#both are like Equally bad I think the bath and body works may be worse being within 10 miles of one gives you a lethal headache with no cure

[pebblezone]

I don’t want a manga reprint I want him

[cinnamonest]

please spare more crumbs for the sex slave au with diluc and kaeya's meimei,,

Thank you for giving me permission to be more depraved this is from forever ago but I'm slowly getting the "forever ago" stuff done lol

I love the concept tho, especially Crepus buying a lil qt and having to teach them how to be good masters bc they’re both dumb clueless boys, bless.

TWs: slavery, implied incest or pseudo-incest, could give vibes as under//age (nothing is specified but I guess it could strike some people that way so I wanna be cautious), noncon/dubcon, mentions of anal, misogynistic, awful depraved and nasty -------------------------------------

God. The arguing. The rivalry. The chaos. Like, with some poly yanderes/owner/master relationships, the two work *together* and focus attention on controlling *you,* but these two are... not like that. They have a lot of rivalry going on half the time.

Now, this could be Crepus buying a slave and basically indoctrinating her as a meimei, but of course, if you actually are one of the boys' bio sis, the one is gonna claim some authenticity - you know, the whole "well she's my real sister, not yours, so I get to fuck her more" kind of thing. The other appeals to "well she's your real sister which makes you worse," and it devolves into arguing back and forth about whether or not the blood relation makes them more or less justified in sticking their dick in you and claiming more rights to meimei's time and attention. Not just to each other either, it's also directed at you -- the whole "hey, I'm your real big brother, so you should spend more time with me than him" kind of thing. It actually can get pretty annoying over time, you have to constantly be soothing not one but TWO egos in desperate need of affirmation. But here I’m going more with the idea of Crepus just buying them a sweet meimei. Diluc's more... patient. He teaches you "touch commands" -- little learned gestures, like a dog. Just the lightest touch on your spine and you know it's a clear message to arch your back, a hand under your chin and thumb pressed against it has you instinctively opening your mouth, a tap to the back of your neck and you kneel. Little gestures that can bend your body and mind with minimal effort. Despite that though, Kaeya is actually the master of The Look™ - the kind that can make you go quiet and apologize in a mere instant when given. But because you know it, expect him to be even harsher if you defy it. Sometimes in your little tantrums you get so mad that you'll have the audacity to ignore that look and keep whining or being a brat which does not end well.

Meimei is what you call free use - any time, anywhere. One of the most important lessons Crepus told you when he first got you/when you were old enough is that you are never to deny the boys any of your holes if they want it. This is just as important for the boys to learn as it is you, he's a big believer in the whole, "if you act like a good proper master, the slave will naturally fall into their role too" sort of thing, so he teaches them to be forceful and dominating, not hesitant to do what they want -- if they're clear on what they want and make known their expectation of your obedience (and the subtle implication of threat of punishments if not complied with), you'll fall into the submissive role you're meant for and naturally want to submit to them like a good little wife-sister-slave.

So, whenever one of them beckons you over, you smile and ask them how you can help. Your brothers work so hard, and it's the least you can do to take care of their needs. Sometimes they just want you to sit on their lap, wrap your arms around them, sit there a while in silence when they're sad, sometimes they want to vent to you about things when they're frustrated, sometimes they want to use you. Of course, the former two usually leads to the last anyway. You're... emotional support pussy. There's important rules and practices to be followed, it's actually rules for all three of you, several apply to them, actually, as Crepus taught you before he died, and it's become second nature for the boys (it works in their benefit, after all). #1. You can never be left alone. There's a lot of reasons for this, but primarily it's in your instinct to get fucked, all you know how to do is take cock, so if you were left alone you may very well go running off and jump onto the first thing with a dick, and they can't have that. So basically you either have to be with one of them, within their sight, or accounted for in some way - there's a couple of installed tethering hooks and the like on the walls  in several areas of the house you can be attached to. But, really, they're not usually necessary, with two very horny males running around you're busy most of the time, even if it's a more passive task. You spend a lot of time sitting on someone's lap, sometimes taking naps throughout the day with whoever decides they're tired at the moment. So, you spend more or less every waking moment with one or both -- well, every sleeping moment too, of course you don't have you own room. You alternate nights between the two just like you were told to. There's not really any task you do alone. Bathing? It's always gotta be with one or the other. Sleeping? Always with one or the other. Even when you're cooking -- because obviously you do that, they wouldn't even know how to, since you've always done it -- one is always standing beside you, talking to you, or sitting a ways over in a chair as they vent about their day. Oh, speaking of that, as aforementioned, you're there for emotional burdens too. When one has had a long day, what would they do if meimei wasn't there for them to vent and whine and complain to? You've always been taught to be a good listener. Don't interrupt. Listen to everything and don't zone out. Don't oppose their actions when they're telling you about their problems, always tell them they were in the right and comfort them. Smile while you listen. That's how you were trained to respond when one of them has some burden to unload on you. Always offer your body to make them happy. That's the last part, and they've never not taken you up on the offer. That being said, sometimes you have to... motivate them. Push a little bit. You see, you're just so sweet that sometimes your brothers might want to just spend the entire day in bed with you. So you have to motivate them to do their actual work. Tell them that if they don't go to work, if they stay in bed all day inside you, how are you supposed to clean the house and make dinner for them? So they sigh and accept you're right and go off to work after all. And, again, the rule is important for them too. You can never run off on your own, but they're also vigilant not to ever leave you alone. When you're first bought, Crepus had to constantly pull them back inside the house when they'd go to another room for something because see, you're leaving her all alone and she's going to go running off and it'll be your fault. So they had to be conditioned to communicate and make sure you were always accounted for, taught how to restrain you properly. If you were left in a room, Crepus would come by to make sure they remembered to lock you inside, would test the tightness of your leash if you were tethered to something, and sigh and chastise if one of them neglected to do it right. #2. No getting off on your own, this is a rule they have to help enforce. It's a waste - you have TWO big brothers, surely one of them is always going to be available and eager, so really, getting yours without either of them involved is pretty selfish, and worthy of punishment if found doing so. If for whatever reason they're all too busy, you have the option of asking permission to ride and grind on their thigh, but no cumming until they're done with their task and are available to properly handle it. Crepus is particularly adamant about this rule, as well as enforcing the same mentality in them, doesn't think it's appropriate for a girl to be so selfishly absorbed with pleasure when she should  be giving it to the men that own her. For one, a girl should be spending all of her time dedicated to serving her masters in some way, and two, they're both needy boys that would be eager to fuck you at any time. So really, masturbating is an act of defiance and will be dealt with as such. #3. No favoritism! There will be times where you may feel mad at one or the other, and sure you have different levels of how much you can tolerate certain behaviors... But, you have to train yourself against that. Meimei should have no limits of what she can tolerate - that's part of your whole purpose. So even when you're mad at one, you can't try to avoid that one and go to the other, you still need to divide your time, energy, and body equally. Don't talk bad about one to the other, don't try to spend more time with one or the other at any time. This also includes pitting them against each other through jealousy, it's a huge no-no. Don't try to make one jealous of the other. If they catch you doing that, sooner or later they'll realize what you're doing, and deal with it, usually harshly, since it's seen as a high-ranking offense. In fact, you really shouldn't be mad, ever. Your big brothers know what's best for you, so if you're mad over a disagreement, you just need to accept that they're right and you're wrong and that you need to submit to their will. Outwardly showing you're upset is bratty behavior, things like pouting or giving them the cold shoulder are punishable offenses. #4. You're also a peacekeeper. Diffuse fights. Both of your big brothers can be... stubborn, prideful individuals. This leads to pretty regular conflict over this and that. It's meimei's job to help with that, calm them down with a smile on your face. Or, if it works better, with some tears and a quivering lip. Please don't fight, you say with watery eyes, sniffling, and well, they can't help but feel bad, they both turn their attention to you rather than to each other and apologize for making you upset.  And if they're having one if their regular it's my turn kind of arguments, your job is to propose the easy solution of sharing. You have more than one hole to fuck, and can easily cuddle one on each side. It should be an obvious solution. Oh, and they fight sometimes over who gets to do what, who spends time with you, but doing different things rather than both wanting to do the same thing. One is sitting at his desk to work and he can't be expected to focus on work without meimei sitting on his lap and cockwarming him of course, but the other says he wants to take a nap and how is he supposed to sleep if he can't rest his head on meimei's tits? There is only so much of her to go around! But they will legit adjust their schedules to make sure they get alone time. And are very nitpicky about it -- wait why do *you* get an extra hour on Tuesday?? If you get that I deserve an extra hour on Thursday -- that sort of thing. You're supposed to be able to propose such ideas. It's your job to come up with solutions that make everyone happy. You can cockwarm one brother while he works and tell the other that hey, if he postpones the nap, you can just ride him until he cums and can sleep right? Things like that. #5 Actually isn't for you, it's for them, regarding punishment. When Crepus got you, the poor boys didn't really know how to go about doing it, so they had to be taught. It's important to be a good master and know how to do so adequately, you know? To not let anger get the better of them and go too far, since sometimes they might get too mad about something. In fact, a good trick, he teaches them, is to just tie you up, and go blow off some steam before coming back to punish you. That way they won't go too far, and you'll have to wait around in fear for a while, which just helps the punishment sink in better. But at the same time, don't go too light. No matter how much you whimper, he says, don't feel pity for her and go lax. It's intentional, it's just your nature to try and fake-cry to try and get out of it. You did something bad, so they shouldn't feel bad about it, even if you cry and squeal. It's the right thing to do. You're supposed to cry, you're supposed to say it hurts and whimper, that just means they're doing it right. But of course, there's some sensitivities to be taught. If they have you bent over a knee, they have to make sure to only hit your ass and the back of your thighs, make sure not to go up too high and hit your back, since that could cause injury. If they're gonna fuck your ass as punishment, make sure to use a certain amount of lube. Things like that, it's important to be good masters, just as much as it is your job to be a good little slave.

And to remember, of course, that meimei is... an inferior little creature. Don't get mad at her just because she's stupid and doesn't understand this or that, that's not her fault. She can't be expected to be smart or responsible, that's their job. But also, don't feel pressured to give her what she wants just because she wants it or anything. And, most importantly, don't start having self-doubt and ever think she might be right about something while they're wrong, because obviously that can't be the case. You might get defiant and try to insist you know better than them, act like you're just as capable of something as they are, or think your opinions matter or something, but in that case, they have a responsibility to remind you of your place.

[random-thought-depository]

It occurs to me that one relatively sympathetic aspect of these people might be that, their founding population having been abducted as small children and raised by an inhuman monster, they might lack a lot of the stupid prejudices that regular humans in a low-tech setting are likely to have if real history is any guide.

Think about what’s going to happen with that first generation. It sounds to me like the dragon abducts them when they’re very young, the better to brainwash them. The dragon is probably both ignorant of and uninterested in a lot of human culture, it just wants to raise up some dragon-worshipping brainwashed thralls. Which is probably going to be bad in a lot of ways, but it also means the transmission chains of a lot of stupid prejudices get broken. There’s no-one around to tell those kids that darker-skinned people are inferior. There’s no-one around to stigmatize left-handedness and force the left-handed ones to hide being left-handed. There’s no-one around to socialize them into complicated and rigid gender roles and tell them men should be in charge. There’s no-one around to tell them they shouldn’t share a washing bowl with a Cagot. There’s no-one around to tell them some people are Untouchables and karmically deserving of low status and suffering and you should take a ritual bath if one of them touches you. The dragon probably doesn’t even know about half that stuff and doesn’t care about most of the other half. The dragon might actually actively discourage a lot of prejudices like this if they do show up, because they’d interfere with its human stock being efficient thralls (“You’re telling me you want to reduce the military effectiveness and productivity of my dragon cult because you don’t want to share tools with people who have a particular surname? Yeah, no, we’re not doing that; any tool that is not personal property belongs to me and will be used by any of my thralls who is doing work that requires it”).

What happens when these kids reach puberty? The dragon probably wants its dragon cult making babies, so it’s probably going to tell them how baby-making works and make it clear it expects them to make some new thralls for it sooner or later, but as long as the thralls are making approximately the right number of babies and aren’t killing each other it probably won’t care much about the details. So... These people are going to start experiencing attraction to each other and sometimes falling in love with each other, and... Some of them are going to fall in love with people of the same sex, and there’s no-one around to tell them homosexuality is wrong. Some of them are going to fall in love with more than one person, and there’s no-one around to tell them they aren’t allowed to have multiple partners, and there’s no-one around to tell them that people who already have a partner are “taken” and off-limits, and there’s no-one around to tell them that if you’re a man another man having sex with your female partner is a huge deadly insult to your honor. The original write-up talks about dragons selectively breeding their human thralls, so there might be significant reproductive control and coercion happening, but it’s probably pretty orthogonal to the sort that happens in patriarchal societies.

This is simplifying in ways that might paint an over-optimistic picture. Even small children may have picked up some prejudices from the societies they spent their first years in. And some of that stuff might get reinvented. Children often detect and react with hostility to difference even without much or any prompting from adults, and I suspect some prejudices of this sort are ultimately rooted in that sort of reflexive xenophobia. And I think at least a rough “men do more of the fighting and heavy labor, women do more of the child-care and less strength-intensive work” division of labor is probably going to emerge, because it’s a natural and logical reaction to physical sex differences in a low-tech context. Though on that note, I can think of a few factors that might work to keep dragon cults more gender-equal than regular human societies:

Dragons likely won’t want their cults getting too numerous. A numerous cult would be harder to control and more likely to develop power centers independent of the dragon. Dragon cults would also be more secure against external threats than other human groups of their size, because they’ve got a giant fire-breathing monster on their side, so they wouldn’t have as much pressure to make sure they’ve got lots of fighters to defend their land (though the dragon would likely be a “tall poppy,” it’s likely that lots of people will want to kill it to stop its depredations and plunder its hoard and have the glory of defeating it, so that’ll partly cancel that out). Put this together, dragon cults might be at least a little less pro-natalist than their regular human neighbors. I mean, they’ll probably still have big families by modern standards because of how many people die young in low-tech societies, they’ll probably still need to have 3-5 children per couple just for replacement rate, but this might make at least a little difference. And high birth rates, large families, and pro-natalism are an important load-bearing pillar of strong gender roles; it’s not an accident that we started treating women a lot better after we invented or popularized vaccination, antibiotics, indoor plumbing, and birth control pills (the first three things made high birth rates unnecessary and even undesirable, the last thing made low birth rates easier to maintain). Compared to other human women, dragon cult women might have more time and energy to devote to things that aren’t making and raising babies.

I think dragon cults are also likely to be socially hierarchical but economically communalistic, with little private property and relatively high social mobility. From the original write-up it sounds like dragons want totalitarian control over their cults, so they won’t want their cults to have power centers independent of the dragon. Dynastic families and sizeable accumulations of private property are power centers independent of the dragon, so the dragon will discourage their formation. In low-tech male privilege societies powerful families and stable inherited property are major bulwarks of patriarchy; they make it important who your father is, and they make it important to avoid family instability that may result in division of the property or otherwise endanger the family’s claim to the property. If patrilineal descent chains don’t matter much, women are likely to have more sexual freedom and by knock-on effects of that more freedom in general and are under less pressure to marry early and produce lots of potential heirs for their husbands.

Finally, the write-up mentioned dragons selectively breeding their human thralls for size and strength, and maybe implied also selectively breeding them for precocious physical maturity. If they’re doing that, dragons might also selectively breed their thralls for reduced sexual dimorphism. From the dragon’s point of view, why wouldn’t you want to double your pool of potential strong fighters? So after two or twenty centuries of selective breeding dragon cult women might have size and upper body strength a lot closer to males. Dragon cults would probably still have some kind of “men do more of the fighting and women do more of the work compatible with having a baby or child in close proximity” gendered division of labor, but reducing sexual dimorphism would tend to weaken gendered divisions of labor and hence gender roles in general.

I mean, we’re talking about a creepy high-control cult here. And “nobody was there to tell them...” would definitely have potential dark sides, like “nobody was there to tell them rape and incest are wrong” and “nobody was there to tell them that an adult shouldn’t casually slap around or beat up a child when they’re angry at them.” They’d probably develop some taboos on that sort of stuff just to keep their society somewhat functional, and the dragon would probably give them rules against the aspects of that sort of behavior that might lower their efficiency as thralls or endanger the viability of the dragon cult, but “basically functional levels of rape, incest, and casual physical abuse of children” might look pretty horrifying (though given what a lot of actual historical societies looked like I’m not sure they’d really be worse on the rape and casually beating up their children fronts than their non-dragon cult neighbors). So this isn’t going to be any kind of utopia. If dragon cultists showed up in a story they’d probably be bad guys. But, like:

“And because they serve dragons, they sometimes get the good stuff. Picture a 15- year-old kid with the physique of Conan, wearing the golden armor of ancient kings and armed with magic spears. The kid is also illiterate, covered in fleas, and thinks that humans were created by dragons.”

I suggest that this kid might be a girl, who has a girlfriend and a boyfriend, in a world where a female person being a warrior and interacting on a footing of easy familiarity and equality with rough violent men and having multiple partners is very much not a regular thing in most human societies. And while from one point of view this person is a brainwashed slave of a giant fire-breathing mammal-like reptile, she can look forward to having a lot more personal freedom than most non-dragon cult women (e.g. the 15 year old farmer’s daughter whose father and older brother she just eviscerated). Would fit into: “And its not hard fascism either.  Their barbarian tribes don't chafe at the collar.  They've believe in their dragon.  And when you stand in front of a dragon, you can see why.” If that girl has some idea of how much less freedom and power she’d probably have if she’d been born into one of the surrounding more normal human societies, that knowledge surely cements her loyalty to her dragon. It’d make the whole thing more insidious in a way.

-----

Aside: the one thing that kind of bugged me about the Goblin Punch post is where it says dragon cultists “never build cities or roofs.” So what do they do when it rains, or is freezing cold, or burning hot? I’m interpreting this as they live in tent-like structures and don’t build permanent houses with thick walls, cause otherwise that bit is just grimderp.

[actuallybarb]

The Aftermath ~ Part 7

Summary: y/n goes to therapy, is a confirmed hoodie stealer, and gets a pep talk from sam wilson and wanda maximoff

Pairing: peter parker x reader

Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff, trauma, me attempting to write a therapy session 

Word Count: 3850

A/N: so many things. 1) i’ve never been to therapy (even tho i desperately need it) so i’m solely basing that off of Freaky Friday with Lindsay Lohan. 2) i live for sleepy tropes and i hella indulged. 3) sorry not sorry

                                                         //////////

“Your projects are due next Monday. Have one partner email me who your group is working with, and no, Mr. Thompson, you can’t work with students from other periods. Class dismissed.”

“Want to work together?”

We had been going to class together for a month now, but it always seemed like Peter was surprised whenever he saw me sitting next to him. Maybe it wasn’t surprise...

“Yeah. When do you want to work on it?” I shoved my notes into my already disorderly backpack and slung it over my shoulders. It was starting to get colder in New York, but I was still wearing t-shirts and shorts (mostly because I could keep myself warm and also because I’m stubborn as hell).

“Thursday? Or do you want to start sooner than that?”

“No, I can do Thursday. Are you going to the compound this weekend?” It wasn’t more than a whisper, but I still checked who was around before asking. You can never be too careful.

“Yeah, May’s driving me up after school on Friday. Want a ride?”

I smiled. “That’d be nice.” People were slowly making their way out of the building to head home for the day, but I was heading to Manhattan.

