young women. Incest leads to an erosion of family relationships and abusive grooming situations are inevitable. King Jaehaerys' daughters are an excellent case study, and the stories of Saera and Viserra are particularly heartbreaking. Both women were punished severely for "sexual liberation," Viserra for getting drunk and slipping into her brother Baelon's bed at age fifteen, in an attempt to avoid an unwanted marriage to an old man. She was not punished because she was sister attempting to sleep with a brother, but because she was the wrong sister. Her mother, the queen had already chosen another sister for Baelon, and believed her own teenage daughter was seducing her brother for nefarious reasons. As a sister, Viserra should have been able to look to her brother for protection, but as the product of an incestuous family, Viserra could only conceive of that protection in terms of giving herself over to him sexually.

Beyond that, sexual slavery was also common in ancient Valyria, a practice that persisted in Lys and Volantis, with women (and young men) trafficked from other conquered and raided nations. Any culture that is built on a foundation of slavery and which considers sexual slavery to be normal and permissible, is a culture of normalized rape. Not feminist, not progressive.

I think we get the picture! so where did this idea that Valyrians are more progressive come from? I think there are two reasons. One, the fandom has a bit of a tendency to imagine Valyrians and their traditions in opposition to Westerosi Sevenism, and if Sevenism is fantasy Catholicism, and the fantasy Catholics also hate the Valyrian ways, they must hate them because those annoying uptight religious freaks just hate everything fun and cool, right? They hate revealing clothing, hate pornographic tapestries, hate sex outside of marriage, hate bastards. So being on Sevenism's shit-list must be a mark of honor, a sign of progressive values? But it's such a surface level reading, and a real misunderstanding of the medieval Catholic church, and a conflating of that church with the later Puritan values that many of us in the Anglosphere associate with being "devout." For most of European history, the Catholic church was simply The Church, and the church was, ironically, where you would find the material actions which most closely align with modern progressive values. The church cared for lepers, provided educations for women, took care of orphans, and fed the poor. In GRRM's world, which is admittedly more secular than the actual medieval world, Sevenism nevertheless has basically the same function, feeding the poor instead of, you know, enslaving them.

Finally, I blame the shows. While Valyrians weren't a progressive culture, Daenerys Targaryen herself held relatively progressive individual values by a medieval metric. She is a slavery abolitionist, she elevates women within her ranks, and she takes control of her own sexuality (after breaking free from her Targaryen brother). But Daenerys wasn't raised as a Targaryen. She grew up an orphan in exile, hearing stories of her illustrious ancestors from her brother, who of the two did absorb a bit of that culture, and is not coincidentally, fucked up, abusive, and misogynistic. He feels a sexual ownership over his sister, arranges a marriage for her, and even after her marriage, feels entitled to make decisions on her behalf. It is only after breaking away from Viserys that Dany comes into her own values. Having once been a mere object without agency of her own, she determines to save others from that fate and becomes an abolitionist. But because Game of Thrones gave viewers very little exposure to Targaryens aside from Daenerys, House Targaryen, in the eyes of most show watchers, is most closely associated with Dany and her freedom-fighter values. And as for Rhaenyra in House of the Dragon, being a female heir does not make her feminist or progressive, although it is tempting to view her that way when she is juxtaposed against Aegon II. Her "sexual liberation" was a lesson given to her by her uncle Daemon, a man who had an express interest in "liberating" her so that she would sleep with him, it was not a value she was raised with. In fact, she was very nearly disinherited for it, and was forced into a marriage with a gay man as a result of said "liberation." She had no interest in changing succession laws to allow absolute primogeniture, no interest in changing laws or norms around bastardy despite having bastards; she simply viewed herself as an exception. Rhaenyra's entire justification for her claim is not the desire to uplift women, bring peace and stability to Westeros, or even to keep her brother off the throne, it is simply that she believes she deserves it because her father is the king and he told her she could have it, despite all tradition and norms, and in spite of the near certain succession crisis it will cause. Whether she is right or wrong, absolutism is not progressive.

And let me just say, none of this means that you can't enjoy the Valyrians or think that they're fun or be a fan of house Targaryen. This insistence that Targaryens are the progressive, feminist (read: morally good) house seems by connected to the need of some fans to make their favorite characters unproblematic. If the Valyrians are "bad," does that make you a bad person for enjoying them? Of course not. But let's stop the moral grandstanding about the "feminist" and "progressive" Valyrians in a series that is an analogue for medieval feudalism. Neither of those things can exist under the systems in place in Westeros, nor could they have existed in the slavery based empire of conquest that was old Valyria.

[grison-in-space]

worker uprisings are not an upside.

I see this rhetoric here all the time, and it drives me up the wall. So you're all getting a good rant here: a worker uprising is not good.

The worker uprisings that bought the NLRB paid for it in blood and lives, and another uprising means that we will have to find the price to buy it again. And there will be families, people, and lives blighted in the meantime. Worker uprisings are not upsides for anyone and they are not fucking consolation prizes. They happen when things go bad, horribly bad, and they generally only result in positive change insofar as they create so much chaos, bloodshed, and disruption that the overall situation has to change. In the mean time, people are still left dead, destitute, and maimed. If we can avert a worker uprising by using nonviolent means of pressure to force accountability, we should do that, because it results in vastly more stable outcomes for everyone. If this pissant, damn-fool shortsighted Supreme Court decision goes through and violence is the only remaining option to enforce change that anyone sees, that is a bad thing.That is not a flood gift. People will die fixing that bullshit. People did die fixing that bullshit!

You know how we got the NLRB the first time, back in 1935?

It took almost fifty years of labor unrest in the United States before we got the NLRB. Let's start with the Great Railroad Strike of 1877 (which was majorly disruptive but happened before labor unionizing was widespread). That's a great template for your fucking worker's uprising: there's no union leadership to coordinate fury and direct it properly, so when workers lose their shit after the third goddamn time wages get cut (not "fail to keep the pace of inflation," actually "you get less money now"), they all kind of do things on impulse without thinking much about long term strategy. The fury just erupts. In the case of the Great Railroad Strike, angry workers burned factories and facilities, seized rail facilities, paralyzed commerce networks, and existing power structures panicked and called out militias, National Guard units, and federal troops to forcibly suppress the workers. About a hundred people died.

Let me pop a cut down while I talk about what happened next. Spoiler: there's a lot of violence under the hood coming up, and like all violence, it absolutely sloshes around and hits people who aren't necessarily directly involved in conflicts.

You have continuing incidences of violence over strikes throughout the next several decades as nonviolent strikes are met with violence from pro-employer forces and workers resist with violence back. I can't even list all the violent incidents here that ended in deaths, because they were frequent. The 1892 Coeur d'Alune labor strike broke out into an actual shooting war and resulted in a number of deaths, not to mention months of detainment for six hundred protesting miners; the same year, you have another shooting war kicked off between hundreds of massed paid private Pinkerton security and striking workers in Pittsburgh through the Homestead Strike. Imagine how that's going to go down today.

And the thing about violence like this, and tolerance for violence, is that eventually you just get used to using it to get your way. You actually also do see quite a bit of violence conducted by striking labor workers, sometimes without recent provocation from management. For example, the national International Association of Bridge Structural Iron Workers embarked on a campaign of bombings from 1906-1911 that eventually culminated in a bombing of the office of the LA Times that killed 20 people. Do you want to live in a world where the only way to resolve conflicts like this is to risk someone bombing your office because your boss mouthed off at his cause? Even if he's right, do you want to risk losing your life, your arms, your friend, your sibs, to someone who thinks that the only option available to him to address systematic inequality is violence?

And you think about who really suffers when violence erupts, too. Look at the East St Louis massacre in 1917, when management tries undercutting the local white-run unions by hiring black folks who are systematically excluded by the unions. (If you think labor solidarity is free from the same intersectional forces that hit every other attempt to organize in solidarity for humans, you really need to go back and revisit your history books. We can do better and we should, but when we set up our systems and hope for the future, we have to be clear-eyed about the failures of the past.) Anyway, when labor tensions between white union workers and management's preferred use of cheaper, poorer, less "uppity" black people erupted, the white union workers attacked not management, but the black parts of town. They cut the hoses to the fucking fire department, burned huge swathes of East St Louis belonging to black homeowners, and shot black folks fleeing in the streets.

Money might not trickle down, but violence sure fucking does. The wealthy insulate themselves from violence by employing intermediaries to do all the dirty work for them, or even to venture into any areas that might be dangerous. When we resort to violence as the only way to solve our problems, inevitably the people and communities who pay the highest blood prices are the ones who have the least to provide. You think any of those robber barons are going to wind up on the ground bleeding out? They have their Pinkerton troops for that shit. The worst they lose is money; the rest of us have to stake our bodies and our homes.

No one should look forward to a worker uprising. If the Supreme Court is stupid and short-sighted enough to reduce avenues of worker redress to extra-legal means, the worker uprisings will come back around again, sure enough, and we'll all write our demands in blood once again. But the whole fucking POINT of the NLRB is that the federal government objects to having to sort these things out when they dissolve into open violence, so it sets rules about what the stupid short-sighted greediguts fat cats up top can do to reduce violence erupting again.

Anyway. Best thing I can think of right now is to get a Congressional supermajority in with the eye of imposing limits and curbs on the Court. Because look, I'll march if I need to, but I ain't going to pretend the thought puts a smile in my mouth and a spring in my step. Fuck.

[stupid-sloot-headcanons]

To add on to Jason reacting to his militia hitting on/having the hots for his beloved, I just imagined a scenario where his beloved is in a temporary holding cell after being taken, and the soldier guarding her gets a little too close to comfort (flirting with her, touching her hair, being intimidating) and Jason overhears everything on the comms channel and just… sees red

Ok this hit me so hard that I made a fake audiotape manuscript like the collectible tapes you find in-game

Darling: Look, I don't know what your boss told you, but I'm not important enough to make a good hostage. Batman's got a lot of shit going on, and I'm not high on his priority list. Militia: Don't sell yourself short, vigilante guys like him always come if you dangle a cute civilian in front of 'em. I know I would if I were him. Darling: Are you seriously flirting with me right now? Or is this just a terrible way of doing good cop, bad cop? Militia: What can I say, when you've been sweating in a South American training camp for months, and suddenly you're in charge of babysitting a girl like you, I can't help but try and shoot my shot. Darling: I'd rather you literally shoot me. Militia: Tell me, if this was good cop/bad cop, would you want me to be good? Or bad? Darling: I'd want you to fuck off and die. Go ahead. Make my dreams come true. Militia: You've got a mouth on you, y'know that? I bet I could make your dreams come true--all of 'em, over n' over, any n' every position... Darling: Get away from me! Militia: Nah. I feel like being bad cop right now. I'm gonna pat you down for weapons one more time, just in case you're hiding something special. *sound of door slamming open* Arkham Knight: Get the fuck away from her! *sound of someone's head being slammed against a wall, and the cocking of a gun* Militia: I--Sir, I was just-- Arkham Knight: I trained you to follow orders and to think with your head, not your dick. If you don't want me to waste a bullet on your empty skull, you'll apologize and then report to the barracks for me to make an example of you to the others. Militia: I...I'm sorry, sir-- Arkham Knight: To her! Militia: I'm sorry, I-I'm so sorry! Sir, I wasn't really gonna do anything-- Arkham Knight: Don't you dare try to lie to me. Now GO. *sound of boots scraping and door slamming shut* Arkham Knight: He won't go near you again, I'll make sure of that. Did he hurt you? Darling, voice shaky: This good cop, bad cop shit is so transparent. Just...let me go, I don't have anything you want, I want to go home...I want to go home... Arkham Knight: It's okay. I took you to keep you safe, not to make you a hostage. Darling: Keep me safe? From what, whatever terrorist attack or mass murder or whatever-the-fuck you're about to carry out? Arkham Knight: Yes. Once it's carried out, we'll go to another hideout I have and lay low for a while. Until then I'll have to keep you with me. I'll make sure the men in charge of watching over you understand not to touch you or talk to you without permission while I'm gone. This is NEVER gonna happen again. *Sound of armor shifting and moving, and rustling clothing* I swear I'm going to keep you safe and make sure nobody ever keeps us apart again. Heh. You know, I can finally keep that promise I made to you before. Remember? Darling: ...What are you-- Arkham Knight: I was going after Joker and I told you that I was gonna do what Bruce never could, that I'd kill him. And we got into this huge fight over my earpiece, you were begging me to think things through, that he wouldn't go down easy, that Bruce would find a way to stop me...and then you said, "I won't try to argue anymore. Just promise me that you'll come back--I'll yell at you and call you a reckless hotheaded asshole with a death wish and help you think of what to say to Bruce." Darling:You're-- Jason: A reckless hotheaded asshole with a death wish? You were right, ____. You were so right...

