#not sure i did it a sliver of justice but i loved the concept

[ellecdc]

Hiya ^^

I'm kinda new here, but I really love your writing as was wondering whether you could do a wolfstar x male reader os for me?

I'm thinking that Sirius and reader are in a relatively open relationship and remus is kinda panicking, bc he's having a major sexuality crisis and then one of them notices and invites him to join them to get some experience and figure himself out and they kinda tease him for not figuring out that he's gay sooner, but it's all in good fun and love.

Thank you you much, I'd be really happy if you could do that (no worries if you don't want to though.)

hahaha this was such a cute concept, I had fun daydreaming about it! I've only written I think for one male!reader before so I hope I did it justice!

poly!wolfstar x male!reader or..... I suppose poly!sirius+male!reader x Remus? idk, you decide

CW: gay awakenings, bi-panic, not internalized homophobia BUT Remus doesn't really realize he's allowed to like both girls + boys, coming out/experimentation, suggestive content but nothing is described or explicit

Remus was beginning to think he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Two mistakes, perhaps.

The first one, admittedly, was getting caught.

…

Sirius came bustling into the dorm room with you following closely behind, both damp from Sirius’ post-practice shower that you had clearly been invited to. 

“Gods, that was nice.” Sirius sighed as he fell back, spreadeagle on his bed.

You snorted as you ran a towel through your hair before tossing it at Sirius. “Would have been even better had you and James stopped snickering to one another through the bathroom door.”

Remus let out a snicker at that, earning him a knowing smile from you and a salacious smirk from Sirius.

“Hiya, Moons.” 

“Good practice?” Remus asked awkwardly as he repositioned himself in his chair.

Sirius hummed in acknowledgement as he watched you change into a pair of comfies with a hungry expression. “Just sore now, but this one’s offered to help me on that end.”

You snorted at him again but Remus noticed a slight hint of bashfulness as you pulled a shirt over your head. “You’re such a flirt.”

Sirius made a low sound in the back of his throat as he positioned himself on his elbows; eyes still glued to your form. “Can you blame me? You look good enough to eat.”

And fuck did Remus know it. He watched as the last sliver of skin disappeared as the bottom of your shirt met the top of your joggers, which Remus mourned the loss of. He found he wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through your wet hair and see if he couldn’t convince you to take that shirt back off.

What was wrong with him?

Not only had Remus never even been with a guy, but he was also fantasising about his best friend's boyfriend? He felt like a fraud and just downright despicable. 

Remus had a rather sheltered upbringing; living in the rural coast of Wales whilst being unable to attend school with the village kids meant a lack of exposure to, what his mother would call, less traditional lifestyles. 

Remus enjoyed girls, he knew that because he’d experienced girls. Sirius enjoyed boys, Sirius knew that because, well, he’d experienced boys. And that drove Remus barmy. 

Because you either liked girls, or you liked boys, right? 

So how come he felt as though he’d be equally happy should you or Sirius fall into his bed as he would with the likes of Emmeline Vance? 

“Don’t you agree, Moony?” Sirius asked, startling Remus from his gay panic musings only for him to find the two of you staring at him.

“Sorry?” Remus choked out, causing Sirius’ smirk to grow both wider yet somehow softer.

“Doesn’t he look good enough to eat?” He asked again, using his head to gesture towards you where you seemed to grow somewhat shy.

“Siri…”

“I’ve seen you lookin’, Moons.” Sirius continued regardless of your warning. “First it was just me and I couldn’t really blame you, but now I’m starting to see a trend.”

Remus felt nauseous; Sirius would hate him, surely? Ogling him and his boyfriend like some pervert. 

“M’sorry, Pads.” Remus whispered hastily as he closed his book and made to stand. 

“Whoa, whoa, hang on.” Sirius stopped, standing from his bed to stand in front of Remus with his hands up in surrender; his towel falling sinfully lower on his hips. “I only asked in case you wanted to…you know, join?”

“Join?” Remus parrotted, looking between you and Sirius only to find your eyes glued to the side of Sirius’ face. 

“Well aren’t you curious at all? Isn’t that what all the staring is about?” Sirius continued, his hands falling more relaxed now as he opted to lean against one end of his four-poster bed. 

“Have you ever been with a guy, Remus?” You asked softly then.

“Uh, well, no.” Remus responded horribly awkwardly. 

“Do you want to try?” You continued, smiling at him with nothing but kindness.

And Remus tried.

He tried to search your face for any signs of malcontent, taunting, mischief, or jealousy. But all he found was understanding. 

“Do you want one of us to leave? Do you want to watch? Do you-”

“Watch.” Remus blurted quickly, cutting Sirius off mid-sentence. 

And if getting caught had been his first mistake, that had been his second - agreeing.

Because what had started as Remus watching quickly turned into you offering to do the same for him, which quickly turned into Remus offering the same in return, which then officially found Remus naked, panting, and satiated on his back in Sirius’ bed. 

“You alright, Moons?” Sirius asked half-teasingly, half-earnestly as he rose from his bed to look down at Remus who was still holding onto you for dear life. 

He suddenly felt like he was intruding, which was hilarious considering what the three of you had just done, and Remus tried to ignore the slightly hurt expression that crossed your face when Remus ripped his hands away from you as if they burned.

“Erm, yeah, yeah! No, I’m uh…I’m fine, good.” 

“Do you have any questions?” Sirius continued, one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows arched in scepticism. 

Remus groaned and covered his face with his hands. “None that you can answer, I don’t think.” 

“Why don’t you try us?” You offered then, standing from the bed and retrieving your clothes and tossing Remus’ at him as well. 

“Does this mean that I’m gay?” Remus all but whispered, though Sirius’ surprised bark of laughter let him know that the two of you did, in fact, hear it. 

“This doesn’t have to mean you’re anything, Remus.” You chuckled as you elbowed your boyfriend chidingly. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.” Sirius apologised as he wiped a tear from under his eye. “This is just so funny because you were my gay awakening.”

Remus felt light headed as he blurted “what!?”, looking to you in horror of what Sirius just admitted only to find you laughing. 

“I had always sort of known that girls didn’t exactly…do it for me, but I remember in fourth year you came back about a foot taller and had an ear piercing and then I knew that boys definitely did do it for me.”

“I guess I have you to thank then, Remus.” You said with a wink, and Remus felt his already furious blush migrate down his torso. 

“But…I still think I like girls, too.” Remus mused aloud.

“You’re allowed to like both, Moons.” Sirius emphasised with a nudge to his shoulder. “Or neither, or everyone or whatever…you also don’t need to figure any of that out right now.”

“But now at least you can know that it’s not just in your head, yeah?” You continued.

“Yeah.” Remus agreed breathlessly. “Yeah, thank you…both.”

Sirius laughed again and looked like he found some renewed energy. “No, thank you; fourth year Sirius would die to know I finally got you in my bed.”

“I’ll certainly be fantasising about that for a while.” You continued with a smirk.

Yes.

Remus made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Two mistakes, perhaps.

Because he was officially, well and truly fucked (read: pretty well officially gone for his best friend and his best friend’s boyfriend).

[littlewetbeast]

hi! i love your tumblr fics/writing in general… sending you so much love and appreciation! if you’re taking requests and if the mood takes you… do you think you could write something about dean’s lack of hunger? i’m obsessed with it as a concept, it’s fascinating! i don’t think we talk about it enough :( happy 4th july!

Note: timeline is a bit muddy - set roughly in kripke & gamble era, s4-s7. Warning: very vaguely NSFW, depressive and suicidal feelings Word count: 2k

It’s always the little things that end up getting to him, in the end. The server glances at his unfinished plate of food, and with a tilt of her head says, “Not to your liking, honey?” He stills. A tight sensation coils in his stomach. “I’m good,” Dean says, flashing her a smile, willing every muscle to relax. “Just had a big lunch.” He pats his stomach for show. She nods, leaving it at that, and brings him his bill. Dean reminds himself that there is no need to check around the diner to see if anyone heard it. He rubs his greasy fingers on the napkin and downs the rest of his beer, leaving an extra large tip with the odd hope that it will, somehow, quell the unease deep in his gut. It doesn’t. Then again, nothing ever does.

* * *

The reality is - he gets the urges. He gets the pangs of hunger and the dry-mouthed thirst; the deep aches for rest; the need for an extra long shower with his hands on himself, gritting his teeth to bite back the noise. Dean has basic desires and fleeting wants. All of them remain only surface-deep - they never soothe the gaping void in his chest, or the sensation that he is rotting from the inside out. Dean tried to explain it to Sam once. After seeing the way his mouth twisted with pity while he listened, he vowed never to bring it up again. He peers into his drink, his tongue darting out to wet his numbing lips while he drums his fingers absently against the glass. Dean’s not sure how many he’s had now, but he has enough muscle control that as he waves down the bartender for another one, he isn’t met with protest. It takes him far too long to realise someone has appeared on the stool next to him. Mind moving sluggishly, he realises that the stillness with which they arrived means they can only be one person. “Not seen you in a while,” Dean says, still looking into his drink, eyeing the sorry drop that’s left. “Hello, Dean,” Cas says, voice low. Dean knows for sure he’s had too much now, because the sound of him instantly sends a flush across his cheeks, one he can’t blame solely on the alcohol. He lifts the glass to pour the last drop onto his tongue, for something to do.

“How’s all that angel crap going?” Dean says as he sets the glass back down, not bothering to dampen the slur of his voice as the bartender brings him his next drink. “It’s fine,” Cas says, a little curtly. He shifts on the stool, half-turning against him. “Sam wondered where you’d gone.” Dean snorts and takes another sip of his drink. “He sent a babysitter.” “He’s been worried about you,” Cas says. Dean hums, licking his lips again. “I’m fine, Cas,” he says. He turns towards him, roaming his eyes across him lazily, then grins, big and toothy. “I’m wonderful. Peachy. Having a swell ol’ time.” As if to prove it, he lifts the glass up with a jerk, inadvertently sloshing some of the liquid onto his fingers. He swears and puts it down on the napkin, sloppily licking his fingers. Dean only barely has enough self-control to stop himself from making a sensual show of it.

Cas doesn’t say anything. Dean can feel the weight of his gaze, but he now feels unable to look at him. After a moment, he hears Cas call the bartender over. “Whatever he’s having, please,” he says.

Dean feels himself sink into the seat, releasing tension in his body he hadn’t even known was there. As Cas receives his drink and lifts it to his lips, Dean watches. He’s too drunk now to be able to look away; the willpower it takes is already challenging while sober. Cas maintains eye contact as he takes a sip, and something in his eyes keeps Dean’s gaze locked to him. The urges, as always, are there - even if they are inhabiting a dead man.

He’s starting to feel the latent effects of the previous drinks now, buzzing underneath the surface of his skin. Dean takes another long sip, relishing the burn of it at the back of the throat, and Cas doesn’t say anything more. He remains a warm, solid form next to him as they drink. None of them push each other further, and Dean is grateful for it. By the time the glass is empty, the full effects of the alcohol is working its way through his body, sending the room into a hazy spin, with Cas being the only steady thing left. Dean vaguely registers being taken out of the bar, feeling the bite of the night air on his skin, cooling the warmth on his cheeks.

“I’m not really hungry, Cas,” Dean says, eventually, as he begins to register his feet moving under him. “You’re not making any sense,” Cas says, his breath hot in his ear. Dean desperately wants to lean into it. He realises now that he’s been talking for a while.

“I told you,” Dean says, “I’m not really hungry.” He laughs, a sharp bark that punctures the still midnight air. “You’re upset because you’re not hungry,” Cas says slowly. Dean snorts inelegantly. “Dude,” he says, “I’m upset because you fucked up.” He disentangles himself from Cas from a second, and realises swiftly his mistake as he wobbles around, waving his arm at something to grab at. Eventually, his arm is clasped by Cas, bringing them together again. Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to separate himself from him, but there is nothing solid around to steady him except for Cas. He feels giddy now, inane laughter bubbling up from his chest. “I’m not all here, man,” Dean says. “There’s something missing.” A bizarre thought occurs to him. “I’m not soulless, am I?” “No, Dean,” Cas says. Dean shakes his head. “You angels ever get that feeling where,” he snaps his fingers, clumsily, “you keep worrying you’ve left the oven on?” “No,” Cas says. “Well, it’s like that,” Dean says, swinging his finger emphatically. “You did that. Except it was me. I was the oven.” They shuffle along quietly for a moment, Dean slumped into Cas, pulling back every urge to nuzzle into his neck. “I’m very confused by this metaphor,” Cas says eventually. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re the one who left it on,” Dean says, as if explaining to a toddler. “I see,” Cas says, resignation laced in his voice.

This time, Dean can’t help but nuzzle into him. “I should be pissed at you, you know,” Dean says into his ear.

Cas doesn’t say anything, seemingly focused entirely now on keeping Dean upright, urging him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Dean wonders if Cas ever expected himself to be abandoning his heavenly missions in favour of dragging a drunk man home. “No,” Cas says. Dean realises he’s saying everything out loud, and snaps his mouth shut. “Hey,” Dean says, deliberately this time. “Why aren’t you, uh,” he frowns, and makes his one free hand flap like a bird, “you know, just flying me back?” “Not sure how the effects would be on someone this inebriated,” Cas says. “Keys, Dean.” “We should go to Hawaii or something. Get a couple of drinks there,” Dean says. “Dean,” Cas repeats firmly. “The motel keys.” Then he starts patting Dean’s jacket down, and Dean sways in place, focused now entirely on keeping his head cool while Cas’ hands move all over him. He pulls the keys from his jean pocket, his hand far too close to Dean’s crotch for his liking, and they jingle as Cas unlocks the room. The giddiness deflates from Dean’s chest as he remembers, suddenly, why he’s here. How he had left Sam with a mumbled excuse, booked a room for just himself, because he could no longer bear how the hollowness had grown to a gaping hole in his chest; or how he had the overwhelming sensation of being nothing but a puppet, an empty vessel that was simply being manouvered into doing things he was supposed to. Drinking, sleeping, eating, hunting, teasing Sammy, flirting with girls - all things he had done before spending a lifetime in hell. He does all the same things, but they are no longer the same. This time, Dean Winchester is no longer there. He died a long time ago. “Dean?” He looks up, and realises he’s gone still in the doorway, and the image focuses slowly in his eyes. Cas is watching him with his brows furrowed together, his mouth set in a worried line. Dean feels like he should laugh again, but there is nothing left in him now but what remains at the core of him - a deep, aching nothingness. Dean swings the door shut behind him, and Cas reaches out to him as he attempts to stand on his own two wobbly feet. Smiling thinly, Dean says, “I’m all wrong.” With effort, he tugs the jacket off. It feels like it’s wound tightly around every limb, refusing to let go, but eventually he manages to peel it off. “You left a piece of me down there in the pit,” Dean says, and huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “You left the damn oven on.” For a moment, Cas says nothing. He hovers a half-step close to him, and they stand quietly while Dean’s breaths get thick and raspy, his hands trembling by his sides. “You gotta fix this shit,” he bites out, and he feels his cheeks have turned hot and wet. Dean braves the journey to the bed, with Cas’ hands securing him by his side, and he slumps down heavily on it. “You gotta,” he presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath, “You gotta fix this, Cas.”

He breathes into his hands, both covering his face, and he draws in a breath, then another, his whole body trembling. “I can’t do it anymore,” he says, his voice small, breaking at the end. “I can’t go on anymore, Cas.”

Dean’s hands are gripped by something warm and soft. Cas’ hands are pulling them gently away from his face, and placing them on his knees. He doesn’t make a move as Cas tenderly brushes away the tears streaking down his cheeks. He doesn’t protest as he cups his face. Distantly, he wonders if anyone has ever touched him like this, and comes up short. Cas is just inches from him, his eyes watching him like he wants nothing more than to draw out every bit of pain and ache Dean has ever experienced. Dean is gripped by the notion that he could lean forward and kiss Cas right now. It’s not the first time he’s thought it, but it’s the first time he’s let himself seriously consider it. “You need to get some sleep, Dean,” Cas says. His voice is barely a whisper off his lips.

Dean feels Cas’ hand over his forehead, and for a brief moment, he wonders if it is normal for angels to have a touch that is so unbearably tender, as if they can pour love into their skin. He feels as if something warm has filled his chest, the dry ache smoothed away, the sensation of something like peace. For one insane moment, he wants to tell Cas he loves him. He doesn’t.