“You going home?”

“No, I’m seeing my shrink. I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow, Y/N.” He turned right, I turned left, and I might have turned around and glanced back at him over my shoulder, just for a second.

But so did he.

/////////

Taylor’s office had a billion plants and as many windows in it. She always had a candle burning that smelled like clean laundry, and she liked to talk first whenever we met up. That’s why I liked her so much.

“Remember my crazy neighbor’s dog?” She was watering one of her plants when I walked in. “Guess who I accidentally ran over?”

“You ran over a dog?” I left my backpack by the door and grabbed my own watering can.

“No, not the dog. I ran over my neighbor while he was chasing after the dog.”

I laughed. “Like that’s much better.”

“Running over a dog is unforgivable, Y/N. A person is understandable.” We finished watering the plants then sat down at the huge floor-to-ceiling window that took up her back wall. Another reason I liked Taylor: I actually do stuff while I’m talking with her. It’s not like I’m sitting on a couch staring at her while I talk about my feelings, we’re on equal ground. The last couple visits I’ve worked on painting New York, but I haven’t made much progress because I’m a shit painter. “That’s not the point,” Taylor would say, “it’s all about going with it. Be a shit painter. Own it.” Yeah, we get along great.

“No more panic attacks since the first day.”

“Yeah? That’s great.” Unlike me, Taylor is a phenomenal painter. Her skyline had identifiable buildings. Mine had — I think one looks more like a tree than a building. (That’s one huge tree.) “Any nightmares?”

Oh. We’re going there today. “Just on bad days.”

“How often are the bad days?”

After the Blip and before Europe, my bad days went from every day to maybe once a week. Then Europe fucked me over. Now? I don’t know. “Whenever they feel like it.”

“C’mon, Y/N, you can do better than that.”

I rolled my eyes and groaned. “It’s not like it’s a cycle, like the moon or a period or our meetings. It’s sporadic, Taylor, and fucking exhausting.”

“Why? Why are the bad days so exhausting?”

I may or may not have angrily made a bird smash against a window in my painting. “Because I’m the only one who knows. Mom guesses, most of the time, but it’s like she’s still dancing around me. Dad sees it when he’s home, but he doesn’t know what to do. And—“ I almost said ‘and Peter.’ That would’ve been awkward. “And my friends make it better, but they’ve got their own shit to deal with, and I don’t want to dump any of my problems on them. And I know you’re going to say ‘Internalizing your pain is bad, Y/N,’ but it’s the only solution I can handle right now until I muster up the courage to actually talk to my mom again. I mean, last time I needed Jess by my side, how the hell am I going to handle it without her?”

“For starters, I’m proud of you for acknowledging the way to address the problem. And secondly, you don’t have to do it by yourself. I’ve actually been wanting to have another session with your parents, and now seems like as good of a time as any. Bring them around for your next session, and we’ll talk to them, together, about how you can get through bad days with their help. Okay?”

My lips quirked up, just a smidge. “Okay.”

“Now let’s talk about King T’Challa’s new suit, you can’t pretend you don’t have an opinion on it...”

///////

It was a bad day.

Which sucked, because it was also Thursday, and Peter was supposed to be over in half an hour to work on our project. And I was a mess.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom called from the living room. Her elementary school got out twenty minutes before Midtown, so she usually beat me home. “How was school?”

“It’s a bad day,” was all I said before I closed the door to my room. I didn’t slam it (not anymore) but I didn’t know anything else. I couldn’t tell if I wanted a nap, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to fly from rooftop to rooftop until I was too exhausted to come home; I didn’t know. Which sucked, because I’m the only one who could’ve told me the answer.

The was a light knock on my door. “Can I come in?” I didn’t respond, so Mom walked in. “Mind me asking why today was bad?” I still didn’t say anything, my face buried in my pillow. She sat at the edge of my bed, near my knees. “I can usually tell, you know.” It was a hushed voice that came out of her mouth - nothing like the loud and loving woman I’ve known almost my whole life. “You do a good job of trying to cover it up, but I can tell. Your shoulders are tenser than usual, and your eyebrows are crinkled together the second you step out of your room.” She sighed and put a hand on my back - her hands are always warm and usually smell like hand sanitizer from Bath and Body Works because she refuses to use the government-issued ones at school. “You dad and I have no idea what you went through while we were gone. We have no idea what you went through in Europe. But we’re here for you now, Y/N. You carry this weight around with you, and I just — I want you to know that you have people to share it with. Maybe not the weight itself, but the pain it’s causing you.” She removed her hand and set both of them in her lap. “I don’t know how to make the bad days better, so I need you to tell me when you’re ready. I’m here for you, baby.” She leaned down and kissed my head, then stood up and started walking toward the door.

When her hand was on the knob, I finally spoke up. “Thank you.” It was barely a grumble, but she heard it.

The door closed quietly, and I finally decided what I wanted to do.

Cry. I cried. For at least twenty minutes. I cried because of my abilities, I cried because I lost Jess as a mom, I cried because I went to Europe, I cried because Quentin Beck was an asshole that fucked up my mental state for probably the rest of my life, I cried because I killed a lot of people, I cried because now I was friends with Peter but at what cost?

He showed up, eventually. I heard him knock on the front door as I blew my nose. Mom, bless her soul, kept him distracted until I came out of my room myself. It took me another twenty minutes to finally convince myself to leave my room, and at that point I was too exhausted to keep myself warm anymore, so the cold breeze blowing through New York hit me in full force. I slipped a hoodie on, grabbed my backpack, and took a deep breath before opening the door.

Peter was sitting at the counter while Mom washed the dishes from breakfast this morning. She was back to talking loud, and he was listening with a smile on his face. My door closed and his eyes immediately darted to me. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey, Pete. Is it okay if we’re in the living room?”

Mom glanced between the two of us and tried to hide her little smile, but at least one of us caught it. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be in the office if you need anything.”

He must’ve noticed my bloodshot eyes; he couldn’t stop staring. “Is that my hoodie?”

Shit. Is it? I glanced down at the Midtown Tech logo and remembered getting drenched at the compound after the sprinklers unexpectedly came on. Then Peter gave me his hoodie. “Shit, yeah, it is.” I pulled on the sleeves to take it off, but he shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it, I have at least two more at home.” He pulled out his laptop and it was suddenly back to business. “Any ideas how we’re going to do this?”

We bounced ideas off of each other until we came to a rough draft, but it was getting later, and bad days always get worse at night.

“Shit, is it ten already?” Peter started gathering his things and stuffing them in his bag. “I told May I’d be home by ten, I hate being late.”

I pulled out my phone and sent May a quick text; we’ve had each other’s numbers since my first weekend at the compound. We lost track of time, he’s heading home now.

I figured. See you tomorrow :)

Peter stood up and started walking toward the door, and I followed him. I had spoken maybe twenty sentences the whole time (it’s a miracle we got this far in the project) but I couldn’t convince myself to say anything else before he left. And I wanted to. But I also wanted to cave in on myself — and we both know which option was winning that battle.

“Do you need a hug?” He basically had one foot out the door, but he turned around and asked me this.

“What?”

“Your heartbeat — it’s been off all day. And it still is right now, and — Do you need a hug?”

God, he was perfect. And I was so gone.

All I needed all day was a goddamn hug, and now he’s offering one, and tears started brimming in my eyes before I could even nod yes. He was so warm, and his voice flitted around in his chest, and I would’ve felt bad about getting tears on his shirt, except I didn’t care anymore. All I cared about was how the weight on my shoulders lifted when Peter Parker’s arms were wrapped around them.

“Are you going to be okay?” he mumbled in my hair. I only nodded again. “Okay.” He slowly loosened his grip, but not before he left a quick kiss on my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Another nod. “See you tomorrow.”

///////

Peter was going crazy. Since we hadn’t found any footage that could clear Spider-Man’s name without incriminating Peter he wasn’t allowed out as his alter-ego. And he was literally climbing the walls of the compound.

I was blowing gusts of air at him, trying to knock him down from the ceiling. We had officially finished our project only twenty minutes before, so I pulled up the EDITH footage from London, trying to think of how to clear Spider-Man’s name.

And then it hit me.

“Oh my god.” I ran to the computer and started typing away furiously. “I think I figured it out.”

He came back to the ground. “Figured what out?”

“We can just use the audio file from the video. Then your face doesn’t have to be in it at all.”

I found the file and played it over the speakers.

“EDITH! Turn off the drones.”

“Should I execute all cancellation protocols?”

“Yes, execute them all.”

It was perfect. Exactly what we needed.

“Peter.” I turned to him with a huge smile on my face. “This can save Spider-Man.”

“This can save Spider-Man,” he repeated. “Shit, Y/N, you just saved Spider-Man.” He wrapped his arms around me tightly and lifted me in the air, his laugh ringing in my ear. “I can still be Spider-Man!”

I laughed along with him. He set me down after a minute, but we were still standing unbelievably close together. One minuscule step forward and my lips would be on his. His heart beat jumped, and so did mine, but he didn’t pull away. Neither of us pulled away.

His tilted his head and kissed my cheek (which I still freaked out over) and then took a step back.

“We have to call Pepper and tell her.”

“Yeah, yeah.” FRIDAY started the call and Pepper was over the moon.

“We’ll get a press conference set up for tomorrow, and I’ll work on a statement. Peter,” this was the sternest I had ever heard her - even more serious than when she was talking to Morgan, “I know this is all good news, but you have to wait to be Spider-Man still. All of this press has to die down first before you can go out in the open again, okay?”

“Yes, Mrs. Potts.”

“Okay. I’ll see you two bright and early tomorrow.”

She hung up and Peter hugged me again. This one was way more subdued than the last one. “Thank you, Y/N,” he mumbled into my neck.

“You’re welcome, Pete.”

//////////

The press conference went well, according to Rhodey. “I think most of them were relieved to know Spider-Man’s not actually a murderer.” Everyone was dying to have Spider-Man come out and answer questions, but Pepper insisted no questions were being taken at that time, or ever.

MJ called Peter after the press conference was released to the public, and they talked for what felt like forever. The second he got the call I went to the training room: to distract myself or actually train, well, it doesn’t matter because both were done.

A simulation droid was about to “kill” me, but red magic tore it apart at the last second.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Are you okay?”

I shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because Peter’s been talking on the phone for the same time you’ve been in here.” Wanda gave me a knowing look. You forget that she can read minds because she’s not invasive about it, but she’s always there, holding the information to either back you up or tear you down.

I sighed. “He’s talking to MJ. And I know there’s a high possibility that they’ll get back together but a part of me is hoping they won’t.”

“So you can be with him instead.” I gave a small nod. “Don’t give up yet, Y/N. I see the way he looks at you. You might have more of a chance than you think.”

“She’s right, kid.”

I jumped in surprise. “How long have you been listening?”

Sam smiled from the observation deck of the training room. “Long enough. Boys are stupid, they need all the help they can get.”

“I’ve given him plenty of help already. Literally.”

“Haha, very funny.” He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. If it doesn’t work out with MJ, shoot your shot. I have a feeling you won’t be disappointed.” He winked before leaving, and Wanda followed suit.

I rolled my eyes before telling FRIDAY to pick another random simulation. “Make it a good one.” And, boy, did she. It was the hardest one yet, and all of my concentration was going into it. I was so focused I didn’t even notice Peter walk in until after I had won.

“Damn.”

I turned quickly to see him standing near the door, his hands in his pockets. “Hey. How’d it go?”

“It was okay. She saw the news.”

“But…”

“But it’s not happening. I-“ he looked down at the ground, “I can’t trust her. Not when she lost trust in me. And I- I think I’m interested in someone else.”

I nodded along. I tried to keep my heart as normal as possible but it was beating too hard from my adrenaline to be controllable; I’m almost positive Peter heard it jump at the news. “That’s understandable. Who’s the, uh, the someone else?” God, please be me.

Peter’s lips twitched up to a small smile. “You’ll find out eventually.” He stepped further into the room and relaxed a bit. “Want to do a round together?”

I wanted to. I really wanted to. But I was exhausted, and I think I pulled a muscle, and I could already feel bruises forming where I ungracefully fell on my side. So I just shook my head. “Some other time.”

My room had a bathroom attached to it, and that’s where I spent the next half hour, standing under the blazing hot water coming from the shower. Once I convinced myself to actually get out and change into pajamas, I grabbed my laptop and climbed into bed. I was going home tomorrow, I deserved a few hours of shuteye.

Then someone knocked on my door and ruined the whole ambiance.

“Oh, you’re - I was just - I’ll just go.”

“No, Peter, what’s up?”

He was standing there, hair damp from the shower, black t-shirt and flannel pajama pants on, looking hot as ever. “I was going to ask if you wanted to watch a movie, but you’re already in bed, so never mind.” He turned to walk away, and I almost let him because I was on-my-ass exhausted, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, not when he looked like that (soft, but also hot as fuck).

“Come on.” He turned, and I opened the door wider. “I was about to watch Gilmore Girls, but we can watch a movie if you want.” I pulled back the covers and left plenty of room for Peter to sit beside me.

“We can watch Gilmore Girls, I don’t mind.”

The second I pressed ‘play’ on the third episode was the second my eyes could barely stay open any longer. I tried so hard to watch Jess win Rory back, but sleep caught up with me and I let it win. I used Peter’s shoulder as a pillow and decided sleep was a battle I didn’t mind losing.

////////

I woke up to my alarm, but as quickly as my eyes opened, Peter’s arm pulled me closer to him. I was too tired to feel embarrassed or excited about the fact that Peter Parker was in my bed with an arm wrapped around me. All I wanted to was to turn off my alarm and go back to bed, but my dad was picking me and Peter up in two hours and I wanted to bully Sam into making me pancakes again.

“Let go, Peter,” I ended up mumbling, “I have to turn the alarm off.” He moved his arm off and I sat up and grabbed my phone. “I’m getting breakfast.”

It must’ve been my lucky day, because Sam and Bucky were in the kitchen. “‘Morning, sunshine. Sleep okay?” I looked at Sam with a hard glare, and he laughed. Of course he knew Peter was with me, FRIDAY knows everything.

I sat next to Bucky and thought of fluffy pancakes to ward off my burning hatred for Captain America. “Sam, how much do you love me?”

“Depends on what you’re willing to give me in exchange for the pancakes.”

Of course he already knew my move. Typical.

“I’ll delete half of the embarrassing footage of you saved in FRIDAY’s hard-drive.”

Sam looked at Bucky suddenly, extremely confused. “I thought that was done months ago.”

He just shrugged and drank his coffee. “Must not’ve gone deep enough. Good thing Y/N is here to catch it.”

Sam glanced between the two of us and sighed. “Okay, fine, I’ll make you some stupid pancakes.”

I smiled, then Bucky slipped me ten dollars under the counter and whispered, “Save me the footage.” I winked back.

“Can I have some too?” Peter, soft as hell, came into the kitchen and sat beside me. (His knee was brushing up against mine.)

“Only if you have something to offer.” Sam liked us, I know he did (that’s part of the embarrassing footage FRIDAY has saved) but he was usually a dick to us - anyone who wasn’t Bucky (and even then) - in the morning. It was always playful banter, but we knew not to step too far before eleven o’clock.

“I promise not to test out my new long-lasting webs on anything you own.”

“Deal.”

The pancakes were delicious (“hell yeah they were, I don’t mess around with pancakes”) but my dad was at the compound before we knew it, and it was time to face reality again.

“I saw the press conference,” Dad said when we sat down in the back, “and everything was very convincing. Congrats on getting to be Spider-Man again, Peter.”

He beamed. “Thanks, Mr. Y/L/N. Anything exciting happen at the hospital recently?”

They talked medical, while I sat back and listened to the engine. It covered up their hearts, but that didn’t matter, because both would’ve sent me right back to sleep. And it did.

We pulled up to Peter’s complex an hour and a half later. There were still plenty of daylight hours left, but we both left more homework to today than we would like to admit and neither of our parental figures would be pleased with that.

“See you tomorrow,” he said with a smile.

I smiled back, genuinely, (I was giving those out way more often now) and waved. “Bye.” Dad and I drove back and walked up to the apartment bumping shoulders. Our schedules didn’t line up very often because he was needed in the ER a lot of the time, but we always had a sort of silent understanding. He unlocked the door and let me in first, but when my eyes landed on the kitchen table, I stopped mid-step.

Blood. Everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, on Mom’s floral couch she claimed “added personality” to the living room. No one else was in the apartment, I could tell, but then it just raised more questions:

Who’s blood is everywhere?

Where the hell is Mom?

tags: @eridanuswave​ @vampirestrawberries​ 

[elliethesuperfruitlover]

It’s Okay

A/N: I’m writing a self-indulgent fic due to fact that I’m feeling  ✨ insecure and ugly ✨Yes this is me projecting. I like Heaven’s Design Team, and Unabara is one of my comfort characters, and he’s also v tall, and he looks like a good hugger. So why not write him being the fluffy being that he is.

Warnings: once again another breakdown, body image talk, mild nsfw mentions, mention of panic attacks

Tag List (even tho i know none of y’all dont know the show but shh): @misskittysmagicportal,  @bisexualnathanyoung, @super-unpredictable98, @joz-stankovich, @hufflepuffheroine, @ghouls-buddy, @magic-multicolored-miracle, @seancekitsch, @the-freckled-luba, @neuroticpuppy

“What’s wrong?” Neptune asks, seeing you curled up on the corner of the bed, hands covering your face. He’d just come in from another day of work with the team. They were working on an animal that’s seen and heard from far away. It’d been going okay, and they were making a lot of progress.

  You’d been denying him an answer to how you were feeling all day. Yes, he deserves to know. But something told you that you were being a burden. And that he didn’t need to hear your issues. He has a lot on his plate. And you didn’t want to stress the poor thing out. It’d only add fuel to your emotional fire. So you bottled it up. Seemed to be working just fine. Nothing a little forgetting can fix. You were really struggling. You can’t tell anyone how you feel, or else they may think it’s their job to help you. And it’s not. It never is. But they do it somehow. You’d always felt like a burden, maybe it was due to how everything in the past had worked out for you (horribly). Or maybe it was just due to your extreme anxiety issues, as well as being atrocious at keeping friends. They always left. And never came back. And somehow, that mean-spirited little voice always said it’s your fault. You’re the catalyst. You’re why everything falls apart around you. You’re the reason everyone’s stressed and upset. So that’s your philosophy. How’s that been working out, huh?

“I’m tired. And I’m upset for no reason. I’m also not feeling the most confident. But I can’t really remember a time where I did feel good about my appearance. I just straight up think I’m ugly. ” you mutter, tears forming in your eyes. 

  You’d been waiting for your body to finally cave in and let you cry. Weeks of missed panic attacks. Days without breaking down. First it seemed fine. Then the fatigue set in. So did the muscle aches. And feeling like sitting in the corner for the entire day. Thinking of what you could be doing. And shaming yourself for not being able to make a full meal. It was just so much all of the time. Everyone has their limits, but those also change. People grow. Somehow, though, it seemed that you were left out. And that everyone seemed to be doing just fine. Except for you, of course.

“Well, it’s fine to be upset, or tired. And I’ve mentioned that if you need help sleeping, I’m glad to help you. Be it cuddling or simply letting you be. But the latter part is where I find the issue. Your appearance is fine. But I know people can see each other differently.” he whispers, sitting down near you, but it seems as if he wasn’t close enough.

“Well, I honestly don’t know how you manage to call me cute sometimes. I really don’t see it. Never have.” you state, falling back completely onto the bed, arms spread out.