[luimagines]

You Give Him a Massage Part 3

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

Part three will include Hyrule, Legend and Sky

Content under the cut!

Hyrule

It was a long day. One that everyone nearly collapsing over themselves at the end of it. You were thankful that there wasn’t a lot battle that you had to do but that didn’t make it any harder to keep awake at the end of the day.

The group finally settled down to break camp but you couldn’t muster up the energy to help them sat anything up.

Looking around, it looked to be the general consensus of the rest of the group. No was willing to do anything. Wild takes out a flaming sword and makes the camp fire by striking a bunch of wood and calls it good.

He makes kabobs and that your meal for the night. 

You’re tired enough to find that you don’t really care for the lack of everything.

You sit by a tree, watching everyone half hazzardly throw round their bed rolls and flop into them for the night. You plan on staying up a little bit longer. At least until it finally becomes the hour your normally sleep at. You don’t plan on tossing away your sleep schedule that way. It would take weeks to get it back on track if you did. 

Wild goes to bed. Wind was the first to fall asleep. Sky follows his example within minutes. Warrior and Time struggle to decide which one of them goes to bed first since someone still has to take the first watch. Legend offers to do it just so they both shut up but he’s ignored.

Hyrule throws his bed roll close to you and flops down just like the others. It’s a little funny how similar they all are even if they don’t to do it. It makes you giggle

Hyrule looks up at the sound with a cross face. “What?”

“Nothing. Good night, Link.”

His face softens and he scoots closer to you. He places his head on your lap, making himself comfortable. You snort. “Better?”

“Yes.” He grins.

With an affectionate roll of your eyes, you put your hand sin his hair, carding through his locks gently before you start massing his scalp. You can see the way the stress of the day melts off of his with every pass of your hand. “...That’s nice...”

“Good night, Link.” You repeat yourself. Distantly, you think that you’re also going to have to sleep soon and you’re going to have to figure out how to get the boy off of you without waking him up- but that’s a problem for future you.

You keep massaging his scalp, taking quiet wonder at how soft his hair is despite the lack of up keep.

Your subtle, minute motions lulls you into a deep calm as well. You think you see Four awake still, even though he’s lying down. Twilight is also up against a tree on the other side of the camp but he’s huddled into himself. That’s going to be a horrible position to wake up if he stays asleep like that. You don’t want the same thing to happen to you.

You can feel yourself nodding off despite yourself.

You have to move Hyrule. You have to lay down before you also fall asleep against the tree. How do you move Hyrule without waking him up in the process?

You fall asleep with Hyrule still in your lap.

Legend

Legend growls somewhere off to your right.

You look over to him curiously.

Legend’s been rubbing the side of his head for a while now. His face is twisted in pain and his hair has been mused up in the process. His cheeks are pink and his hat is about to half off of his head from everything he’s doing.

You frown. “Legend, are you ok?”

He hisses but looks to you. In an instant his gaze softens when his eyes land on you. He had looked borderline angry before, but you’re thankful to know that it has nothing to do with you. “...I have a headache... hurts...”

You’re heart hurts for him. “How bad it is?”

“Bad.” He says. “I feel like someone is trying to cave in my skull with a hammer.”

You open your mouth.

“Not that anyone’s tried to do that before.” Legend eyes you tiredly before you can speak.

You press your lips into a thin line. Now’s not the time for poorly judged jokes. “I can help.”

Legend gets almost a pleading look on his face. “Really?”

“I can try.” You amend. Walking towards him, you take off his hat and urge him to sit down nearby. “Just let me know if you want me to stop, ok?”

“...ok..” He says, clearly willing to do anything if it means relief from his headache.

You start by gently running your hands through his hair. It takes a minute or two but Legend’s shoulder eventually fall from their hunched position. From there you start to rub small circles into his scalp, now that you’ve cleared away more of the tangles from his hair.

You start small, a little worried about the pressure you’d put on his already sore head but with time you gradually get firmer. You try to keep the pressure slow and steady, going in circles around his head.

It doesn’t take too long before you seem to find the area that’s been bugging him the most and focus in on it.

A small sound leaves Legend and you pause. “All good?”

“Mm-hm.” He hums and slowly moves his head this way and that. A beat passes and you see his face contort again.

You take that as your queue to start up again since the pain had returned. “Have you had any water today, Vet?”

You didn’t think he heard you until he finally makes a noise of acknowledgment. “...I think...”

“Hm.” You’re not impressed. “I’m going to go get you something to drink and if this happened because you were dehydrated then I’m going to yell at you.”

“Please don’t.”

“I make no promises.”

Sky

“Ow.”

You ignored it the first time.

“Ow.”

You ignored it the second time.

“Ow.” He hissed for the third time.

You sighed and looked over. “Sky? What on earth are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” He bit his lip, trying to whittle a piece a wood into submission. You’re not entirely sure what it is he’s trying to make but he looks like he’s struggling with it. His hand makes a move and he hisses again. “Ow- by the three-!”

He drops the knife to his lap and cradles his hand. He seems to be pressing his thumb into the palm of his hand.

You move over to his side and take his hand. “You’re learning their figures of speech.”

“Completely on accident on assure you.” He growls, pouting as he watches your movements.

You bring his hand closer to you, tucking it close and slowly kneading into the palm of his hand. You can already see the problem. There’s a muscle out of place. Whether it’s twisted or stretched, you’re not sure. But it looks painful.

“How did you manage to do this?” You whisper to yourself, bordering on horrified.

Sky hears you anyway. “I’m not entirely sure. I just woke up this morning and it was like that. It doesn’t bother me too much, only when I move it a certain way.”

You grunt and keep up with kneading into his hand. Sky bites on his lip when you go particularly deep and squirms in his seat. You look up and tilt you head. “Hurt?”

“That time. Yes.” He keeps his hand limp in your hand at least, trying to not make it harder for you. “You don’t have to do this.”

“If someone doesn’t help you fix it, you’re going to make it worse.” You don’t leave room for argument. “What on earth are you thinking? Why would you be whittling? Clearly your hand needs to rest instead so that it can get better from whatever the hack happened to it.”

Sky at least has the decency to appear a little sheepish. “...I’m bored.”

“And dumb.” You flick his forehead.

“Hey now...”

“Hush.” You grin, not letting him defend himself. “It’s out of love and you know it.”

“Yes, I feel very loved right now.” Sky rolls his eyes, relaxing a little more as time goes by. Little by little, you’re moving the muscle in his hand back into place and it’s hurting him less and less. “...Thank you...”

You snort. “You’re very welcome.”

[vallification]

hello! i’m starting a series of jjk characters and their birth charts lol. i’m not going too deep into them, really just their big 3, but i thought this could be a fun way to show how i depict the various jjk characters! and of course weave in my own personal opinions/headcanons since we don’t have the information to find their rising signs. this is rudimentary at best, and i definitely got some parts of his character wrong, but oh well!!! i hope you like it. ps: it’s not edited or revised LMFAOOO.

satoru gojo! ☀️ sag / 🌙 pisces / 💫 leo

☀️ - sun in sagittarius makes gojo restless, energetic, extroverted, positive, and friendly. gojo shows us (and his students) time and time again that he’s ready for anything that comes his way. in his younger years, his readiness often came from a place of blind optimism, but as he got older we saw that he did his best to realistically weigh possible outcomes before making decisions. gojo likes a challenge, but his immense amount of strength often makes challenges a bit too easy for him, which could play a part in why he acts the way he does in battle— humor, flirting, etc.. gojo is extremely confident in his abilities, but i don’t personally believe it’s just because he knows he’s the strongest. while his knowledge of his strength is definitely a big part of it, in a way, gojo’s optimism and confidence lead him to believe he’s invincible and that everything will always work out for him in the end. he’s quick to tease and make light of situations, which is a common theme in his relationships with the people around him.

however, these positive attributes also have their downsides. his confidence and optimism cause him to take on a lot of responsibility before he truly knows he can handle it, and cause him to occasionally underestimate his opponents. we can see this in the shibuya arc, when he’s— not so much overpowered, but— overwhelmed. he lets his guard down after he’s taken care of the masses of transfigured humans, and then he’s caught off guard by who he believes to be geto, but is actually kenjaku. sun in sag has outright cons, too. gojo is quick to fall to his temper, especially when he’s frustrated, despite his temper not looking how most people’s look most of the time, (ex. his fight with jogo and hanami).

in lower stake situations, the positive attributes still manage to find a way to impact him negatively. the best example of this is geto’s descent into depression. gojo took geto’s placating comments at face value and his optimism let him believe that geto was fine. there were very few times that gojo asked more than one question about what was going on with his best friend, and i’ve seen some people frown upon that— i agree gojo should have pressed, but in a way, i think he believed that geto would have told him if something was really wrong. he’s direct and usually honest, so he blindly believed that geto would be, too.

🌙 - moon in pisces makes gojo sharp, intuitive, imaginative, caring, warm, and humorous. despite how many people depict gojo, he cares a lot more than he lets on. for example, in hidden inventory gojo wants to stay with rika at the beach for a bit longer, and while that can mostly be attributed to other things, it’s due in part to his knowledge that rika is still a young girl going through some crazy shit. he cares deeply about protecting people, and uses his intuition and sharp insight to weigh the risks and benefits of situations where he may either need to be protective or to allow situations to unfold on their own. we can also see that gojo is imaginative; in his younger years before everything has soured, he has this ideal image of the future where he and geto are the strongest and they continue to work together in the world of jujutsu sorcery. gojo cares deeply for his students, too, which he emphasizes several times both verbally and nonverbally. take megumi, for example, and his customization of yuji’s school uniform.

unfortunately, again, there are some negative attributes to moon in pisces, especially his sense of sentimentality. the best example of this is how he allowed geto to continue on his chosen path for 10 years, despite his knowledge of geto’s newfound ideology and his crimes. not only did geto’s chosen path diverge from gojo’s ideal future, but it also diverged from gojo’s own set morals, his identity, and his version of geto. i believe that gojo, in those 10 years, was waiting for geto to snap out of whatever trance he was in and come back, or that someone else would take care (kill) geto so he didn’t have to. in my opinion, the sentimentality gojo held for his version of geto was the catalyst for his downfall, but i don’t think he regrets it.

