#their kindness is immovable and knows no bounds

[aweirdofangirl]

There's something so perfect about Charles and Edwin loving and needing each other, but also going to Crystal and Niko's rooms respectively after a rough case because there is also so much value in them having sanctuaries outside of each other.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

Kei, thank you for thinking of me!! 🥰 Picking five out of 102 was hard, bc all of them are special somehow, but here goes!

🐉 Hic sunt dracones 

15 chapters / 99,705 words / Fantasy AU / Dragon!Eddie, Royal!Steve / rated E 

The day that Prince Steven Harrington turns twenty is the first sunny spring day after a seemingly endless spell of heavy rain that left the castle grounds drowning in mud and its inhabitants freezing and miserable in the inescapable dampness of everything.

But that is not why he will remember it so vividly for the rest of his life.

It is also the day that his father, King Richard, chooses to ride off into war with great fanfare, to strengthen the glory of Hawkins and expand its wealth and territory.

But this also isn’t why the day will be forever ingrained in his memory.

No, the actual reason Steve knows that he will not forget his twentieth birthday until the moment his heart stops beating and his eyes close forever is an entirely different one.

It is the day he finds the dragon.

👪 Someone who cares

14 chapters / 83,986 words / Modern AU / Single dad!Steve, Nanny!Eddie / rated E

Hey, babe …

It takes Robin only a minute to respond, and apparently she can read his mood even through text message.

Hey, love! What’s wrong?

The terrace seems weirdly quiet and empty without Eddie’s presence. Eddie, who is all loud and wild on the outside, but kind and considerate on the inside. Who will gladly reopen the scars of his own past to make a sad little boy feel better. Who calls Steve cute, and a softie, and thinks his son is the greatest kid in the world.

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose so hard his nails leave little indents in the sensitive skin there. Then, he lets out a heavy breath, types and hits send before he can overthink it for too long.

I think I’m fucked.

----------

Or:

The one in which Steve Harrington, overtired and over-stressed businessman and single dad, hires Eddie Munson as a nanny.

🧜‍♂️ Just add water

5 chapters / 21,382 words / Summer Camp AU / mer!Steve, human!Eddie / rated E

It's one of the unwritten laws of Camp Lovers' Lake, as solid and immovable as the official rules. Curfew is at nine. No swimmers or boats are allowed past the buoys.

And Steve Harrington does not go in the water.

---

Or: Three times Eddie wonders what Steve's secret is, one time he learns, and one time he finds out a lot more.

🔥 Whatever you want it to be

5 chapters / 18,683 words / omegaverse / Omega!Eddie, Alpha!Steve / rated E

Steve, who has just ripped through the tape binding his wrists in an impressive feat of strength, freezes mid movement. His nostrils flare and Eddie can practically see the moment it clicks for him, even before his eyes flick down.

“Wait a second,” he mutters, and then his eyes are back on Eddie’s face, wide and panicked and disbelieving. “You are-”

“Pretty fucking hot when tied up?” Eddie rasps around an aching jaw, voice still hoarse with misuse. “Why, gee, who knew you were into that kinda stuff, Harrington?”

“Stop joking, that’s not what I meant!”

The command is sharp, and Eddie finds his jaw clenching shut against his conscious will. A red-hot flush is crawling up Steve's neck, but his face is full of serious concern.

“You're in heat,” he murmurs.

---

Or: The one where Eddie goes into a drug-enduced heat courtesy of Jason Carver and his goons and Steve saves him. (And then they fuck about it.)

🌹 Kiss that ring (mini series)

6 parts / 5,926 words / Mafia AU / hitman!Eddie, Mob baby!Steve / rated E

The boy tries to shy away from his touch, but he doesn’t get far, bound in place as he is. Eddie chuckles.

“Shhh, honey,” he scolds, cradling that pretty face with both hands. “It's okay. The name's Eddie, I work for your dad. Well, worked.”

The boy blinks at him, hazel eyes large and confused. Eddie laughs softly.

“See, the firm’s under new management. My management, to be more specific. I’m trying to keep it minimum bloodshed, so your old man’s gonna make himself scarce and I’ve agreed not to bother him. In return, I get to keep this fine house … and everything in it.”

[mightymizora]

Abrasion

700 words, Ketheric Thorm/The Dark Urge, M for references to violence sex and gross body horror

His skin is cold to the touch, a strange solidity just below the surface. When she pinches her own flesh to pull herself back into her body it flushes the skin red with blood, it pulls from her in soft peaks and rolls around between finger and thumb, the pain growing as the tension hits its pique; when her thumb pushes across his windpipe, across the edge of his beard and along the line of the dark vein in his neck, she feels no such sign of life.