Instead, he sleeps.

* * *

When Dean awakes the next morning, he thinks for the briefest of seconds that he can see a dip in the mattress, fresh from the weight of a body. As he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and shakes himself awake, he remembers that he is alone.

Dean reaches out for his phone, clumsily plugs it into his charger and waits impatiently for the screen to finally light up in a glow. He calls Sam, who has left five increasingly panicked voice messages on his phone. He ribs him mercilessly for it - What are you, an old man? Send a text like everyone else! - and then lets him know his phone had died over the night. There, nothing to be worried about.

The events of the past day feel foggy, courtesy of the hangover. Despite that, when Dean looks up in the bathroom mirror, he finds himself looking refreshed. He feels lighter than he has in years. Later, he tells Sam that he clearly needs to take more vacations away from his griping, and receives a half-hearted punch to his shoulder. "I prayed to Cas, you know," Sam says, looking at his hands. "He must be busy. Didn't answer." Dean huffs, sipping his coffee. "God, you're such a drama queen. Can't survive without your big brother for one day." "Shut up, jerk." "Bitch." Sam sends him a look, but he doesn't say more - he changes the topic, and that's that. Dean drinks his coffee as he half-listens to Sam filling him in on a new case, and he tries to recall when he last saw Cas. He wonders, briefly, if he should pray to him. His stomach flutters traitorously at the thought, and Dean swallows thickly, deciding against it.

He swirls around the remaining coffee in his cup, rubbing his chest absently, and wonders at the ache that has settled there now. Distantly, he reaches for the broken pieces of an old memory, a lingering sensation of a warm palm to his forehead.

[sweetpastillas]

ahaha i just watched MoM :)

here are my fresh thoughts on it

visually, the film is stunning. the thing about doctor strange films is that the film production is absolutely allowed to go ham with the cinematography. mystical shit, bitch, absolutely weird. it was why the first was my favorite, and why i anticipated this one (probably not as much as i did for nwh, but what can i say lmao spiderman funny i am tired college freshman epic !!!)

like some of my favorite shots or scenes were definitely homages to horror films. the reflection/mirror dimension parts going for the ring, and the tunnel chase scene being what i think is an homage to the shining (?). a lot of those are scattered throughout MoM, and i thought those were really cool. thank u mr raimi

however

plot-wise? not good.

uhhh

lemme just narrow it down to some points,

wherein the screenwriters, evidently,:

did NOT pick up on the nuances of stephen and christine's pre-canon lovers-to-friends arc in his first film

surely, only solely watched the what if? series to put in the concept of strange feeling more romantic love than he actually did in the mcu (to be fair, ol' cabbagepatch really sells it well, it's the VA expertise in him)

did NOT watch wandavision,

OR took away from it the idea that wanda only became a... questionably redeemable villain. yknow, after she took down a witch who would only hoard and harness her powers to herself without the guarantee of westview being set free

ignored the fact that wanda herself imposed seclusion and self-exile after westview, because That is how she learned to let go and so that she wouldnt hurt anyone anymore

DEFINITELY ignored the fact that people like monica, darcy, and jimmy acknowledged that she was at the peak of her grief, and knew she was ultimately good underneath all of that

kinda forgot about billy and tommy's powers, and how if they had used them against the scarlet witch in defense by the end, it would likely still make the point they wanted it to

uhhh once again denied a character who has suffered throughout her life even the tiniest sliver of a redemption arc OR real mental help that can be talked about. she doesnt visibly come out of there alive, there's no small seconds of her facing justice but getting proper healing and adjustment that she needed. they literally said that the darkhold (if i am spelling it right, edits abound) corrupts the user. ok, and as the scarlet witch, a literal nexus being, one of the most powerful people out there, couldnt be given the chance to gradually overcome that by the end?,, what is the point of establishing her as a key figure if she justs becomes the big bad to be vanquished at the end of the day?

also lol skipped over mordo being "the guy that tries to kill doctor strange every now and again", like he didnt have a large role in the first film

and many other weak points that may come to mind later on

so, basically, you mean to tell me that throughout all of wanda maximoff's life in the mcu, she never gets another channel for her grief, and that is how exactly she dies? her story doesn't become one of those that essentially say, you get to carve your own destiny and your position or actions or whatever people say dont make you completely evil. no, no, it doubles down on the fact that she's a wicked woman, or turned into one because she lost her kids.

also its crazy because.. idk if it's the angry wanda stan in me right now just after watching the movie, but i cannot remember what stephen's role was. was his arc set on becoming the guardian and mentor for america chavez? was it another lesson for him on how actions have consequences and so does his pride? or was it solely hinged on love and want for christine? hm. he's the titular character.

great cg tho thats what im saying, and all these actors still bring all theyve got to the table despite the weak script.

honestly, way back at the beginning before more details of the film's production were announced, i thought mordo would be the antagonist. y'know, because they alluded to that in the first film's end credits scenes AND because he just is in the comics. like he'd do something or find a way to fuck up sorcerers and magic in the multiverse, because he literally said "no more sorcerers" or smth like that after his disillusionment with the ancient one, so it would be up to a doctor strange/scarlet witch teamup to stop him. and ofc wanda and stephen could have their debate on who's more villainized and why, but still have them be on the same ground. you would expect wanda to be tempted by mordo, with the promise of her children or universes where she's with them and her husband and her brother, but she wouldnt be the total rushed villain and redemption would at least still be on the table. stuff like that, yknow.

:))

but no. that is not what happened, indeed.

(altho john krasinski as reed richards is cool in concept. it fits, and id like to see more of him in that role ngl.

sir patrick stewart as professor x... definitely done dirty with his quick death [as is the case with all members of the illuminati, why are they in charge if they can get taken out like that] but otherwise extremely cool to show his impact And his powers. you could feel that he's got the heart when he went into wanda's mind for a bit. i personally havent watched the x-men films in his and sir ian mckellen's era, and yet somehow because ive got flashes of knowing about it from childhood i get to feel like ive missed him. thats fun)

so did i enjoy it? kinda, yea. a 6-7/10

would i watch it again? only for the sheet music battle scene because i want to properly hear the soundtrack to see how it fits the moment.

otherwise, no. i'd rather rewatch the first doctor strange film, wandavision, and any other fan fix-its.

[dangermousie]

Continuing with my reread

And got to the point where they visit the Rufeng Sect.

But before I get to the chapters-specific stuff, I wanted to talk about something that discussion between @moransumbrella and @momoliee (about SQT and RJ) made me think about.

And it’s that in 2ha, one of the big narrative points is that it is understandable to want to survive/get revenge/protect yourself or others but no goal however understandable or noble in the abstract can justify systematically hurting innocents and when you cross that line and keep crossing it, you become a monster. Maybe a tragic one or understandable one, but there is none of that “oh you poor thing, go on” attitude.

Is there any doubt that Shimei is fully justified in wanting to save his people from the horrors they are subjected to in the cultivation world? No, not at all. But leaving aside the irony of his plan wrecking both the one person we’ve seen who never ever went along with that behavior (CWN) and the person who IS part of those people and a special one at that (Moran), those two also being some of the few people who treated him so well, nobody in their right mind would think he’s justified to literally destroy a Universe he is in and then start working on the Universe of the main story. He is a monster pure and simple and nothing can justify what he does. Or, on a smaller scale take someone like Rong Jiu (mainly 0.5), Song QT, Nangong Xu or even that family in Butterfly Town. They all have reasons for doing the horrible things they do - desperation to get out of awful life (RJ, SQT), rightly wanting vengeance for having his place stolen (NX), or even understandable desire to get ahead as a family (Butterfly Town folks.) Shimei’s sister - same - she does the monstrous things she does because she loves her brother. Meatbun gets that very few people genuinely see themselves as villains - even as mad, as gone, as compelled, as broken TXJ was, he still clung to his “I was justified to torture CWN 0.5 because he killed Shimei″ like a life raft. Even a person who was not in any way in possession of free will in his actions or even his thoughts, still felt he needed to operate on a “just world” theory.

BUT the thing is, it makes their actions justified in their own heads but Meatbun never makes the mistake of letting us forget that even monsters with valid reasons are monsters. There is no justification in the world that can make what Shimei did OK, there is no justification in the world that can make anything any of the bad actors do to innocents OK. It relates to huge things (Hua Binan literally destroying the Universe) and little ones (Rong Jiu in the Underworld betraying Moran and CWN.) Sympathy and justice are two separate concepts.

But the other thing I love is nothing is static either. Meatbun doesn’t shie from calling a monster a monster but redemption is possible no matter what. We see this with Moran (until the twist, of course, that no redemption is necessary (sort of - about this more word vomit below) because he’s an even bigger victim than CWN), we see it with Shimei 2.0 - I will never warm up to Shimei for emotional reasons but there is zero question that he is working hard on his redemption at the end and is earning it. But the thing is - you have to possess moral consciousness to want to redeem yourself. That is what makes you salvageable. Moran possesses it, Shimei 2.0 possesses it (and I love the concept that no matter how high your sins, you CAN be redeemed. But that redemption doesn’t necessarily involve personal happiness or your victims forgiving you, it is basically hard work only for internal reward of the possibility of peace.) A lot of other monsters, large and small, do not. 

OK, the thing about whether Moran needs redemption that I just mentioned. The quick and easy answer is “of course not.” He was probably the biggest victim of them all and none of the monstrous things he did were his fault or within his control. But I love that the answer is actually more complicated because it rings emotionally true. Moran finding out the truth near the end is wonderful and will allow him not to perpetually drown in guilt, but just as TXJ sliver doesn’t really fade into the rest of his souls, I don’t think the guilt will go away fully, not for a while. Because, aside from the concept of utter lack of volition combined with utter lack of knowledge that you actually lacked volition and deludedly thought this was all your ideas, being a whole other different trauma, the fact remains that Moran remembers feeling rage/hatred/bitter satisfaction in murder and rape and torture and burning the world. He remembers all the awful things he’s done to his most loved ones. And he clearly gloms onto “the flower brings out all your darkest/worst/most insane desires and makes them conscious thoughts” aspect of the curse - he tells CWN that the flower made real things he sometimes thought of and so it only worked because it was him and not someone better like CWN - and some of it is trying to comfort CWN and make him feel less guilty that Moran took on the flower so CWN’s won’t be forced to to - but some of it is his genuine belief. And that is what is so insidious about that curse - it twists normal stray thoughts and healthy interests into murder and insanity (compare TXJ’s obsession with CWN because Moran had such strong positive feelings about CWN before the spell, to his utter lack interest in e.g., Nangong Liu who he let run off when he took Rufeng because as long as the man didn’t fight him, he couldn’t care less what he did, because flower couldn’t turn indifference into something negative.) So I do think in addition to knowing on intellectual level about not being responsible not being equal to getting it on emotional level, Moran clearly feels responsibility because it was his emotions only out of whack and insanely perverted that the flower based its compulsions on. Moran became such a monster precisely because he has such strong loves and such strong emotions in general - strong love and desire to protect became strong hate and endless appetite for torture. The flower changes the nature of emotion and thoughts, not the level of intensity. If Shimei actually found someone who was genuinely utterly indifferent to most things (not CWN who feels so intensely; he conceals himself so much precisely because he feels SO much, cares SO much, he’d have been as much of a monster as Moran if he was the flower recepient), I am not sure he’d have been as successful. If the most someone is capable of is mild “eh,” it’s hard to turn it into a drive for world-destruction. So in a way, Taxian Jun was such a monster and so successful because Moran was so good and had such drive. Anyway, as most of my thoughts, this has gone into a random direction but the thing is, whether Moran is guilty of what TXJ did, the answer is not but not for Moran, and that’s one of the reasons I love him.

To get back to the chapters I am at, I hate Nangong Liu, one of the most despicable characters out there. Even TXJ, as messed up as he was, still hated not people who fought him fair and square or other honest villains, but people who’d kiss up only to stab you in the back, doing anything to get ahead and that is what head of Rufeng is. (There is a sentence to that extent when Moran 2.0 meets Nangong Liu - that who he hated most as TXJ was not Xue Meng or MHX but people like Nangong Liu. That loathing, like his obsession with CWN, is one of the few things consistent across any version of Moran and shows how much his “gratitude for good, straightforward is good” is embedded in him that even the flower couldn’t shove it out of him.) CWN’s comment that the reason Rufeng Sect is so rich because they charge God knows how much as opposed to Siseng Peak which charges very little and sometimes nothing, sums up the difference between the Upper and Lower cultivation realms. Rufeng is the wealthiest and most powerful and most respected but morally they are far beneath Siseng (there is a reason CWN is very gentle when he tells this to Xue ZY - CWN has about the truest and most moral heart in the series; there is a reason he stayed at Siseng, an “inferior” sect, even though everyone would love to have him. It’s because Xue ZY is righteous and he sees the wealth of Rufeng and wishes he could use it to give villages protection instead of decorating like Rufeng, because he’s that type of person.)

One of the biggest injustices to me is that Nangong Liu survives the book but Meatbun’s world is often like that. Being good does not mean a good ending, being bad does not mean proper punishment. The main OTP will make it through despite hell she puts them through, but for secondaries even those bets are off.

OK, this is getting War and Peace level long so I am going to stop.

[tansypoisoning]

(Un)Conditional - Part 2

I Came Out to Have a Good Time and I’m Honestly Feeling So Attacked Right Now

You didn’t remember how or why you found yourself in Ransom’s bed in the first place, but now, poor, pregnant and desperate, you had your reasons for putting up with him, and they weren’t noble. His reasons for staying with you weren’t noble either.

Hey, long time no see... This took me longer than it should because I wasn’t sure about the dialogue. Still not sure about it. Some of you might have missed the polls I posted so you could help me decide the future of this series, so here they go: Whether or not I should redeem Ransom and What gender the baby (or babies, damn) should be. Democracy is important :)

Anyway: Reader meets the Thrombeys...

Story warnings:  Smut, abusive relationships, mentions of past sexual assault, talk of abortion, daddy kink, drinking, mention of drug use (Will add more as the story goes on)

Chapter 1 - Truce

Chapter 3 

Fandoms: Knives Out

Ships: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Word Count: 6k

Chapter warnings: The reader and Ransom joke about incest and Ransom jokes about selling the baby to pay his grandfather back for all the money he lend him; people drink wine; there’s mention of drugs and people doing them; The Thrombeys are being particularly shitty.

You were off to the clinic to get an urine exam the next day. Ransom had encouraged you to get a more reliable test to make sure you were pregnant, but he wouldn’t accompany you. He was busy, he said, but he didn’t say with what. Probably begging his granddaddy for more money or chasing after another pair of legs.

The clinic would call you in a couple of days to let you know the results. The wait was killing you. The longer you waited, the harder it would be for you to get an abortion. At some point the pill would stop being an option, and you would have to go under the… knife? Scalpel? Coat hanger? Whatever the procedure entailed, it was bound to be more stressful than just taking some meds.

What was most concerning, though, was the possibility of you becoming attached to the fetus. Your misgivings originated from a fear that you might be doing something you shouldn’t, but you had no particular regard for the thing growing inside you. You might as well be carrying a rock – it certainly tired you like one. Some day that could change, though, and the moment it did you knew it would be game over.

The first thing you did when you got home was take off your coat, kick off your shoes and fall face-first on the couch. That was also the only thing you did. According to the sources you checked, fatigue was an early pregnancy symptom, but you weren’t sure it was meant to be this bad. Good thing you weren’t behind on your freelance work; you didn’t think you could handle doing anything that evening. You were hungry, but didn’t have the energy to even go to the kitchen. Your cellphone started ringing at some point, but you had dropped your bag by the entrance. Maybe something else happened too; you didn’t know, you fell asleep soon after.

You were roused from your nap by a cacophony of car honks right outside your window.

You jumped from the couch and stumbled to see what the commotion was about. You expected to find a car crash in front of your building, but all that was there was a familiar vehicle.

You stepped into your slippers and left your apartment. Ransom was still abusing the horn of his BMW when you came out onto the lawn.

“What are you doing?” You cried out, jogging to his car.

He put his head out through the window. “You don’t pick up your phone anymore?” He complained.