💫 - now, this is just a headcanon of course, but i believe gojo is a leo rising. leo risings command attention, make great leaders, have open hearts, are creative, and have a strong sense of direction. gojo demands attention in many ways, one being his appearance. gojo has striking blue eyes, stark white hair, staggering height, and a handsome face. while his eyes are striking, his hair— an important characteristic of leo risings— caught my attention first. it’s uncommon, eye-catching, voluminous, and often well-groomed. his demeanor also commands attention. when gojo appears or arrives, there is this air about him that captures people’s attention; it’s not so much domineering, but rather captivating, like you’re looking at somebody important. we can also see that gojo makes a great leader, and slips into that role easily. he’s fast on his feet, quick-witted, and has the ability to make split-second decisions. he may be a lax teacher, but he’s not a bad one. gojo also has a strong sense of direction; he knows what he’s meant to do and who he’s meant to be, although that may not be what he would have chosen if it was solely up to him.

leo risings, however, may struggle when things don’t turn out the way they should. gojo struggles when things don’t pan out the way he thought they would and tends to get frustrated and reckless when things aren’t as easy as he thought they’d be. when people try to push against his plans, he tends to get annoyed or frustrated, but due to other attributes, he will still adapt. that doesn’t mean he won’t say “i told you so,” when things go wrong, though, because he absolutely will.

[asoftgoth]

To ask my dream future self in case I ever escape the closet, how is weight stuff on HRT?

So much I try to read online is full of fatphobes drowning it in desperate weight loss / maintenance talk for such different body types. Would love to hear from a calmer voice what eating on E as a bigger girl is like, if it's actually that much easier to gain, whatever you've been noticing/feeling

I wanted to know this too before I started and there really isn’t a good resource at all for this kind of info, especially for truly obese people like me. From talking with other big trans girls like myself, I can honestly say is that a lot of it will depend on your genetics. I know that’s not what people like to hear, and it’s scary. A lot of transitioning seems like it’s kind of a dice roll. What I will say, though, is that if you look at your mother, if she’s a bigger woman, you will probably end up with a build similar to hers. For me, that was definitely the case. For example, when it comes to boob size people say that you take your mother’s cup size and go down a size, and that that’s what you’ll probably get.

As for my transition, when I actually started on estrogen, I lost quite a bit of weight. Although most of it was almost entirely muscle mass. I did some measurements throughout the process and so far I have lost about 25ish pounds overall but I’ve gained about 4.5 inches on my hips and lost about 4inches on my waist. I initially lost probably 40 pounds, but I’ve gained back another 10-15. So there was that aspect. I think what I’ve gained back has been fat. And definitely I’ve lost a ton of muscle. If you have a big upper body, don’t be super scared because most of the muscle that I lost was actually from my upper body. Like shoulders, upper tummy, that kind of stuff. I actually don’t think it’s much easier to gain weight on estrogen. Or at least it isn’t for me. Some people have said that it is but of all the trans woman that I know that are also feedists it doesn’t seem like it’s some super easy thing to gain weight on estrogen. It’s why I really really really hate the term “biological males”, because our bodies act like cis women’s bodies do in practically every way. 

Lastly, I’ll talk about medication’s. I didn’t see a ton of fat transfer while I was on estrogen. I saw some for sure, but it hasn’t been anything compared to what I’ve seen since being on progesterone. I’ve been on estrogen now for a year and 3 months. I’ve been on prog for about 3 and a half months of that, and I’ve seen more fat transfer while on progesterone then on only estrogen (and an anti-androgen which I still take too). What sucks the most I think about transitioning, is how long things take. Your body is going through a lot, and it’s really important for you to take care of it and help it along through this process. It’s why I haven’t really been actively gaining, and I’ve just been trying to make sure I’m eating decent enough food and drinking lots of water and getting the exercise that I need. I think that’s really the most important thing with all of this. Eventually, I probably will try gaining weight intentionally again, but I’m just kind of letting my body do its thing. It’s going through enough changes on its own.

I hope this helps!!

[catrasredemption]

Listen I know there's already a lot of analyses on why Catra hate is biased but I just realized there's an absolutely perfect example of this, right down to the tries to kill the protag but the fandom ships it detail.

Goro Fucking Akechi.

And before I start - please know that I hold no actual ill-will toward this sociopathic murderer. And if you've never played Persona 5, no, I am NOT exaggerating. But we'll get into that.

Akechi is set up pretty early on to be a foil to the game's protagonist, Joker. And the uh... gay undertones are NOT subtle.

They never actually become A Thing in game, but it's a VERY popular ship in the fandom. Now what crimes did this little uWu commit?

Literal Murder. Not like, his actions lead to the death of someone, but he actually pointed a gun and pulled the trigger

His actions do also lead to the death of more people by causing a crash in the Tokyo subway system

Attempted murder against Joker - you know, the guy everyone ships him with

Impersonating a genius teenage boy detective (no that's not quite on the level of murder but it's a crime to me and an insult against Naoto from Persona 4)

Now, don't get me wrong, his backstory is pretty messed up. His birth father, a man named Shido, knocked up his mother, who worked in the Red Light District, and eventually killed herself, leaving Akechi an orphan to be passed around by relatives who didn't really care about him.

Akechi took two things from his upbringing - one, he had to be perfect in order to be acceptable to people. Two, a burning hatred of his birth father and a desire to see him suffer.

He eventually ends up working with his father, Shido, who's manipulating the masses using the Metaverse (don't worry if you don't know what that is, it's complicated) to make everyone love him. Akechi works with him while secretly building up his own plan on the side - to disgrace Shido when he's elected and then kill him.

All the while he's also working with Joker and the rest of the main cast and trying to manipulate them (they do manage to see through him, but that's another thing).

Again, I love Akechi. I do. I think he's a wonderfully complicated character and a little trash boy who just needs love. But he did so many bad things. And he did a lot of them solely to get revenge against Shido, and toward the end out of resentment/envy of Joker. And in the very, very end he makes the right choice and sacrifices himself to save Joker.

Now let's go over Catra's life real quick:

Raised in a horrible environment, often neglected, knew she wasn't wanted or really loved

Stepped into a villain role where she did terrible things, some of which led to the death of another person (Angella)

Fought against Adora

Ultimately sacrificed herself to save Adora

Went on to help save the world

It's almost uncanny how Akechi's story lines up with Catra's. And while I'm sure Akechi has haters, the people who love him and still ship him with Joker are far, far louder. And I get that! I too wish Akechi could have had a happy ending, but I don't think it was ever really in the cards for him. But he's a guy, so he's a little uWu.

Catra, meanwhile, is an angry woman and gets none of the leeway that angry men usually get (see also: Zuko). Even sacrificing herself to save Adora couldn't earn her any redemption in some people's eyes.

And I don't like comparing characters, especially ones from different franchises, don't get me wrong. But it's interesting to me how often men are forgiven for far worse crimes than women in media, and Akechi is a grade-A example of doing the absolutely worst things he could while still being loved by the fandom.

[nkjemisin]

Things in my ask box

Hi folks. Every so often I get questions from folks that are good, but which I worry might catch them some flak from my other readers or whoever. Sometimes I answer those people privately, but in general I prefer not to do private replies to asks; for one thing, other people might want to know the answer, and for another, I've had a few awkward situations result from doing so (basically just people going parasocial on me), and I think that sort of thing is less likely when it's clear I'm talking to everyone. So, I'm going to handle these awkward asks by just treating them as Q&A questions -- without showing that person's username and where necessary, altering the question in order to protect their identity. I've got a few of these stored up, but just gonna do two this time for length and time reasons. I'll get to the rest later.

Are you a proshipper?

Yep. Feel free to alter your decision re following me on social media now that you've read that answer. But I believe in "don't like, don't read," and that fiction doesn't indicate what an author really believes (because it's fiction), and that there's no subject matter too immoral to explore on its face (everything depends on the execution), so... yep.

2. I love the Broken Earth trilogy, but I have to say, the middle book really didn't go anywhere, literally. Essun stayed in Castrima and Nassun moved around a little more but mostly stayed in the same place too. It killed a lot of the story momentum for me. Why did you decide to do this?

[spoilers for Broken Earth books, though I'll try to minimize them and will put a "read more" before I get there]

Because I felt like it. I'm not saying that defensively, I'm just noting that the answer to pretty much any question you might ask a writer about why they do a particular thing is... because they felt like it. Period full stop. Sorry that wasn't what you wanted to read! It was, however, the story I wanted to tell.

To elaborate... different people have different expectations of trilogies. That's because there are a lot of different ways to handle them, narratively speaking. Sometimes a trilogy is really a group of shared-universe stories taking place in the same world but not necessarily featuring the same characters, and with unrelated plots. Some are telling a single story, but through different POVs and smaller plot arcs that each have their own terminuses; that's what I did with the Inheritance Trilogy, for example. And sometimes, as I did with the Broken Earth books, the author is just telling one big story broken up into three parts. (There are more ways to do a trilogy than this, but let's keep this brief, lol.)

Now, there are a lot of ways to handle this kind of story, but a pattern that most of us are used to is:

Book One: Introduction to the world and important characters and the apparent stakes;

Book Two: Deep dive into the important characters and world, thus giving the audience a reason to care more; and

Book Three: Now we really know the stakes and shit just got real! Now we care what happens to the characters when EVERYTHING! BLOWS!! UP!!!

(I am feeling very silly today, sorry.)

We're familiar with this pattern because we see it all the time, especially in American media. It's a variation on the three-act structure seen in plays and other narratives. It's the basis of our most popular longform stories! The original Star Wars trilogy did it. The Mass Effect trilogy did it. (Andromeda was a separate story, probably meant to be the start of a new trilogy.) The Lord of the Rings did it, prequeled by the Hobbit and mirrored by the Silmarillion. I mentioned those examples because the middle stories of each all exhibit the same traits: a drastic change of pace or location for the protagonists, putting the protagonists through personal character growth arcs, and poking at minutia or seemingly unimportant aspects of the world (which usually end up pretty important before all is said and done).

Now let's answer your question. Spoiler warning again:

In the Broken Earth, we got introduced to the Stillness and Essun in Book One. There was a lot of physical movement in that book as Essun was on the road for most of it (as were other characters), but the plot itself was relatively simple: A bad thing happened to this person and she needs to go somewhere and find someone, to fix it! And then pretty much the entirety of that book's narrative was "Who is this person, why does the bad thing matter, and how close does she get to finding her missing person?" Then in Book Two, we learned a little more about this person, a lot more about her impact on other characters including the one she's been trying to find, and we spent a while learning about orogeny, the Obelisk Gate, and what the stone eaters have been up to. I cheated a little on this; there wasn't room to do a deep dive into the backstory of one pivotal character, but I did finally reveal that this character is the "secret" narrator of the whole trilogy, and made his agenda clearer. I ended up putting his "deep dive" into Book Three instead, where it was particularly relevant to the STUFF! BLOWING!! UP!!!