Death gives her his mouth.

When Enver kisses her his mouth is an invasive heat, an act of defiance even in its tenderest iterations. She has never known another, so when he tells her death is no end at all and lets her place her lips against his, she is for a moment at a loss as to what to do. Ketheric laughs at her, and it makes her flush with anger, her blood ringing in her ears as she wonders what it would be like to taste him.

She tastes his blood from his mouth. It is wrong, it smells wrong, it tastes unlike any blood she has ever ingested before, but she goes back, her teeth dragging against the flesh of his lips and splitting them as a knife edge on ripe fruit. It is a scent like an aged meat, she thinks. The edge of something new from something old and dead. It is like the promise of the beauty of decay. She pushes her tongue deeper into him, inhales the scent of him, strange and acrid and full, runs her fingers along the collar of his armour and feels the shock of the teeth of it piercing her skin. Blood starts to seep from the wound and her wrist, and it pulls from her a rivulet of desire.

“Take this off,” she asks, her voice quivering in the cold empty echo of the room. “I want…”

“You cannot defeat me like this, Bhaalspawn,” comes his reply, a heavy weariness rippling through him. “A blade will not kill me.”

“Then let me look on death, Ketheric. We can look upon each other.”

She imagines what he is like beneath that great ornate cuirass. He was strong in life, all the records tell her so; his hammer on the battlefield striking men’s heads from their torsos, his voice echoing across the battlefield. He must be strong still to even stand in such a weight, each piece a cage that holds him in his bearing. Perhaps underneath, that is what she will find. His great flesh, those muscles that tore through his enemies, bound to the metal in an inescapable bond.

The thought of rending the metal from the skin makes her cunt ache.

He looks at her with a weary, weighty gaze, his face immovable stone. An offering must be made, she realises. A sacrifice on the altar of this other God. She has nothing that he could want, nothing that could bring him pleasure outside of the only thing she has never been able to give before.

She shrugs her robes from her shoulders, pushing them down to her waist and trying not to shiver as the cold of the room bites at her. He has seen her naked before, hands gloved in the blood of her victims, his servants, and she saw how the light of the candle flickered in his eyes, saw the dew of a memory of manhood in the corner of his gaze. He sighs, reaching to pull her robes back, and she catches his gloved hand and places it between her breasts, close to the beating of her heart.

“Do you not want to feel more, Ketheric?”

“I cannot feel more.”

“You can hear my heart. I know it. You can hear how I live.”

“You barely live at all, child. What kind of life is this?”

The stone of his gaze cracks, and she feels her breath halt at what she sees beneath. There in the depths of this relic, this remnant, this revenant, she sees it.

She will break him open to find it. To hold it. She will tear his armour from his flesh, crack open his ribs, and she will find that beauty hidden within.

[cerosin-bis]

God. Your Hans/Krueger stuff is just…. So delicious. I can taste the bitterness and lust from my phone screen. I do have a couple of questions for your visions of the characters that I don’t recall if you’ve answered from your head canons page if you don’t mind!

I know you’ve said that Hans/Krueger mostly fuck around because they can and they have history. Was it ever romantic? It seems like from Hans perspective he truly is sick with how much he cares for Krueger (or more likely, the past he has with him that he idealizes in a poor attempt at metaphorical ownership of the man,) and Krueger seems more or less nonchalant with the whole emotional situation (like playing into Hans fantasy of him gets him what he wants so he does it with reckless abandon.) Are they bitter exes? Is the love still there? Do either of them want or would ever go for reconciliation?

I also have to ask where Nikto fits into their dynamic, if at all. Your nikto fics, at least by virtue of being Krueger’s perspective for the one about the tattoo, seem to have a lot more emotional weight between the two. Is Hans bitter over this? Does Krueger prefer Nikto? Or is it more like he gets different kicks from them? Does Hans even know about Krueger and Nikto? Would he ever want to?

Sorry for all the questions but your writing is soooo good it’s inspired all sorts of follow ups in my brain. Please feel free to share any other tangential thoughts!!! I love the way you think. I want more of it :)

THIS IS SUCH A GOOD ASK oh my god. You worded things so damn well. It'll be a pleasure to reply 🫡 Thank you so, so much about your kind words about my work. means a whole lot. ♥

The "short answer" is that in both those pairings, love exists, but as different words and concepts as a whole. In a "do not do this at home" way, Krueger/Golem is (post-reunion) love as temperance (moderation/restraint) and familiarity. Krueger/Nikto is love as violent devotion and codependency.