“I only say it because it’s the truth. If I think you look cute, or nice, I’ll tell you. There’s no use in me lying. What is this stemming from?” he asks, putting his hand on yours.

“I saw some of my old classmates from school and just....how? How do I equal to them? I feel like everyone’s moving on, and looking good. And feeling confident. But I just can’t seem to.” you say. Your eyes floating to a specific spot on the ceiling that looked like a snowman, and you thought about it for a while.

“Everyone’s different. And I think you look perfectly fine. And some people may just be feeling better. It doesn’t make you any worse.” he replies softly, twisting to face your flat form on the bed.

“Yeah, but I fucking hate everything about myself. Every time I seem to have something good, that dumbass voice comes back and I’m right back here again. I love my hair, then it’s a burden and I want to get rid of it. I look nice in these jeans, then I think I should lose the weight so they aren’t as tight. What the fuck is wrong with me?” you ask, tears finally falling onto the comforter.

“Aw, come here.” he says, laying down so he can look you at you closer. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Sure, you have anxiety, and yes, you have intrusive thoughts, but that’s okay. It doesn’t make you any less of a person. And it doesn’t make you any less attractive.” Unabara whispers, holding you close.

  You begin sobbing into his chest, and your hands grasp at his sweater, trying to find something to hold onto before you fall from whatever was keeping you above the water. Dark, deep waters. Every part of you wants to scream, but you can’t seem to get that giant bubble from your chest. Neptune’s hand gently moves up and down your back, and you gasp for air as wave after wave of feeling go through you. It’s like you never get a break as tears fall repeatedly down your face, drowning you in a weird way. Your chest heaves as you wrap around Neptune, face hidden in his neck to get away from the reality of him seeing you like this. Vulnerable, and some would consider it torn to the ground. Somehow by your own feelings, you’d been torn to the ground and for what? Feelings were supposed to tell you what’s going on, not ponder if every person you’d met in your entire life was offended by you, and if they were it was always your fault. Never anyone else’s, always yours. That’s not true, but somehow you’d managed to get it engrained in your skull do much that no lobotomy would help.

  They never seemed to leave you be, it seemed. One moment everything’s fine and it’s all good and the next you’re on the floor again, wondering whether or not you should’ve said this, or that. Or said these things, or even simply existed in their presence. You had done nothing wrong, yet only the most harsh and cruel punishments were reserved for you with your name in bold, bright letters. Nothing could help you at this point. Not the warmest, and most inviting of baths, or the coldest bowl of ice water to dip your head in, disrupting you from the shaking you’d been experiencing. Even his strong arms couldn’t help as you trembled in his grip. You hadn’t even noticed that his eyes were closed, almost as if he was trying to forego tears. See look what you’re doing to him. You thought, but it was shut down as he opened his eyes, and looked directly at you. Throwing you off for a moment before you went back to dreading everything about yourself once more. Except the hiccups were subsiding, and the feeling in your fingers and toes had begun to come back. Unabara’s head was tilted onto yours, and you matched your breathing to his, calming down somewhat.

“Can you do something really quickly for me...please?” he whispered, deep voice echoing in your mind. You gently nodded, and he moved to get up as you still sat on the bed, the ends of your jacket crumpled and partially wet.

“You don’t have to do this, but I’m going to go from your feet to your head. List what you don’t like about the body part.” he said, and you nodded once more as he gently nudged your foot, looking at you to engage.

 You thought for a moment and replied in a quiet voice, rough from the tears.

“I don’t like how big my feet are. Sure, it may be fine with dancing, and it’s not that noticeable. But shoes my size are upwards of 70 dollars.” you reply, fiddling with your hands.

“Mm, I think they’re fine. I like the fact that we can share shoes sometimes. It’s more space for other things. Legs?”

“They’re oddly shaped. And they’re discolored too.” you stutter out, feeling goosebumps tickle your skin as his hands gently moved up your form.

“I think they’re quite lovely. And you’ve got quite a kick. Strong too. You can fit in more odd positions, may look uncomfortable. But you always manage somehow.” he says, kissing the top of your knee.

  It went on like that for a while, with you talking about how you hated the fact that your thighs don’t match in color to how the divots in your hip made you feel like you should look different elsewhere. When one part of the body was talked over, you both removed a piece of clothing, the same for each person. Somehow you’d even managed to mention that you didn’t like the fact that your stretch marks could be seen with a simple flick of a waistband. And only he got to see the secret ones. Hidden from many views. Eventually, it got to the point where you were mostly nude in front of Neptune. His eyes averted from where some would be looking most. When his eyes did, however, drifted southwards, it wasn’t one of sexual thought.

“What about here?” he gently asked, hands landing on your hips.

“I don’t think I can complain about her. So much to learn. And so many feelings, good and bad. But none to blame.” you mutter, gasping as a skilled finger made its way to where you seemed to want it most.

“I think it’s wonderful. And not in the “I think vaginas are nice because I only think of it in a sexual manner way. I think they’re neat. And there’s a lot to learn, and much more to unlearn as well. I always like how you feel on the precipice of orgasm. Almost like a vice, but not one that I’d be upset about. You’re usually the most vocal, pillow over your face, or face pressed into my shoulder. Then, you’re there. And I’m there, or close enough. You just look so peaceful and emotional in the most wonderful of ways. You’re not worried about how you look. Or how your hair looks spread across the sheets unevenly. You just feel everything at once. And I find that so amazing.” he whispers into your ear, and it took everything in you not to take him right then and there.

  Unabara didn’t give you a quickie that night. Or the ol’ suck and fuck. He took his time, even after you cried on his shoulder. And admitted your flaws to him. He made sure you were fine every step of the way. Holding your hand. Breathing into your neck as to not overstimulate his own ears. He even took the time to kiss over every last mark and scar from childhood on your legs before eating you out. I mean, yeah, you were ready to shove his entire face in your vagina. But the sheer amount of effort he went through to make sure that you were comfortable, and happy (in that moment at least). It honestly could push you to tears. How could someone care so much about another? They’d go through hours of love and appreciation, just to see you smile, or almost wake up the neighbors. 

  Tears fell down your face once more that night as you cuddled into Neptune’s chest. You listened to his heartbeat as his hands lay once more on your back. He looked at you with so much love and support. And you couldn’t help but crack under that pressure. Pressure to reciprocate. You always did. Somehow. Even in those moments where you pondered researching panic methods just to feel some relief. But you made it. And he found you worthy. Then slowly, slowly, you found yourself worthy as well.

Masterlist

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

May I request a vampire dogfight over an injured MC? A group of vampires are all wanting her and Cecelia has to fight them off to protect what is hers. Vampires are turning on each other left and right as well? Full on feeding frenzy.

It was supposed to be a quiet night out with Cecilia, nothing too fancy. Just a long conversation to get to know her better, under the stars and the ethereal glow of the moon, far away from the town and any kind of interruptions. You had Cecilia and her melodic voice all to yourself. You could get lost in Cecilia’s dark eyes all you liked, because their glint fascinated you more than all the treasures you had sneakily claimed for yourself over the years.

Perhaps that’s why you hadn’t sensed anything was wrong. You were too engrossed in the direction the conversation was headed, in the lovely tension that was building between you with each carefully worded retort. The single spark of a touch would ignite a passion like no other, and you were looking forward to let it consume any other thought that wasn’t Cecilia and her predatory smirk that quirked her wonderful lips just so.

She was a work of art, and you wanted nothing more than to shower her with the attention and admiration she deserved.

Of course, nothing went to plan. The tension spiked not because of a heated moment between lovers, but because of an ambush and scrambled attempts to defend yourselves. Cecilia was thrown to the ground first, hissing and growling in the face of her attacker. You only get a second to look at their wild eyes and baring fangs before someone tackles you so hard all the air leaves your lungs, leaving you wheezing.

There’s a brief moment of total blackness when your head hits the ground, and the next thing you know, you are face down on the earth, you don’t feel the weight of your gun on you and the person restraining you – another human – is laughing an awful, raspy laugh that makes you shudder with disgust.

“That was too easy!” He says, after his chuckles subside. You can’t even properly glare at him, so you just settle for proving him wrong. It only takes a bit of focusing before he’s screaming and cursing at previously nonexistent flames that now lick hungrily at his shirt. It’s all you need to push him off you and deliver a solid kick to his jaw.

His head snaps back, and he yowls in pain. A hand raises to grab your leg and yank you back, and you briefly wonder how stubborn this guy is before a piercing pain in your thigh has you gasping in surprise.

“You’ll pay for that.” You hiss. The punch you give him fills you with satisfaction, and a second one with a little bit of magical energy ensures he is out cold. You retrieve your gun almost mechanically, clenching your teeth at the throbbing pain that threatens to overwhelm your very mind.

You don’t have time for this, not when you’re not sure if Cecilia is safe.

Thankfully, improvising is one of your best qualities. You’ve never used your witch powers to heal yourself before, and you have no idea how to even begin, but you put both hands over the wound and hope for the best.

It’s not instant relief. It’s a weird mix of sensations: you suddenly feel too cold and a moment later too hot. The world spins, and you let out a long string of curses that would make Enzo proud while you try to get a grasp on the situation. Still, after that brief moment of turmoil, your mind clears.

Making a mental note to check the wound later, your gaze snaps up, trying to locate her. There’s a flash of red in the corner of your eye that disappears almost instantly, but it’s all you need. You stumble around a couple of rocks big enough to obscure your vision, and finally find her.

She’s crouched, lips peeled back in a snarl, ready to block or evade any strike the other vampire throws at her. Both look equally wary of each other, gauging each other up, looking for any weaknesses. Neither look particularly hurt… Cecilia’s jacket is torn in the back, clearly ripped open by claws, but her skin has already healed.

She’s okay. She’s fine.

You let out a small sigh of relief.

The other vampire sniffs the air, eyes instantly falling on you. His whole expression changes in less than a second, a wicked grin stretching across his face when he sees your wound.

“A witch?” He asks, incredulously.

Cecilia is on him faster than you can blink, her guttural growl echoing clearly. She maneuvers over his hasty attack like a nimble cat, empowered by something else than the need to defend herself. Her strikes are powerful and precise and make him stumble back, eyes wide at the restless assault.

She’s moving with the intent to protect what is hers.

“Don’t you dare look at her!” She roars, claws glinting a silvery red under the light of the moon.

Mouth dry at the sight, heart drumming with adrenaline and affection, you hurry to help her.  Your energy rolls out of you in waves, trying to get a grip on the other vampire. You initially meant to grab his attention and grant Cecilia her golden opportunity, but you’re distracted by the other presences your energy picks up. And they are drawing closer with each second that passes.

“There are more vampires coming!” You shout, damning your bad luck.

Cecilia hisses, rolling out of an attack. She seems torn between making sure the vampire learns that you belong to her and her alone, or making a run for it. Crimson eyes dart around the terrain, trying to gauge how much time she has.

It turns out it’s less than a second. You’re quickly surrounded by an endless sea of glistening fangs, and under the light of the moon they seem all the more threatening.

There must be ten or so vampires here, or even more.

“Great.” You huff. Your fingers curl around the trigger of your gun, even though it may as well be a toy against these apex predators. You do not want to play damsel in distress, and your frustration only increases when it becomes evident you can’t do much else other than watch and hope for the best.

Cecilia seems ready to go down fighting, anyway, by the way she’s avidly looking for weaknesses.

“Hand over the witch.” Orders a calm voice. You glare at the closest vampire, seething in rage.

Cecilia’s answering growl seems to overpower any other sound in the world. “I will do no such thing!”

“It’s such a shame that the last Visconti will go down like this…”

The fight begins anew. Your energy extends like a roaring ocean wave, crashing against them and pinning some vampires in place. You strain under the effort, hissing under your breath.

The rest of enemies throw themselves at Cecilia, who dodges and hisses and pivots around them with effortless grace. She’s a storm barely contained in a mystical, expertly carved not-so-human body. A true sight for sore eyes. The enemy vampires don’t stand a chance against her.

It’s weird, you think, how easily she throws them around and slashes at their exposed chests and neck with ease. It’s like they aren’t at full strength, which would certainly explain why they came from who knows where for you.

A sharp moment of pain makes you stagger, making you suddenly aware of another problem. There’s a pressure in your mind that increases with each passing second. It’s not only the strain of keeping the spell, there’s something else poking and probing at your mind with an almost frantic need.

You try to fight it off with all your might, but the pressure only increases, drowns any other thought, makes you want to scream and trash around—

Then there’s a blurry movement in front of you and the vampire that was trying to lure you goes flying off.

“You’re mine, witchling. Don’t ever forget that.” Cecilia’s low, raspy voice snaps you out of it. She’s standing next to you, breathing hard, bathed in blood and sand and looking somehow perfect despite it all. Her touch is firm yet gentle over your chin, forcing your eyes to meet. You can’t help noticing how hers bore into your very soul, so intense and so powerful it’s impossible not to look at them. At her.

The moment is over as soon as it begins. Her hands fall to your sides, gripping your arms so hard it’s almost painful, and she quickly moves you out of the way of an incoming vampire. You prepare to fight back however you can, except it turns out you don’t really need to. The vampire continues forward, crazed, and crashes against another vampire at the far back.

There’s a series of indignant shouts and chaos descends at the next second. Some vampires make a move toward you and others move to block them, fangs bared, trying to push them back and make their own attempt to get to you. It looks almost comical, how they try to quite literally run over each other. Cecilia lets out a small huff by your side, half exasperation and half relief.

The enemy vampires are so out of it you even manage to shoot one directly in the face. She falls back, making a few agonized sounds deep in her throat, scratching the air and guarding what’s left of her face with her arms.

“That’s our cue to leave.” Cecilia murmurs, pressing you close to her, carefully cupping your neck. She seems less possessive and more like her usual self, probably because most of the danger has already passed. The injuries she caused to most vampires must have driven her point across.

The world lurches and shifts on its axis. You are on your apartment at the next second, and Cecilia is instantly fretting over your wound, even though she’s not faring much better. There’s a large cut under her arm that’s struggling to heal, along with several smaller ones along her arms and legs, and her breathing is even more labored.

Vengeful crimson gives away to worried silver, as she eases into her human form, not caring one little bit about her own state.

“Worry about yourself first, Cece. You look awful.”

“Most of my injuries look worse than they actually are. I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand-”

“Oh, don’t give me that. Go out and feed. Here, give me that bandage. I’ll take care of this.”

“I’m-”

“On your way out, yes.”

“Claire-”

“If I don’t see you stepping out my room in the next five seconds-”

She sighs and parts from you with hesitant steps. Looks over her shoulder at you regretfully.

“I’m sorry, if I had been more alert-”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t worry about that, Cece. It just means I’m too irresistible for you to pay attention to anything else.”

There’s that amused smirk that you love so much. The one that curls her lips just so and shows a flash of teeth, the one that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly, and makes her eyes sharpen with predatory interest.

“Brat.” Is all she says, before leaving the room.

[sole-cuore-amore-e-droga]

Cyprus brings shampoo to Rotterdam 2021

I FELL IN LOVE, I FELL IN LOVE, I GAVE MY HEART TO PRODUCT PLACEMENT.

Though I do see where they come from. Everyone from Panik Records, from her to Eleni Foureira featuring Perfectil on the “Fuego” MV, gonna need that sweet sweet money all of the time. But has Greece’s economy not really recovered for them to constantly need to advertise products on music videos or am I just losing my mind overthinking things?

Eitherway, this review may or may not appear before or during their rehearsal day, so see how do I make a fool of myself by trying to estimate Cyprus’s chances!

ARTIST & ENTRY INFO

This year we have a 26 year old Elena Tsagrinou from Greece here (the way they were last represented by a somewhat Cypriot on 2017?). She did music early on in her age, also participated in the Greek version of Got Talent. Though, before breaking out as a solo pop sensation in ways you cannot imagine, she used to be in a pop band OtherView. Strangely enough, I’ve heard of them because of this song below but I could’ve NEVER estimated it was her and never could have I predicted she would land herself a Eurovision entrance all alone:

The band has had quite a few successful enough singles with her, she did some music shows participation and hosting, her band switched labels midway through (guess into which one they eventually landed, hint: some of the screenshots in this review have this peculiar logo), and in 2018, she had to “withdraw” from the group to go ahead and pursue the aforementioned solo career, somewhat. She continued doing a lot of shows (particularly seen on the MAD music channel related events), and doesn’t have as many singles as she had with OtherView right now, but she’s possibly well on her way to blossom as an artiste. Some of those reading (lol who am I kidding who even reads these) may be familiar with this little song of hers:

You’ve heard way too many things about “El Diablo”, her 2021 entry, so idk if I feel like explaining the technical side of things all by myself or you already know everything. But in these reviews I repeat everyone else regardless, so let me just say that “El Diablo” is an obvious pop song, with a lot of Swedish related touches to it, because at least one person on this song also worked on Alvaro Estrella’s Melodifestivalen 2021 entry that glorifies at least a handful of the same cliches that “El Diablo” does lyrically. Dear Eurovision lyricists, you can use more foreign languages than Spanish for your obligatory foreign language incorporations, thanks~

Although I’m not sure about whether it is more Laurell Barker’s fault as much as it is Joker Thörnfeldt’s, but it’s easier to blame them equally, because the former probably came up with “ta-taco, tamale” and the latter couldn’t get enough of the word “mamacita” they used for the aforementioned Melodifestivalen entry. Anyway, the lyrics, from what I get, is that she’s in love with an eeeevil guy because he’s sweet talking her, they do some sexy stuff together (presumably), pour sauce on their bodies for no explicit reason other than “obligatory-foreign-reference-itis”, she’s breaking the rules (and idk if it was “mama-mamacita” telling her to do it), got the icy edges that the spicy is melting for her, throws eyelashes on the floor when she’s got no wigs to throw (but that doesn’t matter because even without a wig, she can flip her hair and make him look twice), and there’s as much as you need to know about the song’s lyrics as I feel like I should show to you, because eh. Eurovision has suffered from worse cookie-cutter lyricism through the years, “El Diablo” is painful but not the worst.

REVIEW

But I do like the song somewhat!

“El Diablo” was initially compared to Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” upon release, and I totally kind of see why, because in all the right spots you can absolutely hum over the chorus to that over the one of “El Diablo”’s, it just exchanges gratuitous French translation of one of the already sung lines on the bridge for obligatory inserted Spanish terms just for the sake of being trendy with the crowds of the nowadays, because as we learned nothing these days, having a lot of Spanish in your song is apparently trendy. And Elena does nothing absolutely batshit insane on the music video (other than advertising) - no lapdance for the devil Lil Nas X style, no being forced into a bath, no person to sell her body to (not even the titular diablo), no dancers that rise out of their Christian sleep pods. Just Elena singing behind lots and lots of trash bin bag wrap.

Honestly the bigger issue for me than the song being “sAtAnIc because it is called “the DEVIL!!!”, aside from the lyrics, is that the MV does not come with any forewarning whatsoever for the people that are seizure prone when they see strobe lights? And that happens for some extended periods of this clip? I know you are indulged in your advertising and good for you but don’t just care for the companies that pay you if you use their products, do care about people’s wellbeings too, sometime.

But enough about the MV.