“I was sleeping.” The reason why you didn’t answer didn’t matter. This was a distraction. “Why are you here?”

“I came to pick you up, what else?” He seemed to notice you confusion and explained himself “I’m going to introduce you to my family. They’re having a dinner party tonight at my grandfather’s house. If I show up there with a kid before they even know the mother, my mother’s gonna kill me.”

That gave you pause. Introduce you to his family? That had never been in the cards before. Ransom had always been against anything that could hint to intimacy that went beyond sex, because intimacy entailed responsibility, and he was allergic to that. Your relationship was more of an arrangement, one in which he was the one with the most to gain.

Perhaps this would be your chance to really get something for yourself, something other than the occasional orgasm. Although Ransom’s charms and your proclivities were the biggest reason behind the start of your odd relationship, you’d be lying if you said his grandfather’s accomplishments didn’t affect your interest in him. Having been an avid reader of Harlan’s books back in high school (when you still had time and motivation to read) and now working as an assistant editor in the mystery fiction imprint of a large publishing company, you had hoped that maybe being involved with Ransom would give you the chance to meet him.

Even when it became clear Ransom didn’t like you like that, you still stuck around. He was inflexible when it came to your relationship’s dynamics, but you still had a sliver of hope that one day you’d get to meet his family. In the end you were right, and all you had to do to get your wish was let your idol’s grandson raw you after a couple of beers.

“I’m not even sure if I’m pregnant yet.”

“After five tests? Come on.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’m gonna keep it.”

“If you don’t, you don’t. Just let me introduce you before you decide. It’ll be awkward otherwise.”

You couldn’t argue with his logic. Ransom’s family wasn’t likely to think well of you if he introduced you as “the chick I knocked up by accident”. Your family wouldn’t be happy about it either, and yet you had to find a way to convince him to meet them at some point. You knew they weren’t going to like him, but it was better than trying to pretend it was a case of Immaculate Conception. They wouldn't fall for it anyway.

“Go get ready so we can go.” He said.

You nodded and ran back inside. He looked like he was in a rush, so all you felt comfortable doing was retouching your make up and putting on a different pair of pants. When you came back down, Ransom was pouting at his wheel.

“About time,” he said “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I took like five minutes.”

“Eight.” He tapped the watch in his wrist.

You decided humoring him wasn’t worth it, so you got into the passenger seat without a word. Ransom took off, his tires squealing as he did a u-turn on your sidewalk. He always drove like a madman, most of all when he was in a hurry.

“How long ‘til we get there?” You asked.

“I can make it in half an hour.”

“I mean safely.”

“In that case, thirty minutes.”

Shame on you, forgetting Ransom was convinced he was immortal.

“Is there anything I have to know about your family before I get there?” You asked, trying to take your mind off the traffic lights flashing by at an alarming speed.

“I could never do them justice,” he snickered.

“At least give me something to work with.”

“You are going to have talk to my parents at least,” he mused “Just nod and agree with whatever my father says. You gotta be smarter with my mother, but avoid challenging her. Joni and Meg are annoying, Walt’s creepy, and there’s no point in talking to Donna and Jacob; they’re gonna hate you no matter what.”

“And Harlan?”

The question put a grimace on his face.

“Be honest. He’s gonna like you.” There was a minute pause before he added “We just celebrated his eighty-fifth birthday, so if you can bring up how good he looks for his age without being obnoxious, he’s gonna love it.”

“Eighty-five? When was that?” You liked Harlan’s work, but you didn’t like it enough to bother learning his birth year. You expected him to be younger, what with all the books he was still pumping out on a yearly basis.

“Last week.”

“Your family is big on get-togethers, then?”

He grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

“Familiarity breeds contempt,” you offered. You weren’t sure you’d get along with your parents as well as you did if they didn’t live in another state.

“Sucking does too.”

“But I thought you liked people who suck?”

That was a twelve year old boy joke, but it got you a chuckle.

“Already know what I’ll be trying today: Hey, Joni, blow me.”

“That’s your aunt right?” You asked and received a nod in response “I can’t wait to see you asking her for a blow job.” You didn’t really think he would go that far, so you weren’t worried you were goading him on. If he did it anyway, it would be because he decided the amusement he would get from pissing his aunt off would be worth whatever she could do to get back at him.

“Fuck, I’d accept one from my grandfather at this point.” You two had had sex just yesterday, but that was fine, you supposed.

“I think I’m going to regret this, but since we’re already in too deep and none of us knows when to stop, where are your parents in the Joni-Harlan blowjob scale?” This question might’ve offended anyone else, but Ransom was made of sterner, more horrible stuff.

He replied without missing a beat. “Oh, my dad wins easy. I don’t fancy getting bit.”

The throwaway line about his mother killing him if he just announced your pregnancy out of the blue came to mind. You wondered if she was as terrible as he made her out to be. You wondered if any of his relatives were as horrible as he made teem out to be.

“Hard to think you’d be scared of anyone in your family with all the money they lend you and you never pay back.”

He snorted. “I’m not scared of any of them. Wouldn’t be going if I were. I already owe Harlan more ‘one-pounds of flesh’ than I weigh.”

“Good thing he doesn’t charge interest.”

“Who says he doesn’t?” His eyes flicked to you for a moment, comically wide “What do you think I want the baby for?”

“You- you want the baby?” You knew he meant to jest about selling your child, and perhaps the bit about wanting it was said in the spirit of the joke, but you couldn’t help but hope it was a Freudian slip. Why did you hope that?

His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he considered your question for a few seconds. “I said I would help you with it.”

“No, you said that at first, but now you said you want it. I didn’t even ask for help, I just thought I should tell you. Why did you offer to help in the first place?”

He shrugged. Something about the gesture felt off, less cocksure than his usual self. “Because it felt right.”

“But do you want to do it? Do you even know what raising a child means?”

“Do you?”

No, you didn’t. You might have even less knowledge of the subject than Ransom, weird as that seemed. You hadn’t said you wanted to have the baby, though. You weren’t sure what you wanted.

“Do you want me to drop you off at a clinic? Because we can end this now.” Something about the way he’d said it made it seem as if he was talking about more than just the pregnancy.

“That’s not what I meant.” You whispered.

Edifices were replaced by trees as Ransom drove on. It was easy to focus on the changing view, now that he wasn’t talking to you anymore. You had broken one of his unspoken rules: never get emotional around him. You knew he wasn’t in it for something as trivial as feelings, but now with the pregnancy thing you thought… Well, you weren’t sure what you thought.

The rest of the trip went by in silence, seeming to take forever in spite of the scenery flying by. By the time you arrived at your destination you were disheartened – lucky you that the house Ransom parked in front of was the stuff murder mystery fiction dreams were made of.

Harlan’s mansion had been plucked from one of his books, it had to have been. With its red bricks and the Gothic Revival style, it looked like it’d been taken straight out of “Around the Corner and Down the Lane”. It was a magnificent, giant, mysterious house you could easily imagine multiple murders happening inside.

It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Ransom left the car, slamming the door shut on his way out. You had to hurry after him to get to the porch as he was knocking on the door.

You didn’t have to wait long to hear sounds coming from the other side. There were footsteps against a wooden floor and the shuffling of keys, and then time seemed to slow down. When you woke up that morning, you’d never have thought you would end up meeting Ransom’s family by the end of the day. Were they anything like him? What would they think of you? And what would they think about the thing? You weren’t going to talk about it today, but still…

The door opened, revealing a slim woman with an old fashioned bob-cut. She looked confused when she saw Ransom, and even more when she spotted you. She opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to say anything.

“Hey, Frannie,” Ransom greeted. If you didn’t know him better, you’d assume he was being friendly. “Take this for me, would you?”

He removed his coat with the speed you’d come to expect from him when it came to taking off his clothes and shoved the mass of fabric into her arms. He walked inside, brushing past her, ignoring the outraged look on her face. You followed after, and her expression was no kinder towards you. It wasn’t the first time someone got mad at you for something Ransom did, but what were you to do? It wasn’t as if you could control him.

As Ransom walked through an arch on the left and the woman scurried through a door to the right, you stood on the spot right in front of the entrance. The gargoyles sculpted in the wood of the stair railing paralyzed you, the lights from the ornate chandelier blinded you, and the memories of books read long ago, hiding under the blankets with a flashlight when you were supposed to be sleeping came rushing back to you. This was much more than you had been expecting.

The inside of the house was dark and sinister like the outside, but there was a sense of warmth you hadn’t anticipated. The soft lights, the lavish rugs, and the numerous trinkets scattered about gave it a lived in feeling. The decoration somehow split the difference between “home” and “haunted house” right down the middle.

Why was it that Ransom didn’t like visiting his grandfather again?

“What are you standing around for?”

Speak of the devil…

Your forced your feet to move and followed him deeper into the house. Something inside you screamed at you to just ditch Ransom and this stupid dinner party to explore by yourself, because you got the feeling he would end up dragging you to a place that looked much more boring. You needn’t have worried – the living room was adorned in much the same way as the hall, cluttered and discordant and fascinating. Every piece of decor seemed to selected based on its own merits rather than any common theme or style, but it somehow all worked together.

You had started making your way to a windowsill, from where a model of a carousel with fish instead of horses called to you, when a voice stopped you in your tracks – a voice you had never heard before.

“Who’s that?”

You whirled around to see a man standing just a few feet away from Ransom. The age was about right, and with the two standing so close together, it was hard to deny the similarities between them.

“That’s my date,” Ransom said with a shrug.

“Date? You brought a date?”

“Nice, Richard. We don’t want to make her feel too welcome.”

At that, the older man looked back at you with a grin that would be charming if not for the utter shock reflected in his eyes.

“Hey, there,” he greeted, extending a hand “Richard Drysdale, father of this,” he glanced behind himself to look at Ransom, who was busy messing with a figurine in the mantelpiece “rascal.”

You offered your hand to him (his handshake was strong, professional) and introduced yourself.

“I gotta say, this is really something else,” Richard said “Ransom hasn’t brought any girls home since high school.”

“I bring girls home all the time, I just don’t live with you anymore.”

The meaning of his words didn’t go unnoticed. You already knew he fucked other women on the side – or rather, there was no “side”; you guys weren’t a thing, and it wasn’t as if you only put out for him – but Richard understood him as well.

“Is that the kind of thing you say in front of your date? I thought we taught you better than this.”

“No, Richard. We really didn’t.”

You looked to the source of the voice, and spotted the woman who had to be Ransom’s other progenitor.

“Linda,” she extended her hand to you, but not a smile. Her handshake was even stronger than her husband’s.

Richard joined his son by the fireplace to fiddle with a pewter box, looking downright chastised. Ransom, for his part, seemed to be fighting the urge to laugh.

He had said his family was a mess, and that he found it all terribly fun. Up until now, you weren’t really sure you believed him.

“Whatever this” Linda pointed from her son to you, then back to him again “is about, I hope it ends soon, for your sake.” The last bit, she’d said while looking at you, then she left through a different archway than she’d entered from.

It seemed Ransom had inherited the charm from his father, but the ability to put the fear of God in those who crossed him came from his mother.

“Who else is here?” Ransom asked once Linda was out of earshot.

“Mostly everyone is in the library,” Richard replied, pinching the bridge of his nose, all the former friendliness leaving him like a deflating balloon “your grandfather locked himself in his office with the nurse, and who knows where they put Wanetta. Meg’s not coming.”

“What excuse did Joni come up with?”

“Schoolwork. Essays, whatever. I mean, it’s a Friday, it could wait.”

“She’s going to spend at least half of the evening doing drugs with a friend, easy.”

“Dope.”

Ransom snorted “Like she’s shooting up.”

Richard fixed his son with a disbelieving look. “No. Dope is weed. Dope was weed just yesterday.”

“It used to be.” Upon seeing the defeated expression on his father’s face, Ransom shrugged “World’s passing you by, man.”

That didn’t help. Richard looked back to the pewter box, turning it on his fingers like he was trying to find the best angle to see his reflection. Ransom stared at him for a second longer, then stepped away from the fireplace and exited through the same way his mother had.

He didn’t call you, so you assumed you weren’t needed at the moment, but then, what were you going to do with yourself – watch a man have an existential crisis?

You didn’t have to wait long to find out. You had been standing there, watching Richard sigh to himself for maybe a minute when three other people entered the room. The first was the woman who had opened the door for you; the second, a younger woman, with something almost doe-like about her, and the third…

Well, Harlan Thrombey didn’t need introductions – at least, not to you.

He was the first to speak, looking at the woman Ransom had called Frannie. “Seems like you aren’t going mad, Fran. Unless we all are, which is possible. Can you see her too?” And at that he turned to the other woman, who smiled at him. It was hard to tell whether her smile was fond or embarrassed.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

“Since you’re just standing around with this idiot,” He said. Richard gave a tight smile and tapped his fingers against the mantelpiece “I’m going to guess idiot number two left you to fend for yourself?”

This wasn’t the kind of welcome you’d expect when meeting your not-boyfriend’s family, but Ransom was eccentric, so maybe his relatives were as well. Maybe it was a rich people thing.

“I’m used to it, when it comes to Ransom” you offered.

Harlan grinned at you, but then again, he had been smiling since he entered the room. There was something very Ransom-like about both expressions.

He ambled to you, extending a hand which you rushed to grasp. His smile grew, but maybe that wasn’t good.

“I’m Harlan, the proprietor of this” he gestured to the room with both hands “little menagerie of horrors. And these,” he turned to the women “are Fran, my housekeeper, the only one who can keep this mess in order,” the woman who’d opened the door smiled and raised her hand in greeting, but she still seemed suspicious of you “and Marta, my caretaker. Heaven sent, I would already be dead if not for her.”

Marta had smiled at you as she was introduced, but frowned at the last comment.

“Don’t say that,” she admonished “you’re strong like a horse, you’re going to live for a million years, I’m sure.”

Harlan whimpered theatrically and extended a hand as if trying to grasp at something.

“Marta, is that you? It’s so dark, I can’t see. Oh, is that a light at the end of the tunnel?”

“Really? You’re impossible.” Marta huffed, and Harlan laughed.

They seemed close. Close enough that they’d forgotten all about you in their banter.

Once he was done with his joke Harlan turned back to you.

“I promise you I don’t get any more charming, but you get used to it with time.”

Time. Did he think you’d get to be around long enough to get used to anything there?

“Let’s... get this party started,” he said with a wink “I don’t ask you your name because I’m dying to see how my grandson will introduce you, and I don’t want to get attached.”

That answered that question.

You followed the party of three into another living room(parlor?), then another(fainting room? How many rooms for sitting could one person need?), then finally to what you presumed was the library (that could easily double as a living room), given the floor to ceiling bookcases in every wall that wasn’t occupied by a window. The room was large, large than any room in a house needed or had a right to be, and there were so many books on so many shelves there was no way Harlan would’ve been able to read them all, even accounting for his age.

Despite the exorbitance, the place was cozy and interesting, not at all a monochromatic art installation behemoth the likes of the Kardashian-West mansion (Which you didn’t care about in the slightest… one of your coworkers had shown you the pictures, it was all), the sort of thing you expected from people with too much money and no sense of comfort. The library was furbished with plush seats, nooks where one could hide in to read in peace, even a mezzanine, and– was that a sculpture inspired by “A Thousand Knives”?! Excessive, very excessive, and somehow also really cool. You were sure you could spend hours perusing books and examining baubles, but there were other people already in the room, and you had been raised too well to just ignore them when it was obvious you had already seen them.

Linda leaned against an open window, balancing an unlit cigarette between two fingers, and looking out, as if debating whether or not to have a smoke and whether or not doing so inside. There were a man and a woman on a pair of matching high-backed chairs, looking nervous and annoyed respectively as another woman talked at them, and a teenager speaking to Ransom in between typing things on his phone. He was the first to notice you’d entered the room and he directed a brief glare to you before his eyes landed on Marta.

“Well, no need to stand up or anything,” Harlan spoke from behind you, waving his hand as he passed.

“Dad, plea-” the sitting man began, but he stopped once he saw you. After a moment of confused staring by both parties, he looked back to Harlan “Is that-”

“Don’t know; she came with your nephew.”

All eyes were now on Ransom. He was enjoying the attention, if the stupid smug grin on his face was any indication.