In both cases there's very reciprocal, genuine fondness, but it's under a lot of layers.

Long (very long. sorry. I am passionate about this.) answer under the cut. ⤵

I went over my vision of Krueger/Golem quite a bit in this post. To answer your question, yes, Hans is definitely bitter about caving in so easily for anything Krueger. Golem's tragedy is that he's very aware of it but he can't fight it, because two factors are at hand: his self-indulgence problem, and Krueger's natural tendency to get people in his grip (unstoppable force teaming up with the immovable object against Hans, if you will). But like I said in the post I linked, Krueger is attached. In his own Krueger way, but the familiarity between them is comfortable to him in a way he knows he can't find anywhere else.

Hans gets a very special treatment: Krueger does not push his boundaries. Anything Hans does regarding the Sebastian subject is ultimately motivated by his own will. He knows he can, so he takes and he'll tell you that's his problem only. Truth is, it plays a big part, but Krueger still wants him → which is why he doesn't let go either, and which leads to him constantly worming his way into Hans' life, for said man's greatest dismay... and pleasure.

You worded it really REALLY well: Krueger does play into Hans' fantasies because it's fun and it gets them what they both want, and that includes giving Hans this superficial "control" over his own actions by leading the way to things (as opposed to directly provoking them). Ultimately, both get the best of both worlds: Golem has sobered off from their initial "breakup" so this suits him - he does not want it to be an actual relationship. It's a loose friends with benefits thing, he's work-focused, and knows how Krueger works now: there's no unsaid things, no actual bounds: he's at peace.

As a comparison, Krueger will push Nikto's boundaries to feed more and more into their violent codependency, and because this is also what Nikto himself seeks from what they have.

So yes, Sebastian does get different kicks from Golem and Nikto. Which is exactly why he doesn't have an actual favourite. He needs both for his enrichment (physically and mentally, I can't say emotionally because I headcanon that Krueger has psychopathic traits and does not get attached (or bothered) like a normal human being would. but these two are the highest on the list of people sebastian krueger Likes).

Nikto is like. There's no one (ha) like him in the world. In a sick way, Krueger enjoys seeing him at his best, at his worst, being able to - perhaps being the only one able to read and handle him so well; while Nikto finds in this both an anchor and an outlet. Krueger and Nikto become insanely fusional because they're both obsessed with the other due to their sick traits and know they won't find it anywhere else. They're two dogs that will attempt to maul each other to death and then sleep peacefully on each other with their muzzles still bloody, because they are fond of each other. rinse and repeat.

Golem loosely knows about Krueger and Nikto, but he isn't really bothered or jealous. If anything, he gets an ego boost from it: Krueger messes around with Nikto on the regular, they both practically live in each other's skin, yet Sebastian still semi-regularly comes back to him? Yeah, he's got a special treatment. And he loves it.

[soracities]

piggybacking off that ask about marriage, im 27F and in a relationship and the pressure to know if they’re “the one” is also insane! like how do you know? does it even matter? i find myself doing the math sometimes like “ok if i’m still single at…” which is absolutely nuts. i do want to get married but i want it to be the best choice i can make, i don’t want to settle. but it’s like whew do i have to decide who i’m spending the rest of my life with sometime in the next 5 years?

some of my friends are going through this too and i couldn’t agree with you more on that pressure. i’ve never been particularly bound to the notion of The One for One Person and For All Time (longevity and worth aren't mutually inclusive things) so maybe i’m biased in this, but sometimes i don’t know if instinctively knowing whether or not someone is “the one” matters as much as knowing how you feel when you’re with them and what they bring to your life now. i think we as a society have made this whole thing out of romantic relationships and finding the person who’s “meant for you” (also don’t like that term) that makes it all seem far more mythic than real and makes it difficult to separate your actual wants and needs from what you’ve been conditioned to expect (either through familial expectations, or past hurts / traumas).