The song is decently sounding. It has interesting uses of what sounds like hi-hats during the verses (e.g.: a moment when this happens for the first time on the song is after Elena sings “tonight we’re gonna burn in a par-tY” the second time, and then there’s something that sounds soaring - that’s what I think that the hi-hats did.). It also has some sort of a synth piano on the second verse to boost the song’s sound rather than just relying on 808s and beats. I quite like how the chorus is so instant somehow, idk why but it is for me. Might have a gripe with that childish choir singing “I LOVE EL DIAB-LO” in the tune of standard kindergarten children teasing tune (aka ”NA NA NA BOO BOO”), as well as the constant breathing sounds, but they don’t distract me from generally “fucking” with this song, lol. It’s just that likeable imo.

I just can’t cope with the fact that Cyprus can’t seem to dare to go at least a little bit original with their song, yanno? Ever since 2019 they were called out as being a ripoff of something... hell, everyone since 2016 except Eleni was a ripoff of something. Alter Ego? “Somebody Told Me” by The Killers. Gravity? “Human” by Rag’n’Bone Man. Replay? “Fuego” itself. Running? “Lose Control”, Meduza x Becky Hill. Now we have a Lady Gaga song wannabe that even caught the attention of another singer that the music video looked like it was ripping off, and the Eurofandom caught up in hysterics:

Heads up, folks: not EVERY short haired blonde with messy hair, silvery tank top and shortpants that writhes on the floor is a Zara Larsson clone. And I don’t know who stirred controversy first - her or the fans - but this was ridiculous to see, even for me.

Although for a second I saw where they were coming from.

Now see why I want Cyprus to go original for at least once? Because I guess that the way “Fuego” was conjured up, it brought Cyprus so much success with how the package was, how Eleni sold it, and how the song sounded. You know the first thing of everything potentially going wrong for you later on is if you find the formula you’ve been looking for, but you proceed to be using the exact same formula that got you this far in the first place, without realizing what was it in the formula that you needed to bank on to further to make it click, but instead proceed to copy everything like it was an easy, fill-in-the-blank form. You can and should do better than that.

Though that doesn’t stop me from ranking it 11th this year.

Thing is, I really expected it to be the one female pop song of the year I would have the constant impulsive need to replay, replay, yeah. Ever since the chaotic entry MV drop that occured on some random-ass Cypriot TV show where three guys talked a lot (and before that, we got a cooking show), and kept growing increasingly agitated that no one is liking their show, until at some point one of them erupted in “IN TWU MEENETS... EL DIABLO... ON UR TEEVEE”; I was really devastated I couldn’t be able to break the replay button because of Panik Records deciding to rather benefit for themselves to have the MV on their app, then on Youtube, THEN on Spotify in that order. So I listened to a few video rips that I received / had for myself, and it was a fun time... until I realized the desire to play it declined much faster than I thought it would when it actually dropped on Spotify, oops. So I can’t really let myself rank it higher, when there are at least some catchier female bangers with better overall sound, better lyrics, and better multiple-replay factor. But I can’t really settle for a much lower rank for her than 11th, anyway. Girlbanger 2021 power y’all!

That and vocally she’s actually not that bad, even if she has shown up singing her song drunk in a handful of Instastories for some event of some party house, and at the time people overreacted, but I think that at least a large audience of those same people has collectively dropped their “Cyprus obvious NQ” talks come the pre-parties.

Panik Records, when will you put the yeehaw El Diablo on streaming? Now THAT’S a version that has replay value, and I might never get bored of it instead :(

Approval factor: Yeah, there exists some for me in it Follow-up factor: CyBC did one of the nastiest in terms of following up their 2020 arc of “Bring Your Artist Back for Revenge Year” that was 2021, straight up ditching Sandro probably right after Eurovision was done (well it doesn’t look like the case because CyBC published a statement later, but I sense that it might’ve been the case), because “Running” wasn’t doing so well with the “YAS QUEEN” branch of the Eurofandom. Which sucks because Sandro would’ve actually been down to be asked again for Eurovision, as he revealed it to NikkieTutorials during many of her interviews with last year’s class of. “Agreement from both parties” my ass, unless Sandro secretly realized that like Tom Leeb, he was too busy for 2021 Eurovision, which I doubt. It actually sucks imo that Sandro can probably be considered as even a forever non-returnee, because Sandro is more of German roots than Greek, and if we learned anything about the Mukuchyangate 2021, is that Germany will never send a returning artist, at least one that didn’t represent their country first and foremost. So Greece could only ask Sandro nicely only if the contest comes on to Germany, I guess? How do you think they decided on getting Stefania, who still ever so regularly appears on Dutch music, to represent them this year? So on that regard the follow-up from CyBC stinks, eventhough I think that entrywise the follow-up was rather decent, at least in the usual Cypriot way of sending female pop (going from “Replay” to “El Diablo” which I like more than “replay”), and eventhough I’m falling out of the hype for Cyprus I once used to have, their 2015-2021 entry streak had entries that I largely feel positive for overall, so in that regard, the follow up is decent. Qualification factor: In a year of Semi 1 Female Banger Slaughterhouse, Elena goes out in my eyes with several scratches, but not enough to completely kill her chances. If anything, given the divisiveness of Ireland’s rehearsals, Elena is likely to obliterate any last memory of Lesley Roy any first time viewer has ever had, except for her stage graphics. Even if Elena’s staging will not be as mindblowingly cartooney as the last, once a bop comes on, everyone forgets the slower song and gives into the bop, at least that’s how the draws work when choosing what insignificant song to put on 2nd and wedge in between the opening banger and some lesser-key banger, right? I know that “Replay” barely qualified, but I find “El Diablo” slightly better, and it all goes well, it will barely just as qualify as well. Because in a Semi 1 Female Banger Slaughterhouse, she can’t be the losing one, really.

INTERNAL CORNER

I already told everything that was noteworthy about Elena’s journey in previous sections, honestly.

• That I said that CyBC likely ditched Sandro right after cancellation just like Hooverphonic ditched “Release Me” should they have had a chance to keep or toss their entry. It doesn’t present itself as the case, but I just feel like it is.

• That the song was revealed on a Cypriot talkshow where three dudes were aware that we were waiting for “El Diablo”, trying to throw some gratuitous English our way, hating that we didn’t like our show, but promising that “El Diablo” MV will be shown in “TWU MEENETS”, which wasn’t but worth the wait eh?

• That people were cackling at Zara Larsson joining in the talks of Elena’s MV having aspects of her own song’s MV plagiarized.

• That Elena performed her song in a private-ish event when drunk and having heaps of fun and people cried that it was gonna be a NQ.

And do I really need to elaborate about the local Cypriot church scandal? It just so happened that a bunch of people read into a song’s title so much, thought it was rude of their country to sing about the devil (eventhough the bigger offenses made here is the gratuitous Spanish more than anything), and hoped that the broadcaster will disqualify the very song they okayed to be internally chosen because they are displeased with it - and if it’s not disqualified, they even threatened to burn the headquarters down. No, really. That’s like the most amusing part of that whole spectacle. Imagine burning a broadcaster headquarters down for a song... if I did it for every favourite of mine that lost to other broadcasters, the broadcasters would run out of locations to rent, because everything else good is pre-occupied or the ashes of their lost headquarters staring back at them.

Imagine being toxicly Christian in 2021... How long until Elena’s face gets photoshopped on the main protagoniste of The Unholy?

ANY LAST WORDS?

Even if I’m with this song, part of me kind of wants me to fail to make Cyprus realize that their formula is starting to wear thin and they got to be somewhat of a versatile nation in Eurovision if they want to be on the radar of not just one specific niche. But then again, they learned nothing when they flopped with Tamta, because she sneakily qualified as opposed to failing even harder than Tulia, ah well. Will they ever learn?

But why would I openly wish this to a top 11 song of mine, oh dear. Good luck Elena, may God be on your side, I guess. :P

[redemptionbaby]

The Altar is Calling| Arthur/Reader | pt.2

notes: you guys I think will get mad at me for this one lmao

word count:2569

summary: you and Arthur celebrate on your wedding night

“So, tell me about this would-be fiancé of yers, sugar,” Arthur said, his tone between playful and growling. You walked side by side in the autumnal forest on the way back to your house, hand in hand, and he swung your connected arms back and forth in amusement. He was clearly slowing himself down so you could keep pace with his longer strides. He had offered to summon forth some nightmarish steed for you both to ride, but you declined. 

Strange as you were, you were uninterested in theatrics of that caliber. 

“He’s. Uh, male. And has a face and some hair.” Arthur scoffed out a quick laugh. 

“Ain’t nothin special, I’m guessin’? Or are you just tryna spare an old devil’s feelings?” Better yet, are you tryin’ to protect this sonuvabitch from me? “That’s awful sweet of you, buttercup, but I promise you I’ve heard worse.” Your face is unreadable, which is equal parts intriguing, irritating, and nerve wracking for Arthur. Really, you’re just paying attention to the leaves that crunch beneath your heels. You make it a game to try and step on the ones that look the crunchiest. You’re very good at it. Having to think of conversation to make, or recalling any of the identifying characteristics of your fiancé, is making you worse. Arthur, who is easily at least seven feet of demon beef, leans down to be at your eye level. 

“Or maybe… you love him?” Arthur asks, eagerly awaiting the answer which could destroy him. Crush his blackened heart, shatter his damned soul like a crystal chandelier suspended by a rope in the crossfire of a heated sword fight. You stop walking and twitch your nose bizarrely. 

“Chu!” You sneeze, rubbing your nose with a sleeve, still sniffling. Arthur pauses awkwardly, unable to say ‘bless you’.

“No, nothing like that. He’s nice enough I guess, but not at all interesting, you understand. I’m sure marriage to him would have been almost infuriatingly tolerable.” Arthur has only known you for a few hours, but he can already see why someone completely ordinary would bore you to tears. This relaxes him somewhat, because he isn’t boring... Is he?

A question begins to bud on the tip of your tongue when your house comes into view at last. Arthur slides his hand beneath your chin and tips your head up, his eyes roaming over your features in adoration as his sighs. This kiss he plants on your lips is soft, gentle, and almost overwhelmingly warm. Like the tender underbelly of some great beast, the kiss implies near fatal vulnerability just beneath the surface. So of course you kiss back. He parts from you with a smile behind his eyes, and calls to you in a low whisper. You’ve never heard your name spoken so kindly. 

“Prepare yourself, sweet thing. I’ll be back come midnight to collect you for our wedding night.”

—————

Rehearsal was boring, but you were distracted, much to the displeasure of your parents and the staff. What did Arthur mean? Did he just want to hit it and quit it, or was this like, it? Were you going to pack your bags and move to hell? Not the most unappealing idea, given the current circumstances, you just would like to be more well informed. 

Your rehearsal is concluded with a lot of aggravated sighing from everyone but your fiancé, who has his patient gaze affixed to you still. Despite everything, he kisses your hand innocently and bids you goodnight. You almost felt bad about being unfaithful to him, but was there really any faithfulness to begin with, when you didn’t feel much of anything for him? His parents would just find another girl anyways, one probably much more sensible and agreeable and normal. 

After dinner and a hot bath, you retire to your room and change into your nightgown, which you’ve never really considered sexy, but you were on rather short notice and you weren’t sure what exactly to be preparing for. You aren’t really sure why you’re even thinking of this, as if what happened today wasn’t just a delusion of your hopeful romantic mind. Wouldn’t it be nice, though?

Being all warm from the bath, and your stomach full from dinner, you can feel yourself getting sleepy, and the clock is still a ways from midnight. Maybe if you sleep, you’ll dream of Arthur. Then again, when you wake up, maybe you won’t remember any of it. 

————

A clawed finger traces over your cheek lightly, trailing down to toy with the modest collar of your nightgown and the little ribbon bow that adorns it. You really are such a darling thing. Innocent, sweet. Everything Arthur couldn’t be. Everything he’d been told he could never have. 

Your eyes begin to open, and your gaze followed up the demon’s arm and shoulder, until your eyes meet his. His eyes are predatory and dark, but only as a thin veneer over his fears of absolute rejection. You were bound to him now, yes, but you weren’t mind controlled. He wouldn’t do a thing like that, no matter how lonely he got. 

“When did you get here? In my room, that is.” You grasped his hand gently and brought it back up to your cheek. It was super toasty and nice. Arthur reveled in the contact and the pleased look on your face. 

“This ain’t yer room, sweetness. We’re in my domain. Jus’ made it look like yer room so you’d feel comfortable,” he uttered, almost like he didn’t want you to hear it, in case you’d be mad. Upon closer inspection, the rosary that was kept hung next to your door was absent. It made sense that he wouldn’t recreate that detail. 

“Is this my home now, too?” You asked. 

“Only if you want it to be. I could return you to the world above if you wanted, too,” he sighed. “But you’d never be free of me. Not forever.” You rub your thumb thoughtfully, patiently along the underside of Arthur’s wrist as you childishly cling to his arm. He can’t tell if your comfort is out of affection, pity, or something else. But he knows what he wants for it to be. 

The demon sits down on the bed, seemingly bigger than your bed at home, and you sit up to be level with him. Your nightgown is caught beneath you, pulling some of the fabric taut and flush against the swell of your breasts. Unintentional or not, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

You look up and see a sudden intensity in Arthur’s eyes, accompanied by an otherworldly glow. You felt compelled to ask your unsaid question from earlier. 

“Why was your altar in the woods, waiting for someone like me?” He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as if attempting to summon emotional strength. He wants this to work. He wants you to know all of him, and for him to know all of you. And this is as good a start as any. 

A long time ago, I was in love with a human woman, and she was in love with me, or so I like to believe. Despite how different we were, and the worlds we came from, we were in love. So we chose our favorite spot in the woods for a little ceremony, a ritual that would tie us together forever. I said my vows, but when it came to be her turn she wouldn’t look me in the eyes. I should have seen it coming from miles away, but I ignored the signs. I just wanted to be happy with someone. 

She knew that I would not and could not join her in the mortal realm and give her the life she wanted. She said that it didn’t bother her, that she still loved me, but I don’t think it ever stopped weighing on her mind. She left me at that altar. Donned a silver rosary so that any contact I tried to make would burn me. I still have the scars from trying. In the end, she decided we were too different after all.

Arthur waited for something. Pity, disgust, admonishment, anything. But all he felt was the gentle and smooth flesh of your hand, almost cool against his warm skin, cupping his cheek and going up to tangle in his hair and stroke one of your thumbs over his blackened horns. How you knew that would comfort him was a mystery. 

————-

Your scent engulfs him as he buries his face into your hair, you smell wet and wild and woodsy, like spices and potpourri alongside the scent of a rotted log turned over, one with an entire ecosystem of newts and worms and beetles subsisting on fresh, rich soil. You smell of the death that sustains life, and it endears you to the demon all the more. In you he finds the sense of love impending— of a love that hasn’t yet bloomed, but even so he can imagine it clearly. It’s intoxicating and tear-jerking. 

He looks at you with softness undefined when he asks:

“This—what’s between us. Do you feel it too?” His skin burns pleasantly beneath your palms. “I feel it— I feel it so goddamn much I could die!” He doesn’t have to explain what he means. It’s an all encompassing and infinite fire between you two. One that burns with potential and promise, like your life to this point has been waiting, and your real life has just begun. Though it may be dangerous, you can’t refuse it. 

“I feel it, Arthur. I do.” The way you utter his name like you’re coming off of a high note, like it’s been practiced in your head, shoots straight to his loins. There’s a growing urgency in your voice, and he feels his body screaming for him to respond to your needs, regardless of whether or not you know of them. The adoration in his eyes betrays the depravity he feels. 

His hands are large, warm, and calloused. They cup your cheeks as Arthur leans his entire body into you and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you. His hands trail down to the swell of your throat, the curve of your waist, the meat of your thighs, where he grips and pulls you into his lap unapologetically. Your quiet and restrained mewls are going to be the death of him. He grits out your name. 

“Baby. Angel. Tell me you want this. Tell me that and I’ll be yours.”

“Arthur, I want this. I want you.” The moment you finish he pushes his mouth against yours so hard you can almost hear your teeth click together. His mouth is raw on yours, with animalistic amounts of teeth and tongue, with passion. You feel a few hot, wayward tears against your cheeks, and you know you’re not the one crying.

The demon parts, looking at you for approval as he places his hands at the hem of your nightgown, pulling it up over your head when you nod. Your underthings are not removed with the same grace, as they’re sliced apart by the delicate work of his claws. There’s a ravenous fury in him, but he pauses to appreciate every curve and mark and pocket of fat on your innocent body, nervousness radiates off of you in waves while you tremble under the heavy weight of his gaze, clearly trying to stay brave and keep your eyes on him.

“You ever been intimate with a man before, darlin’?”

“No. I’ve only ever been kissed--”

“By who?” He blurts out, unable to contain his budding jealousy.

“Just friends. Playmates when I was young, but I fear I know just about as much now as I did then,” you trail off, averting your eyes as you submit to embarrassment. Arthur’s fingers delicately cup your chin and guide your gaze back to him.

“A virgin bride, then, how cute,” he croons, a gleam of something sadistic in his eye, but gone in an instant. “I’ll take care o’ you, promise. You’ll never know pain from me unless you wish for it.” He presses his forehead to yours, gently.

“My wife. My beautiful, sweet, strange little wife…”

The word strange had never sounded so lovely to you. It had, for as long as you could remember, made you unmarriageable and discomforting to others of your class. It was something that people called you behind your back with quieted giggles.

But coming from Arthur, it made you feel special. Like it was something wonderful no one else could have.

Your awareness returns when one of his hands finds the curve of your breast, toying with one of your nipples while he gently bites and sucks the other. His hand travels further, reaching your ass and grabbing, pulling you even closer-- right up against the bulge under the simple cloth he wears. You get your first taste of delicious friction as he begins rutting against you fervently. He thumbs your clit while he latches onto your throat, smiling at every choked moan and breath you release at the new sensation.

You soon find yourself laid gently on your back, the curtains of the canopy on “your” bed closing, much of the light going with it, but Arthur's eyes and patches of his warmest skin, like his palms and across his nose, have a faint light about them, as well as beneath the cracks of his horns.

______________

Arthur grips your thighs and guides you to wrap your legs around him as he leans forward and over you. There’s an intensity behind his eyes that’s frightening, and yet you can’t look away. His hand comes back to your cheek, and everything stops.

“What do you want?” you’re not sure what he means. The way he says it makes it seem so much deeper than just permission for sex. Tears form at his eyes once more, and they drip onto your cheeks.

“I’ll be anything for you. Just say what you want, and that’s what I’ll be.” 

An idea strikes you. A thought that made your eyes widen enough for Arthur to pause and worry. Your palm comes up to his cheek and you can feel his hot tears run down your arm. The mortification— the scathing and paralyzing fear of rejection has the demon choking down a sob. That rejection seems imminent and inevitable, with the pitiful display he thinks he’s cultivated. Who would want this? A broken down hell creature, battered and torn away from all that is strong and all that is beautiful. You would never—

“You don’t have to be ready for this. I will still have you. I will still want to be here. Relationships aren’t based in the realization of fantasy—,” you move your hands down his body to his waist, where you gently guide him from atop you to lay on his side, face to face with you. 

“This is not a play, you have no part to fulfill. You don’t have to be anyone or anything but you.”

He hates for you to see him this way, but he would feel even more pitiable and ashamed turning away from you. You scooch closer, wrapping your arms around him and pressing light kisses to his face. 

Sobs turn to full on wails, and yet you don’t let him out of your loving hold. 

[honey-bri-books]

Eczema on Hands -Tips *Opinion Piece

Eczema on hands tips: (All cases are different, so these are not official rules for people who have eczema. Not official PSA!) Recommend looking up eczema on YouTube, and just paying attention to when flare ups or severe discomfort and itchiness happen. Think about what you did differently in the day (new food, used a new soap, washed hands a few more times than usual), to help manage.