The reason a lot of readers complain about "Middle Book Syndrome," I suspect, is because of this pattern -- and because of their expectations. A lot of people come at a middle book expecting Book One Redux. That's what you often get in shared-universe trilogies -- Book One over and over again, roughly the same balance of characters vs events each time, in a familiar setting. We're conditioned to want that, I think, from other episodic works. Comic books, for example: When I was working on FAR SECTOR, my editor at the time explained that I needed to try and have a fight or action scene in most of the issues. I hate fight scenes -- sorry! -- so that was hard for me. TV shows -- the ones that aren't themselves telling a single big story over time -- do this, too. I think of it as the "If You Liked X, Then Try... X!" structure. Absolutely nothing wrong with this structure, by the way. I'm just describing it, not throwing shade. I'm a big fan of stories like this myself.

But even for audience members who were expecting the Three-Act Trilogy structure instead, that middle book is going to be jarring. It's supposed to be jarring. The refugees have survived the first book but stopped to dress their wounds and regroup; the adventurers on a quest have reached an impasse and need to find allies and grind to build up their strength; the stalwart hero has just suffered a massive setback and needs to overcome their own doubt or character flaws. A good way to handle this is to take the characters out of their familiar space, and put them somewhere new, or give them a very different kind of challenge. [Mass Effect and LOTR spoilers] Oh, no, Shepard died and their team broke up! What now? Oh, no, Frodo and Sam are on their own trying to get to Mordor! They're just these little guys! How are they gonna make it? If you got overly attached to Shepard team from ME1, or the Fellowship, you're in for a rough ride in these followups. But the jarring nature of this kind of followup is absolutely necessary. An author who does this knows they're going to lose some readers, when they do it. Clearly I almost lost you! But I stand by that choice, because I think it made the whole trilogy better.

Sidebar: I'm old enough to remember the controversy back when "The Empire Strikes Back" came out. Critics haaaaaated that movie! It was too dark, they said; wasted too much time on unimportant stuff. Too much character work, not enough space battles. Then it became clear that audiences loved the second movie even more than the first, precisely because it was darker and because Luke spent so much time futzing around with Yoda and because there were all these girl cooties romantic moments between Leia and Han. A lot of the critics backpedaled at that point, with some of them even acknowledged that they'd been hoping for Star Wars All Over Again and not What Happens Next That Is Not Star Wars. They'd simply brought the wrong expectations to the story.

This is not to say that you have the wrong expectations, Ask-er. Maybe you were expecting exactly that structure, and you just don't like the way I handled it, or you think I did a poor job. Every reader's experience of a story is different, and not everybody's gonna want to pick up everything I throw down. But you asked why did everyone stay in one place, and this is why: to do a deep dive into the character of the Stillness itself. In a story where the setting was as much a "character" as the people in it, I felt it necessary to show enough of that setting for readers to care about it. Would you care, for example, if the town of Brevard (Damaya and Schaffa spend one night there in Book One) got blown off the map in Book Three? Probably not, because I spent no time on any of its citizens or issues. A lot of people cared about Castrima, though, by the end of Book Two.

Whoo, this got long! Hope it answers your question, Ask-er.

[kuroneko1815]

Imperial Domesticity: New Year’s Festivities

Penelope’s first new year’s celebration as the Empress meant that everyone would have their eyes on her. But she also wanted her New Year’s Kiss. Thankfully, her husband was willing to figure out a way to do it.

There was much to be done for the New Years ball, this was Penelope’s first new years as the empress, before that, she’d helped with the preparations as the Emperor’s paramour and fiancée, as well as the highest ranking woman in the empire. Now though, all eyes would be on her and they would be picking through the entire event, eyeing each detail to see what could be criticized and what parts of the traditions and rituals had she messed up.

Callisto tried to get Penelope to rest, trying to reassure her that he could take care of everything. Whenever such a thing would be brought up, Penelope would turn to him with a fierce look on her face.

“No! I’ve always handled this, even before we were married and now that we are, I am not going to give it up!” She said furiously.

Callisto tried to calm her down, subtly moving to soothe her by catching her hand and rubbing the back of her hand. He entwined their fingers together and kissed the back of her hand. The effects were instantaneous. Penelope’s shoulders relaxed, her breathing calmed.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re worried but it’s just…” so much of the tradition had been cut away by the late and unlamented former Queen that when Penelope had begun reinstating them, there were some push backs. The woman had been truly vain and lazy, discarding some of the more solemn traditions that had been the empresses and queens traditional roles, things of solemnity, and turned it into a mockery, a spectacle, of excessive extravagances, indulgences, and vice.

Part of the tradition had been to honour the fallen soldiers and others who had sacrificed for the good of the Empire, instead they toasted the fat purses of those which had managed to ingratiate themselves with her and her son, she had also done away with the new years alms and winter charities where the poorest within the city, the orphanages, and those who were the sickest were able to receive a meal.

The Queen’s excuse? There wasn’t any budget or funding for it. But of course there wouldn’t be, not when she and her son threw balls every other day, served only the finest wines and purchased gowns with money they’d taken from the coffers and funds set aside for such charity works. The empires worst state of finances was recorded during her tenure as the reigning lady of the empire.

And Penelope had no wish to leave the empire in such a state for her child. So she worked hard to set an example, to make sure that her babe and all other children they would have in the future would be beloved by the masses and would have their support. Because she knew one thing, there were far more commoners than there were nobles, and far more commoner knights than landed and enobled ones, and among them, quite a bit of the titled knights had relations still among the commoners.

And so, Callisto knew Penelope was trying her hardest to set things to right. He kissed her forehead and drew her close. “I know, love. But you don’t have to work so hard, let me share your burden.” He said. “Let me carry this weight for you so that you don’t have to be alone.”

“Alright.” She said as she hugged him back.

-

-

Callisto could see Penelope with her eyes out on the time. As they danced around the room, their eyes on one another, she would frequently call out the time under her breath.

“Is there something special that’s going to happen at midnight?” He asked.

“Oh, it’s just that I wanted to make sure I got the midnight kiss right for our first new year as a married couple.” She said.

“Hmm? A midnight kiss? Come to think of it, you did always pull me away in to the balcony just before midnight.” Callisto said, recalling the last few years.

“It’s meant to be good luck. If mistletoe kisses meant you’d stay with that person, then midnight kisses means a deepened bond and good luck, especially in our relationship.”

“Is that so?” Callisto said thoughtfully, an idea beginning to form in his mind.

-

-

After his speech honouring the soldiers, the scholars, mages, and the artists, and every other person who had worked hard to ensure the continued prosperity of the empire, it became increasingly clear that they wouldn’t be able to sneak away for their midnight kiss.

Callisto didn’t mind. He pulled Penelope up, a glass of wine in his hand. Everybody stared at him in confusion, the first half of the rituals had been performed to close out the old year, the speeches were done, so why were they suddenly to raise their glasses in a toast? He could see their looks.

But he took a sip and swallowed before he pulled Penelope into his arms, dipped her, and then kissed her full on the lips as the clock struck midnight marking a new year and then fireworks lit up the skies simultaneously in their first public kiss since their wedding.

Throughout the empire, the people celebrated the new year, magic used to broadcast to the people throughout the empire showed the observation of the rituals, a broadcast that allowed the people to familiarize themselves with their rulers, also showed the kiss.

In the aftermath of what would become a tradition of its own to see the Emperor and Empress mark the turn of the year with a kiss before they returned to the rituals of peace and prosperity for a new year and then to the festivities of the day, many couples would begin their own tradition of a midnight kiss, though none would get it quite as right in timing as the Emperor.

My idea is that the traditions would herald back to the time of the golden dragon and the old religion, i.e. the ancient mages, and despite the people not remembering the ancient mages for a long time, they still kept those traditions and held them sacred. The fact that some of the nobles and the Queen in particular, moved away from them left a bitter taste in their mouth. Especially when the war began shortly after the Queen began to do away with it. While it was never mentioned what had begun the war, the people still saw it as a bad omen and thought that the fact that they had taken away those rituals, many of which had to be done by the Queen or Empress, had a part to play in it, and let’s not forget the fact that a lot of the funding for the charities were cut by the Queen while she threw large celebrations and feasts, it was like a slap in the face to the people who had laboured hard but had no food to eat, and their husbands, brothers, and sons were dying on the battlefield.

So when Penelope brought back those traditions, gradually at first, until that year when she became the empress, they saw it as a good sign. And then Penelope gave birth to what people saw as the golden dragon’s second coming and they were convinced. Also, Penelope was the one who came up with the idea of broadcasting the wedding, well, technically, Callisto did, she just mentioned watching the royal weddings back when she was in Korea and he was so enthralled with the idea of showing his new wife off that he made the mages figure out how to do it. And when they had succeeded in that, Penelope thought about broadcasting just the ritual parts. And it did work and it became a tradition as ingrained as the midnight kiss.

Anyway, that’s it for now. Happy New Year! Stay healthy and safe!

[mamashenanigans]

Everyone is going to hate me, but—

I think Horikoshi made the right choice killing Tomura.

He still had autonomy when he made the decision to be a mass murderer. No amount of AFO gloating that he designed Tomura’s life takes away from the responsibility still falling on Tomura for what he’s done. Within the world of MHA, someone who is a mass murderer doesn’t just get off scott free. It’s Tartarus or you die in the fight.

It would have been really easy for Horikoshi to pull a deus ex to bring Tomura back: Eri somehow can do it, AFOFA somehow brought his body back, or even some random Quirk we’ve never heard of just showing up at the right moment.

But he didn’t.

He took the hard path, knowing fans would be upset, because he knew it made sense within the world he’s crafted. Izuku says in the newest chapter that Tomura wasn’t going to give up the LOV(this is base translations so I don’t know how it’ll be worded when we get fan then official) and it’s implied that means he wasn’t going to change his ways if he had survived. Instead, his “soul” (Tenko) was saved and set free.

Here’s a good example to make this easier to understand:

Darth Vader still had to die.

At the end, Vader became Anakin again, saving his son and “killing” the Emperor. He turned back towards the right path(the light), but it STILL didn’t absolve him of what he had done. Lucas explained that, regardless of him turning back to the light, he had done terrible things and still needed to die. Murdered millions, probably billions, when working for the Empire. Lucas actually wrote the scene where he goes to kill the younglings specifically because Vader’s backstory is so incredibly sad that he was worried fans would try to excuse the entirety of what he’s done or misunderstand the reason Vader still had to die in the end, even though he IS the main character of Star Wars.

And may I remind you, since I know people are going to be groaning about everything AFO did to “create” Tomura—

Anakin was a fucking SLAVE. A CHILD slave.

His mindset, molded by slavers, stuck with him through his entire life. He was a slave…then a slave to the doctrine of the Jedi…then a slave of Palpatine’s. The only choices he REALLY made for HIMSELF was to marry Padme and save Luke’s life. Palpatine, after meeting him as a child, spent the rest of Anakin’s life prior to the suit molding him into the apprentice he wanted. He purposefully had the iconic suit made to inflict the most pain possible to a man turned into a quadriplegic with 3rd degree burns over every inch of what remains of his body.

And that dude STILL deserved to die for what he had done, Palpatine’s influence or not.

So, yeah, I think this was a bold, but honest move by Horikoshi.

There are still some chapters left before the entire series ends per a comment by Horikoshi, and the last page hinted at stuff having to do with Toga, Spinner, and Dabi. Will he turn around and bring him back anyway? Maybe, but I’d be very disappointed.

Stick to your guns, Horikoshi.