“I brought a date. I figured I had to be the first to do it, since Meg thinks all sex is rape and Jacob’s an incel,” that earned him an elbow in the gut, which he barely reacted to.

“A date? Boohoo,” Harlan spoke, and you almost winced “I expected something more exciting from you.”

“Would you rather she was a notorious diamond thief and I brought her here to steal every red penny you own, old man?”

“That would be more on brand.”

“That’s it,” Marta said, placing her hands on his shoulders and directing him to an armchair in front of the knife sculpture “I’m putting you to bed earlier, abuelo.”

“Not without me throwing a tantrum, you’re not.”

Ransom’s uncle looked back and forth from his father, then to you, then to his nephew, before settling on you and standing up. He picked up a cane that was resting beside the armchair and wobbled toward you, smiling.

“Hello. I’m Walt, it’s a pleasure to meet you…”

You gave him your name, exchanged proper greetings, shook hands; his fingers were trembling slightly, but the length of the hand shake was very appropriate.

“I hope you like it here so far. Any friend of Ransom’s is welcome here.”

“You say that because you never met any of my friends.”

“You know what Ransom,” Walt turned gave him a sarcastic smile “I’m surprised you have any friends at all. You sure you not paying her to be here?”

You didn’t know exactly what it was that Walt had said, but something had set Ransom off.

“Why, you want a round with her? Don’t think you could afford it right now, pal.”

Walt’s lips were still pulled up into a smile, but his pupils were darting from side to side like he was searching for escape routes. That was fair, so were you.

“Don’t speak to my husband that way,” the woman who hadn’t said a single word to or even acknowledged your presence so far, gripped the seat’s armrest as she seethed at Ransom “it’s not his fault that-”

At that she fell silent and turned to Harlan, who was looking at everything with mild interest.

“Actually, you don’t have a job either, do you Donna?” Ransom continued. You knew that look; he was getting steam and you didn’t want to know what would come next.

“I think we’re all just a little stressed with everything that’s been going on,” the woman who had been silent so far – Ransom’s other aunt, you presumed, the one he wanted to suck his dick – mercifully cut in before he could get anything else out “I think we need to roll things back, maybe start over? I can go back to the car and get my crystals so we can do a-”

As if on cue, Fran entered again, a tray with a wine bottle and glasses in hand. She left everything on a coffee table, then walked by Marta, whispering something that convinced the younger woman to move to a more secluded corner of the room with her.

Donna perked up when the drink touched the table, and, smiling the well practiced smile of a hostess who did her duty with no joy, she started pouring drinks and handing them around. When one of the glasses was placed in your hands, you weren’t sure what to do. You rolled the stem in your fingers, pondering as the other adults drank and Jacob sulked.

“So,” Joni began, giving you an easy grin “you and Ransom have known each other for…”

As she trailed off, Linda chuckled, but she wasn’t looking at you.

“Eight months, give or take.” You answered.

The answer seemed to surprise her “Eight months? And how long have you been dating?”

“Oh, I’m not...” you turned to Ransom for help, but he was looking at his nails as if they were the most fascinating thing in the World or as if he really didn’t want to take part in this conversation “I’m not sure. We haven’t exactly made things official.”

It looked like she was fighting to keep her smile in place “And you met-”

“What do you do?” Linda interrupted, still looking out the window “Do you actually have a job or are you just expecting to scam someone here?”

You turned to Ransom; he had placed a hand over his heart and was looking at his mother as if he found her comment deeply offensive.

You hadn’t thought about what you would say if Ransom’s family decided to grill you, deciding it would be best not to overthink things as he’d suggested. A question about your job was expected – it was just harder to process it when it had been asked in such a manner.

“No, I- I’m an assistant editor at Little, Brown and Company.”

There was a splashing sound, and you looked just in time to see Walt trying to rub off a stain from his sweater with one hand, while holding his wine glass with trembling fingers. When he noticed you looking at him, he offered a stiff smile.

That was the wrong answer, it seemed. It was the truth, of course, but the reactions around you were discouraging. Linda huffed, Harlan chuckled, Joni nodded mechanically, Donna seethed as she wiped at her husband’s clothes with a napkin, Walt trembled, Jacob’s scowl deepened, the sound coming from Fran and Marta’s corner of the room ceased, and Ransom’s grin was the widest you had ever seen on his face.

“Really?” Linda asked, now focused on her son “Where do you find those people?”

He laughed. “What? I’m very charming.”

“I need to use the restroom,” you squawked. You didn’t really need the restroom, just any place other than there.

“I’ll show you where it is,” Marta said, as quickly as you had. Her eyes told you everything: she was also dying to get out.

You handed your drink over to Ransom and followed Marta out of the room, the two of you almost running down the hallway.

She led you to a lavatory, where you turned on the faucets to cover the sound of you whimpering and heaving inside. After splashing your face with some water, you exited the room to find her still waiting for you outside. She offered an apologetic smile.

“So…” you started, not sure of how to best broach the subject. Good thing she already knew what you wanted to get at.

“They aren’t always like this,” she said “they’re all good people, but things have been a little… you know how it can be with family, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah, it’s just a little… seems kind of a bad time for me to be showing up.”

“No, I think it helps. They are better behaved when there’s company.”

But that’s true of everyone.

“Ransom didn’t tell you about…? Anything?” She asked.

“No. He said it’d be fine.”

Marta’s expression was of doubt, but she didn’t say anything to discredit him.

“Are you okay to go back?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

She nodded and stared leading you back to the room.

“They’re good people, but can be a little much sometimes. You get used to it with time.”

“You- I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but you don’t look that used to them yourself.”

She shrugged “I guess I just… haven’t been around long enough.”

The scene you returned to was different from the one you had run from. Linda had abandoned the window and reclined on one of the armchairs. Richard had made his appearance, leaning against a bookcase behind Linda; He kept a respectful (perhaps even safe) distance between the two. Walt, Jacob and Donna were squeezed in on a single couch, looking like they’d just been plucked from a stuffy family portrait. Joni lounged on a window seat, leaning her chin on one hand and swirling her wine with the other. Fran was nowhere to be found. Harlan, sat atop the chair in front of the halo of knives, looking every bit the magnanimous patriarch. Ransom had taken his place on an armchair, just beside another empty one. On his other side was a small table with two empty wineglasses. His legs were crossed and he had a wide, satisfied smile that you knew well – so you knew it couldn’t mean anything good.

You sat beside him and angled your body in a way you felt would rend a pretty picture, because that seemed to be the game they were playing, while Marta made her way to a corner and stood there, doing the most not to draw attention to herself. Smart.

“So,” Harlan began as you settled into your spot “I think you were telling us about your career?”

“Yes, but there really isn’t much else to say.” Unless they wanted to be bored, that is. You had more tales of spotting typos than of interesting literary works.

“You said you worked at Little, Brown and Co?” He asked and you nodded “How long have you been there?”

“Two years. It’s about all the experience I have working in the field, other than internships in college.”

“Ah, College.” He grinned, but didn’t explain what he found so amusing “What did you major in?”

“English literature, with a minor in communications.”

“Good, good. Topical. You two bonded over books, then?”

You turned to Ransom, who was looking at you with a lazy smile. You had never told him about your job, let alone what you had studied in college.

“Yep,” he said. You two talked about books sometimes, but you didn’t think those conversations had helped with any bonding.

“You know, I think it’s so good to see Ransom has found a positive influence,” Joni said. The affectation in her voice and mannerisms was suddenly much more noticeable, and it felt like an omen.

You turned to Ransom. His lips were pressed together into a thin line and his chest was swelling like he was gathering oxygen for a screaming match or something worse. The longer you spent around these people, the more you were convinced he wasn’t the only one who liked to needle others.

“Honestly, I-” the words tumbled out of your mouth and you could only hope they were the right ones “I’m not sure if he’s influenceable.”

Ransom was still scowling and for a moment you were afraid you had only made things worse, but then his mouth opened and he let out the air in his lungs with a low chuckle. Much better than being in the middle of another argument.

Fran walked back into the room before anyone else could start a scene and announced that dinner was ready. Apparently Harlan hadn’t been exaggerating when he said she was the only one who kept his house in order – all around you tense shoulders relaxed and frowning brows smoothed with the promise of a meal. You must’ve looked happy as well, given you hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch and your stomach was starting to hurt. There was also (and you wished the thought hadn’t run through your mind, but it did) the chance that Ransom and his family would be much less likely to speak if their mouths were stuffed with meatloaf.

You wished you didn’t have those sort of intrusive thoughts about people you had just met, but they weren’t making it easy for you. Marta had alluded to a “family situation” that had left them on edge, but you had never seen people react this badly to strangers. This was the stuff or nightmares, or at least of “Florida Man” news reports. They were supposedly worse when there wasn’t company? How much worse could they get?

Ransom had told you not to worry about dining with his family. Maybe he was so used to them he didn’t think the way they acted was all that strange; maybe he knew his family would behave the way they had but he decided not to warn you for purposes of fuckery; it didn’t matter all that much. The worst thing was knowing that they sucked as hard as he liked to say they did. If you chose to go on with your pregnancy, this is what you would be bringing your child into.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― III.i. A Funeral and a Pyre

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART III ⥽

— Virginia, 1857. It was supposed to be their chance at freedom — their Shadow Kingdom. Instead it has become a battlefield. Tensions rise as the nation whispers of civil war and humans and vampires alike learn even freedom demands blood. No more will they pray to be saved. Not when the Shadow eclipses the Dawn.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Trinity will always be fighting for their freedom. The Godmaker has made sure of that.

WARNING: this chapter contains mature sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

Virginia, 1857

They get a fair distance from camp before it dawns on them both. They aren’t far enough.

Perhaps they have been spending too much time around mortal-kind. Not that either man would admit it.

So a fair distance goes just a little but further. Until their ears cannot pick up the din of tin flatware and the crackle of the fire. If they cannot hear their companions then they, too, cannot be heard.

The canopy is thin this time of year — summer long-gone and autumn welcomed in its place in falling leaves and nights that leave bitter fingertips come morning light.

Fingertips that, now and finally blissfully alone, come together in barely-there touches. They know the other’s touch as well as—if not better than—their own. Proven as much in the surety of their actions. In the wordless way their foreheads come together and share the things that should repulse them; the dirt and sweat and gunpowder clinging in vain.

But they know better; know one another better know themselves better than to think something as temporary as the earth beneath their boots could lessen their inevitable desires.

The rugged palm of his forever comes up to hold Cynbel’s cheek — to capture this moment in time and bring it to the reverent place where they keep every other.

Distraught are the souls who are unknown of such rapture, he thinks — and pities them, that they may try to take their god into themselves in words and scripture, but know flesh is beyond them.

He’ll never know what blind faith feels like. He walked in to his faith with eyes wide open and led by a divine hand.

Supplies are low—have been for some time though that is a thought for any time but now—but they make due. Use blood and spit and take their precious time while grass tickles their bare skin. At one point a dead leaf crumbles under Valdas’ palm and the pair laugh at the sight. Find joy in the little moments even after all these years.

And oh, how many years there have been. How is it that each time is as familiar and as new as their first had been? How is he so lucky?

Valdas stills inside of him; eclipses the sliver of the moon overhead as if he was not already Cynbel’s sky and stars. “Does my lovemaking bore you?”

What a ridiculous question. “Never.”

“Then what has you both beneath me and so very far away?”

Ah. He nods, feels the catch of twigs in his hair absently. Runs long fingers up the canvas of Valdas’ outer thigh before gripping it tight to hold them together as only lovers know.

“Do you know something I hate about this continent?”

Valdas barks a laugh. “I know many things you hate about America, my darling. You never waste an opportunity to make that abundantly clear.”

“Fair point.”

“But for the sake of the vice-grip you have on my cock, what do you hate about this continent, Cynbel?”

As amusing as it would be to torture them both for hours upon hours… They just don’t have that kind of time here.

“There are no ruins. No crumbled temples or ill-kept shrines. Well… none that have not been bastardized by invaders but —” but he, too, would seek release at least thrice tonight, “— and somehow the lack of such things makes me miss them all the more. It makes me miss your altar all the more, my Holy One.”

He smiles as recognition can be found in the dark eyes overhead. In the curve of Valdas’ smirk and the way he rolls his hips and brings them together near-seamlessly.

“While I too find myself reminiscing on such glory days —” the man beneath him keens in pleasure, body scrambling desperately to keep him inside but unable to deny him, “— I don’t let them take priority over the now. Especially when now is equally glorious.”

Valdas punctuates the word with a jerk of his hand, stroking Cynbel in something akin to haste. A direct opposition to his leisurely fucking. And while the contrast is good enough to bring his devoted progeny back with him to the present something unfamiliar lingers.

Hesitation. Doubt?

“It… is found equally so Cynbel… right?”

Perhaps before he would have taken such a question as insult. Would have disparaged his god for believing him to be anything other than in a constant state of growing love for him. Before all of this.

Before the war.

Thankfully for them both Valdas knows better than to take his lover’s silence as an answer he may not wish to hear. Resumes his pace and lets it build — lets them build. But his patience has a limit. Cynbel would know… he’s been the test of it for millennia now. He will have his answer before the night is through.

And he does — his golden son’s spite showing through in that he withholds it until Valdas falls atop the length of him, utterly spent and not in the least bit sated. Sweat and orgasm smeared between the places they long to knit together. To become one.

“It is not.”

The body above his tenses, readies to pull away. But it is only in things like this that Cynbel can refuse his Lord and Light. Only in the ways that ensure they are kept close; that they are kept whole and together.

Valdas pulls his head back enough to look up with guarded eyes. Sees mirth reflected back in dim pools of blue and the frustration he feels isn’t unknown to either of them. Though it is usually reserved for their beloved third.

Cynbel cards his fingers through Valdas’ dark hair and continues, “It can never be equally so, never in all our years. Because, my petulant divinity, each time with you is made ripe with age, seasoned with our years and the things we have done together, done with Isseya.

“It is never the same. It is always better.”

It is how they came to start and how they will end.

Though, he thinks — and lets himself fall back into the embrace of the earth with his religion hovering atop him, enveloping him; keeping him safe and giving him purpose in this endless labyrinth of eternity, if they are truly so blessed it will not be for many years to come.

Cynbel always makes sure he is the last of their regiment to enter the mines. Not only to ensure the safety of his beloveds but because it gives him the chance to see the barest ridges of sunrise over the steep Virginia hills. He waits until his eyes burn and send tears tracking hot down his cheeks — and then just a moment more.

He is never more glad of having no need to breathe than he is here. The newest among them still cover their mouths with scraps of cloth as though it is the coal around them they must fear, not the circumstances in which they have found themselves.

Especially to those such as the Trinity. To have wandered the freedom of the undiscovered world only now to cower under piles of stone.

One way in, one way out.

One more thing stacked against their favor in this their war for survival.

The hard-packed dirt makes it impossible for him to settle comfortable. Cynbel tries his best to find distraction in something—anything. And would be lost if he did not have the beauty of Isseya to gaze upon in the black.

She removes her hat and goes about the same routine she always does come morning light. Removes each of the fastenings that pin up her hair with the same care she used to give to the finest silks and fastenings of pure gold. The uniform she wears now does not do her justice — rather the opposite. She makes the ill-fitting coat look worthy of royalty even now.

“You’re staring.”

His smile is biological; instinctual. “Can you blame me? You know I have a weakness for pretty things.”

“Indeed…” she cards through her hair; lets the waves rest and he couldn’t possibly find her anything other than ethereal, “as I know they will be your undoing. You linger too long, Cynbel.”

Yet even as she says it she leans against him. Emotions are beyond the touch of flesh, now. And in this dirty hole no better than the coffins they have avoided for two thousand years… he cannot imagine doing it without her comfort.

“Yes yes — save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

“When you were feeding regularly. And I don’t chide you for stealing a moment away with our beloved—really I don’t. But you’re both fools for choosing not to conserve your strength.”

Their eyes meet in the dark. Held in a gaze of mutual longing… before he throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tighter against him. “Careful, Iss’. You almost sound responsible.”

“Someone has to be, what with you two wandering the woods like incubi.”

“What happened to the fun Isseya? I miss her.”

“Piss off…”

Their words may sting but all is soothed in a kiss. Long enough to make the vampires trying to sleep on the other side of the tunnel shift in discomfort — because she still is his darling minx at heart. But without her clear head they might not have lasted this long.