*Got eczema when I over-washed my hands after being trained about food poisoning and food safety, for work (Both hands, All over except for my palms. Also, around my wrists). Got paranoid and washed my hands too often, and tried too hard to follow the 20 second rule, every single time I washed my hands. Instances where I could just have rinsed my hands off, I washed them thoroughly, instead. The way a lot of people are acting only now, was me a couple of years ago and I over-did it, over-reacted. Obviously, wash your hands when you are supposed to! I'm not saying don't. I'm just saying I went way over-board and am now paying for it.

*BIO-OIL and EXEDERM FLARE CONTROL CREAM: I recommend these products! Bio Oil will be with lotions and Exederm Flare Control Cream will be with anti-itch creams or section for skin problems (eczema, psoriasis, etc). Lotions don't work for me, even ones that say eczema on them (those are better than nothing, though!). The dermatologist who diagnosed me told me the protective moisture barrier on the surface of my hands, is just gone, now. I notice when I try using lotion, it takes 20x longer to absorb into my skin (if it does), so it just sits there.

*SAFE SOAPS: Recommend Meyer’s Clean Day hand soap and CeraVe Eczema Soothing Body Wash. When I'm done washing my hair and using (other) soap for the rest of my body, I use the Eczema Soothing Body Wash on my hands and wrists. I know it's hard when you're at work or in a public restroom, but try and avoid cheaper soaps or foam soap. If you use it, be conscious to maybe moisturize when you get home, etc. Note: I can’t use hand sanitizer, anymore. No matter what state my hands are in, it’s too much. Though I saw a recent article on the subject matter suggest using a moisturizer immediately after using hand sanitizer. I’m afraid to try that method, but who knows?

*SHEA BUTTER: (As in just shea butter, not shea butter in lotion or whatever). Helps with moisturization and dry skin, only. Doesn't help with itch or pain, etc. But I can use it in between flare-ups. Someone I know has a kid with eczema and she says this and the oatmeal bath stuff helps. I tried oatmeal bath, and it didn't work for me.*ICE PACKS: I keep two, because sometimes flare ups are so bad, that I have to switch to the second one when the first pack stops being cold. It's awkward to try and use in-between my fingers. That's where I have the most discomfort, because I washed in-between my fingers to thoroughly, too long, etc.

*WHAT NOT TO EAT: This is different for everyone! My list includes Pomegranate, Cranberry, too much lemon or orange, Lime (So, citrus. I can have it, but have to be careful), foods with super high sugar content (processed sugar or sugar say like sugar from an apple  -certain kinds of apple), too much caffeine, red bell pepper, too much pop. You may need to adjust your diet. A reminder that if you switch to eating healthier foods or are changing your diet for the better, “flare-ups” may just be the bad stuff in your system coming up to the surface and causing redness and maybe discomfort. But I want to stress that eating better or eating to avoid flare ups does not necessarily equal “I can have anything, as long as it’s healthy!” I hate that I can’t have pomegranate or cranberry or red bell pepper!

*WASHING vs. RINSING: Like mentioned above, I'm super-conscious of how often I “wash” my hands. Don't wash your hands just randomly or all the time for the sake of washing. Think about why you're washing your hands and what you did just before. Ex: If I get food on my fingers when making something (a dab of batter, or some butter, etc), I just rinse it off vs. doing the whole 20 second thing. Before and after completing the meal (eating or preparing), I wash my hands thoroughly. After going the restroom, obviously you wash your hands thoroughly. I remember reading a note for work saying to wash my hands any time I touched my face or my hair, so I did. But I’m wondering if I over-reacted to the note? In short, I washed my hands way too often.

*WEARING GLOVES: Household gloves or vinyl gloves, etc. After washing your hands, make sure they are thoroughly dry, before putting gloves on. I think this is what got me, the worst. The moisture still trapped in between my fingers and then gloves on, geez...

*If working with chemicals (dish detergent and sanitizer in a production/bakery/restaurant kitchen) wear latex gloves/gloves for washing dishes. Everyone at work just washed dishes and dunked their hands in the sink full of sanitizer and harsh chemicals all the time and so nonchalantly when I started the job, so I did too. Brutal. Can't wash dishes without gloves on, or else I pay for it later.

***If wondering about IMMEDIATE RELIEF from severe pain, stinging, itching -the only thing that gives me any relief is using ICE PACKS. I haven't found a cream or oil or magic pill that has helped, yet. Oatmeal and Apple Cider Vinegar are recommended as things to eat/consume if you have eczema, but don't give immediate relief (that's probably obvious) and don't prevent flare ups from happening the rest of the day. Again, my friend swears by using oatmeal bath mixtures to help with the pain and discomfort, but it absolutely does not work for me. I’ve tried multiple times. I’ve tried the Apple Cider Vinegar soak, as well. Nope!

~I was sad to see an article about how people are getting eczema on their hands from excessive hand washing, with everything going on and repeated and stressed instructions to wash hands, wash your hands, 20 seconds, 20 seconds, 20 REAL seconds, all over the place. I knew it would happen for some, but didn’t expect to see even an opinion piece on it. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. I can still live my life and there are worse things that could happen to me. But I now cannot eat whatever I want to and once I had to call in sick, because I was up all night scratching and my hands were a bloody mess in the morning. Knowing how much I work with the kitchen sink, washing and rinsing and everything for my job, I had to call in and say I wasn’t coming in (I told them I had a severe flare-up) even though I didn’t have so much as a fever, and it sucked. I can go weeks without anything happening and then bam, I’m in pain for several days. Hope these tips help and that your case doesn’t get as bad as mine is, if you’re only in the beginning stages. Be careful!

~Other causes for flare ups: Stress and not having any self-control (I think I can eat a piece of cake or cherry pie or a candy bar, whenever I want to. Not if I already ate too much sweet stuff during the day or I’m super-stressed out! Even though they’re comfort foods. Geez!)

~Recommend searching other sources on the topic!

~I don’t want any of this to come across as a warning to stop washing your hands! Please wash your hands, when you’re supposed to! But only when you’re supposed to! Again, seek advice from a professional, etc! Opinion Piece and based off of personal experience, only!

[whoacanada]

Zimbits fic  - ‘I know you are, but what am I?’

Magic AU, inspired by ‘The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina’

Word Count: 3k+

Summary: After the Falconers take the Stanley Cup, Eric begins to notice his life changing in unwelcome ways. Good thing he has a loving partner who would never hide anything from him. 

Right?

Notes: Witchcraft. Nothing too intense, if you’ve seen the netflix show, that’s worse than this.

Crossposted to Ao3

“MooMaw? This is Jack, he’s a friend from college.”

Bitty's grandmother bypasses Jack’s outstretched hand and slaps her hands firmly on Jack’s cheeks, pulling him down to stare him in the eye. She’s small enough Jack has to bend at the waist, but she seems to appreciate his cooperation, even as the rest of the family begin stammering apologies.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jack says, words muffled by the hands squishing his face. She narrows her eyes at him and looks past a horrified Suzanne to Bitty, who is probably bright red with embarrassment. Rightly so.

“You didn’t tell me he’d been touched, Dicky.”

At the time, Bitty had been so horrified he hadn't quite caught the intent of what his grandmother had said. 

“I’m sure the boys are tired, mother,” Suzanne interjects with a forced smile nudging them both toward the stairs. “Dicky, you want to show Jack where he’ll be sleeping?”

In retrospect, Bitty should have seen the signs for what they were.

In the months following the Falconers’ title, and Bitty’s own glorious rise into the court of public opinion thanks to his lack of foresight, life had been good. Then, suddenly, almost overnight, it wasn’t.

Between classes in Samwell and and nights with Jack in Providence, Bitty tries to sleep. When he manages to, he dreams. If they can be called ‘dreams’. Terrible nightmares and beautiful visions come in equal measure. Every night, every nap, he’s given another piece of a puzzle he can’t hope to comprehend. He wakes up more exhausted than when he laid down and most mornings he’ll wake up and stare out the window to watch the sun rise. It’s as much as he can manage — to let nature handle whatever is happening within him.  

Eventually, Bitty can’t sleep at all. By the seventh night, unable to vlog, and eating ice cream straight from the carton in an effort to stay awake, Bitty gives up.

Jack's season is over so Bitty has no guilt about kicking his boyfriend awake.  

"Hnn?" Jack rolls over and looks at Bitty blearily. "Whatzit? Bits?"  

"I can't sleep."

Jack drifts back under almost immediately and Bitty resists the urge to drag him off the bed in retaliation. At least for the time being, he's in this alone.

The extra linens are in the hall closet — Bitty doesn't bother with stealing blankets from beneath Jack's sprawled body, star-fished across the entire bed like he's half-Kudzu.

"Rude," Bitty whispers, tickling behind Jack's knee to make him twitch so Bitty can snatch Señor Bun from where he's being crushed beneath Jack's thigh. He throws on Netflix in the living room, wraps up in a heavy quilt, and spends the rest of the morning regretting his life decisions.

When Jack finally emerges from the bedroom at 6am, Bitty greets him with an exhausted, guilt-inducing, "I can't live like this." Jack, bless him, takes the hint and immediately starts on making breakfast; a real one with omelets and bacon and a noticeable lack of protein powder.

"You should call in," Jack insists when Bitty can barely keep his eyes open long enough to feed himself. "You're exhausted."

"Something's wrong. With me. With the bed. Something. I can't work if I can't sleep. Can't do anything if I can't sleep."

Bitty startles when a fork appears in front of him: a neat, steaming square of egg held patiently by his partner. He doesn’t remember seeing Jack actually cooking, only prepping.

"You nodded off," Jack says, answering a question Bitty hasn’t asked, and he almost misses the look of knowing concern that flits over Jack's features. Empathy at best, sympathy at worst. "Open up. You need to eat something."

"You don't have to feed me," Bitty protests, even as he opens his mouth.

"Started after the Cup? Just insomnia?" Jack continues, cutting another piece of the omelette before feeding it to Bitty.

"Nightmares. Mostly. Then insomnia."

"Hmm."

"What, you think you know what it is?"

"I have an idea," Jack hands back the fork and scoots back from the table, running a hand along Bitty's back as he heads back to the kitchen. “You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

"Hon?"

Jack is quiet long enough Bitty thinks he may have left the room. Instead, when he looks up, he finds Jack intently tapping on his phone.

"You should call in today," Jack repeats, this time as an order, not looking up from the device. "My parents are still in town and Maman has been bugging me about spending quality time with you. Use that spa package the Falcs gave us. Go spend the day with her, see if you can relax. I'll have a new mattress by the time you get back."

"You don't have to do that, it's just me being me. Much as I love your mother.”

"What's the point of having this life if I can't take care of you?" Jack's gaze flicks back up to Bitty, distant, like his attention is suddenly on another matter entirely. “Let me do this.”

Bitty gives in because, really, what else can he do?

Truth be told, Bitty can’t remember all of what happened between leaving the apartment, meeting Alicia (”Oh, you poor thing.”), and ending up back home. 

True to Jack's word, there's a new mattress on their bed: a delightfully plush pillow top that seems to be off-gassing lavender; but the relaxing scent is warring with something pungent and curiously damning.

"Is that sage?" Bitty asks, taking off his coat.

“Smudging. Shitty's idea," Jack admits, sniffing reflexively. "Get out the bad energy. Or something. Worth a shot."

“Oh, here.” Jack hands Bitty a slip of paper, on it, a note written in Jack’s own scratchy hand, is a string of French Bitty is ashamed to admit he still doesn’t understand. “For relaxation. You say it in the shower, before bed, anytime you need to calm down.”

Bitty falls face first onto the bare mattress, and, for the first time in what feels like weeks, he’s out like a light.

“What are we making today,” Jack hands Eric a single egg, eyebrows dancing. “Taking suggestions?”

“You wish, this is for Angelique in the front office. Promise made, promise kept—” Eric splits the egg and a red, bloody yolk drops into the the batter, startling them both.

“Crisse,” Jack curses, snatching the bowl to inspect it before dumping the whole mess in the trash.

“Ugh. No brownies, then?” Eric jokes, trying to calm himself as Jack takes the carton from the fridge and cracks another egg over the trash. This one is fine: a healthy, expected orange. “I’ve never seen that before? I’ve been cooking my entire life, MooMaw had chickens and I’ve never—”

“It happens sometimes,” Jack grouses, breaking normal egg after normal egg before handing Eric the last one still clutched safely in his fist. “Here. Try again.”

“Just throw out the whole mess, hon,” Eric waves Jack’s hand away but the man is insistent. “I’ll go to the market and try a different brand. Maybe this wasn’t the best plan for today.”

“One more, for me,” Jack urges. “I’ll buy more. Just, please.”

“Money is not the issue, here,” Eric takes the blue-green egg from Jack’s palm and cracks it on the edge of a spare bowl. He misjudges the strength of the shell and the whole thing crushes between his fingers, smearing rancid red and black all over the counter.

“Fuck! What’s wrong with it?!”

“…Spoiled.” Jack spits, snatching a dishtowel from the oven. The explanation makes zero sense to Eric, not that he’s level headed enough to think it through when the smell hits him.

“Oh, Lord, I’m gonna be sick —”

“Bath,” Jack blurts, guiding Eric to the sink, tapping the faucet on. “You need to take a bath. Right now. I’ll get the water started.”

“Wait, Jack —”

But he’s already gone.

“I just took a shower,” Eric laments, trying not to look down as he scrubs the gunk from his hands and under his nails. “But I guess this is disgusting enough to warrant another one.”

“Bath,” Jack calls from the bedroom. “No showers. Rinse it off and come in here.”

Jack's got the water running and at least six of Eric's good beeswax 'date-night' candles lit.

"We aren't making rancid egg goo sexy, are we?"

"Of course not," Jack's taking off his shirt which implies otherwise. "I'm gross, too."

"Yeah, you are," Bitty is trying to be playful but there's still red under his nails.

"Get in. You first."

Bitty’s barely settled when Jack slides in behind him, water sloshing dangerously close to the top of the tub, never quite going over. It’s nice. They haven’t done this in a while. Too long. Though, this doesn’t feel much like a romantic evening, more like a disgusting afternoon as Jack loops his arms around Bitty’s torso and holds him tight, murmuring something not quite English, not quite French, in a soothing, but hurried tone.

“Bits?” Jack, breaks for a moment, running his fingers over something on Eric’s hip. “What is this?”

“Hmm?” Eric looks down and finds Jack poking at his birthmark with no small measure of interest. “What?”

“I don’t remember having seen it before.”

“Oh, that darn thing? I’ve had it forever. Usually, I throw a little concealer over it or something.”

“Since when? Doesn't matter. That seems like a lot of effort for a birthmark. It’s not ugly, and I’ve never noticed it before now.”

“Oh, I hate it. I’d get it removed but no dermatologist I’ve seen will touch it. Who knows.”

“Who wanted it removed? You?”

“My grandmother,” Eric sighs, reaching down to poke where Jack’s fingers are resting. “Not MooMaw, Coach’s mother, Grandma Catherine. Apparently, she wouldn’t hold me as a baby because she thought it was a bad omen,” Bitty doesn’t mention how she’d terrorized his poor mother and ultimately ended up banned from the Bittle-Phelps household.

“She sounds like a bitch,” Jack mutters after a moment, catching Eric’s hand beneath the water, lacing their fingers.

“She was,” Bitty breathes, leaning into his boyfriend’s touch as Jack begins whispering again.

Bitty startles, phone falling between the pillows and hitting the floor with a low thud. He can't reach it.

"Of course," Bitty sighs, kicking off the sheets to slide out of bed and start a blind search. He doesn't find his phone immediately, though he does feel a mess of dirt and grime beneath his fingers. "Our cleaning service has not been doing a great job," Bitty complains to himself, finally getting a grip on his phone. "Gonna have to tell Jack — ”

When he pulls back his hand is covered in dust. His phone as well. Far too much to be explained away by a lazy cleaning crew. Or maybe just a lazy boyfriend.

Bitty grabs the base of the bed and pulls, frame squealing in protest of the action, and when he's made enough progress Bitty turns on his flashlight and illuminates half of a good sized ring of something that had previously been directly under his and Jack's bed. It's dark lines of paint, crushed leaves, a puck, and —

"Señor Bun!"

Bitty snatches his stuffed rabbit from the center of the circle and hugs him tight, trying not to overreact about whatever mildly-satanic insanity has been going on beneath him while he sleeps. Bitty snaps a photo of the scene and texts it to Jack with a succinct message of 'Please tell me this is you'.

"Don't you lie to me, Mister," Bitty whispers, dragging the bed back to cover the symbols like somehow covering it back up will make it go away.

Jack's reply is immediate.

‘Oh you found it’

[…]

‘Happy Halloween?’

“Bullshit,” Bitty growls, clutching Bun tight. “You hate Halloween.”

He texts Jack as much.

“Bits, look at me,” Jack holds his gaze firmly, though he’s attempting to be playful. “We’re going to do some word association, alright? I’m going to say some things and you just answer with the first thing that pops into your mind.”

“Okay,” Eric laughs. “If we must.”

“Alright, let’s start now. Ready?”

“Sure.”

“Dark Lord.”

“Voldemort.”

“Coven.”

“Jessica Lange.”

“Uh, how about ‘familiar’?”

“Overly,” Eric winks.

This isn’t the answer Jack seems to be looking for.

“Fuck,” Jack sighs.

“Me?” Eric chirps, earning a playful, halfhearted shove in return.

“Easy --”

“You.”

“Shut up,” Jack tugs Eric into his lap and snuggles him tightly. “Game’s over.”

“Well, you are. Easy, that is,” Eric laughs between kisses. “You did this to yourself! With your spooky wordplay.”

“You really are clueless, aren’t you?” Jack mumbles, pressing his lips to Bitty’s neck.

“Ouch,” Bitty swats his boyfriend’s arm. “Unnecessary.”

Jack dodges the comment and goes quiet, his lips still against Bitty’s skin as if someone has pressed a pause button on their evening.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jack says finally. “About me, and I really don’t want to scare you.”

“You cheatin’ on me?”

It’s the first thing that pops into Bitty’s head and he feels foolish for even saying it aloud when Jack snorts and shakes his head; which Bitty feels more than sees.

"Fuck no. Not in a million years. This is different. When I turned 16, I had to make a decision,” Jack awkwardly maneuvers around Bitty to stand them face-to-face. "I got lucky, because of my parents, their standing, but I . . . you know I'm not like everyone else, right?" Jack says, resting his hand on Bitty's cheek in what he probably intends to be a comforting gesture. “The others?”

“You’re . . . talking about the draft, right?” Bitty hazards.

Jack frowns, expression far too sober for Bitty to play this off as a joke, and holds his other hand up, revealing a small, violet flame cupped in his palm; so small and quaint it could be mistaken for a party trick. Bitty doesn’t even hear Jack’s warning as he reaches out to touch.

“What! How are you doing that -- Ow!”

“It's fire, bud,” Jack chastises, immediately checking the burn. 

“Because purple fire is normal,” Bitty sticks his finger in his mouth and glares at Jack before the weight of the moment catches up to him. “How did you do that?”

“I’m a member of the Church of Night.”

“Which is what.”

“I have supernatural abilities.”

"So, you're, like, a witch, then?"