[catholic-character-tournament]

Round 3 - Catholic Character Tournament

Propaganda below ⬇️

Michael

Literally the whole movie series is framed around the sacraments. Weddings and first communions and baptisms.

I just thought of the Godfather bc of the tumblr ask about people who are devout in some ways but uhh not very holy in other ways, and nobody is a better example of that than Michael in the montage toward the end of the Godfather. I saw the film for the first time last year, and that sequence just floored me. Will not spoil it in case you haven't seen the film but ohhh my goodness

Ronan Lynch

Uhh fun fact he saw the devil flash his father once, and that's one of the reasons he goes to church on Sundays <3

context for this scene from book 2: ronan is in church with his older brother declan, younger brother matthew, and ghost friend noah "Joseph Kavinsky isn’t someone I want you being around,” Declan added. “Don’t snort. I’m serious.” Ronan merely invested a look with as much contempt as he could muster. A lady reached over the top of Noah to pat Matthew’s head fondly before continuing down the aisle. She didn’t seem to care that he was fifteen, which was all right, because he didn’t, either. Both Ronan and Declan observed this interaction with the pleased expressions of parents watching their prodigy at work. Declan repeated, “Like, actually dangerous.” Sometimes, Declan seemed to think that being a year older gave him special knowledge of the seedier side of Henrietta. What he meant was, did Ronan know that Kavinsky was a cokehead. In his ear, Noah whispered, “Is crack the same thing as speed?” Ronan didn’t answer. He didn’t think it was a very church-appropriate conversation. “I know you think you’re a punk,” Declan said. “But you aren’t nearly as bad ass as you think you are.” “Oh, go to hell,” Ronan snapped, just as the altar boys broached the rear doors. “Guys,” Matthew pleaded. “Be holy.”

Gay Catholic streetracing farmer. Consumed by catholic guilt NOT because of the gay thing but because he can Create things in a way he thinks should be only God's business. Will literally roll up to mass on sunday morning still drunk and bloody.

THIS GOTH KID IS LITERALLY GOD. This is a god trapped in the body of a Catholic teen and if he ever stopped feeling Catholic guilt he’d end the world!!. How is your confession every week that you creating a whole new being? Babygirl the God is coming from inside the house

eldritch entity from beyond the mortal plane wants to be a Real Human Boy, becomes a real (ish!) human (ish!) boy, goes to mass every sunday

Gay boy got his crush an apartment above his church so he could have his two favorite things in one place

gay. I'm not caught up the the series but I went through the tag when the latest book came out and I remember seeing a quote that said he worried if his boyfriend would make it to heaven when he dies because of his agnostic tendencies.

Kid is like a dream warlock who creates psychic horrors and never goes to confession because why would he? and he’s gay

There are no words

basically ronan's powers are inherited from his dead father niall and it means he can bring anything from a dream into real life. so he's got this whole crisis about whether he is a living piece of blasphemy because men are not meant to have the powers of gods or whether he literally is god. which is not acceptable to him for a number of reasons but mostly because he hates himself. his love interest's name is adam and adam lives in a small apartment above a church which the book says focuses the objects of his worship neatly into one building. I love them both dearly. also, this entire page makes me feel like I'm going insane. Ronan Lynch believed in heaven and hell. Once, he’d seen the devil. It had been a low, late morning at the Barns when the sun had burned off the mist and then burned off the chill and then burned the edges off the ground until everything shimmered with heat. It never got hot in those protected fields, but that morning, the air sweated with it. Ronan had never seen cattle pant before. All of the cows heaved and stuck their tongues out as they frothed with the heat. His mother sent Ronan to put them in the shade of the cattle barn. Ronan had gone to the searing metal gate, and as he did, he’d glimpsed his father, already in the barn. Four yards away from him had stood a red man. He was not truly red, but the burned orange of a fire ant. And he was not truly a man, because of the horns and the hooves. Ronan remembered the alienness of the creature, how real it had been. Every costume in the world had gotten it wrong; every drawing in every comic book. They’d all forgotten that the devil was an animal. Looking at the red man, Ronan had been struck by the intricacy of the body, how many miraculous pieces moved smoothly in harmony, no different than his own. Niall Lynch had had a gun in hand — the Lynches had an enormous number of guns of all sizes — and just as Ronan had opened the gate, his father had shot the thing about thirteen times in the head. With a shake of its horns, the unharmed devil had presented its genitalia to Niall Lynch before bounding off. It was an image that had yet to leave Ronan. And so Ronan became a reverse evangelist. The truth burst and grew inside him, and it was laid upon him to share it with no one. No one was meant to see hell before they get there. No one should have to live with the devil. So many homilies on faith were ruined once you no longer required it for belief.

[venus-haze]

Adam Raised a Cain (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: The Sinclair house is haunted. It always has been and always will be as long as it’s standing. It’s a house you can’t think straight in, always keeping you on edge. The inhabitants are haunted too, and the longer you stay there, the further into the mire you get dragged by a dead woman’s claws and a man who can’t seem to decide whether he hates you or not.

Note: This fic can be considered a companion piece to Howl, though you don’t have to read one to understand what’s going on in the other. The reader is a woman (who gets put through the wringer again) but no other descriptors are used. It should surprise no one that the title comes from a Springsteen song. I’m going with the draft script where Bo killed Trudy, but it’s only mentioned briefly. Also I headcanon the Sinclairs as being Catholic for the drama of it all, so there’s some of that sprinkled throughout, though I want to explore that more at some point. Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings: Murder. Descriptions of violence involving weapons (guns and knives). Disturbing and sadistic behavior. Misogyny. Kidnapping and prolonged captivity which involves physical abuse, emotional and psychological manipulation, major Stockholm syndrome, distorted sense of self. Unrequited crush (reader on Vincent). Threats of harm to one’s self. Descriptions of body horror on a victim and also parental abuse. Mentions of sexual content but nothing explicit. Do not interact if you are under 18. 

You didn’t have to meet Trudy Sinclair to know you hated her. Some place between nowhere and eternity, you hoped her incorporeal being ached every time her name was internally cursed upon by you. Her specter loomed throughout Ambrose, a shadow that somehow had a chokehold on your life, but more so on your—captor? boyfriend? fiance? Whatever Bo was to you, he made Trudy your problem too.

The day after Bo brought you up to the house, he made you go back down to Ambrose with him, giving you no indication of what he had planned except to wear black. When he brought you to the church, an odd building you hadn’t noticed before, you wondered if god could even be present in such a place. Regardless, he led you up the aisle, past the wax congregation and up to the coffin that lay before the altar where the wax priest was giving the funeral mass through a recording that played on loop. As if the scenario wasn’t morbid enough, Bo knelt in front of the open casket, and you followed his example, paying your respects to his wax-preserved, deceased mother. 

You’d gone to funerals before, seen relatives and friends done up in open caskets, one last hurrah before becoming food for worms. Trudy had been dead for at least a decade, you knew as much, but for a 10-years-dead bitch, she didn’t look half bad, all things considered. Her manicured hands, long red acrylic fingernails filed into what you could only call claws, were gripping a glass-bead rosary—you doubted she was a pillar of piety. Though, you could see her blonde wig was somewhat ajar, revealing what looked like an entry or exit wound on her temple. You knew better than to ask who shot her. 

Anything you did around the house was under Bo’s scrutiny, and you were constantly compared to Trudy. For a man who seemed to live on microwave dinners before you started cooking, he sure had a lot to say about every meal you prepared. His most common critique was “Ain’t how mama made it.” Especially for Trudy’s recipes, written in a feminine scrawl on discolored index cards that you painstakingly followed to the letter. Her recipes weren’t good, either. Unseasoned slosh despite living in proximity to the capital of Cajun cuisine in the States. 

Bo had seemed glad when you offered to clean up around the house, how quickly it seemed like you’d learned your place within the Sinclair household dynamic. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. It never was with Bo. When you greeted him as expected when he returned home, with a warm kiss and a cold beer, he flew into a rage upon finding you had, in fact, cleaned. He somehow didn’t consider that cleaning involved you organizing belongings and throwing out garbage, ranting about how you can’t touch his stuff and now he can’t find anything. 

Mornings weren’t too bad. In fact, it was when things were most domestic with Bo, when you could best convince yourself that you were in a normal relationship with him. Morning sex with Bo was far tamer by his standards than any other time he’d have sex with you, and sometimes he’d actually kiss you during it. 

Despite technically not being on a schedule, he liked to be out of the house by 9 to work on whatever he did to keep Ambrose up and running. It didn’t matter whether or not you were an early riser, because he inexplicably was, and expected you to cook breakfast for him each day, a hot plate of whatever was in the fridge and a freshly brewed cup of coffee waiting at his seat by the time he sauntered downstairs. He’d greet you with a grin and a smack on the ass, as if you two were playful newlyweds.

Though you lived in the house, he didn’t entirely trust you, as he’d wait for you to eat your portion of whatever meal you’d cooked first before digging in. Playing house with Bo was far more stressful than you could’ve expected, though you hoped over time you’d get the hang of it. With the glittering ring adorning your finger, it seemed like he expected you to.

This particular morning was a pan of half a dozen scrambled eggs and a few slices of toast. You liked working with the radio on, cooking and cleaning during the day felt far less lonely with another voice around. Only three radio stations got any reception in Ambrose and one of them wasn't even consistent, as you found to your disappointment. Bo’s metal music was a collection of mixtapes made by various victims, which sent a chill down your spine as you briefly considered the implications. With your radio choices being country and oldies, you chose oldies, finding Frank Sinatra and Billie Holiday the appropriate soundtrack to your Stepford Wives-esque existence. A lump always formed in your throat whenever Connie Francis came on, no matter the song. She was Trudy’s favorite singer, Bo had informed you one day.

You took your seat next to him, grabbing one of the nearby newspapers. Bo would bring you newspapers or magazines he got from victims. It was how you found out you’d been in Ambrose for nearly three months by the time he let you out from captivity beneath the gas station. At first, you scanned every one for some mention of your disappearance, but gave up hope after a few weeks. Instead, you resigned yourself to ripping recipes out of women’s magazines and preoccupying yourself with crossword puzzles and comic strips.

Still, you found the astrology sections interesting and read yours and Bo’s horoscopes over breakfast each morning. He hated when his was negative, even though he claimed “I don’t believe in that garbage,” so sometimes you’d have to improvise. The news of the world was increasingly foreign to you, and you found the trends and gossip in magazines vapid. 

“Whatcha got today?” he asked through a mouthful of eggs. 

Though the paper was from two days prior, your eyes drifted to your sign. “Luck in love.”

“Damn right, darlin’.”

“Yours says an unexpected stranger will help you.”

He made a noncommittal grunt, shrugging before downing the rest of his coffee. “I’ll try to make it back here for lunch, but I probably won’t be home till late tonight. You give Vincent a holler if you need somethin’.”

“Okay, I love you,” you said, as was expected.

He didn’t always say it back, but for some reason, he made you tell him you loved him before he left in the mornings. You wouldn’t fight it, not if it made his mood even remotely better than the mildly-pissed-off to furious states that he seemed to operate under. In that instance, he returned the sentiment with an unknown amount of sincerity, giving you a kiss before leaving his dirty plate and empty coffee mug behind for you to clean. 

You liked taking your time with your chores for the day. It was easier to cope with everything if you kept yourself too busy to start thinking too much. You flipped to the next page of the newspaper, reading some of the letters to the editor. 