“Where is Valdas?”

Cynbel rests their foreheads close. “First watch.” Immediately he feels Isseya’s anger — holds her ever-tighter to ensure she doesn’t do anything brash. Not much for them to do stuck in here as they are, but he understands. “This is why he did not tell you. Relax, my love, please. We would not be here if it was not a secure place to hide from the daylight.”

The day watch is something they all must endure at one point or another. Such is their duty to the regiment; a task that discriminates on nothing and asks only that you do your part. As they all are doing their parts in this war.

And, as he is quite sure Isseya will agree, he rests easier knowing the one on the front line, the first defense between a den of sleeping vampires and the onslaught of the Order, is someone he would (and has) trusted with his life for thousands of years before.

For example — the scraggly boy who sits across, whose head keeps lolling around from slumber only to wake himself back up — Cynbel would rather place his fate in the hands of, say, Kamilah Sayeed. That boy looks like he can defend nothing.

But surely he looks no better. Starving as he is and now with a night of rough passion to further sap his strength.

One more day of this and they will reach Charlottesville. Hopefully with enough moonlight left in the night to sate their hunger. Even the thought of a neck, warm and not-necessarily-willing, underneath his mouth leaves him craven.

Isseya sees the needless torture in his eyes and at the very least it helps to know he isn’t alone.

Falling asleep is the hardest part. While Cynbel hasn’t slept alone in over a thousand years he isn’t exactly accustomed to sharing quarters with more than his lovers. With more than those he know intimately. Now he is expected to share the daylight hours meant for rest with complete strangers; their faces and stories ever-changing, one swapped out for another with every battle and every loss. More losses than he cares to think about — even if the dead have no one to blame but themselves for their fate.

But like all things it is made easier with her presence. Her touch, her breath on his neck. The Children of Valdemaras cling to one another among the rest and know that they are together.

And together they are made immortal.

It is rare to find a church in disrepair in these times. Faith seems to have an endless strength with which to carry humanity. And with which to draft them for battle, he thinks, and knows he isn’t the only one who finds a twisted sense of satisfaction as they pass the church’s boarded-up front doors.

Charlottesville. The last safe place left for their kind in the colonies — though even those were but a sliver of the developing nation that called itself America. While most cities and towns would be found with barren midnight streets it is the opposite here. Cynbel’s roaming eyes take in clusters of evening gatherers, are taken in themselves by the very same, and they simply know.

They were all summoned by the same man after all.

Even in the midst of a war for their very survival Cynbel finds it hard to believe the Godmaker has even the slightest capacity for compassion. Once upon a time it was simply fact that Augustine cared for naught but his ambitions. But over time all facts from the Old World were becoming irrelevant; laughable superstition even.

He would amend his beliefs, then. Allow for the same leniency Augustine had shown them no more than a decade ago — the wolves let back among the rest of the pack to ensure their species would continue. Would have a chance to continue.

The lists of names in smudge-free care that hang in the foyer, however, would challenge those beliefs further.

Near a dozen frames hang on either side of the corridor stretching back into the heart of Augustine’s Manor. He recognizes the handwriting to be the same from the missive which drew them all to Virginia in the first place. Takes in each name as passively as he does the faces of the flock.

What good does it do him to idolize the fallen? No longer will they accomplish anything worth being honored for.

Isseya’s hand brushes against his; a subtle comfort in unfamiliar territory. One he returns in kind.

“Remember,” she says to him, says to Valdas half a step ahead of them both, “all of this will be worth it in the end. Our freedom will be sweeter than the spoils of this war.”

Still, Cynbel’s upper lip curls in distaste. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then look it, perhaps?”

The last page must be a recent addition. The lacquered frame shiny and new and without dust, the wall around it smelling of fresh paint. And inside — a memorial not-yet finished, the last name still an aching distance away from the bottom of the page.

Hung in effigy and removed when the time comes to grow the collection of the dead.

“It’s these names…” Cynbel catches his reflection and stops; takes in the gaunt hollowness of his eternal youth in the protective glass, “they mock me — they mock us all.”

Valdas watches him with an unreadable expression. “They are the fallen.”

“They are the weak.” He corrects, in that moment made no more than men on equal standing.

“Weak enough to fail; to die. There is no honor in only being remembered after you’re dead. Honor me in life—demand more of me than I have already achieved. Instead of… idolizing me in my failure.”

Battles bring out in him the thrilled hunter. Wars, however, have made him old and temperamental.

Valdas’ hand finds his, laces their fingers together sure and strong. Isseya’s soft hand on his cheek is the only thing that drags Cynbel’s eyes from his contempt and to them — he could never look at them in such a way and they know it.

“We are fortunate then to never have to worry about such things.” She reminds him. And it is enough.

Together the Trinity is led onward. Passed what must have been built as a polished office but instead serves better purpose as a war room. Papers and maps strewn on every available surface and then some. The toll war takes on even those as seasoned as the Godmaker brought to life.

One map is hammered into the wall obscuring a painting of some kind. Knowing Augustine — one of his many portraits sacrificed for the ‘greater good.’ He recognizes landmarks and the border territories of Virginia’s surrounding states all hidden underneath spools’ worth of colored yarn acting as… as…

Ah, he understands after the office and map are several paces abandoned. Dark wax seals acting as markers for battles Cynbel himself had participated in… had fled from against everything gnawing hungry at his gut…

Far more losses than victories. Their supply routes bottlenecked — then extinguished. Fewer and fewer safe places to hold down fort through the long summering days to come. Battle after battle has blinded him to the truth now laid bare; unavoidable.

The Order is winning.

The air in the dining room, when they arrive, is a stifling heat. The smell of gas lingering high towards the ceiling. Antique candelabras—remnants from the Old World—stand vigil over a feast of kings. Sweet breads still steaming and the ashy aroma of well-bred meats. Vegetables no doubt from the fields they had just passed through on their journey. All decadent — all utterly wasteful.

All no better than a table of writhing maggots and soured mold in the face of the real hunger that consumes them.

“Valdemaras — how kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Of course the Godmaker’s first words are a snide remark. Cynbel expects nothing less. But to bite the hand that feeds now would be suicide. He bites his tongue instead.

The King and Queen of Vampires take up either end of the long oak table. Guests — an unexpected and certainly unwelcome surprise — litter across the length of it. He can smell the blood in their wine glasses. Reaches out to cut his nail into Isseya’s palm to keep himself in check.

Cynbel doesn’t have to look up to know Augustine is looking upon the pair of them, Valdas’ only children, with disdain.

“I believe I told the messenger boy the nature of this meeting.”

Valdas nods; his chin raised among his lessers but eyes downcast in the face of his Maker. “A meeting of officers, yes. The message was relayed in full.”

“Then explain yourself.” Why are they with you, the question unasked. That he still has to ask in some form or another after all these years…

“Where I go they will follow. Always.”

Always.

But this war has changed more than the Trinity — it has changed the so-called ruler of their people. Gaius’ noise of discontent is only brief; stifled with supper. He waves to an empty seat on his right. “Enough time has been wasted in anticipation of your arrival. Join us and send your ilk elsewhere.”

“I would see them fed after the long journey.”

“Very well.”

Though their devotion is like a brand upon their shared skins — their love as famous as their cruelty, as infamous as the bodies left in their wake — Cynbel and Isseya don’t allow themselves the pettiness that might come with the way Valdas takes his leave of them. They must play their role as their Lord and Light plays his. All of it an act; dancing around a carnival faire for the Godmaker’s amusement.

When the curtain closes they will be free of him. Valdas ensures it with every placating act. He is willing to sacrifice for them — how could they do anything less but the same?

They wait until he is seated. A young boy approaches with a pitcher and pours their beloved his fresh meal. Their eyes meet over the head of a bearded officer and Cynbel knows his beloved will not consume in front of them. In solidarity.

“Leave!” Augustine barks; they do not give him chance to do so twice.

They arrive at the end of a funeral. Isseya recognizes the sight of ashes catching on the breeze; carrying whoever they once were far off and to a better life than the one that failed them.

How very… human. The sight of it nearly ruins his appetite.

In front of a dozen or so gathered stands a lone man. In his hands rests a plain box bearing no carvings or paint. The dead as nameless as the living.

Together they have no intention of stopping — when Cynbel feels resistance in their held hands he even looks at her as though she’s gone a touch mad.

But his beloved girl’s focus is cast over the field of grass to the ceremony. A furrow he does not like crinkles restless on her brow. They keep their distance but, for all intents and purposes, join in.

The leader’s voice carries rich and sweet over them all.

“It is from Her blood we are made anew; given strength and life where there was none to be found. But with each life born another must depart, for only She may live forever. And in that eternity we must believe She will be there to welcome our fallen friend, that She will accept the gift he now gives — Her strength no longer needed in this life.

“In these ill times, my brothers and sisters, the journey seems an unending path. But with each departed Her power grows… And I believe that by the end of this war it will be enough to see Her risen again, to bring Her to us in our darkest hour. Have faith beside me and She will see it rewarded.”

Cynbel would recognize such a reverence anywhere — bastardized by the New World though it may be. Of course the Godmaker had taken upon himself an opportunity that could not be passed up. The First Son of Valdemaras can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same in Augustine’s shoes.

Everyone needed something to believe in. Someone in which to rest their faith when they believed their destiny out of their own hands.

Not all were as lucky as Cynbel and Isseya. Not all were able to see the living face of their god and know the surety that came with it.

Not all yet understood that none could make their path but themselves. Divine intervention would not come unless one took it by the reins.

Or… in Valdas’ case, anyway, the fangs.

“Must we really house ourselves among these fanatics?” Whispers his darling, and Cynbel’s nod is a reluctant one.

“Better than a mine shaft.”

“And not with our heart.”

“He will join us soon enough. Rather in this life than in the home that Augustine would no doubt set aflame if we even tried.”

The look he gives her is rueful enough. Presses a solid kiss to her frown because he hates the sight of it, truly, and they leave the mourners to their invisible Goddess and Her empty promises for the promise of temporary peace.

Inside the barn has been converted into barracks for their like. Windows covered in layers of cloth and boarded up for good measure. Anything to keep the numbers of Augustine’s army. The Trinity exchange looks and know they are of the same mind; that to stay in such squalor is, as he said, “better than a mine shaft” but not by much.

They used to rest their heads under endless skies. After that with headboards of marble, of gold. Sheets beneath bare flesh woven by expert hands until they bled… and then more. Certainly more than the thin cots of stuffed hay and threadbare blankets they take up in this hellish space.

The blood is fresh enough to still be liquid in the bowls they take but only just. It curdles on the back of Cynbel’s tongue to the point where he has to hold Isseya’s hand near-breaking to stomach it. And on an empty stomach it refuses to settle — makes him feel sluggish and not at all satisfied.

Isseya coaxes Cynbel to sit on the edge of a bunk near the back of their quarters. Lets him hang his head while she comes up from behind and eases his uniform from his shoulders. That her touch does not immediately excite him is a testament to how hungry he truly is — but she knows him well enough by now not to take offense.

She’s seen him in the heat of the slaughter after all. Let her nakedness be a canvas of blood of which he was a master on par with the greats of the Renaissance.

They have before and they will again. Together. A trinity.

Though the closed-off space makes it impossible to know for certain Cynbel is sure he can feel morning dogging at the heels of the vampires who finally join them. Their things already resting by besides, some sharing a bucket of well-water to wash old blood from their bowls; they have called this place home for longer than the lovers.

The contentment of their routine disgusts him. The ageless thumbs pressing into the base of his spine eases that hatred only just.

She works him as she always has — down to the bone and further still. His muscles gone pliant under her touch, craven for it to continue. Desperate for the solace only she can provide.

Hands that once slaughtered her own family in the name of the Made-God and his Firstborn… that would have soaked endless stretches of land in blood if it meant appeasing them.

They pretend to sleep before they really are. He pulls Isseya on top of him and she doesn’t resist in the least. Here at least they can sleep comfortable even if it only ends up being the barest definition of the word.

Cynbel hears a whisper that might sound something like “They’ll break the cot that way,” but he’s hungry, he’s exhausted, and damnable hells he’s horny too and Isseya’s no prude but neither of them are in any fit state to be working themselves up right now.

So he lets it slide. This time. But his generosity has its limits.

They’ve gotten so used to the darkness of the mines during their slumbering hours that seeing sunlight stream through one uncovered sliver in the barn thatching is jarring to say the least.

But it reminds Cynbel of better times. Some happier — some not. But all of them better. Better than this hell he cannot even find contentment in. If it were a hell of his own making, perhaps… but it is not even that!

“What are you thinking about?”

The bunk they’ve taken is several cots away from the last of the vampires. And Isseya — his darling girl knows exactly how to whisper so their better ears cannot hear. Usually used for things of a far more seductive and sultry nature… but it works, too, in this.

“What would you wish me to think of?” She smacks his chest none-too-lightly and his laughter isn’t without a cough or two.

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“Fine, fine —” he relents and her heart leaps against his chest in victory, “— but you of all people know my thoughts are rarely so simple.”

He laces their fingers together, would rather she simply find what she wishes inside of his mind. A memory or dream that could take them far away from here and, ideally, with their beloved Lord.

They’re both too hungry, too weak for that. And without Valdas wrapped somewhere around or between them it just isn’t worth the energy.

“You like to think yourself so complicated… but I know otherwise.”

“Oh do you now?”

Her touch slithers downward, grasps him cheeky and knows even weak he can still get it up for her. “I do.”

He can have all of the silent moments he wishes… but she won’t rest until she has an answer — and that means neither will he.

“Oddly enough I was thinking to when we met you, Valdas and I.”

Such a fussy subject when it comes to his darling girl. Some days she enjoys thinking of the last act of her humanity to be anything but. Others… well there’s a growing concern for where exactly she’s grabbing… and how long healing might take in their current state.

So he can’t help but sigh in relief when she finally speaks.

“What brought that on?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Cyn…”

“What does it matter? It’s not as if we could go back to those times. Free of war… of pollution in blood and land. Before the forsaken fucking Order took a fucking continent for their own.”

And there it is. Cynbel raises his chin enough to see the sparkle of knowing, of understanding in her eyes. He may not be as skilled as they in the psychic arts but what he lacks there he makes up for in his memory. In all the things he’s learned and practiced… and one thing he can never forget—will never forget—is the happier times. The simpler times.

“You could not have known their intention to sail to the New World. None could.”

“No… I know that.”

“Then why do you linger on it?”

“I caused the actions that led to this, did I not? Paris, my love, Paris. It put them on the Godmaker’s heels and moreover put him on those of the Colonies.”

It’s a rare kind of talk from him and Isseya knows it better than any. Has her propping herself up on splayed palms and a dark concern in her eyes still like stars…

“Remorse is not like you, Cynbel.” Her curls tickle at his cheeks.

“Think of what we could have been doing these last years. The gifts we could have given you — the ones you and I could have bestowed upon him. The wonders of the other side of the world where all this… nonsensical fighting is beyond us.”

In Valdemaras’ name… what is that look in her eyes? Frustration but… pity? Psychic though he may not be he knows her. She’s angry at him. Why the fuck is she angry at him?

“You spend one breath taking the blame and the next calling it all ‘nonsensical.’ You contradict yourself, my bloodsoaked lover.”

“You know I’m better with actions than words.”

“Yet words show your true colors. Not just red… spare me the guilt, Cynbel. You feel nothing for this conflict but what it has cost us.”

Through his furrowed brow… he relents. “Yes. Yes that’s… that’s true.”

“Only it isn’t enough for you to say it. You must mean it, too.”

He doesn’t have to push her further. Knows exactly what she means… But what they both know is that certain things are just out of their control.

“I will,” he swears; and like pack animals they butt heads, nuzzle their noses, the intimacy of the moment temporarily granting their wish to live outside of time… outside of the things that keep them bound to all this madness, “just as I will spend the decades to come making it up to you—to Valdas—to you both.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my life.”

Then Isseya’s hand is in his hair, golden bright on her olive skin. She forces him to meet the same eyes that have served as the doors of death for legions. “Swear on something that matters to you.”

Cynbel hesitates only in that he would loathe for her hold on him to end.

“I swear on your lives. Yours, and His.”

“Again.”

“I swear on your lives.”