“Give me your finger,” Jack tugs Bitty’s hand from his mouth and kisses the burn before whispering something against the red skin. The pain vanishes alongside the mark, which is not the most troubling part about the moment they're sharing. “Warlock,” Jack corrects, swiping a bit of stray saliva from the corner of his lip. “Try again,” the light dancing in Jack's palm is back, larger and terribly enticing. “Go on, Bits, it won’t hurt you, now that I know you’re just gonna go for it.”

Bitty reaches out a second time and Jack doesn’t recoil as the purple flames, cool to the touch, grow larger and dance between Bitty's fingers.

“You’re taking this really well.”

"This doesn't seem so scary," Bitty admits, leaning into the half truth as he pulls back to check his skin for any burns; Jack makes a fist, extinguishing the flame.

In another world Bitty actually possesses the confidence he's pretending to exude. In reality, he's low-key terrified; fighting off an existential crisis and trying to keep his composure as the man he loves tells him not only that magic is real, but that he himself is some kind of witch, and not a fun one. He’s something much more traditional that Bitty has not been raised to be comfortable with.

"Pyrokenisis is difficult," Jack defends, sounding like his old self again. "Most don't attempt it until they have years of experience with conjuration."

Just like that they're back to normal. Jack's air of mystery vanishes as he petulantly snaps another flame into existence, this one almost white and much larger. Bitty has flashes of his freshman year when a Quinnipiac d-man doubted the strength of Jack's slap-shot and Jack 'accidentally' cracked a pane of glass on the next shift.

Classic Zimmermann ego.

"Not just a hockey prodigy, then? Kind of a big deal off the ice, too, I bet," Bitty teases, hiding his fear behind humor as Jack goes pink and the flame falters. "You ever cursed anyone?"

Bitty watches Jack's left eyebrow twitch.

"Who was it?"

Jack's lips thin, though Bitty can tell the gesture isn't in irritation at being caught. The man is fighting a smile.

"It doesn't matter. Anything that happened was deserved."

"In that case, I have a lot of questions?" Bitty says once he's rediscovered his voice.

"And I'll answer all of them," Jack insists, bravado vanishing as he sags with relief. "Soon. Promise. Everything and anything you want to know."

"Have to admit, I'm a little intimidated," Bitty steps into Jack's space and allows himself to be pulled into his boyfriend's arms, trying not to tense. "Silly me, thinking I was the only secret you were hiding."

"I can have secrets. Makes me interesting." Jack runs his hand along Bitty's back.

“Makes you stressed,” Bitty counters.

“Also true.”

"What does all of this mean for me?"

"I don't know, yet. Still trying to figure that part out."

Bitty takes a moment to think about his life, then grabs Jack’s hand and drags him to their bedroom. He leaves Jack standing in the doorway to grab the corner of the bed frame and drag it sideways, revealing the madness beneath.

“Explain.”

"It's a protection ward." Jack doesn't miss a beat. "I laid it down after the egg incident. Didn't want to risk anything happening."

"To me."

"To you." Jack affirms, walking across the room to kneel and nudge a stone back into shape. "I have enough wards on me the only person who can hurt me is me, evidently," Jack looks up, apologetic. "I was worried about all the attention on you."

"If it’s for protection, does that mean people want to hurt me?"

Jack licks his thumb and smears something that could be ink. Or paint. Its viscous, a dark color Bitty can't identify and doesn’t want to examine too closely.

"One would be too many for me," Jack answers, wiping his hand on his jeans. "Better safe than sorry."

"Okay, so," Bitty kneels down beside his boyfriend and points at an off-white lump in the leaf pile. "Is this a tooth?"

The sheepish look is back.

"Euh, yeah, don't worry, it's one of mine."

"Oh, that doesn't make me not worry, Sugar. Not reassuring at all,” Bitty toes a leaf over the tooth, hiding it from view. “Don’t recall much human bits in the ‘good magic’ column.”

Jack flashes a smile, like they’re sharing a secret. Which, Eric realizes, they are.

“This isn’t like tv, bud. Though it doesn’t do itself any favors in the way of aesthetic, I’ll admit that much.”

“Can you…show me, um,” Eric nudges a leaf with his socked toe. “Some more? Maybe?”

The smile on Jack’s face is as wide and bright as Bitty has ever seen.

“Yeah, bud, I’d love to.”

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by R. Ann Parris on The Prepper Journal.

Many aspects of the Modern Minuteman toolbox apply to preparedness in general, however personal and small-scale or widespread and earth shaking our pet disasters may be. As with overall preparedness, our exact situation and our expectations of disaster scenarios affects what we prioritize for our finite time and attention.

Last time, I concentrated on an “early/now” frame for prioritizing a handful of commonly recommended skills. This time, I’m actually taking the “at all” perspective, be it amped-up community watches, riot control, or some NWO-EROL situation we’re gearing up to oppose.

As always, opposing opinions are welcome. The more perspectives available, the better everyone is able to make their own decisions.

Gauge Community Climate

Absolutely and emphatically, yes.  

Heaven help me, I recently found myself agreeing with Nancy Pelosi. A group of students approached her in her office to express their displeasure in her lack of support for an AOC environmental bill. Her reply was essentially that stupid to waste time on something with absolutely zero chance of passing.

That was a fair enough point on its own, and speaks directly to taking the pulse of a population.

Even more so was a nugget that made fewer news sites in the following days: The belief that trying to push too-extreme an agenda – however much she personally might agree with it – was worse than doing nothing at all. It would only further ruffle feathers, making things harder to achieve the next time around.

I’m no more fan of politicians than the next, but the ability to accurately predict and read the masses is something that we do need to be aware of if we have any interest whatsoever in being a citizen soldier.

What the community will stand and what they won’t is the bedrock of insurgency and resistance movements.

What they will and won’t stand in good times, versus crux moments and tragedy, historically makes or breaks those movements, as well as the hold over a community by a commanding force – whether that’s a large, visible government with policing agents and military, or the behind-the-scenes types large and small. 

It applies to anticipating and either preventing or responding to something like a riot or demonstration, as well as guerrilla actions against occupations and undermining strongholds of loyalists for either/any faction.

Large scale, long-term or single-event short-term, we have to be able to gauge the mood of the mob and the climate of our communities, and our reactions have to come from a complete tool set – not just picking today’s hammer.

If we can’t, our chances of success are downright nil.

Denial & Disruption

Most emphatically, yes.

Riot control on sidewalks or countering the jackboot takeover, we want to be able to deny our enemy intel and assets, and disrupt their way of doing business (and ability to relax).

That can take all sorts of forms – and has, throughout history.

Interdiction and harassment take so many forms, it really rates its own set of articles even to nutshell the tactics and techniques employed by insurgency and resistance in guerrilla operations, community and large-force counters to guerilla operations, and even law enforcement and IT deterrents large and small, and internal policing by law enforcement and militaries and even lowly little small-business operations, as well as force-on-force operations from pre-tech eras to modern times.

On the larger scales, it involves all sorts of supply and travel disruptions, misinformation/counter-intel, harassing fire, false flags, etc.

Many of those can also be applied on the smallest of scales – even interpersonal conflict and self-defense situations – employing different techniques to the same theories, or adapting techniques to fit conditions.

Again, though, we really want to mind the effects on and reactions of our internal and closest-ties allies (family, coworkers, partners), the near neighbors, and the community at large, as well as our opposition and the reactions of their varying rings of influence.

Wilderness & Military Camp Setup

Yes, absolutely – anywhere.

Site development and placement of elements – modern or long past – have a lot of aspects that apply to preparedness in general, even “just” getting through a hurricane and “just” setting up our homes for everyday functional efficiency and security.

The same aspects keep them relevant to a modern minuteman intending to defend storefronts or residential communities from riots as well as the prepper who anticipates infantry-like service defending freedom.  

Positioning for ready communication, rapid responses, protection of key elements, LOS, external observation points, latrines/sanitation, deployment outside the wire and-or green zones, individual safety and incoming-fire cover, fire safety, supply distribution, and awareness of known effective ranges by position and armament all factor in.

They apply equally to both the able-bodied foot soldier and to the physically limited watchman or rear-echelon non-combatant, whatever the situation, however big or small the location.

*Think that one through, and consider our daily nothing-wrong lifestyles – It really does resonate everywhere, from where our smoke detectors and fire extinguishers are, to aggravations or eases when we grocery shop, bathe dogs, do laundry, file and maintain paperwork, coordinate with family and coworkers, get to and from our chores and recreations, etc. We don’t have to be totally paranoid or OCD to start seeing typical trends in non-prepper, non-minuteman sources for safety/protection and efficiency.

Camo & Concealment

Meh.

Really, it’s situationally dependent.

For most of the scenarios we can list off, from protecting our corner of Baltimore or Koreatown to taking our turn as the insurgents – or countering them, or splinter cells of a larger force – unless you’re a sniper operating from the woods, mostly, “meh” leaning “well, nah”.

Flip side: Oh hell yeah, because camo and concealment isn’t always green and tan splotches of paint or fabric.

Camo and concealment is a suit or slacks and a briefcase in a courthouse, yoga pants and a light bag at the park, a “normal” passenger vehicle instead of an off-road rock-climbing mudder or Humvee on the average street, high-vis vests with dirty pants on a road crew with their bucket or tool box/bag, and scuffed up boots on a farm hand.

That camo and concealment extends to mixing up travel patterns to avoid breaking foliage and creating “deer trails”, being able to slip out of a location without observation, and presenting the appearance of following habitual movements and activities while deviating from the norm.

It’s also developing the control to watch our mouths and non-verbals rather than fight every battle that comes our way and picking every hill as our hill to die on. (Return to Nancy Pelosi above to make that an even uglier pill to swallow.)

And, yeah, in a few situations, it’s being able to become a rock on the hill or another tuft of brush, but unless we’re evading birds or sniper hunters, mostly breaking up our outlines isn’t too hard and doesn’t always require paint or cammies.

Hand-to-Hand Combat

Yes and no.

Don’t get me wrong. Self-defense capabilities are great to have, period. It’s not like this world has ever been totally safe, or like it’s getting any crazier.

However you want to apply it, keep in mind how often we see 2-5 cops or foreign militias trying to wrestle a bad guy into cuffs or move them after arrest, and weigh how much training and daily practice they get, versus our ability to invest time and money into training.

Our expectations of the bad guy we’ll be encountering, and how we’re deploying also factor in pretty hugely.

If we’re countering a significant force, whether it’s widespread jackboots and organized invaders or forces that have the benefit of protective gear, our chances of success are much lower.

Similarly, our chances against servicemen from one of the nations that focus significant continuing training time on some pretty gnarly martial arts, knife work, and batons … not so hot.

There are exploits for hand-to-hand combat even against somebody wearing body armor groin to neck, face shields and helmets, and knee pads. We just have to be realistic about whether we’re going to personally stand a chance with our available investment capabilities, or if we want to focus instead on something else.

Learn some basics that fit your physical condition for everyday encounters, but don’t break the bank on this one.

Instead, for minuteman purposes develop awareness, de-escalation, and evasion skills as well as Gray Man presentation.

Also work reflex drills, ankle-knee lateral and start-stop strength (or chair skills), and balance exercises – especially for people who are limited in some way by age, injury, or genetic luck of the draw.

Urban or rural, footing can be iffy. The better able we are to compensate for shifting terrain, curbs, bumps, and slips, and the better able we are to change direction on a dime, the better chance we stand of staying in the fight, whatever the scenario we imagine.

Modern Minuteman Skillsets

Most likely, the term “Modern Minuteman” brings a certain image to our heads. And, most likely, any 2-20 of us would describe very different images – particularly as the most likely and most common potential for a modern minuteman to deploy.

Because we have very different situations and needs, with very different scenarios in mind and very different capabilities due to our physical shape and local environment, the skills we are most likely to need are going to vary.

Some, though, are pretty universal. We can sometimes assign a value across the board, regardless of situation or scenario.

With any luck, somebody disagrees with these, or the matrix I apply at large, and presents points for discussion.

If not and until then, go find somebody who thinks “bah, PC community-pulse nonsense” or “moron, every soldier should fight with sticks”. Weigh the argument presented for those situations, and decide what does actually make sense for you. It’s only having multiple perspectives that really lets us prioritize, whether we’re picking out groceries or putting together our minuteman to-do list.

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The post Modern Minuteman – Yes-No-Maybe Skillsets Vol. 2 appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

[sneegsnitties]

Creatures of the Light, Run From the Night Ch 3. Finality

[AO3 LINK] @tazbang​

Rating: T

Characters/Ships: blupcretia, taagnus, davenchurch, the light, the voidfish

tags: The Adventure Bang 2019, blood, transformation, alternate universe - canon divergence, character death, canon compliant, canonical character death, temporary character death, body horror, stolen century era, established relationship, we know nothing abt the light yall, angst, the light fucks everyone up? kinda, touch starved, alternate universe - creatures and monsters, other additional tags to be added, crying, slight religious themes,

Summary:The Light Of Creation has always been one of a mystery. It has the power to create, that obvious. But what else does it do? No one knows. This is what the seven birds are trying to figure out, why it’s so important to the hunger? what is the extent of its abilities? What else can it do? These questions will be answered, but not in the way that either of them were expecting. The light of creation has its reasons for doing what it did. A reason that is not quite understood. But whatever it did? It was definitely not what they signed up for. Not even close.

Chapter summary: Lup and Magnus let off some steam, Barry and Lucretia watch over Taako, and as for Taako? well it looks like hes fully embraced his fate.

Lup is exhausted, stressed and fucking pissed. The past few days she’s been trying to dig deeper into the light, further than they’ve already dug in the past 49 years they’ve been doing this. In the cycles where they’ve found the light of course. But no luck so far, she’s unable to find anything new.

She can’t fucking find anything. Not even Barry can, well not what they’ve already found out.

No matter how hard they dig deep into the inner machinations of the light, it always seems like something is preventing them from doing so.

It’s frustrating, especially now, it’s like there’s somebody out there who doesn’t want them to know. Making this a pain in the ass to figure out.

That may be a possibility but whoever the fuck is doing it will get an ass-kicking from Lup as soon as she finds out how and who.

But that can wait, sort of. Not really. It can’t wait. Because Taako is running out of time. It won’t be long until he’s fully crystalized

That little escapade he took out onto the deck of the ship the other night? It only made it spread more. All that moving around he did only made it worse for himself. It has completely devastated Magnus because now he has less time to spend with his boyfriend before his time is up.

It goes for Lup, too. Even though they’re only halfway through the cycle now, it’ll still be too long for them to wait until he’s back.

Honestly, she can’t imagine how Magnus is feeling about all of this. But Lup? She hates it. A lot. The elf wanders the ships as she tries to cool down from the frustration she feels at the moment. She could just scream at the top of her lungs on the deck of the ship or beat up some of Mangus’s training dummies. Or set some random shit on fire.

Anything to get her mind off of this.

“Lup?” she hears Magnus say, pulling her out of her thoughts. Speak of the devil. “Want- want to go for a walk or something?” he asks sheepishly. Lup is quick to notice that he looks so, so tired.

“Yeah.” she smiles, “I think a walk would be good for both of us.”

Magnus returns that smile. But it doesn’t reach his eyes like his signature smiles usually do. But in this situation? It’s understandable.

“How… how are you doing with all of this?” she asks, though she can already guess the answer.

“I don’t- I don’t know. It’s just so fucking bad Lup.” the fighter says, focused on the ground in front of him. His fists clenched as he holds back tears that threatened to fall.

Gods. it’s just so easy to forget that Magnus was just a kid, barely even an adult, when the mission first started. So was Lucretia. This isn’t anything anyone should go through.

“He was in so much pain when he woke up again, I just couldn’t handle it.”

Lup winces, “where’s it spread to now?”

“Half of his face, most of his chest, left arm,” he pauses, “just basically his entire left side now.”

The elven woman nods with a frown on her face, “I’m not finding anything new with The Light either. No matter how hard I try? There’s always something preventing me, somehow, from going deeper.”

Magnus gives her a confused look, “what do you mean? This is like some magical bullshit right?”

“I mean probably?” she shrugs. “But fantasy Jesus Christ, it’s so fucking frustrating!”

“Everything about this is, in a way. I just want him to be fine and back to normal.” he sniffs, “did it feel this bad when he caught that plague back in 14?” a tear glistens in his eye when he turns to look at her.

“I-I don’t know, I’d say this feels worse, so much worse.” she rubbed his shoulder in an attempt of reassurance, but finds herself tearing up too. “Because that time? I didn’t have to see him suffer for very long?” Lup holds back a sob.

Magnus nods, now tears are streaming down his face. “We’ll- we’ll get through this,” he says with the most sincere voice he can muster.

“Don’t we always?” she says with a watery laugh.

“The best we can.”

Lup looks away and up towards the sky through her tears. The sun has begun to set, bathing the sky in a beautiful pinkish purple. It reminds her of home. The sunsets were amazingly beautiful back home, but these are enough to rival. “I guess… this walk wasn’t as relaxing as you would have hoped?”

“No, not exactly.” he chuckles slightly, “but it got us away from the ship.” he wipes his nose with his sleeve.

The duo walk more in silence, enjoying the silence and scenery. Soon, they reach a clearing with a lake. The sunset reflects off of the still waters and luckily, there isn’t anyone around. It’s a good distance from the ship. So she lets out a scream, accidentally startling Magnus next to her who grins and follows her example.

They take turns screaming a few more times before heading back to the ship, seeing as the sun has gotten lower in the sky and it will be night soon. She hopes that their screaming didn’t raise any alarms from any nearby villages from all of their yelling.

“I should take Lucretia and Barry to that lake,” she hums, “Luce would love it.”

“She would,” Magnus says with a small smile. ~ It hasn’t been long since Taako had woken back up again after he was put under another sleep spell, waking up from this one isn’t as painful as the last time. Lup and Magnus have returned from their walk to blow off steam in the training room. Leaving Lucretia and Barry to watch over Taako.

Not that he minds or anything, he gets to spend time with one of his girlfriends. One he hasn’t had the opportunity to have enough alone time with. If you could call this alone time.

But Lucretia has been writing furiously in her journal about all the events that have transpired the past few days, even with one hand.

Moving to another page, she begins to sketch the mostly crystallized form of Taako. He’s impressed. He wishes he could draw that good.

Taako lets out a pained noise, breaking the silence that was hanging in the room. Making Lucretia look up with a look of concern.

He’s getting closer and closer to being fully crystallized now. Even with the process slowed significantly with him being restricted to his bed. Not like he has a choice in the matter.

The human woman gives him a look of concern, “won’t be long now.” she whispers and chews on her bottom lip.

“Y-yeah,” he whispers back, wrapping an arm around her waist, “should- should we call the others?”

“I think we still have time, too early to tell how long it will take exactly.”

“Love that you two lovebirds are talking about me like I’m not even here.” the elf speaks up through a pained voice, “really, how insensitive can you be?” he jokes.

“Sorry Taako, would… would you like to see my drawing?” she asks, almost hesitantly

“Hell yeah, show me.” he says with a smile, or the best smile he can do, “oh wow, that’s me ain’t it?” Taako goes silent. Barry realizes that Taako hasn’t looked at himself in a mirror in a while and doesn’t know what he looks like.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have shown it to you, I’m sorry.” she shrinks into herself slightly.

“No, Creesh it was super good, I liked it,” he reassures sincerely.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Barry confirms and kisses the side of her head.

Lucretia smiles sheepishly, then continues working on her sketch.

The room falls silent again before Taako speaks up again, “do- do you guys know what kind of gemstone slash crystal is covering me?”