Creaking stairs caught your attention, and you looked up from the paper, surprised to see Vincent making an appearance so early. He was more of a night owl and seemed to avoid Bo when he could. The first time you met him was awkward as hell, and you still found it difficult to make eye contact with him over it. Bo had been in the middle of fucking you on the kitchen counter when his twin emerged from his basement ‘studio.’ You were mortified, and Vincent seemed to be as well, since he began backtracking until Bo shot him a grin, “Good ‘a time as ever to make introductions.” At least Vincent had the decency to mostly leave you alone since then.

“Morning Vincent,” you said, petting Jonesy as she ran up to your side. “Breakfast’s scrambled eggs.”

He nodded in response, piling the cold eggs on a plate and sticking it in the microwave. You looked down at Jonesy. She was a sweet dog, but you saw her just about as often as you saw Vincent, since she seemed to be his shadow.

“Do you want coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

He looked at the coffee pot, considering it for a few moments before shaking his head. Unlike Bo, who drank half a pot of coffee every morning, Vincent would switch between coffee and tea in the mornings, at least the mornings you actually saw him. It wasn’t uncommon for Vincent to disappear for days at a time, though you always cooked enough for him, leaving a plate for him in the fridge.

Bo was a creature of habit, as you’d observed his strange and sometimes disturbing rituals living in the house with him, from drinking a beer as soon as he got home each evening to spending at least an hour visiting Trudy’s casket in church every Sunday at noon. Vincent seemed to do things sporadically, getting so involved in his work that you weren’t sure if he consistently ate let alone showered like he should. You knew they were twins, but even when you first met Vincent, you were aware of how different he was from Bo.

Of course, meeting Lester was nothing short of a shock to the system. You had felt like you were going crazy when you saw the man from the highway who’d directed you and your friends to Ambrose in the first place walk into the house with a friendly smile on his face while you were preparing lunch. Then Bo introduced him as his “kid brother” and Lester congratulated you for “shacking up” with Bo. The experience was dizzying and confusing, especially since you ended up getting along with Lester surprisingly well, having the closest thing to a regular, mundane conversation in months. He didn’t come up to the house very often, though.

Compared to Bo and Vincent, Lester seemed normal enough, though he was still complicit in your suffering and that of everyone else who came through Ambrose. You could barely piece together how it all started, when had their mother’s career warped into the surreal hell you found yourself in? Was it inevitable or avoidable? 

From the news clippings you’d seen throughout the house, Trudy was undoubtedly talented when it came to wax art, but you couldn’t tell whether the grainy, black and white photos of the wax figures she posed with were real, like how your friends ended up. Then again, Ambrose had been a small, bustling town with real people to notice if tourists went missing. Once the highway was built and the sugar mill shut down, everyone left but the Sinclairs. Not that there was anywhere else for them to go, since Dr. Sinclair was practicing medicine unlicensed in Ambrose and Trudy’s skills didn’t have much of a practical application outside of being an eccentric and volatile small town celebrity. 

You noticed that Bo rarely mentioned his father, and when he did, it was only in the context of his mother. There were no stories about playing catch with his old man or going to car shows together. If the myriad of rusted surgical tools laying around the house were any indication, you had a good guess as to how Bo bonded with his father, since Vincent seemed to get most of his mother’s attention. You could practically see Bo–young, devious, and starving for some kind of positive parental attention–kissing up to his father with claims that he wanted to be a doctor just like him someday. He probably ended up with a front row seat to the illegal and risky procedures that Dr. Sinclair performed in the family home. The one time you had to go into the dusty room that was the late Dr. Sinclair’s office, you almost passed out at the sight of the surgical bed that looked far too much like the one you had been strapped to for months beneath the gas station. 

By the time you looked up from the newspaper, not having read a word of the letters to the editor, Vincent was gone, and Jonsey along with him. You sighed, figuring it was about time to start cleaning up from breakfast and get to the laundry list of tasks for around the house. As a result of none of the Sinclair brothers keeping up very good care of the place, there was a lot that had to be done in the way of cleaning. You hated it when you had to point out yet another part of the house that needed repairs to Bo. It was necessary, but you sure as hell didn’t want to push your luck by seeming like you were nagging him. Some days you really thought he was going to call it and either bring you back to the basement or kill you. You weren’t sure which option scared you more. 

After cleaning up from breakfast, you began the task of cleaning out Lester’s old bedroom. He’d assured you that he had taken everything he needed when he moved into his own place and gave you the okay to throw away whatever you found in there. It would be a long undertaking, as you discovered when you first looked in the room, full of junk and smelling rancid. You had a bucket of cleaning supplies that you kept under the kitchen sink, all of which Bo had bought for you under the pretense that if you tried something smart with the cocktail of chemicals, he’d pour bleach down your throat himself. 

Equipped with yellow rubber gloves and a dozen trash bags, you began cleaning your way through the room. It seemed Lester had developed his knack for taxidermy in his childhood bedroom before moving out, as you found roadkill in various states of preservation in a cardboard box. You shoved it all in a garbage bag, resisting the urge to gag at the smell. 

Despite the monumental cleaning job before you, you were confident in your ability to make the room habitable–for whom, you weren’t exactly sure, but it’d be better than the state it was in. It had gotten to be a little past noon when you decided to go through one more box before taking a break for lunch. You’d set aside some things you found that Bo might want, figuring it best to check with him after the fit he threw when you cleaned his room.

When you opened a small, dusty box in the closet, your eyes widened upon seeing a pistol laying amongst other junk. You weren’t sure if it was even real, let alone usable, but holding it in your hands sent a shockwave through you. Dropping everything, you sprinted into your and Bo’s room, finding a shoebox with a pair of heels you never wore shoved toward the back corner of the closet. Your breath caught in your throat when you heard the front door open, Bo calling for you. Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to be home. Haphazardly, you threw the gun in the box, pushing it back in place before rushing downstairs.

“What’s kept you so busy?” he asked, regarding you with suspicion.

“Lester’s old room. I lost track of time,” you explained, sweat beading at your forehead.

To your relief, he laughed. “Shit, I don’t even wanna think about what’s in there. If you still got an appetite, I picked up somethin’ to eat while I was in town.”

“That sounds great. Let me wash up,” you said, giving him a kiss before heading into the bathroom.

You turned on the sink, holding your hands under the running water until it was too hot to touch, pulling your stinging hands away and staring at them. Less than five minutes ago, you had a gun in your hands, a get out of jail free card, and now you were going to eat lunch with a man who made your life miserable. 

Bo had already helped himself to one of the burgers he’d bought from McDonald’s the next town over. You sat down in your seat, munching on the cold french fries that had spilled onto the table. The food wasn’t necessarily good, but it gave you some comfort with its familiarity. He was in an unusually good mood, which you were sure wouldn’t last, so you relished in it, allowing yourself the luxury of pretending you were having a normal lunch with your normal boyfriend. He told you a funny story about a woman falling over in a hardware store he’d stopped in for supplies. Sure, it was mean-spirited, but the way Bo told the story had you nearly doubled over.

“You got a great laugh,” he said with a smile. 

“Thank you,” you said, shocked and flattered by the compliment.

His eyes were bright as he looked at you, but it didn’t last. His expression became serious, and he picked up his hat from where he’d placed it on the table. “I better head back out. I’ll see ya later, darlin’.”

“Okay, I love you.”

“Love you too,” he said, kissing your cheek before leaving.

After cleaning up the mess from lunch, long enough to be sure you were in the clear, you raced back upstairs, closing the bedroom door behind you as you retrieved the shoe box from its hiding spot. Adrenaline rushed through you as you picked up the gun, staring at it in awe.

You bit your lip, silently praying to whatever deity may have been out there that if they could give you one thing, it’d be to not accidentally set off the gun while you tried to figure out whether or not it even had any bullets in it. Of course, as soon as it made some kind of clicking noise, you shoved it back in the box. Vincent was more than likely in his studio, but with how he’d spontaneously make appearances in the house, you didn’t want to take a chance.

As you went back to cleaning Lester’s old room, you tried not to let your discovery burn through your mind. It was so hard not to, though, not when for the first time in months you actually had a chance. You had to plan, knowing better than to be sloppy and impulsive when it came to Bo and Vincent. 

While Bo liked to have his routine, his schedule could be unpredictable, especially if tourists came into town. You avoided Vincent’s studio, but knew it connected to other parts of town through a tunnel system. Both brothers were capable of ending you in an instant. They knew Ambrose’s layout by heart whereas you’d only actually seen the town on a handful of occasions, and very briefly at that.

Noticing the sky getting dark through the window, you set your racing thoughts aside to focus on cleaning. Easier said than done since you dreaded nighttime, the sunset marking the end of the day, when you’d have Bo’s undivided attention. The evening was routine, as he expected you to wait by the door for him with a cold beer and a warm kiss when you heard his truck pull up outside. The two of you would eat while he talked about his day, but from there, it was a crapshoot. It didn’t matter whether his mood was good or bad, you inevitably ended up manhandled into bed at some point in the night to scratch whatever itch he had. 

Bo wouldn’t be back until late, but you weren’t sure what to make for dinner. Sometimes he’d request certain dishes, and others you’d just have to hope he liked whatever you cooked. Even if he complained, he still ate what you served him. 

You headed downstairs, dragging the garbage bags filled with junk behind you. While you still had a ways to go before you’d consider Lester’s old room clean, it was nice seeing evidence of your hard work. Calling out to Vincent, you let him know that you were going to bring the trash out. He’d hear you go out there anyway, but you quickly learned it was a lot less trouble if you let him know beforehand.

The night air was cool as you threw bag after bag into the garbage cans outside the house. You weren’t sure where Bo took everything when he’d load up the back of his truck every week. Out of sight, out of mind, you supposed. 

Rushing back into the house and out of the cold, you quickly decided to make some kind of soup, hoping there’d be adequate ingredients for it in the fridge. A major downfall of not being able to get your own groceries meant having to rely on Bo to grab the food you requested and not whatever he felt like throwing into the cart.

Just about everything you needed was in the kitchen, and oddly enough, you felt excited for Bo to come home for dinner, trying to ignore the sense of foreboding that loomed over you as you chopped and sautéed vegetables. Things always seemed to balance in Ambrose. Bo’s unusually good mood earlier in the afternoon would be matched with a horrific one when he got home.

You unfortunately experienced such in your stint in the basement dungeon below the gas station, the fresh scars on your body evidence of this. As much as you used to pray for predictability, you hated knowing something horrible was about to happen next. 

The soup was almost to your taste when you heard Bo’s truck pull up outside. Grabbing a can of beer from the fridge, you tried to hold out hope, you’d go crazy if you didn’t. 

As soon as you heard the way he stomped up the front steps, you could feel all of the butterflies in your stomach die one by one. The door swung open to reveal Bo, covered in blood and sweat. Whatever victims had come into Ambrose put up a fight he clearly wasn't expecting.

He grabbed the can of beer from you, throwing it across the room, leaving a fresh hole in the drywall. You ran into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit and rushed back into the living room, only to find him sitting at the kitchen table.

You pulled up a chair close to him, setting out the first aid kit on the table. At a glance, it seemed like his wounds were mostly superficial, so you assumed most of the blood wasn’t his. Still, there was a decent looking cut on his forehead above his left eye.

“I swear to god this shit’s more trouble than it’s worth sometimes,” he mumbled. 