She leans down and licks the outer shell of his ear. Immediately takes it back with a sharp pain… Cynbel watches in rapture at the sight of her pulling back to swallow the cartilage whole.

“Again.” The Priestess of Valdemaras demands through bloodstained teeth.

As if he could ever deny her looking like that.

“I swear on your lives.”

“Hey, hey here he is! Over here!”

“Cynbel! CYNBEL!”

“Help me lift this —”

“— HEAVE!”

Laying there choking on ash—ash from hay, from old rotting wood, from his dead kind but not his kin—gives Cynbel a strange kind of perspective on immortality.

He’s never been a fan of self-reflection.

Relief hardens into confusion, into anger at the sight that filters through burning eyes and tears. Not the face of his beloveds but someone else. Cynbel recoils because the mere possibility of death, even a terrible death such as this, is better than what seeing a strange face as his rescuer implies.

Perhaps I am already dead, Cynbel thinks as the face laughs above him, because none other than the Devil himself would separate them, would laugh and revel in his misery. I deserve Hell — for that I could not kiss them one final time…

“What disappointing rumors, Old Blood!” The Devil says through pearly fangs, “that the infamous Golden Son would need rescuing by one such as I!”

The words force Cynbel to stir. Yet… why would he? Why should he? Surely they are each in their own separate voids, to be cut off from one another their eternal damnation…

“Hey—hey! Come on now!” A few harsh smacks to his cheek, stinging offsetting the burn of flames under his heels. Hadn’t he worn stockings to bed…?

“You really gonna let your grave be a damp barn in Charlottesville, Old Blood?”

Unfortunately the Devil has a point. Always knows how best to tempt the vices of sinners.

“My… my bb-beloveds…”

“— would have my head if I walked outta this barn without you.”

Begone, tempter. Please.

Though Cynbel can’t help but wonder where the Devil truly lies this day. Is he the face above shrouded in smoke and flame, the one that hauls the smoldering remnants of a rafter off of him? Or is he the ones who tells him to turn away from the choked-out light of day and slumber deep?

No… no he has seen Hell before—

Hell was watching them swept in a manic crowd and to an uncertain fate.

Hell was screaming, begging through skin splitting open watching her lips whisper a silent “I love you, goodbye.”

Hell was the broken will of a God who would sacrifice every ounce of his pride for his first and only loves.

No. He is Cynbel of the Riedones and he has seen Hell every time they have been beaten and broken against the hard edges of the world. He has walked through those flames and been made molten; hammered into something stronger. This fire, too, will strengthen him.

It has to. For them.

When he reaches out there’s a hand to grab him. To help pull him and the smoldering husk of the rafter up and bat it aside.

The face of the Devil isn’t what he’d expect. But Cynbel doesn’t give himself time to linger on it — some things are a bit more pressing.

They make their way through the chaos; the air like burned molasses. When the Golden Son realizes he is the one slowing them down he only pushes himself that much harder — refuses to be left to die in this… this madness.

Everything is supposed to feel better once he’s left the burning barn behind, so why does he still feel alight? Cynbel looks up and has his answer — eyes stinging the same way they did in the last moments before the mines swallowed them all up.

Daylight.

And if he had hoped for salvation once they were clear of it, he’s sorely mistaken. It isn’t just the barn but the entire field; everything scorched as far as his watery eyes can see.

“What—” gasping for air like he needs it, but what he needs is blood, “—happened?!”

The other vampire scans the smoky horizon with dark eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know. We woke up, everything aflame… the lands reeked of oil. We couldn’t even find cover in the nearby forest — whatever this was it was planned.”

He knows the rage that laces the man’s words. He’s felt that kind of rage — been it incarnate — and were he able to he would feed from it, let it seep into his pores beautiful and righteous.

But even the thought of raising his hand to a sword saps energy from him. His rescuer will have to do.

And if he is as weak as he is…

But Fate doesn’t let him entertain the thought. Perhaps they know the chaos he will reign should such a thought come to pass… should it be true.

“CYNBEL!”

The very sound of her voice pulls him forward on a tether. He breaks away from the man, learns a little too late he doesn’t even have the strength to stand alone—

But she’s never let him fall before. She doesn’t now.

“Iss’…”

Isseya pushes the ash-covered hair from his eyes and the fire that prickles on the edges of his vision is nothing like the fire he just left behind. Cynbel’s lungs are raw but give him the blessed ability to sob in relief. They will burn out here, exposed.

And as they pull back from a kiss of peeling lips and dry tongues they share the same thought. As they always have.

They will not burn without him.

“How did you—”

“I couldn’t —” her voice chokes in her throat, she chokes on the air, “— I was too weak. Too—too weak and…”

She’d fled for help. Even now, especially now, it pains her to admit weakness. His unbreakable darling girl… And she thinks she has to look away, to shed her tears alone?

Their second kiss is harder; more a demand of her. They have demanded so much of one another. To die, to live… to be…

“We must find him.”

“We cannot— not alone.”

But the vampires at her back, stragglers relying on luck as a means to an end? They aren’t worth the time to waste.

Isseya looks over Cynbel’s shoulder, barks an unfamiliar name like an order—like the General she should have been. “Ambrose!”

Cynbel watches as his rescuer turns with a grim face. He recognizes the man, then. How the smoke reminds him of the ash from earlier that night. The leader of the ceremony.

Ambrose waves away a scout and approaches. “You should find shelter before you take to the sun, the both of you.”

“We will do nothing without our own.”

“Not even die, apparently.” Before he can continue there’s a whistle; through the haze they can see the swish of horse tails, the creatures riled and desperate to escape the oncoming blaze but held tight by the vampires clutching at their reins.

Ambrose shakes his head; makes to leave them to their own devices. “Your choices are your own. I have no time to argue with Old Blood! Not when there are others who need me.”

“Ambrose, quickly!” calls one, heaving himself on one of the load-bearing steeds, “The fire’s took up the main house and the well is emptied! We’re wastin’ time!”

The Trinity reach as one — weak as they are but still stronger than the likes of these. Grasp with the weight of ages and bear down on the man before he can take flight.

“What are you—let go of me!”

Cynbel snarls with bared fangs.

“What house?!”

But they already know, don’t they? They already know.

[catte-bard]

Prompt #19: Reminiscence (Radiant)

shb spoilers

“Tell me about them?”

Bellona had found the Ascian dozing in a patch of shade not far from Mt. Gulg. She had slipped away while the others were busy with the preparations for their mighty Talos. Everything had seemed well in hand, there was no need for the Warrior of Darkness to hang around. 

And she was quite sure if anything truly urgent came up, someone would come to fetch her. 

Emet-Selch opened one eye. “What?” His perplexity and annoyance obvious. 

“You mentioned lovers before. You had someone special?” She prodded.

“Did I?” The Ascian arches a brow.

“Family, friends, loves...” Bellona told him, mimicking the dreamy tone she had heard him use. “You were thinking of someone in particular when you said that, weren’t you? When you talked about...having your heart broken.”

It was such a strange concept to her. She had always thought the Ascians to be heartless, cold, creatures. Who knew no emotion save for those of reverence for their god. But the sorrow in Emet-Selch’s voice had sounded far too genuine as he reminisced about his people.

And she was curious. Perhaps, it would not hurt to get to know the Ascian better?

“They must have been something special for you to be so sentimental when you spoke of your past.” She smiled, looking up at the light-filled sky. 

Emet-Selch sneers at her. Not unexpected. Half the looks the Ascian gave her and the others were usually such. 

“Come on.” Bellona rolls her eyes. “You usually like when I stroke your ego by asking you questions about yourself. At least give me a name.”

“Her name is none of your business.” Emet-Selch told her as he sits up. “But if you truly wish to know more I will tell you.”  

Bellona perks up. 

The Ascian sighs. Where to even begin?

“You are right...there was someone whom I loved very much that I lost. There was...no one quite as brilliant as her.” He began in a quietly. This new demeanor a surprising difference to the sneering, sarcastic man that they often put up with.

“She was a clever woman, perhaps the cleverest of us all. Intelligent, passionate, and caring.” Emet-Selch goes on. “You could see that passion in her very soul. Twas like a brilliant fire raging within her.”

He closes his eyes as he reminisced.It felt as simply describing her with mere mortal words would not be enough. There was just some much about her that had loved. So much that he had thought to be perfect. And it had made him feel so undeserving of possessing such a treasure.

“She sounds like she must have been very special.” Bellona tells him and she settles down next to him.

Strange as it was, she supposed it was nice getting to know the softer side of the Ascian. Nice to know that he could be something else besides a snide pain in the arse.

“Special?” Emet-Selch scoffs. “The word could never do her justice. There were few that could match a radiance like that.” His eyes flick to her. 

How could he put her into words? Brilliant, radiant, absolutely exceptional. There is no tongue of man that could ever string together the perfect words for the love he lost.

“She was a leader among our people. One many looked up to.” He tells her. “They admired her strength and her talents. And she had many, but none shone as much as her passion for the arts. Oh she had the voice that could make angels swoon.” He dreamily describes.

“Her voice a melody that made your very soul shiver. The very star itself would still to listen to her song. How I wish I could hear her again...just once.” He softly yearns. 

There is no denying the melancholic tone in his voice. This was a man who had been in love—a man who had lost. And Bellona felt a small bit of sympathy for him within herself

“There is not a day that goes by where I do not miss her dearly. Where do not wish I could tell how much she meant to me. And apologize for what I had done…” He squeezes his eyes shut in a grimace and then looks over at her. 

The look he gives her is a surprisingly soft one. A look from him that she’s never seen before. One with a strange longing behind it—a strange sadness. And something else...It was a look she had seen before in the eyes of others—it was...

“Bellona!”

She’s drawn from her thoughts and looks up to see Ryne approaching. The girl hesitates at first upon seeing her speaking with Emet-Selch. Fearing that she may have interrupted something. However, her friend’s warm smile invites her over.

“Y’shtola was looking for you.” The girl tells her. “So I came to see where you wandered off to. She needed you for something.”

“I…” Bellona looked back at Emet-Selch.

The strange expression on his face was gone, replaced by one of indifference. He yawns into his palm and dismissively waves her away. “Go on, hero. The people need you. We can have another story time with Grandfather Emet-Selch later.”

She nods slowly and wordless before turning her attention back to Ryne. “So what did she want?” She asked as the two of them set off back to the settlement.

Emet-Selch watched the pair of them go. 

You are a fool. He thinks to himself. 

A fool whom has allowed himself to obsess over and grow attached to some broken little thing. The hero bore a sliver of her soul but that was it. She wasn’t her...even if part of him— a weak part—so desperately wanted her to be.

Her soul was incomplete, a simple candle flame to the brilliant blaze it once was. 

But perhaps there was hope? Perhaps she was not as lost as her companions? 

He could see it—just a faint thing. He had scene it the moment he first approached the warrior. And it had intrigued him greatly. Another soul walked beside her...of the same hue. 

Maybe, just maybe...

[davidmann95]

This weeks comics?

So much to cover, and just so we’re all clear upfront, SPOILERS ahead.

Sideways Annual #1: I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive the cover for simply reading “All-out Action, guest-starring Superman” rather than the declaration of “The Champion of the Oppressed is BACK–JUST WHEN THE WORLD NEEDS HIM MOST!” it demanded, but otherwise what a delightful comic. It’s a mess in so many ways given Morrison’s working with what DiDio laid down for him (which he seems to demonstrate hilarious contempt for when he almost literally drops a bridge on the no-hoper who’d been set up as the arc villain before he can do anything) and jumping on mid-stream to boot, but it’s basically just an extended excuse for him to put dialogue in Superman and the Seven Soldiers’ mouths again and remind everyone how rad his takes on them are, and thereby shame us for abandoning the former. Plus give us a taste of what his voice for Spider-Man would be, which it turns out is a perfectly fine one in spite of his past professed skepticism that he could pull it off. And above all to assure us with a smile and the proper send-off (a particularly satisfying one for me personally given my arachnophobia) we never got before that even if we never see our pal cop-punching, bank-busting, casual Fridays Superman again, he’ll be out there, along with all the other cast-off good Superman ideas, helping out wherever he can.

Also, who else caught the nudge and wink about the Tailor, and how that tells devoted Seven Soldiers fans just how much of role Morrison really played in saving his take on Superman?

Batman #60: Batman is…Batman is weird lately. I honestly don’t have anything else to say about this issue, except that the bit with Alfred cleaning was obviously killer.

The Unexpected #6: So Ronan Cliquet is bad, right? Like, we can all agree that dude is just bringing nothing to the table? I’ve never seen pages so plain look so simultaneously cramped and barren. This book has been such a damn disappointment: clearly promises were made about how much space Orlando would have to work on this that have been entirely broken, he’s cutting past what was clearly intended to be dozens of issues of buildup and fleshing-out of the concept to the grand finale, and he’s already obviously and understandably checked out. This should have been one of those “hey, you never heard of _____, but it was quietly one of DC’s best books for awhile there!” titles you learn about 20 years after the fact, but it was stillborn and unable to explore even the slightest sliver of its potential. It’s almost reached a point where it can make me think its coming conclusion is a mercy killing, but then, said conclusion is the problem.

Justice League #11: The debut of the Super-eyepatch! Otherwise, while it’s definitely not my favorite issue thus far of Snyder’s Justice League, it might be the one that feels the most well-realized in terms of getting his vision on the page thanks to Francis Manapul. I desperately hope he sticks on the book past Drowned Earth, because as much as I absolutely love what Jorge Jimenez and Jim Cheung are doing, his vision feels the most in line with the, as Snyder put it, ‘magisterial’ tone this title is going for a lot of the time.

The Green Lantern #1: Not my favorite Morrison title of the week in spite of its lack of clutter and outside influence, to the point where I’d honestly say it initially left me pretty cold, but much as with Morrison’s last major #1 in Action Comics, a reread did wonders for me once I knew what sort of tone I’d be grappling with. I do think it was oddly structured in a way that didn’t benefit it, leading with the mundane-flavored-with-cosmic with the alien beat cops rather than Hal’s more grounded perspective leading into the awe-inspiring, but given it sets up an immediate contrast with his ‘civilian life’, I’d call it a calculated risk that didn’t quite pay off. Hal himself is interestingly realized, this blunt, bored dude who only really comes alive when he’s on the clock, who’s as hyper-competent at his job as you’d think the Greatest Green Lantern Of Them All would be but almost seems to be sleepwalking through his days. It’s when we reach Oa with the mission statement for the Corps that the book really comes together, meshing up the beautiful design sense, an evocation of some of Morrison’s past recurring themes and elements, and raw high concept into the most powerful evocation of the basic idea of Green Lantern’s Deal I’ve ever read. And Liam Sharp mostly does justice by it; I know some find his style off-putting and his anatomy wonky, but he sells the what-if-GL-was-a-2000AD-strip sensibility, and his work has a framing and structure and a tangible, doughy 3Dishness that recalls the flavor of some of Morirson’s best prior collaborations. Not that, to be clear, I don’t think plenty of those prior collaborators couldn’t have done a much better job with this, but I think this’ll pan out just fine.

On top of that a couple minor notes: I suspect David Uzumeri might have been right regarding the possibility that this could be the book where Morrison delves into the basic question of whether superheroes are by nature cops, and thereby police brutality (Maxim Tox and Hal himself both have some startlingly severe moments in here) and the moral feasibility of the whole business. Rather than rethinking his process in his time away, Morrison’s storytelling tics are as prominently on display here as just about anything he’s ever done. And I was genuinely shocked to see the acknowledgement of Manhattan in here - a landmark chapter in The Last War In Albion in the making if ever there was one - right alongside addressing Snyder’s Justice League, making this to my knowledge the only book in the company’s lineup to acknowledge both contenders to the throne of DC’s current actual Important Cosmic-Scale Story. I suppose Lantern is the place where that makes sense, but both bring interesting elements of their own, as with the Source Wall Morrison’s going right on in and acknowledging how other creators have brought his ideas and spirit to the forefront of the DCU in the last several years, and with Manhattan, having a Grant Morrison DC Comic acknowledge the presence of Watchmen characters as parts of the grand scheme of things makes that whole bizarre business feel real in a way even Doomsday Clock itself hasn’t for me.