“Nope, not a clue.” he shrugs, “that might be a question for Merle.”

“I mean, definitely amethyst, right? Not opaque enough.” the chronicler supplies, not looking up from her drawing, “there are also streaks of various shades of purple in it too.”

“Well, what other types of gems are purple?” the elf asks.

“I can’t think of many off the top of my head.”

Taako then makes a pained noise again as the crystal spreads further down his leg and completely covers it. Now only a portion of his torso is uncovered and the rest of his face.

“Might be spreading faster than we thought,” he whispers to Lucretia again but disguises it as another kiss to her head.

She nods, jots something down in her journal, faster than Barry can process, then turns the page to a clean one and writes something else. She shows him the page which says ‘could be moving faster because talking could equal movement. Should call in the others when its spread over his torso.’

“So soon?” he asks in the most hushed whisper he can manage. “How long do you think he has now?”

She nods and scribbles something else down before presenting it to him again, ‘I don’t know. I hope he lasts through the night.’

The blue-jean clad man exhales sharply. Taako is approaching his end of the cycle rather quickly. But hopefully? Hopefully, he lasts until tomorrow. He has a feeling that Lucretia feels the same way. ~ It did, it held off, allowing Taako to make it through the night.

Last night felt excruciatingly long for Magnus. He could not stay asleep because he was worried about his boyfriend. The thoughts kept on swimming in his brain, making him toss and turn. Needless to say, he had gotten little to no sleep that night. Thoughts on when Taako was going to die.

That time was now, the moment the whole crew was dreading.

Taako almost fully crystallizing.

His torso was covered entirely by the time Merle had come and checked on him that morning.

It was hard not to hear the panic written within the cleric’s voice as he announced over the intercom as the rest of the crew was eating breakfast.

The crystal had - albeit conveniently - only left a portion of Taako’s face uncovered by the time that everyone had filtered into the elf’s room

“I managed to calm him down with calm emotions, so that’s why he’s unnaturally calm,” Merle explains, giving the fighter a look of sympathy.

Magnus ignores the look the dwarf gave him and immediately moves to his boyfriend’s side, “Taako?” he whispers and feels a hand on his shoulder and immediately knows its Lup without even looking.

“Hey babe,” Taako says through a strained voice and a half-smile, “I guess it’s time, huh?”

The fighter nods, tears are already streaming down his face. He doesn’t want to lose his boyfriend this cycle. It isn’t fair.

“Hey, don’t cry over me.” he says reassuringly, “I won’t be gone long, just a couple months. That goes for you too, lulu, don’t cry over me, okay?”

Lup lets out a sob, but nods as the crystal spreads over his remaining eye.

“I- I love you Taako,” Magnus says through his tears

“Love you too, big guy,” the elf smiles, “how about one last kiss for me?” the crystal spreads over his remaining eye completely and he smiles.

The fighter leans down and kisses his boyfriend for the last time this cycle. It takes some effort considering the crystal covering a good majority of his mouth.

“Taako, I-I don’t know why we don’t say this more and only in situations like this but, I love you.” she lets out another sob, “promise me we will? I can’t- fuck!” she buries her face into Barry’s shoulder.

“I promise.” the crystal grows slightly.

Now everyone in the room is crying. Surely, this is one of the worst deaths that has happened on this ship and in this damned journey. With how slow, yet so fast it had taken.

“And Lup?” he barely hears his boyfriend over his tears.

She makes a noise of acknowledgment, looking up from her boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Love you too.” and with that, the crystal finally spreads over the rest of his mouth.

The room goes silent, just for a moment, then Lup breaks down into tears again. Barry acts quickly and ushers her out of the room, his glasses clutched in his hand, not to get the tear stains on them, Lucretia follows closely behind them.

Magnus doesn’t move from his spot, he… he can’t bring himself to.

“Kid?” Merle comes over to place a hand on the fighter’s leg, his worn copy of the bible of Pan is in the other. Right, they have to do that prayer thing. None of them are all that religious aside from Merle, but it’s become a sort of a tradition whenever someone dies. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Davenport appears on his other side and the gnome takes the much larger hand of Magnus into his own.

The cleric directs him to the right page, he’s heard this same prayer many times before. He takes a deep breath and begins to recite. “Dearly beloved, we are here in honor of pan, who we are praying to today.” he wipes a tear away from his face before he continues.

~

“I love you too.” Taako says as the crystal covers his mouth completely and the dark purple world goes black.

‘This will only take a moment’ The Light says somewhere deep within his mind. ‘I just need to connect your new body to your mind.’  

[mentalmimosa]

when the time comes (part v)

Previous installments here: [archiveofourown.org/works/19702240/chapters/46626097]

“The job of the livvakt,” Bor had told him long ago, “is very simple, though many think that simple means easy to understand.” The old man had lifted his eyebrows, a pair of gray crows. “Perhaps you have thought such yourself.”

“No, kaptein. I have not.” Here Donar had bitten his lip, a bad habit in his youth that still emerged when he was unsettled. “I’ve not thought a great deal on it at all.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Forgive me for speaking bluntly--”

“I would much prefer that you do.”

“--but it seemed a waste of effort for me.”

He remembered Bor’s gaze then--how sharp it was, how clearly in that moment he could see what sort of formidable soldier Bor had once been. “The goal of every member of the vakt is to be chosen to protect the body, is it not?”

“It is, yes, but--”

“So why would you consider sparing such a serious matter even a moment of consideration to be a--what was the word you used, eh?”

“A waste.”

He had been more than thirty then, sitting in the dusty keep of Bor’s chamber, a set of rooms set below ground not too far from the keep. There were books strewn about and swords hung up, revered; between them, on a low table, had sat two worn mugs of beer. It was not a familiar space to him then, nor a foreign one; his visits were not unusual but rare. When he had received the summons after supper, as the vakt spilled laughing towards their barracks, it had come less as a shock than a jolt.

The same was true for those barely old enough to steady their swords as it was for those like him to whom Bor had become brother-in-arms: when the old man wished to speak with you, you went. He hadn’t known what to expect, but the role of the livvakt? Certainly not. Which was perhaps why he’d handled the matter so badly.

“Yes,” Bor said. He tipped his head. “That was it. Why?”

“Kaptein, no one born outside of the land has ever served as the livvakt, have they?"

"No. Not one."

Donar spread his hands, entreating. "Yes, so, I saw no reason to dwell on the notion at all.”

The old man had nodded. “That is logical.”

“Thank you.”

“And also foolish.”

“Sair?”

Bor sat forward, a hint of teeth showing. “Tch, Donar,” he chided. “You have done well becoming part of us over these many years; I imagine few could have done better. But doing so, kamerat, has not served to mask that which makes you stand out.”

Donar’s face had felt a question; must have shown one, too, for Bor had laughed softly and shaken his head. “You are a skilled soldier. Surely you understand that.”

“Yes.”

“And more than skilled, you are one of the most intuitive men that I’ve ever met. Those qualities together make you formidable indeed--and quite distinct among the vact . There is no question in my mind--or my gut, eh?--that you are precisely the livvakt our new reigna needs.”

It had seemed to Donar then that his mouth had filled with smoke; not the sort of smoke that choked him or swallowed his breath, but the kind that had always filled his grandmother’s house, that she had carried with her on her clothes and her linens when illness had dragged her to that small, sallow room in his father’s house. It was perhaps too far to say that his mouth had filled with divinity, the but there were some times, looking back, when it felt that way.

Only a moment before, he would have protested, pushed back against his kaptein’s bizarre appeal; and it was just as much madness now, wasn’t it? To think that a reigna might be willing for him to overthrow generations of tradition.

He, a candlemaker’s son, kidnapped, serving as the reigna’s second skin?

Impossible, his mind told him. Impossible.

And yet the Jungfer had filled his mouth with sweet smoke and the certainties of the Known, and in that instant, he had stilled his mind and spoken instead with his heart:

“If she calls for me,” he had said steadily, “then yes, kaptein, I will come.”

Bor clapped him on the shoulder, a shock; a gesture of an equal, not a chief. “Very wise, Donar. Good. Though may I offer some advice?”

“Please.”

The old man had laughed. “If the reigna asks you, as I did, your thoughts on the job of the livvakt, I suggest you have a better answer than ‘a waste.’”

Loki hadn’t asked him that, though; she’d seemed to take for granted, even from their first private meeting, that to his position, he assigned value, because how could he not? When he’d just sworn publically to value her.

“Bor tells me that he trusts your instincts.”

“So I have recently come to understand.”

She’d chuckled, a sound he found that he liked. “Ah, so he’d not made a habit of singing your praises to you directly, is that it?”

There was a diplomatic answer and a direct one. He sensed she would prefer directness. “No.”

“Well, you’ll have no such roundaboutness to fear from me, Donar.” Her head tilted. “May I call you that? Or would you prefer simply livvakt? I know some in your position would rather not use their given name.”

“You may use them interchangeably as you like, reigna.”

“That’s hardly an answer. Of course I may. The question is what you would like.”

“I suspect there are times when you will find use in both. Though I suspect you will not use both for the same.”

It was only once the words escaped, as her dark eyes bloomed at him wide, that he recognized how familiar he sounded; he had spoken as if she were a kamerat, not his queen.

“Høyhet,” he said quickly, “forgive me, I spoke--”

“You spoke as yourself, didn’t you?”

A fist in his stomach had tightened. Had he really failed so quickly? “Yes. I did not recall my place.”

And then her mouth had lifted, climbing ivy, and she’d sat back in her chair and reached up to unpin her hair. “Do you know when the last time was someone spoke to me as if I were a person and not the reigna? Or the bloody reigna i vente, she who will be queen?"

“No.”

“Neither do I. If it’s ever damn well happened, I don’t remember it at all.” She shook her head a little and a shower of blossoms fell out as an unruly mass of black framed her face. She smiled at him again, tired now; he could see in her eyes the long effects of the evening, the day. “So,” she said, “now that you’ve treated me like a person, Donar, it would be cruel of you to take that away, I should think.”

She had seemed to him so very young, just then. As he stared, on her cheeks he’d seen the track of tears shed years ago in her grandmother’s court, a raven-capped waif he’d caught a glimpse of through his own grief on that long, terrible day--he’d forgotten that, forgotten her, that small sobbing child, until the moment right then.

“So,” she said again, “what I will value, livvakt, when we speak alone like this is you. Not a model of who you think you should be, or some version of whatever dritt the old guard has drilled into you. If I wanted someone who would do only as I wanted, I would’ve simply asked Bor to find me the weakest of the flock instead of its best. He says that’s you and you’ve given me no reason to disbelieve him thus far.” A flicker of a smile. “See to it that you don’t, hmm?”

The job of the livvakt is very simple--though many think that simple means easy to understand.

And on its face, Donar’s role, even now, out in the wild as the night’s branches grew thick, might have appeared to be simple enough: to protect the reigna, to ensure that nothing in the darkness dared to touch her, to deliver her safely to the arms of the Hours and wait patiently for her until she emerged awakened anew.

But his role, too, was to hold her, to wrap himself around the bow of her back and breathe in the sweet, dampened scent of her hair. It was to forget the glimpse of her long-familiar skin he had seen as she emerged from the stream: the way her hair clung to her shoulders, the way it dripped dark between her thighs, the way the last of the day’s sun had not been as blinding as the warm in her eyes.

“It’s awful,” she’d said as she wrapped herself in a blanket and shivered in front of the fire, “so, so damnably cold. Worse than rolling in the snows in winter.”

“Ah,” he’d said, trying to tease, “it’s just right then, is it?”

Loki had reached out and shoved at him, a flash of cool white behind the blink of the flame. “Tch! You get in there and see how brave your tongue is after!”

“No, I will learn from your mistake, reigna, and risk only the freezing of my arms and my face.”

But the creek was not cold; to his hands, it was temperate, running closer to warm. The wolves splashed about in it merrily as he bathed, brave to strip off his layers and wade out to where it was deep.

Was she ill? he’d wondered as he floated, as he scrubbed the last two days from his hair. Was it a fever, perhaps? Some sort of strange reaction to days spent out of doors?

It had worried him then. It worried him now as he held her close and bid her to sleep. She had been clothed for hours, her body full of wine and at least a little food. He had built the fire as high as he dared before they’d laid down and the air in this part of the land carried with it the soft heat of the day. But still Loki shivered, a small, persistent tremble, that even his arms could not erase.

“Stop it,” she said wearily. “I can hear you fretting.”

“Tch. I am not."

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “I would tell you if I wasn’t. The Seers have said since I was a child that I was cold-natured, eh? You know this.”

He did, yes. But this was different; he Knew it. What he did not understand was why.

She sighed. “Less than a day now, anyway, until the Hours will have me. That will give you some respite, surely; I won’t be yours to worry about, for a time.”

The moon had only to climb a little higher before sleep found her at last, before he too could close his eyes. You will always worry for her, Geliebte, the Jungfer murmured in the mist of his dreams. It is Known.

[feywildatheart]

Nenîth,

We decided to make use of the beds last night, and I think were all glad to have something other than a bedroll and the hard ground to sleep on. Elyn and I were both feeling much refreshed this morning, though Cloudleaper seems to have spent the whole night reading, and had to be prodded and coaxed along for much of the day.

I started off by ducking out of the hidden passage and trying once more to see if the earth elemental was around. This time it responded, though it rose up and made some sort of weary-sounding comment about me having called it, or summoned it, I can't remember, and I instantly felt bad. I managed a stammered sort of explanation, that I hadn't meant to disturb it and obviously it didn't have to if it didn't want to but that I felt bad for having introduced myself but not thought to ask its name, and obviously it didn't have to share if it didn't want to but that if it did, I'd be honored to know its name. And it seemed somewhat mollified by that, and maybe a little amused, and told me its name, or as much of it as it felt like sharing -- it said that it was part of a much longer name, but that that would do. I'd tell you, but when I asked if I should pass its name on to the archaeologists so that they could address it properly, it declined, and seemed to imply that knowing its name was something that had to be earned, so I told Elyn and Cloudleaper but I think I'd probably better not anyone else. I wouldn't want to offend it.

We started off, at Elyn's suggestion, by double-checking the barracks room where the hooked things had been, just to make sure nothing had moved in during the night. Nothing had, but the bodies of the insect things on the floor looked much the worse for wear, having been left out overnight. On a hunch, I pulled out the meat that I'd taken from them and put into my bag of holding, and it was just the same, decomposing faster than normal meat does. I decided the gnolls were just going to have to live without this particular type of meat, and took it all out of the bag and left it there, lest it make a mess all over my bag and everything within it. (I'm not quite sure how that works, with the things that I put in the bag, if it's just one extradimensional space where everything hangs out, like a closet, or if our things are just sort of drifting about in their own little bubbles of space. But either way, I didn't want to risk it. That meat smelled terrible, and it had only been one night, and who knows how much longer we'll be making our way through this place before we return to the gnolls and can give them what we've gathered.)

We continued on, making our way back up the hallway, clearing each room as we passed it so that, with any luck, nothing would come upon us from behind and take us by surprise. The next door led to a large room that looked like it must have been a bathroom, with lots of tile on the floors and walls, and a pedestal as tall as I am in the middle of it. I went over to it and found a chunk of stone I could step up on, so I could see if there was anything on top of it, because a pedestal in the middle of a bathroom seemed a strange feature.

The surface of the pedestal held a grid of nine holes, with metal rods in each, and the surface they were set into tilted at an angle. Elyn thought it was just a sink, but it didn't look like much of one to me, and I was curious, so I reached up and grabbed one of the metal rods out of its hole.

The angle of the pedestal's top shifted when I did that, and when I grabbed a few more rods out, they each had the same effect, and they seemed to each weigh a little differently than one another, and I realized that the trick must be to figure out how to put the rods in the holes in such an arrangement that the weight was distributed evenly, and the surface remained level. Elyn and I worked at it together, while Cloudleaper leaned against the wall and I think did a little of that meditating-rest that she seems to have not gotten enough of last night. We thought at first that the trick was to make each of the four sides of the grid have the same weight, reasoning that whatever rod was leftover could be placed in the middle position without affecting the weight distribution, but when we did that the balance of it still didn't seem quite right, and we realized that it wasn't only the weight on each side that had to be equal, but in each direction across the middle as well.

It took us some doing to figure out what the right weight to try to reach was, and we had a few false starts, but after the better part of an hour messing about with the thing finally we put the last rod in, and the whole thing shifted and settled a little deeper in the pedestal, and a part of the wall slid down into the floor to reveal a hallway beyond it. Unfortunately, the part of the wall that moved was the exact bit that Cloudleaper had chosen to lean against, and she ended up sprawled on the floor on her back, and seemed tired enough to be disinclined to move from where she'd landed, so Elyn and I picked our way past her and continued on inside.

The hallway led to a room that looked like it had once been a bathing room, with a pool long since gone dry, though there's a table in it now so at some point it seems to have been repurposed, and Elyn thought that the table, while old, looked significantly less old than the two-and-a-half-centuries of everything else we've encountered. She wondered how whoever had been there since these ruins became ruins might have been coming and going, and there was a skylight that caught her attention, but it was much too high for any of us to have any hope of reaching, so we abandoned that line of thought in short order, and turned our attention to the table, where we found a few boxes and a few pouches and a leather roll, some of which Elyn said felt magical, and so we put them all in the bag of holding for Elyn to Identify later, and went back out to the bathroom, where we had seen some very large spider webs in the corner and, assuming they probably belonged to more phase spiders, or otherwise large and nasty spiders, had taken pains to avoid them as we'd mulled over the puzzle.

This time, we all positioned ourselves, and I made sure to find a place a little bit inside the hidden hallway so that I could hopefully keep my distance, and use my bow instead of my swords, and then we chucked a rock into one of the spiderwebs, and almost immediately were beset by two giant phase spiders.

We did better with them than we did with the last set, I'll say that much. Squirt bounded over to one and bit onto a leg, and had ripped the thing in half almost at once, and then dragged the half around with him looking mighty pleased with himself as he went over to help Elyn and Cloudleaper with the other, though they hardly needed the assistance.

I managed to convince Squirt to be content with a leg, instead of dragging half a giant spider all over the ruins with us, and though I don't trust the spider meat to hold up over time any better than the hooked-things did, I broke off a second leg and put it in the bag for him for later in the day, because he really is the best boy and he deserves it.

With that done, we scrambled the puzzle up again to keep that hidden room safe from any of the other creatures who might be roaming the ruins, and continued down the larger central hallway to continue our work of clearing the rooms. The next one was through a broken doorway directly opposite the one we'd come in through originally, and inside it looked to have been ransacked, or at least very thoroughly smashed, with a barricade or shelter of furniture in one corner but little else of any particular interest that we could find, and nothing lurking there waiting to attack.

We were just about to leave and continue on when I heard noises from the hall, and motioned the others to stay inside and quiet and still, and I crept out just to the little alcove of the door to hide, and see what had made the noise.

What it was turned out to be a whole big group of creatures, two bugbears in the lead and a group of goblins behind them, and behind those even more creatures who I could hear, but not quite see through the darkness, and they were coming towards us and there was no way they weren't going to see me if I stayed, but I'd surely catch their attention if I moved back into the room. And besides, as Elyn keeps reminding me -- we're here to clear this place out for the archaeologists, not to avoid fights, so... Well, I shouted to the others and then I started firing arrows.