You didn’t respond, trying to carefully pour peroxide onto a cotton ball, only for some of it to spill onto the kitchen floor. 

He grabbed the cotton ball from your hand, pressing it against his forehead as he hissed out, “You sure are too, when all you’re good for is gettin’ fucked. Mama would be rollin’ if she knew a slut like you was in her house.”

Your jaw clenched. You wouldn’t even be in the damn house if it weren’t for him. It wasn’t like you’d invited yourself. He was trying to get a rise out of you, make you feel as awful as he was feeling. That was his M.O. when he was feeling down, drag everyone down with him.

“What? You got somethin’ to say?”

The clock read 13:77 when you reached for the gun you hid in your pocket. Since when did this dress have pockets? Wordlessly, you stood up, firing three shots into Bo’s chest. His expression was almost cartoonish as the chair tilted back and crashed onto the floor, his head rolling away from his body like a bowling ball.

You awoke with a start. The dream seemed so real up until the end. You almost went upstairs to see if Bo was still alive. You had patched him up, and he had made his cruel comments toward you. In reality, the interaction ended with his demanding you sleep on the couch as he wasn’t in the mood to fuck you, and that was the only reason he let you in his bed in the first place. You were nothing short of humiliated and furious when you laid on the couch with a worn out blanket, crying yourself to sleep into one of the smelly throw pillows.

As you shifted, you noticed another blanket in much better condition was on top of you. It felt like some kind of quilt, not that you could tell in the dark. You hated that your broken ass brain made you love Bo regardless of everything he did to you, when clearly Vincent was considerate enough to cover you with a real blanket.

After about an hour or so of tossing and turning, you fell back asleep. With no alarm around, you could only hope to wake up in time to make breakfast for Bo. There were no dreams of gunshots or decapitated heads this time.

A little after six in the morning, you woke up to the sound of Vincent rifling through a drawer in the kitchen. You sighed in relief. Sure, it was earlier than you were used to getting up, but you could possibly sneak a nap in during the afternoon if Bo was out for the day. You hoped he would be. 

You looked at the thick quilt that was covering you, noticing dried bloodstains on it. Other than that, it was in pretty good condition and appeared to be handmade. You wondered who made it, and when. Right away you knew it wasn’t Trudy’s work, all she seemed to have cared about when she was alive was wax sculptures and terrorizing her children. It probably came from a victim, a family heirloom they had brought along with them when their trip ended prematurely in Ambrose. The thought made you push the quilt off of your body.

Shuffling into the kitchen, you were surprised to see Vincent still there. He always made his trips upstairs short and scarce. 

“Thanks for the blanket,” you said.

He hesitated before nodding. 

“Is there anything special you want for breakfast?” 

You watched as he opened one of the cabinets, grabbing a box of Lucky Charms. 

“I figured you must be the one eating the cereal. Bo got so mad when I tried giving him Froot Loops one morning, I just gave up on it,” you said.

Vincent shrugged as he poured the cereal into a bowl with a worn out Snoopy design on it.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you.”

His head shot up in your direction, so quickly it nearly startled you. You recognized him signing ‘No.’

“Well, let me know if I am, okay?” you said. “I–um–I can go, if you want to eat in here.”

He motioned with his thumb toward the basement. Right. Two new victims needed his attention. Still, you found it odd he even ventured upstairs. Usually he’d have to be torn away from his work by Bo, insisting he needed to take a break. Even then, he’d do so quickly and reluctantly until his sculptures were finished. 

You took your time making breakfast but weren’t sure what to expect when you heard Bo coming down the stairs. You’d been on the receiving end of his wrath plenty of times, from blunt knives to bloody fists, you’d taken it all from him–as if you had a choice. Still, he’d never cast you out like that before.

He stood in the doorway almost awkwardly, and you acknowledged his presence with a slight nod. With this, he closed the distance between the two of you, and you tensed up.

“Missed you last night,” Bo said, leaning against the counter as if he hadn’t banished you to the couch.

Those words were the closest to an apology you were going to get. You weren’t sure if you ever wanted to hear him say ‘I’m sorry’. If he ever uttered that phrase, something would have to be terribly wrong. Everything was your fault anyway. It always was.

You shook your head, giving him a forced smile. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”

That was it. Your apology and admission of wrongdoing tied up neat in a bow for him. Unfortunately, his expression fell, and you wracked your brain for what you left out of your statement. Clean, crisp, and concise, there was nothing wrong with it. Why wasn’t he happy with you doing what was expected? 

He didn’t respond after that, and breakfast was mostly silent. You sure as hell weren’t going to initiate conversation with the man who made what he thought about you more than clear the night before, ruining what had been such a good afternoon that you had been looking forward to him getting home. Trying to pretend with Bo was pointless. He always ran his mouth and ruined it. 

You were relieved when he left for the day and didn’t return until late in the evening. Though you did what was expected, as always, there was a coldness to your actions. In your heart, you’d forgiven him for so much despite him not deserving any of it, but the way he treated you the night before stuck with you more than anything else he’d done. 

Your cool attitude toward him thawed over the next few days, getting into the normal routine as he graciously allowed you to share a bed with him again after three nights of roughing it alone, him in his bed and you on the old couch that made your back hurt. Three nights wasn’t even that long, but somehow the separation had made him insatiable, as he practically devoured you as soon as you stepped foot in his room. Hours had passed by the time he finally stopped–your wrists were bruised, lip bleeding profusely, salty tear tracks drying out the delicate skin on your face. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Even though there weren’t as many tourists coming through Ambrose, and even during the “busy season” they were few and far between, Bo almost always had something to do in the wax town or errands to run in the next town over. Lester had come by to visit more often, which lifted your mood. Conversations with him tended to be on the lighter side.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna take a look at your old room? There’s still a lot of stuff in there,” you said.

“Most of it ain’t mine. I’ve lived on my own for a long time now,” he answered.

“How far is your place from here?”

“Few miles. Maybe you can visit soon.”

What you wouldn’t give to spend a few hours outside Ambrose, even if it was at Lester’s house. You were dying for a change of scenery. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot. I’ll have to ask Bo.”

“I can’t see him sayin’ no. He’s got a real soft spot for ya.”

You didn’t know how to respond, so you gave Lester a smile before letting him steer the conversation elsewhere. What the fuck about your split lip indicated anything soft was going on with Bo? You didn’t want to begin thinking about how he treated his other partners. You nearly laughed at yourself–as if Bo considered you remotely equal to him. Besides, your affection had shifted toward his twin not long after the blanket incident.

When you weren’t cleaning Lester’s old room or doing routine chores around the house, you’d hang out downstairs with Vincent. You asked him several times if you were bothering him, but as no victims had come through Ambrose in a few weeks, he wasn’t as busy. He worked on projects that had fallen to the wayside in the urgency of creating with his living subjects. 

The studio was silent, save for the opera music, but sometimes you’d have long, rambling, mostly one-sided conversations. After months of giving short answers to Bo in fear of his temper, it was nice to vocalize what you were thinking, mundane observations and surface-level feelings. 

You knew what Vincent had done, what he was capable of, but when you’d watch him work, shaping and molding the wax like it was second nature, you couldn’t help but admire his artistry. His hands were big and strong like Bo’s, but there was a softness to them. You wondered what they’d feel like on your skin, if he’d hold you, caress you with the gentleness that Bo was deeply lacking. 

If Bo was aware you had been spending your free time with Vincent, he didn’t say anything about it. Sometimes you’d look at Bo, trying to imagine his face on Vincent’s body. You’d only ever seen Vincent with his mask on, and there were no photos of him maskless anywhere in the house. You wondered if his expressions would be like Bo’s, if he could channel the same meanness his twin did. In the part of your mind that was still a hopeless romantic, you pictured him looking at you fondly. 

To your dismay, a victim had come to Ambrose, which meant you wouldn’t see Vincent for some time. As much as you allowed yourself the silly fantasies in your head and tried to romanticize him as an artist, you knew you’d never be able to stomach that overwhelming aspect of his craft. He was just as much of a killer as Bo, but you never had to witness such.

It was only a matter of time. You knew that, but you didn’t expect it to happen as soon as it did. 

You decided to make shrimp fried rice for dinner, having a craving for Chinese food and finding a promising recipe in a magazine Bo had given you. The dish was almost done when you heard an unusual noise coming from the basement. Victims usually struggled before Vincent subdued them, but this sounded different. 

As you considered whether or not to investigate, a frantic footfall that definitely wasn’t Vincent’s became louder as they ascended the stairs. Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. 

The person before you hardly looked human, and you froze at the sight of him until he uttered a garbled “Help!”

Immobilized by fear, you couldn’t do anything but scream at the sight of the grotesque man before you. Nude and completely hairless, his body was littered with fresh wounds that had been inflicted and stitched up by Vincent. 

You scrambled backward, falling on your ass as you heard Vincent storming up the stairs. He grabbed the pan that was on the stove and followed the man into the living room. You could hear their struggle from your spot on the floor until there was a clang and a disgusting gurgling noise. The sound of the pan crashing to the ground made you jump. 

Vincent grunted, not sparing you so much as a glance while he dragged the man back downstairs. You tried not to throw up at the sight of the raw, burnt skin on the man’s head. 

It took you a few minutes to pull yourself together enough to stand up. Cautiously, you walked over to the door frame, feeling your stomach churn at the mess on the floor. At a loss for how to begin cleaning it up, you grabbed your tub of cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink and hoped they’d do the job. 

Your hands shook as you put on the yellow rubber gloves. You tried to use the broom and dustpan to sweep up the fried rice on the floor, only finding it stuck to the bristles because of the blood it had been mixed with in the scuffle. Gagging, you pulled the clump off and threw it into the dust pan. A combination of cleaning sprays at least masked the rancid smell with bleach and lemon, and you coughed every few minutes as you used sponges and paper towels to clean the floor.

Besides yours and your friends’ victimization in Ambrose, you’d never been directly confronted with what the Sinclair brothers did. Bo rarely allowed you to leave the house, and Vincent’s subjects were brought to his studio through the various trap doors and tunnels beneath the town. You’d certainly heard things, but seeing the worst of it for yourself was harrowing. 

You scrubbed the floor frantically as you heard Bo’s truck pull up, trying to think of how you were going to explain what had happened in his absence, the snafu in the dinner he expected when he’d come home. Your brain seemed to short circuit as you tried to decide whether to keep cleaning or make a run to the fridge and grab him a beer. 

The front door swung open, and Bo’s rare good mood collapsed at the scene before him. You didn’t dare acknowledge his presence, too afraid to speak. You weren’t even sure if you could.

“What the fuck happened here?” Bo asked, observing you cleaning the mess of blood and fried rice on the floor.

“I—I don’t know,” you whispered, your hand shaking as you pointed toward the kitchen. “Vincent—“

“Darlin’, go upstairs,” Bo said. 

You looked at the floor and then back up to him. 

He grabbed your arm and helped you onto your feet. “Y/N, I want you to go upstairs. Now.”

His rare use of your name caught your attention, and something in you snapped. Calling you by your name as if he knew you, as if he hadn’t made sure Y/N was long dead by the time he let you out of that basement. You wrenched yourself from his grasp and ran upstairs, not bothering to shut the door behind you as you curled up on his bed and began sobbing.