Adventures of the Super Sons #4: What a charmer! I harped a lot on Pete Tomasi by and large sucking on Superman, because by and large he sucked on Superman, but put that dude on just the right project to play into his strengths and he absolutely shines.

The Dreaming #3: Wound up in my pull file since I’d unsubscribed so recently, and decided to give it one last chance. It’s pretty and confident in what it’s doing and I’m sure lots of people are rightfully getting a lot out of it, but I’m not one of them and it won’t be getting another shot.

Border Town #3: It feels odd to think this given how much positive attention it’s been getting and how well it’s sold for a modern Vertigo book, but Border Town absolutely still feels like the sleeper hit of 2018. It so feels like the sort of comic that I usually can acknowledge the quality of but doesn’t do it for me personally, so I keep picking it up expecting to not quite gel with a given issue, but each time I’m dead damn wrong. It’s brimming with energy and personality on every level, and it’s still early enough that I can’t possibly recommend enough that anyone who hasn’t given it a chance yet jump onboard.

The Wicked + The Divine: The Funnies: Speaking of titles that I can acknowledge the quality of but rarely do it for me, I’ve followed W + D from the beginning on the understanding that the fairly subdued joys I take from it on a month-by-month basis will be eclipsed by the scale of my love for it on a full reread, as was the case with the team’s Young Avengers. But boy did this one buck that trend, because it was a hoot. Honestly couldn’t tell you which was my favorite short, because like half the book is made up of front-runners.

Death of the Inhumans #5: Because Death of Some Inhumans, But Don’t Worry Not Any of the Good Ones, Other than Maximus wouldn’t have shifted as much copy. Donny Cates is establishing himself as a solid mid-tier superhero writer alongside your Tim Seeleys and James Tynions, and Ariel Olivetti’s a treat, but I have to call this one a miss.

Shatterstar #2: As I expected it didn’t grab me as much as the first issue since the tenants aren’t front-and-center, but I’m still digging it to a truly startling extent!

Marvel Knights #1: Okay? I mean, I liked it (aside from the unbelievably poorly-chosen ‘I can sort of see even though I’m blind’ line - had to be a dozen better ways of putting that), but aside from that it’s gritty and involves some of the characters with notable history in the imprint, I have no idea why this is the Marvel Knights 20th Anniversary book as opposed to just a random Marvel miniseries that I suppose could be published under that imprint if you wanted. The conceit feels so odd for the intended purpose.

The Immortal Hulk #8: This book is SO FUCKING GOOD ALL OF THE TIME AT EVERYTHING AND YOU ALL NEED TO BUY IT AND TELL YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT IT. CHRIST. Still the best super-shit on the stands.

DC Nation #6: Yanick Paquette needs to write Batman explaining science so as to teach us how to better fight crime for as long as he lives, if not in fact longer.

[biayahlife]

What does it mean to treat yourself well?

Once tragedy hits I find myself anticipating the next incident before it happens, even before there’s a hint of trouble. My anxiety spikes and every small pain is suddenly a potential thunderstorm waiting in the wings. One of my best friends died recently and it hurt more than I could have imagined. My mother has been in the hospital four times in the last six months. My sister was in a bad car accident where her car was totaled. In the midst of a global pandemic, civil unrest running rampant, a harrowing presidential transition of power…. The personal concerns become nearly unbearable. It’s times like these that make me wish for a sliver of peace and the ability to forget about all responsibilities and relationships - possibly by abandoning my life and living in a cave - a counter-intuitive reaction when really I should lean on my support network. I have an excellent support network, composed of friends, family, and chosen family, that is available to me at any and all times. I am well loved by many and yet I am reluctant to lean on anyone in times of crisis. This has led me to ask myself - am I treating myself well in exercising this behavior? Do I value myself less than others? Do my needs mean less?

I’ve done deeply personal work these last few years - developing my sense of self worth. For many years I sincerely regarded myself as a flaming garbage heap of a person, useless to anyone and everyone. To be honest, this work toward self actualization is exhausting and intense however it’s proved to be 100% worth it. Through therapy, multiple therapists, and extensive introspection I have found that I have inherent worth as an independent being and that worth is not tied to what I can do for other people. An easy way to test this in yourself is to ask yourself what your best traits are; if you list things that are acts of service it’s time to step back and think about what you are rather than what you can do for others. My feelings about myself: I’m funny, I’m creative, I’m a great dog mom, I’m passionate about social justice, and I have a biting, acerbic wit when my guard is down. Hell, I’m a sexy bitch that commands respect and admiration. These feelings about myself are hard won through years of targeted work and therapy. When faced with the above questions: “Do I value myself less than others? Do my needs mean less?”  the answer is clearly an emphatic NO. 

The paramount question - “am I treating myself well?” - is what I really want to focus on at this moment in time. I have established that I have worth, but what does that really mean in terms of how my day to day life functions?  How do I honor myself? How do I show my inner spirit that I value my existence? An excellent opportunity to dive into this presented itself in early January, brought to light by Miayah and a car ride discussion regarding New Years resolutions. In recent years I’ve found resolutions set on January 1st to end up being nothing but disappointments - things that I badger myself about and will ultimately fail at accomplishing because the goals are either too big (with no smaller steps on how to get there) or don’t align with the direction life takes me - hence I have stopped setting them. It turns out that Miayah also doesn’t set resolutions - she sets intentions. This sounded very curious to me; what did she mean by “intentions?” What does an intention look like?  We talked for a while and I came to understand that an intention is a positive and loose guideline to live by for whatever time you set. This can be something like “I’ll work to be a more functional adult-person” or “I’ll become someone with more of a green thumb” or “I will be more disciplined with my finances.” 

After giving the concept of intentions some thought I came up with this: I will set my intention for 2021 as “I will treat myself with more care.” It’s loose, it’s gentle, it’s full of love for myself. It can mean so many different things: eating better, adhering to an improved sleep schedule, spending more time doing things I love that enrich my life, making art at my own pace, finding time to build new relationships, taking personal time when I need it, and even leaning on my support network instead of roughing it by myself. I am giving myself permission to be kind and soft with my spirit and body, despite the world presenting challenges over and over during this volatile period. Looking at the experiences this last year has brought - death, hospitalizations, accidents, the pandemic, dire and expensive insurance problems (a distinctly american issue), mounting debt, and a rising sense of fear in the nation - giving myself permission to be soft is a great and valuable gift. I am worth treating with care and compassion and the best person to give me that care is myself. No one else can be responsible for my happiness and well being. I do not have a life coach or a personal trainer or someone that I can shift responsibility onto, and even if those things were available to me, the only person who truly knows what care looks like to me is myself. I am responsible for my own care and part of that care is leaning on others to support me in my struggles and successes. Let others celebrate the wins with you! Let others be a shoulder to cry on! Don’t force yourself to be alone and miserable when caring for yourself is available in the form of a chosen family. 

I’m looking forward to what this year will bring. I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to say that when I started writing this entry. The mercurial temperament of 2020 has affected us all in different and profound ways, and has made finding bits of hope difficult at best. I strongly feel that bringing one’s focus back to one’s self is healing and necessary today. I’m grateful that I have the opportunity to care for myself in this way, and that I have others in my life that can bolster my spirit and determination. I hope that you can look inside yourself, find out what your spirit needs right now, and then find the strength to ask for it. Remember to be gentle with yourself. I’m going to treat myself with more care and compassion.

What do you want for yourself this year?

XOXO, Becky <3

[nevospitanniy]

Rambly Teen Wolf/Big Wolf On Campus meta

Preface this by saying I didn’t expect to actually get into TW. This show kicked me in the teeth, balls and every organ I do and do not possess. If I’m going to be any degree of helpful, I need some structure up in here. Fair warning, it’s just like my opinion man.

1. Characters

Tommy is Scott. A werewolf with a heart of gold that cares deeply about people around him. It’s explored much more in depth with TW, duh - they had more seasons, more money and a higher age rating, using more drama and angst. But the outline is definitely there: they are both introduced to the fantastic world of lycanthropy by their extremely knowledgeable and helpful buddies (Merton/Stiles respectively), can be shitty to their best friends (Tommy throwing Merton under the bus to save his popularity/Scott abandoning Stiles for Allison multiple times), take on the role of the designated savior of the town from supernatural threats, prefer non-lethal methods, are Alphas (Tommy’s status could be contested, I guess, but the show never put an actual emphasis on pack dynamics, probably they thought it was too odd of a concept to start explaining because then you have to get to the whole omega part and that is c o m p l i c a t e d), fight organized evil!werewolves, had two main love interests, none of which held up (yeah, weaksauce, but I thought I’d still put it out there), kinda subpar in academics but good athletes. Scott gets so much more actual character development it’s not even funny, while Tommy just sort of meanders in what he has and gets dumbed down a lot for seasons 2/3.

Merton is Stiles, no shit. A nerd best friend, a friend in need more importantly, a loyal (mostly) spastic (very) companion. Dynamic between sciles and tommerton (platonically) is quite different because of how their backstories differ - after all, Scott and Stiles have known each other since forever, while Tommy pays attention to Merton only after being bitten, when they become friends almost out of necessity. But there is no denying that all four of them, in their respective duos, are joined at the hip, oftentimes with an inclusion of a girl to break up their awesome bromance (Allison/Lori and Stacy). Merton/Stiles go unappreciated for their efforts a lot, especially if you consider they are human and yet get into the same exact shit as fast and durable werewolves, surviving by wits, last ditch effort loyalty change (Merton) or a fear override (Stiles) and saving the day half of the time because they actually do research. Both seem to have a penchant for magic (unsubtly implied but never expanded upon for Stiles), both are comedic reliefs, even if in slightly different ways as commanded by the genre, both are excellent students, both are mostly unsuccessful with women and ambiguously bi/pan/omni, if you consider the technically non-human options. Complicated family relationships. Both have abandonment/commitment issues, both room (jury is still out there for sciles because of 6b) with their best friends in college. As for notable differences, Stiles undergoes a massive character transformation, a monumental shift, I’d say - not exactly doing a 180, but inching closer than any other character to actual plot relevant growth, and not for better, which is a rarity. Merton’s personality also changes for the worse, but it’s a result of clumsy writing and forced female presence in the shows plot as a romantic crutch. It would be interesting if fan meta on Merton’s less ehh flattering moments was expanded upon and explained in the series; what I wouldn’t give for an actual quality heart to heart between Tommy and Merton Ike every show nowadays seems to have in abundance, where they call each other out on their issues.

Women are more complicated. There are no exact parallels, barring the very basic archetypes, which would do no justice to any of the four, namely Allison and Lydia for TW and Lori and Stacy for BWOC. But yes, Allison is close to Lori - a fighter, someone who can take it and dish it out. Problem with Lydia/Stacy comparison is that it breaks down as soon as Lydia gets a sliver of character development, because at first, her queen bee status definitely resonated with Stacy, but while she was put on a bus without any real involvement in the show’s plot, Lydia becomes downright plot essential.

2. Writing

BWOC had an incredible season 1, with select episodes of season 2 being very good and, well, we don’t talk about season 3. Point being, even with the constraints of a cheap Canadian show for kids it managed some genuine brilliance, I’m sure in a big way thanks to the chemistry between cast members (specifically the two of consequence). Monster Of The Week format certainly seemed to work well for them, and I will forever mourn the loss of all the potential arcs and plot twists that never saw the light of day. TW had the privilege of, despite a mediocre display in season 1, becoming popular enough to spawn 5 more seasons, and I think they definitely had very strong moments, most of them carried on the back of Dylan O'Brien, like void!Stiles, relationship between him and his dad, and yes, his relationship with Derek, which turned out to be largely inconsequential to the plot (writers queerbaited the f u c k out of its audience and then just did nothing of worth with the pairing, BUT THATS HARDLY RELEVANT). I don’t know whether Peter Knight is just that good or the innocent nature of BWOC lends itself to less complicated plots and finished stories, but most BW episodes were microcosms, closed systems that had little bearing on any overarching storylines. They provided closure, well-defined villains and good guys, which is a very appealing quality, if a touch simplistic. I admit, I would’ve liked to see something with more “depth” and conflict, but the restrictions of the channel/network/rating are nothing to sneeze at. TW on the other hand ties almost every episode into another, weaving a continuous storyline. Personally, I think they should’ve done more one off episodes to break up the monotony of waiting for action set pieces. You need some hella witty dialogue to keep people watching while fuck all is happening and they sort of failed at that (again, Stiles carried most of the comedy). Almost everyone in BWOC is uniquely likable; TW has a much bigger cast so they definitely had ups and down as far as character writing was concerned.

Main problem with this whole disjointed comparison is how you can’t compare things that aren’t on the same level. It’s not a dig at quality or anything, but TW had 6 seasons and a huge budget, while BW barely got 3. TW and BWOC kinda started in a similar vein, but boy do they differ. That being said, I have an inkling that BW may have ended up looking a lot like TW in different circumstances - if it was made at a later date, on another channel, with a different rating/audience in mind. But then again, a lot of good things BW is liked for are a direct result of these aforementioned “hurdles” - all the double entendres would never fly for a tv-14 rated show, its generally cheerful and uplifting tone was probably required by the network and being a child of the 90s it carried a lot of charm that would be borderline impossible to fabricate now if they wanted to keep the ~aesthetic. So I can only compare real TW with hypothetical BWOC that got a bigger budget and more screentime. But doing that makes NO SENSE, so imma just finish with some general thoughts about the direction show might’ve gone.

I genuinely think that in different circumstances, Merton could’ve had a wonderfully dark character development. He’s a non-violent character, but does have this morbid curiosity that could’ve put him eventually in a position to cause grievous bodily harm to someone. He seems to get off on power play (both having power over someone and surrendering it), and that’s a slippery slope for an emotionally tender and damaged character. Tommy is his rock in a number of ways, his human connection outlet, a more teen oriented show would, of course, use his ‘scars’ to carry the narrative of overcoming tragedy. Merton does the same for Tommy, being his emotional support, because how liberating it must be to not hide his werewolf side and he could do it literally with 1 (one) person before Lori came into focus. Queerbait aside, their relationship was great, a deep involved friendship, and with Tommy being so resistant to evilness and Merton being so easily corruptible, they could’ve played off this contrast in a way more interesting than what we saw in s3.  

I also would’ve loved to see some female characters that aren’t barely two-dimensional; Stacy was, in one word, confused - we know very little of her actual personality, aside from her feminism rhetoric and an allergy to committed relationships. Lori was ‘the action girl’, and she got a slightly bigger piece of pie, but still not nearly enough. Fuck, I don’t even know if the show passes a Bechdel test. TW showed us actual fleshed out female friendships that weren’t toxic or competitive, would’ve been nice to see something of the sort in BWOC.

[sabraeal]

aaah, okay may i request some modern!mitsukiki cuddles or going on a date? (:

The winter air feels like relief on Mitsuhide’s skin, cooling the heat clinging to him even beneath his parka. It lasts until he’s in sight of the chapter house, where it finally settles into his overworked muscles, making his quads feel heavy and his delts just – fried. Can muscles be fried?

Who knows? Not him.

(Probably Shirayuki)

He spots Shirayuki as he comes closer; a dark, puffy figure lingering on the lawn, knee deep in snow, chin canted up towards the stars. For a moment he stops, appreciating the sight. She’s a little thing, full of vim and vigor and mulish stubbornness; the perfect match for Zen, if only because she keeps both her feet on the ground even as she looks forward. He needs someone to steady him, to focus him, and Shirayuki does it like it’s as easy as breathing.

Too bad Izana doesn’t like her.

Mitsuhide grimaces. He’ll come around.

(Hopefully)

She must hear him coming; her eyelashes flutter, and her gaze drops slightly to meet his. “Mitsuhide! How was practice?”

“Good! Though I don’t think I’ll be lifting anything for the next few days.” She laughed, and he glanced up at the sky above them, trying to guess at her interest. “What are you doing out here, anyway? It’s freezing.”

Her cheeks flush. “Oh, NASA said on twitter that tonight you can see the aurora borealis from our latitude, so…”

She lets the implication linger, and Mistuhide can’t help but smile. Shirayuki is a pragmatic soul, but it seems Zen’s flair for the romantic can happily fit alongside her rational mind so long as they meet in the middle.