I used my lightning trick twice, which worked impressively well on the groups of them, and then ran down the hall the direction they were heading to try to keep some distance between me and them, and Elyn and Cloudleaper and Squirt came pouring out of the room together. Between Elyn's Shatters and Cloudleaper's everything, we dealt with most of them quickly enough, though I did have to switch to my swords when one of the bugbears came after me directly. I couldn't see it, but the others told me later that one of the goblins at the back of the group had broken away and took off running back the way they'd come, but Cloudleaper chased it down and stopped it, and we both had a moment to consider that it had undoubtedly been trying to get back to wherever it had come from, and whoever was left behind there, to warn them about us. And there were near a dozen of them together there, and if they were just a patrol group like they'd seemed... If their patrols are a dozen strong, it makes me very nervous about the numbers of the rest of them. We took these ones down almost frighteningly quickly and easily, but I don't like our odds against greater numbers. We may need to have Elyn ready to cast Tongues at a moment's notice, in case we find ourselves in a situation we need to talk our way through, instead of fighting our way out of.

We decided to keep clearing out rooms instead of searching out the group that they'd come from, because we still don't like the idea of allowing anything to come up on us from behind, and the next room we went into was enormous, some kind of dining hall maybe but with furniture all pushed and piled about, and a large pile of stones or rubble in one corner of the room. After everything with the earth elemental, I wasn't sure if perhaps we'd found another of its kind, but when I ventured just a little bit closer it rose up and turned out to be not an elemental but some kind of construct, so I couldn't even talk to it, and it didn't seem much in the mood for talking anyway.

It hit hard, which shouldn't be a surprise for something comprised entirely of massive boulders, and wasn't really, but even so. And I was on the far side of the room, trying to keep a distance so I could use my bow, but that meant that most of its attacks were directed at Elyn and Cloudleaper and Squirt, and I was so worried about all of them, especially after I saw how heavily its first blow landed.

I put as much distance as I could between me and it -- I'm not entirely an idiot about these things -- and then I tried to keep it distracted and focused on me, tried to make myself seem the better target so that it would focus on me and less on them, and it worked a little, I think, though it didn't stop the thing from using some sort of magic that abruptly made Squirt and Cloudleaper move as though they were the ones made of impossibly-heavy rocks, both of them moving far slower than I've ever seen from either of them.

Cloudleaper shook the effect off quickly enough, but poor Squirt had a hell of a time with it. He did manage to regain himself eventually, though, and in the end Cloudleaper shot it from her longbow and managed to deactivate it, and just in time because it had finally caught up with me by then, and I was looking (and feeling!) much the worse for wear.

I slumped down against a wall just as soon as it had collapsed back into the pile of rubble it had started from, and as Elyn came over to offer me some healing, I wondered if we oughtn't make sure it wasn't like the constructs we'd encountered in HASAI, with some sort of amulet or charm controlling them from afar. Elyn gave it a look over, though, and didn't think it was, thought more that it was following some sort of previously-laid programming or command, which was a relief, though not terribly much of one, considering we already know we've got an army of goblins and hobgoblins and no doubt more bugbears waiting for us, somewhere deeper in these ruins.

We decided to stay here and catch our breath. Elyn healed me and Squirt up some more, and I've been patching us up some too, and while we rested she's been looking over the things from the table in the bathing room, and says that they're very interesting indeed. There's an orb that will show you north, and another that will tell the time of day, and a magical spice pouch that smells incredible even from the other side of the room, and some lovely daggers, and a necklace with a handful of beads on it that Elyn says, when removed and thrown, will create a fireball, which we obviously had to give to Cloudleaper, though we're saving the rest of it for the archaeologists to look through, and we'll just count the necklace as part of our portion of what we've found, but I don't think she would have ever forgiven us if we'd found a thing that made fire and had offered it to someone else.

I think we're planning to keep searching and clearing out rooms, once Squirt and I are feeling a little better, which makes me a little nervous because between the scouting patrol and the construct, I've used up most of what limited magic I have available to me. I've still got my bow, though, and it hits hard enough on its own, even if I may find myself regretting using up that lightning trick so hastily, should we find ourselves in front of a whole army of goblins and hobgoblins who Elyn can't convince not to fight us. At least we're not in as dire of straights as we are when Elyn's used up her magical stores, and I suppose I can do without Hunter's Mark if I must.

I'll let you know what comes of it just as soon as I'm able. For now, though, Elyn seems to have satisfied herself with the magical items, and we've all been sitting here long enough to start to get restless, I think. So I'll finish this for now, and queue it to be sent just as soon as we get back to somewhere with signal, and I promise I'll try to be as safe as I can be, considering.

All my love,

Maliah

[mazurah]

Journal of a Buoyant Armiger in Valenwood

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21st of Sun’s Height

Oh sweet Lord… Blessed Almsivi, Mercy, Mastery, Mystery… hear the prayer of your supplicant. I fear this trial may yet prove to be too much for me.

I delivered the book of Bosmeri stories to the storyteller at the carnival today. He was absolutely delighted, despite--or possibly because of--the language in which it was written. My mind had only just begun to form the first wisps of thought regarding what I should do with the rest of my day, when a sound like a deafening foghorn the likes of which will haunt my nightmares resounded throughout the firmament. When the reverberations faded somewhat, and I regained full employment of my hearing, I heard a sound halfway between a thunderclap the likes of which I have never before heard and a tonne of metal falling onto solid bedrock from a great height, swiftly followed by the sound of gargantuan chains clanking taut over the solid surface of the largest windlass Nirn has ever accomodated. My gaze snapped to the tree canopy in the direction of the sound only to witness what was unmistakably a Dark Anchor portal hovering over the landscape to the southwest, spiked metal chains already straining to drawn Nirn into its hungry maw. Clouds darker and more menacing than those producing the slow drizzle of rain around us crept toward the gaping hole in the sky as though it was sucking the life out of even the air of that vibrant jungle.

I nearly succumbed to panic in that moment, but the pandemonium in the carnival around me drew my focus out of the intrusive memories of Coldharbour and the knowledge of everything that Anchor represented. I swiftly located the carnival mistress and told her to take the entirety of her troupe to Elden Root while I scouted the Anchor. I told her to send someone to alert the Fighters Guild as well.

I made my way through the underbrush toward the Dark Anchor. It took me what must have been over half an hour to get there from the carnival grounds. I had overestimated its closeness because of the sheer enormity of the thing. When I arrived I clung to the side of an embankment, hidden in the foliage, and observed from above as I witnessed Daedra crash to the ground beside a small group of cultists. I made note of the variety; first, Dremora, as expected; next a trio of Clannfear plunged to earth beside the self-condemned cultists that had summoned them and began ripping them to bloody shreds; and finally a hulking Ogrim descended with a bellow and an explosion of smoke and dust.

I did not stay to watch their forces accumulate. I had ascertained the Anchor’s exact location and enough information about the invading force to flee back toward Elden Root. After a very long, three hour trek in which I was constantly glancing over my shoulder for pursuers, I made it to the Fighters Guild with a breathless report. They had already mustered over a half dozen people into full gear by the time I had arrived, and my account sent their already hurried activity into a frenzy.

I made a mad dash back to the Den to try to recruit Fayrl’s assistance, and, after failing to find him in the entirety of the Den, I finally discovered him in his room. Honestly, I should have checked there first, but I was not thinking as clearly as I should have, fighting as I was the panic that clutched at the tail of every rational thought. I don’t know why my emotions spiraled so out of control. I have training almost my entire life for how to conduct myself in an emergency. I’ve been in worse situations before, situations with more immediacy and tension to them, and never had this kind of all-consuming fear inhibit my thinking. It must have something to do with my previous encounter with Coldharbour. Perhaps I am not coping as well as I thought. I wish I could talk to my captain about it. She would know what was wrong with me. She always has the answers.

Upon hearing Fayrl’s answering call through the door, I opened it without thinking, only to discover him stark naked, cock in hand.

I closed the door immediately of course, but didn’t let my respect for his modesty prevent me from relaying the necessary information. I told him I would get my armor on and meet him by the front door in five minutes.

Of course, he had to go and take what seemed like a quarter of an hour instead, and nearly made us miss the Fighters Guild heading out toward the Anchor’s location.

It was nearly dark as we began the long hike to the Anchor, and the Fighters Guild handed me and Fayrl a lantern and a handful of night vision potions for use once we got to the site. The day’s rain had slowed, and finally stopped by the time we got there, for which I was grateful. It was not a clear night, but at least the sky wasn’t drenching us.

The fight was…. Actually, I’d rather not talk too much about the fight. It went better than it could have, but you never get used to losing comrades in arms, even ones you only just met. May the Three, or whatever gods they worship shelter their souls. Fayrl and I were the only people who could use any kind of offensive magicka in the entire group, and I stayed back and hit the Daedra with mostly ranged attacks. When it was over, three of the nine Fighters Guild members were dead, and I didn’t have a scratch on me.

There were injuries, but I was fortunate that the Fighters Guild was so well prepared that I didn’t need to offer my healing abilities. The battle fatigue hit me like a charging Ogrim as soon as the Fighters Guild successfully unmoored the Anchor and we were no longer in danger of attack. I felt nearly dazed as they informed us that they were going to leave a pair of guards at the Anchor base, take their dead back to Elden Root, and send for stonemasons and volunteers to begin dismantling the stone of the ritual circle so that Molag Bal could not send the Anchor down again. I desperately needed rest, so I told them I would return in the morning to assist them. Fayrl was already urging me back to the city.

I walked the long, tense road back for the fourth time that day in full darkness. The Fighters Guild lent me a lantern, for which I was grateful, because I easily imagined Dremora jumping out of the blackness to capture me and Fayrl again, despite the fact that we had only just finished closing their doorway to Nirn. The pool of lantern light was an island of safety in that dark jungle, and my fatigued mind conjured all kinds of fantasms, mostly from Oblivion, to pursue us just out of sight in the shadows of the trees. I was grateful too that Fayrl agreed not to touch me, because I would have probably jumped out of my skin, or pissed myself, or broken down crying, or something equally embarrassing had he tried.

This is not the conduct of a Buoyant Armiger! What is wrong with me that makes this emergency so much more difficult to cope with than any other emergency I have previously encountered? Rationally, I knew that the likelihood of Daedra popping out of the underbrush to take me and Fayrl captive was very slim, but the possibility tormented my mind. I prayed to my Lord under my breath for comfort almost the entire way home.

“The fire is mine: let it consume thee, And make a secret door At the altar of Padhome, In the House of Boet-hi-Ah Where we become safe And looked after.”

When I got back to the Den I requested a bath in my room, and let myself soak away the stench of sweat and panic. The silence was finally too much for me and I broke down in tears in the bath, sobbing to my Lord for forgiveness for my weakness. It is not weakness, I know. I did everything right; I did not abandon my training. I did not let my fear prevent me from performing the tasks I needed to perform, but it feels like such weakness to return from a battle and cry about everything that might have happened, both good and bad, had I done even the slightest thing different.

Could I have saved those three that died at the hands of the Daedra today if I had entered the fray instead of relying on my ranged abilities to fight? I don’t know. I am better at ranged fighting, so probably not, but the possibility torments me. What is worse, I am plagued with the troubled thought that I have destroyed yet another pathway to reclaiming my soul. What should I have done though? Was I supposed to climb up the chain? Leaving the portal open would have been an act of supreme selfishness. I engrave upon mine eyes the image of injustice; I cannot suffer it to stand. Besides, what would I even do once there? I could not predict what I would find, and thus I had no plan. Nothing good could have come of it. I know better than to gather seeds in the fields of hell.

I spent over nine hours today in a state of abject terror, not to mention the time spent in full-scale battle, and my body was so exhausted that I nearly thought I couldn’t lift myself from the bath. Tomorrow I am returning to the Anchor base to assist the Fighters Guild in its dismantling. I don’t know how well I will cope. Hopefully, better than I did today. I suspect the anxiety will not diminish until I have completely wiped that accursed artifact from the face of Nirn. I have never been more fully aware that the slave labor of the senses is as selfish as polar ice. I have often heard the concept preached as an admonition against excess, but it works the other way as well, with feelings we don’t want, and can’t get rid of.

I know what I must do. I shall let faith be my only law. I shall forge my faith most keen in the crucible of suffering. It is not something I enjoy, but it is something that I need. Faith conquers all. I shall yield to faith.

That is not to say I shouldn’t take care of myself. Fayrl has kindly left me a plate of food outside my door. I should avail myself of it.

Fayrl’s Corresponding Entry Qau-dar’s Corresponding Entry

[blackestdespondency]

Most people recognize that human lives can sometimes be of an appallingly low quality. The tendency,however, is to think that this is true of other people's lives, not one's own. When people do think their own lives are of low quality, this is typically because their lives are in fact unusually bad. However, if we look dispassionately at human life and control for our biases, we find that all human life is permeated by badness. Even in good health, much of every day is spent in discomfort. Within hours, we become thirsty and hungry. Many millions of people are chronically hungry. When we can access food and beverage and thus succeed in warding off hunger and thirst for a while, we then come to feel the discomfort of distended bladders and bowels. Sometimes, relief can be obtained relatively easily, but on other occasions, the opportunity for (dignified) relief is not as forthcoming as we would like. We also spend much of our time in thermal discomfort - feeling either too hot or too cold. Unless one naps at the first sign of weariness, one spends quite a bit of the day feeling tired. Indeed, many people wake up tired and spend the day in that state. With the exception of chronic hunger among the world's poor, these discomforts all tend to be dismissed as minor matters. While they are minor relative to the other bad things that befall people, they are not inconsequential. A blessed species that never experienced these discomforts would rightly note that if we take discomfort to be bad, then we should take the daily discomforts that humans experience more seriously that we do. Other negative states are experienced regularly even if not daily or by everybody. Itches and allergies are common. Minor illnesses like colds are suffered by almost everybody. For some people, this happens multiple times a year. For others it occurs annually or every few years. Many women of reproductive years suffer regular menstrual pains and menopausal women suffer hot flashes. Conditions such as nausea, hypoglycemia, seizures, and chronic pain are widespread. The negative features of life are not just restricted to unpleasant physical sensations. For example, we frequently encounter frustrations and irritations. We have to wait in traffic or stand in lines. We encounter inefficiency, stupidity, evil, Byzantine bureaucracies, and other obstacles that can take thousands of hours to overcome - if they can be overcome at all. Many important aspirations are unfulfilled. Millions of people seek jobs but remain unemployed. Of those who have jobs, many are dissatisfied with them, or even loathe them. Even those who enjoy their work may have professional aspirations that remain unfulfilled. Most people yearn for close and rewarding personal relationships, not least with a lifelong partner or spouse. For some, this desire is never fulfilled. For others, it temporally is, but then they find that the relationship is trying and stultifying, or their partner betrays them or becomes exploitative or abusive. Most people are unhappy in some or other way with their appeareance - they are too fat, or they are too short, or their ears are too big. People want to be, look, and feel younger, and yet they age relentlessly. They have high hopes for their children and these are often thwarted when, for example, the children prove to be a disappointment in some way or other. When those close to us suffer, we suffer at the sight of it. When they die, we are bereft. We are vulnerable to innumerable appalling fates. Although each fate does not befall every one of us, our very existence puts us at risk for these outcomes, and the cumulative risk of something horrific occurring to each one of us is simply enormous. If we included death, as I argue in the next chapter that we ought to do, then the risk is in fact a certainty. Burn victims, for example, suffer excruciating pain, not only in the moment but also for years thereafter. The wound itself is obviously painful, but the treatment intensifies and protracts the pain. One such victim describes his daily "bath" in a disinfectant that would sting intact skin but causes unspeakable pain where there is little or no skin. The bandages stick to the flesh and removing them, causes indescribable pain. Repeated surgery can be required, but even with the best treatment, the victim is left with lifelong disfigurement and the social and psychological difficulties associated with it. Consider next those who are quadriplegic or, worse still, suffer from locked-in syndrome. This is sheer mental torture. One eloquent amyotrophic lateral sclerosis sufferer describes this disease as "progressive imprisonment without parole" because of the advancing and irreversible paralysis. Dictating an essay at the point when he had become quadriplegic, and before losing the ability to speak, he describes his torments, which are most acute at night. When he is put to bed, he has to have his limbs placed in exactly the position he wants them for the night. He says that if he allows "a stray limb to be misplaced" or "fails to insist on having his midriff carefully aligned with legs and head" he will "suffer the agonies of the damned later in the night." He invites us to consider how often we shift and move during the course of a night and he says that "enforced stillness for hours on end is not only physically uncomfortable but psychologically close to intolerable. He lies on his back in a semi-upright position, attached to a breathing device and left alone with his thoughts. Unable to move, any itch must go unscratched. His condition, he says, is one of "humiliating helplessness". Cancer's reputation as a dreaded disease is well deserved. There is much suffering in dying from this disease, but at least as much in the treatments that are usually necessary to cure the patient of the malignancy. In the worst scenarios, the patient suffers from both the treatment and its failure. When symptoms have not precipitated the diagnosis, the first blow is the diagnosis itself. Arthur Frank says that on receiving the news that he had a malignancy, he felt as thought his "body had become quicksand" in which he was sinking. But that is only the beginning. For example, radiation treatment for esophageal cancer left Christopher Hitchens desperately attempting to avoid the inevitable need to swallow. Every time he did swallow, "a hellish tide of pain would flow up his throat, culminating in what felt like a mule kick in the small of his back. Ruth Rakoff, after receiving chemotherapy for breast cancer, described her "insides as raw". Treatment can result in nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, and gum and dental soreness. Food tastes bad and appetite is lost. Unsurprisingly, all this results in weight loss and fatigue. Neuropathy is another common side effect, as is hair loss. Many of the same symptoms can be experienced even in the absence of treatment of after treatment has been ended. Moreover, tumors pressing on brains, bowels, and bones can cause excruciating pain. When the pain can be controlled, it is sometimes at the expense of consciousness or at least lucidity. Cancer is an an appalling fate, but is also a common one (in those countries where people do not typically die earlier from infectious diseases). In the United States, it has been estimated that one in two men and one in three women will develop cancer, and one in four men and one in five women will die from it. It has recently been suggested that estimates of lifetime risk of developing cancer may by exaggerated by the fact that some people develop cancer more than once. However, even if we opt for the more conservative estimate of lifetime risk of first primary, we find that 40% of men and 37% of women in the United Kingdom will develop cancer. Those who do not get cancer are still at risk for hundreds of other possible causes of suffering. It is, of course, more commonly, older people who get cancer. However, although it is, all things being equal, generally worse to die when one is younger than when one is older, the physical and psychological symptoms of life with cancer and drying from cancer are no less appalling at older ages. Pain accompanies many conditions, but we should remember that much of it is not attendant upon visible conditions. It is often hidden from those not experiencing it. One sufferer from chronic pain describes it as "debilitating" and observes that it "can take over one's life, sap one's energy, and negate or neutralize joy and well being." Not all suffering is physical, although psychological ailness can certainly have bodily symptoms, William Styron, describing his depression, said that ultimately, "the body is affected and feels sapped, drained." He wrote of his "slowed-down responses, near paralysis, psychic energy throttled back close to zero." Sleep is disrupted, with the sufferer staring "up into yawning darkness, wondering and writhing at the devastation" of his mind. The sufferer from depression, we are told, is "like a walking casualty of war." In addition, there is an atrociously diverse range of harms that people suffer at the hands of other humans, including being betrayed, humiliated, shamed, denigrated, maligned, beaten, assaulted, raped, kidnapped, abducted, tortured and murdered.

David Benatar, The Human Predicament: A Candid Guide to Life’s Biggest Questions, P. 71-76