Sure, the incident scared you, and you felt guilty for not doing more to help the man. The feeling that most overwhelmed you, however, was heartbreak. It was stupid to have conjured up a romanticized version of Vincent in your mind, yet it was alarmingly easy to do so when you never witnessed any of his brutality firsthand. He was as violent as Bo, cruel too, but it manifested differently. You wailed at the crushing weight of the realization that you wouldn’t have been better off if he found you first. You would have ended up just like the man in the kitchen, your former friends, everyone else in Ambrose. He wouldn’t have saved you. He wouldn’t have given you a second thought. 

As much as Bo made your life hell, at least you were still alive. After years of feeling average and overlooked, he saw something worthwhile in you, worth keeping around—or maybe you were just desperate and weak enough for him to break you so easily. You wanted to claw your insides out for loving him anyway. 

“Doll?” Bo asked tentatively by the doorframe, the first time he ever seemed remotely nervous around you. 

You quickly gave up trying to respond coherently, rolling over and screaming into his pillow until your throat hurt and your head ached. It wasn’t fair. You tried so hard to show him you deserved to be in his house, in his bed, and it never seemed like enough. 

When you looked at him through hazy, tear-filled eyes, you expected to see that all too familiar smug expression on his face whenever you cried. Instead, he was sending next to the bed, his eyebrows furrowed in the closest thing to concern you figured he could manage. 

“You got spooked, huh?” he asked softly.

A pained noise came from your throat in response. No shit. You wished he would take the initiative to hold you, to comfort you. You knew better than to hope he cared about you, but at least he could pretend. Instead, to your further disappointment, you had to be the one to initiate any kind of tenderness.

Feeling pathetic as ever, you uttered, “Will you just hold me?” 

He sighed, his heavy footfall punctuating his reluctant non-answer. The mattress dipped as he got onto it, wrapping his strong arms around you as he gave you an imitation of the comfort you craved. You buried your face in his chest. His emotional constipation wasn’t entirely his fault. The affection and care that most people grew up with in one way or another had almost no presence in Bo’s upbringing, his wrists and ankles were evidence of that. 

Speculation and “what if’s” did you no good, though. No amount of empathizing with him could ever undo a fraction of what he’d done to you, not to mention the dozens of other people who met their end in Ambrose. Suddenly, you felt disgusted by his touch, regretting your request for it in the first place. It was insincere, disingenuous, a way to placate you until next time, and the time after that, and after that, too. Sobs wracked through your body again as you considered going through this song and dance again for the rest of your life, however short or long that would be. To your dismay, he held you closer.

You cried yourself to sleep in his arms. The room was pitch black when Bo shook you awake, claiming you started screaming. You had no reason to doubt him. Despite the darkness and false sense of calm, you had trouble falling back asleep.

The following morning, panic rushed through you when you awoke late in the day, Bo nowhere in sight. All you could think about was how pissed he’d be that you hadn’t started breakfast for him yet. You practically sprinted out the bedroom door and almost fell down the stairs in your rush to the kitchen. 

He was already leaning against the messy counter, eating some concoction he’d made for breakfast directly from the frying pan. It was the first time you’d ever seen him attempt to cook. By the looks of it, you could understand why he left that to you.

“Bo, I’m so sorry. I overslept—“

“Don’t worry about it, darl’,” he said nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t made it clear in the past that this was one of the few tasks your survival hinged on. “Why don’t you take it easy today. I’ll even bring home somethin’ so you don’t have to cook dinner.”

“Thank you,” you uttered in disbelief.

He glanced at the kitchen clock, setting down the frying pan as if he had a boss who’d chew him out if he was late for work. “I gotta get goin’. I’ll check on ya later.”

You nodded, pressing your lips to his—chaste, routine, robotic. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he said quickly.

Just like that, he left without incident. Reluctantly, you grabbed the frying pan—a different one from the night before, thankfully—he’d just set down, regarding the slop he’d cooked for himself with apprehension. You weren’t sure if it was edible enough for Jonesy to finish. Deciding to spare the dog from Bo’s attempt at cooking, you dumped what was left of the food in the garbage and while washing the pan, considered what to make yourself for breakfast. You ended up making plain toast before trudging your way back upstairs to yours and Bo’s shared bedroom. 

Shutting the door behind you, you dug your shoebox out of the closet and opened it, staring at the pistol that was nestled between your heels. The damn thing had been burning a hole in your conscience for weeks. It kept you on edge, yet was a source of comfort. You knew it wouldn’t last. It’d only be a matter of time before Bo found it, and you tried not to think about what he’d do to you then. 

After all, anyone else in your situation would have acted as soon as they found the gun. Instead you sat on it, telling yourself it wasn’t the right time, that you needed to plan more. It was all lies. Bo’s undivided attention was torture, but it was all yours. 

Besides, going back to a “normal” life after your months in Ambrose would be a struggle in itself. After the pity wore off, people would regard you with frustration for not getting over it fast enough. You’d seen as much with acquaintances who’d gone through traumatic events. The rest of your life would be punctuated with regular therapy sessions and taking a cocktail of medications to curb the nightmares and PTSD from your experiences. It sounded exhausting, and you were already so tired. You’d rather be broken with Bo than broken on your own.

You spent the next few hours lying in bed, considering where to go from there. Having been confronted with the worst of the Sinclair family, brutal and cruel and ruthless, it was only a matter of time before it consumed you too. 

As much as you wanted to sleep, you were afraid to, unsure of what nightmares await if you closed your eyes for too long. Instead, you stared at the wall and thought over everything that happened in the past 24 hours, replaying the incident over in your mind.

Rage filled your chest at the thought of Vincent, who hadn’t paid you any mind since the previous night, not even to check on you. He never did. At least Bo felt bad enough to give you the day off, even though he had no involvement in the incident. You couldn’t believe you had convinced yourself Vincent cared about you. It was always you initiating conversations, making yourself at home in his studio, thinking he might enjoy the company. He was only tolerating you for Bo’s sake.

Your lip trembled as you considered how lonely you felt. If one of them didn’t kill you, loneliness would do it eventually. After all, if you were going to be in such a fucked up situation, couldn’t you have the slightest bit of happiness to make your survival worth it.

Bo returned home not long after the sky became dark. While you went downstairs to meet him, you didn’t rush. You half expected him to be annoyed with you for not having a beer in hand for him, but instead, his expression lit up when he walked back into the living room from the kitchen. 

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Bo said with a smile as he put his arm around your waist. 

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He looked at you with a gleam in his eye that you hesitated to identify as adoration. You assumed too much of Vincent and found out the hard way that you were wrong. In your hours of wallowing, you came to the conclusion that if Bo didn’t love you, you’d rather be dead. 

“I wasn’t sure what ya wanted, so I went a little crazy,” he said, gesturing to the three Olive Garden takeout bags on the counter. “Figured you probably haven’t eaten today.”

“I need to get something from upstairs first,” you said. “Is that okay?”

He nodded. “‘Course, just be quick. Food’ll get cold before ya know it.”

You gave him a kiss on the cheek before making your ascent upstairs. As soon as you walked back into the bedroom, you exhaled, trying to ground yourself despite your thoughts doing laps around your brain. No more talking yourself out of it. If you were going to stay with Bo, you needed him to know you were serious, that you couldn’t take the hot and cold attitude anymore. Either he wanted you, or he didn’t.

Opening the shoe box, you stared at the gun for what must have been a few minutes too long, because you flinched in shock when you heard Bo calling for you from downstairs. Grabbing the gun, you felt adrenaline rush through you as you went back downstairs with it in your hand. You almost wanted to go ahead and fire it just to see what would happen. 

His eyes widened, jaw clenched upon seeing you holding the gun. “Where’d you get that?”

“Found it while I was cleaning.”

You cocked the gun, and his chair scraped against the linoleum floor as he got up from the table, lip curled in a sneer. When you lifted the gun to your temple, however, determination seemed to leave his body as he froze in place.

“Do you love me?” you asked.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Put the fuckin’ gun down, and we can talk.”

Your voice was loud and uneven as you demanded an answer. “Do you love me?”

“I—what is this about?”

“I can’t go back to a normal life now. I can’t fucking leave here, but I can’t keep saying ‘I love you’ to a man who doesn’t mean it when he says it back,” you said. 

It was the most you’d spoken to him since he brought you down to that basement all those months ago. Used to brief answers from you, the severity of the situation finally seemed to dawn on him. His hands were half raised as he inched toward you, the handler shit out of luck without a taser or tranquilizer to subdue the lion that had escaped its cage.

“I don’t want you to blow your brains out in our kitchen, doll. I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to ya, just put the gun down,” he said, trying not to raise his voice despite the bulging veins in his neck indicating how bad he wanted to scream at you.

Our kitchen. You were holding a gun to your own head and that was the best he could do. Then again, if he really didn’t give a shit, he could have called Vincent up to help, though you’d be dead by the time his twin reached the kitchen. Perhaps he wanted to do it himself, already having your death elaborately planned out and unwilling for you to take that from him. You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. Our kitchen would do.

He jolted as you slammed the gun down on the table, rattling the silverware. His eyes widened as he looked from it to you. Holding his gaze, you lifted your hand from the weapon and took a step back. 

He wasted no time grabbing it, nostrils flaring as he pushed you back into the counter. The cold barrel of the gun pressed beneath your chin so you held eye contact with him. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he yelled, a scowl on his handsome face, chest heaving as he came down from the adrenaline rush. “Givin’ me half a fuckin’ heart attack while I’m tryin’ to eat my goddamn dinner. I wouldn’t go to none ‘a this trouble if I didn’t love you—“

His rant was muffled by your mouth on his, your hand on the side of his neck, thumb brushing his Adam’s apple. He growled into your mouth, setting the gun down on the counter to pull you closer in what was more teeth and tongue to be considered a kiss. 

“You don’t got any other secrets you’re keepin’ from me, do ya?” he asked almost breathlessly as he pulled away from your lips far too soon for your liking.

You shook your head. “That was it.”

“Where’d you hide it?”

“Shoebox in the closet.”

His eyes widened at your response. He hadn’t expected you to have it in the first place, but especially not under his nose the whole time. You were either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, probably a mix of both. Yet the fact that you had plenty of chances to use it and never so much as pointed it at him spoke to the desperate devotion you had for him. God, you might as well have just recited your wedding vows.

He licked his lips, “Maybe I can let ya help me out in town sometimes.”

“You mean it?”

“‘S long as you’re willin’ to do what it takes.”

You knew what he meant. Being in the house meant you wouldn’t have to deal with victims directly. He hadn’t brought any up to the house for as long as you’d been there. The last you knew of was your friend who had disappeared with him to pick up a part he claimed was delivered there instead of the gas station. This was always coming, your complicit involvement in the Sinclairs’ disturbing cruelty in the name of art or legacy or something.

“Don’t make me kill anyone, please,” you implored, eyes glassy as you teared up.

“It ain’t as bad as people say. The first time makes you feel like you’re on top of the world.”

“Like when you killed her?”

He grinned, giving you a kiss. “Remember what I said when I first brought you up here? I knew I got lucky with you.”

He knew what you were thinking. It wasn’t the act itself that scared you, but rather the possibility that you would like it, that just like him it would be something you did with no remorse. 

“One day,” he whispered, voice husky as his blue eyes bore deep into yours, “one day you’re gonna do it too. You’re gonna wanna do it.”

Your voice was barely audible as you answered, “I know.”

“It’ll be the best feelin’ you’ve ever had in your life, doll. I promise.”