“That sounds nice,” he tells her. “I’m sure Zen –”

“Alright, Doc, I have the liquid heating ele –” Obi hauls up short on the porch with a steaming mug in each hand, seeing Mitsuhide on the walk. “Oh, hey, Big Guy! I think you’re the last one in. You mind if we shut off the light?”

“It’s to see better,” Shirayuki explains. “We’re sort of on the edge of it.”

“Uh.” He blinks, looking between her hopeful eyes and Obi’s quirked eyebrow. This is…not exactly what he imagined when she said us. “Yeah. I don’t see why not?”

“Great!” The yard goes dark, and Obi trudges through the snow to hold out a mug to her – it has some joke about pipettes on it that Mitsuhide just does not get. “Here take this one.”

“Did you do something to it?” She stares dubiously at the whipped-cream-topped cup, taking a swipe of it off to reveal a marshmallow bobbing underneath. “Tastes normal,” she informs him around her finger, taking the mug from him.

Obi stills, only for a moment, before his mouth stretches into its customary grin. “Oh, Doc, I wouldn’t do anything to yours.” He waggles his eyebrows. “But mine is cocoa plus.”

Shirayuki stares at him quizzically. “Plus? How can you improve on cocoa?”

“By making it mocha.” He leans toward Mistuhide, hand covering one side of his mouth, and loudly whispers, “And adding Amaretto.”

Shirayuki slaps him on the arm; he hardly flinches. “Obi!”

“What can I say?” he drawls with a shrug. “I like a cocoa with a little bit of experience.”

“I’ll just…” Mitushide gestures to the porch. “Leave you both to it?”

Shirayuki’s already lost interest in terrestrial things, her eyes narrowed up at the night sky. Obi gives him a nod of acknowledgement before saying, “Oh yeah, by the way, Kiki’s on the phone.”

It’s a strange piece of trivia to leave him with, but Obi gives it with a meaningful amount of gravitas, his eyes slipping pointedly to the front door. “Just eff-why-eye,” he adds, and it sounds like a warning.

He knows why the second he steps in the door.

“Dad,” he hears, followed by a frustrated huff. “Father, if you’d just –”

Mitsuhide grimaces, peeking around the arch to the living room. Kiki glances up from where she’s pacing, and he’s pierced by how helpless she looks. Her hair’s breaking free from the tight turns of her ponytail, and the furrows along her scalp tell him she’s run her free hand through it at least once, leaving her looking much less like the Kiki-with-hospital-corners he knows.

“I you’d just give me a minute to –” Her mouth twists as she settles back on her heels, and if he didn’t know her so well she would look calm, only slightly put out. As it is, he can tell she’s two seconds from tearing out a chunk of hair.

“Yes, Father,” she starts, words clipped. “I know I’m suppose to run –”

Mitsuhide flutters his hands wildly, trying to communicate, are you okay? as well as should I stay? and I need a shower. Kiki shakes her head, waving him on. He’s never good at picking apart her words, but he speaks her body language fluently: this won’t take long, you probably smell.

He hesitates, even as she turns her back to him, but she’s gone monosyllabic now, trying to deflect her father’s lectures with varying sounds of derision and agreement. Mitsuhide knows better than to get involved.

He’s freshly showered, smelling much more like a pine forest than a gym, when he finally pounds down the stairs.

(Obi’s the one who insists on pine; Mitsuhide’s pretty sure if he asked why he’d say something about him being from the Great White North and then something unnatural about which of his parents is the moose which is the bear and – it’s only been a few months, but Mitsuhide has just learned not to ask)

There’s no yelling, no sharp hisses of disagreement, no agitated pacing coming from the direction of the living room, but instead a low, steady droning. He veers that way, his gaze sweeping out to check for any signs of life.

It takes him a single pass to find Kiki curled up against the arm of the couch, watching the TV at almost the lowest volume, engulfed in an afghan.

It’s playing some reruns of some fashion competition; Kiki lives for the first three seasons of any of those shows, before they sell out and fans begin to compete. Heaven forfend if there’s an all-star season; Mitsuhide doesn’t quite get the concept of a hate watch, but Kiki at least provides a good example.

He’s not stupid enough to think she’s watching it; her eyes are glazed and her mouth tense, classic angry Kiki.

“Hey,” he says, his voice suddenly too loud for the room. “You mind if I sit?”

“Sure.” She curls her legs underneath her. “As long as you don’t mind that this season ends in a terrible miscarriage of justice when Seth Aaron wins.”

“Oh.” He slipped onto the couch, hip leaning against the end, arm extended over the back. “So this is the season where we’re rooting for…Emilio?”

“Emilio Sosa,” she corrects. “It’s one of those names you really have to say all together.”

“Right.”

They sit there for a long while, through at least two commercial breaks, before Kiki breaks the silence to say, “My father doesn’t want me to get my MBA.”

“I thought he was all for that,” Mitsuhide says, surprised. “I thought he said it was, you know, good for the company.”

“I told him I was getting it for Public Relations,” she admits slowly. “He accused me of wasting my time so I could work for Zen.”

“Isn’t he sort of right?” Kiki turns her gaze on him, piercing. “I-I mean, not that you’re wasting your time, but you are – you’re getting it to work for Zen, aren’t you?”

She hums, neither an agreement or disagreement. “Maybe, for a short time.” Her gaze carefully slides back to the screen before she asks, “Isn’t that what you’re doing too?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like my parents run some law firm I have to run back to.” He grimaces. “I’m not trying to tell you not to. I – I –” Her eyes sweep back to him, and he swallows nervously. “I’d love to work with you, Kiki. But I think maybe…if you don’t want to take over your dad’s company…maybe you should…tell him?”

“I do want to,” she insists, defensive, “just…not now.”

He hums in agreement, eyes fixed to the screen, pretending to find fabric printing fascinating. Someone is trying to make their initials into a pattern; he can’t help but think that sort of egoism needs to be earned by more than having access to photoshop and a printer.

Kiki sighs, throwing her head back against the couch. “It’s not as if he’s retiring soon, or ill, or – has any real reason at all to tell me to come work for him. I might as well get experience elsewhere, and when the time is right, bring a fresh perspective back to Seiran International while he’s still CEO.”

Mitsuhide hesitates. Kiki is not someone that really talks about her family – this is probably the most she’s said about her dad since the first year he’s known her, when she said I don’t have a mom, just my dad – and one wrong word will send her skittering back behind her walls.

“Have you tried…” He grits his teeth, takes a deep break. “Have you tried saying it like that?”

Her pause is even longer. “I should, shouldn’t I?” Her eyes drift shut as she groans. “I’ve just sounded like a teenager being told I can’t go out with my friends.”

“It happens to the best of us,” he says, smiling even though he knows she isn’t looking. “Give it a few days, and then try again. Your dad’s a nice guy, a smart guy. He’ll see your point.”

“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself,” she huffs, mouth twitching at the corners. A moment later, she adds, “He likes you, you know.”

Mitsuhide practically chokes. “Your dad?”

Her eyes crack open, dark in the lighting of the room. “He says you have a good head on your shoulders. When you use it.”

“Yes,” he laughs, rolling his eyes, “a glowing recommendation.”

Her chest quakes with her smothered laughter, and for a minute he’s arrested at how – how Kiki she is, with her side-looks and hardly-quirked lips. He likes her more than he should, but it’s hard to be upset about it when she looks like this, so utterly and completely herself. He doesn’t even mind that nothing will ever happen, so long as he gets to keep this, the small slivers of time she lets herself be real.

He’s too busy basking in her to notice that she’s moved until she’s snug against his side, spreading the afghan over both their laps.

“You looked cold,” she explains, settling under his arm. “There’s only one blanket.”

“Oh.” Every muscle in his body is tense. “Sure, I –”

“Shut up,” she tells him. “Tim Gunn is talking.”

He wakes up later to a warm weight on his side, a crick in his neck, and the cloyingly strong scent of vanilla and cinnamon. He opens his eyes.

“Is there a reason you’re lighting a scent candle right under my nose?” he asks blearily, already half returned to sleep.

Obi waves his hands in a dramatic, jazzy fashion. “Ambiance.”

“Oh, crisse,” he groans, settling his arm tighter around Kiki’s shoulders. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

[gethealthy18-blog]

Cop Braves Fire, Drags Cylinders Out Of Burning House

New Post has been published on https://healingawerness.com/getting-healthy/getting-healthy-women/cop-braves-fire-drags-cylinders-out-of-burning-house/

Cop Braves Fire, Drags Cylinders Out Of Burning House

Saumya Gaur May 7, 2019

The sad state of our country is such that when we think of public servants doing their duty, we often imagine them looting the public or hoodwinking it to fill their own coffers. The only so-called good cops are the ones whom we witness in movies like Singhamand Dabangg (yes, I am aware of the irony that one of these movies has a chargesheeter portraying the role of a good-at-heart cop). And there too, they are often portrayed as rowdy, loose cannons, who end up doing some good when their moral compass becomes directionally challenged!

But they say that art imitates life, and some good cops do exist, and this was proven when this do-gooder cop averted a major crisis.

Real Life Hero: The Cop Who Braved Fire To Prevent A Major Mishap

Source: Twitter

It was just another day in the Alamkhani Locality, in the Bilaspur area of Greater Noida, Uttar Pradesh on 3rd May 2019. Blissfully unaware of the fact that their life is going to change in a couple of hours, the residents of this area were going about their day as per their usual routine.

In a couple of hours, around the middle of the day, a fire was reported in one of the houses in the area. Reacting to the news, a team of local policemen, led by Sub-inspector, Akhilesh Kumar Dixit rushed to the spot. But it was what he did next that forms the crux of this feel-good story.

After reaching the spot, the inspector took stock of the situation and when he was informed that the house on fire had two full LPG cylinders kept inside the house, he took it upon himself to drag them out with his bare hands to prevent further damage.

In the words of Station House Officer, Samresh Singh, “Around 3.15 pm the police reached the spot and a crowd was gathered outside the house belonging to Geeta and Phool Singh. Somebody informed the officials that two LPG cylinders with full gas were kept inside the house”. Explaining the situation further he said, “After giving a thought to the situation, SI Akhilesh Kumar Dixit quickly arranged a blanket from a neighboring house. He then covered his body with the blanket and barged into the house and came back with the cylinders, preventing any bigger damage.”

The cop didn’t waste a minute ensuring his personal safety, rather he seized the moment and acted instinctually to save the community from collective misfortune. And he did this, not because he was seeking fame or fortune, but because he wanted to do justice to his profession. This act was captured by a local journalist who made sure that this brave act of the officer was applauded.

The Love That Came Pouring In

Source: Twitter

A couple of hours after the publishing of this tweet, the Internet found their savior in this cop. The images of him in the middle of this heroic act, and the grateful house-owners hugging him went viral, with tweet after tweet applauding him for his good deed.

Source: Twitter

It may be that fed up of the red tape and rampant apathy in the government institutions, people found a sliver of hope in this diligent public servant. But we have always had such heroes in our forces, who have put the interest of our community and country above their personal gain and benefit.

Be it Hemant Karkare, the head of Anti-Terror Squad Of Maharashtra, who took it upon himself to save Mumbai from the onslaught of terrorists, by firing at the prime accused, Ajmal Kasab. He gave up his life while carrying out his duty to the nation. Or our very own James Bond, AjitDoval, the current NSA, who served a major part of his service as an underground spy in Pakistan, garnering information regarding terrorist activities and the hostile state. And who can forget the real-life dabangg IPS officer Lande. Lande took charge of the city of Patna at a time when law and order were alien concepts to its residents. He singlehandedly brought down the crime rate in the city during his reign as an SP. This act made him very popular amongst the women of the city who conferred on him the stature of their brother.

We have always had such brave officers serving in our forces.

While the brave acts of these men have found the light of the day, there are many men and women who carry out their duty silently, without any reward or adulation. So the next time you begin to lose hope in our forces or feel disheartened with the state of affairs, just remember the heroic acts of these bravehearts. It would renew your faith in your country and your fellow countrymen.

Do you know of any other inspiring real-life cop stories? If you do, then please share them with us in the comments section.

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[nauseoussuggestion]

i have a bunch of stuff i write down in my sticky notes and its cluttering my desktop

my ap art portfolio explanatino of my concentration: My experience with my diagnosed depersonalisation disorder is the theme of my concentration. Depersonalisation involves feeling a complete disconnection with my body, sometimes causing me to sense estrangement from not only my surroundings but also my mind. With the help of therapy, I have been able to use art as a coping mechanism to illustrate many of my mental health episodes, whether they be good or bad. These pieces represent the emotions that I have experienced in my struggles to recover. A common source of depersonalisation is often reported to be the passing of a close family member. After my dad lost his very short fight to stage 4 lung cancer, my mind resorted to rejecting the concept of reality, and I sunk into a void of numbness and confusion about my situation for years. My future and present were bleak, and any rays of hope were quickly dashed. In the deafening silence and draining emptiness, I fell into my own world where all I could do was think. This is illustrated in piece 12, where I sit within the wildflowers of my mind, depersonalizing and reflecting on the reasons why I have been abandoned in the scheme of life. In piece 3, I illustrate how I feel in my desolate room. When in my room, despite being surrounded by distracting activities, the lightbulb multiplies in a blinding fashion and my eyes blur while I only sit in my somberness, unable to be filled with enough energy to fix myself. My use of, and lack of, colors, as well, play a part in emphasizing my depersonalisation. Many of my art pieces are bruised and garish as seen in pieces such as 4 and 7, representing how I feel about my body: vile and unfamiliar. These are things that often run through my mind in millions of different degrees and variations. I express these variant responses in this concentration, as part of my road to recovery. 

rough draft of a thing i was going to send to the tntt faceboook but didnt bc anh jimmy said itd be a bad idea: hello! my name is raymond vo. im from doan kito vua saint columban in mien tay nam. i am a transgender male (born female and identifies as male). i would greatly appreciate if i was able to tie my khan the male's way instead of the female's way even though i have not legally changed my sex or name yet. i firmly believe that our khanhs are a representation of our soul, and i hope to be able to take steps towards getting permission to allow my khanh to reflect my true gender. i'm not exactly sure where to find the right guidance in terms of this topic (being a transgender catholic in VEYM), so i hope by messaging you we may get any clarifications or questions answered. (if you can, please explain your response whether it be yes or no) (if we need to talk this out or smth just hmu so we can talk about it) (thank you for understanding) 

something i was thinking about when i thought about how great my c1 class is: i want to leave you guys with this: our catholic faith is diverse. it is filled with people all across the spectrum and it is a beautiful one. what you learned here in this class and what youve experienced at the parishes youve been to are just a sliver of what our faith is. it accompanies the saints whove gone before us, the people here in the present (you guys), and those to come. andrew was telling me about re congress (religious education congress) and how it was the largest congregation of catholics (40k people) that meet annually. it had a wide array of panelists, well-versed theologians and welcoming people, talking of a huge range of topics. there were a bunch of panels talking about intersectional feminism, womens roles in the Bible (a very progressive view i swear), multiple lgbt+ panels, race problems today, etc. i want you guys to know that theres a lot to our faith. its much more than the mass we typically hit snooze on and its much more than the clergy and old white men you guys may not find relatable. our church is progressing and its going to take time but heck there is so much depth to it and so many people who are cheering us on and i want you guys to never get discouraged in those terms. we are the church. i feel like i havent done you guys justice. you guys are a badass group of teens and im so proud to know you all and i mean it from the bottom of my heart that i have absolutely fallen in love with you guys. God is Love and no matter what you guys think of yourselves i want you guys to know that i see so much Christ in each and every one of yall. wherever you are in your faith journey or in your life i am here for you guys (along w sam and andrew) and i just want you guys to know how much i care about you guys. thank you for bearing with me

feelings and words i wanted to say to all the leaders whove affected me but never did: i am lost. i am broken. i am desperate and unworthy and i have so much self hatred for everything that i am. that be said, in all the drowning of emotions and overwhelming nature of my own vices, my love for you guys stands strong. i am proud. proud of this ministry. proud to be a part of this ministry. proud of how far each of the people ive met has come. the teens. the leaders whove just begun this year. the leaders whove been here for eons. im proud to call Jesus my God. im proud to call you guys my friends. im proud to call you guys my family. im proud of the love that i hold for you guys bc heck. i have so much of it. we need you, God. i need this love you have for me to be constant and i know it always will be. thank you