to be fair, i think some people do have a very strong instinct about someone (“when you know you know” etc) but also this knowing does not always happen in as clean-cut or revelatory manner as it's made out to be, or even at all sometimes; i also think there’s many different people that could be “the one” for someone, but at the end of the day whether you feel you "just know" or don't, neither of those scenarios changes the fact that there is still another human being whom you have to work—like really, truly, work—to get to know: what they value and how they value these things, their minor flaws and their limitations and how to navigate, understand, and allow for those flaws and limitations. it’s taking note of your own values, too, and tallying where you both align and where you don’t and if you are able to find healthy consensus for these that does not cost you both dearly. it’s learning the different compromises that you can and cannot afford to make—it’s being aware of what you both bring to each other, if you make each other better people, if you see and cherish and encourage each other's potential but never at the expense of who the other is now and never with the expectation or demand that they should be someone other than who they are now.

sometimes i think part of the appeal or expectation around this whole narrative regarding “the one” (and the subsequent pressure) is that it’s rooted in some sense of certainty that once you do, everything else will fall in place—it gives the frightening unknowability of the future, and the even more frighteningly unknowable interiority of another person—a shape (and therefore familiarity and security) by setting them within a structure that promises to minimise uncertainty (because if they are “the one” then one of the biggest questions we have for our lives—romantic love—is, seemingly, answered)—but i don’t believe that kind of assurance can exist, and i think everything we’re told to expect about “the one” can push us to look for things in the wrong place or in the wrong manner.

i don’t think there’s ever anything wrong in being absolutely certain in what you need from a partner and wanting someone whom you feel, genuinely, is the best person for you. but i think it takes time and care to sift through your thoughts and your feelings, your experiences and expectations, to gain clarity on where you stand and that’s never easy, especially when it comes up against everything society tells you to expect while also sticking a time limit on it all....i have very few immovable criteria when it comes to relationships but i weigh those so, so, so carefully so i completely understand what you mean regarding the choice you make, anon, and i hope you are able to find a way out of that pressure and find what it is that speaks to your heart and brings you the most joy 💕

[adventure-showdown]

What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

ROUND 1 MASTERPOST

synopses and propaganda under the cut

The Book of the War

Synopsis

The Great Houses: Immovable. Implacable. Unchanging. Old enough to pass themselves off as immortal, arrogant enough to claim ultimate authority over the Spiral Politic.

The Enemy: Not so much an army as a hostile new kind of history. So ambitious it can re-write worlds, so complex that even calling it by its name seems to underestimate it.

Faction Paradox: Renegades, ritualists, saboteurs and subterfugers, the criminal-cult to end all criminal-cults, happy to be caught in the crossfire and ready to take whatever's needed from the wreckage… assuming the other powers leave behind a universe that's habitable.

The War: A fifty-year-old dispute over the two most valuable territories in existence: "cause" and "effect."

Marking the first five decades of the conflict, THE BOOK OF THE WAR is an A to Z of a self-contained continuum and a complete guide to the Spiral Politic, from the beginning of recordable time to the fall of humanity. Part story, part history and part puzzle-box, this is a chronicle of protocol and paranoia in a War where the historians win as many battles as the soldiers and the greatest victory of all is to hold on to your own past…

Propaganda

Is it about Dr Who? I mean, sort of. Arguably. You could say the Doctor is present in it. Somewhat. Not by name tho because that would be illegal. But definitely there are uh. well. there's definitely stuff in it that's DWesque. It's Dr Who Adjacent. It's Dr Whoish. Strong Dr Who vibes. (@eighthdoctor )

Experimental sci-fantasy that defined the Time War and started a whole series of its own. (anonymous)

This Town Will Never Let Us Go

Synopsis

From up here you can see it all, hear it all, taste most of it and feel the rest when the electric lights and the satellite signals prickle against your skin. The town, from midnight to six, marked out in headlights and the flash-fire of a culture in War-time. Séance-messages written in the patterns of the road signs, and ghost-transmissions scrambled into the background noise of the traffic. Animal scent-signals from the fried food stands. All describing something, buried under the tarmac and the street-geometry.

Down there, a girl in a fake-bone mask is working on a ritual to bring it to the surface. A popular performing artiste with a navel stud and serious identity problems is finding herself stalked — literally — by her own image. An ambulance crewman is about to find his own way of getting involved in the War.

And bringing them all together, in one neat little urban mythology, there's Faction Paradox - part cult, part subculture, part pop phenomenon, and part criminal syndicate, either watching-without-being-seen or simply not existing at all (at least until someone invents it). Assuming they're not wholly imaginary, the archons of the Faction seem like the only ones who know what this town really is - what every town really is — and what's bound to happen when it wakes up.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Of the City of the Saved…

Synopsis

For Humanity, the War is over...

We all remember Resurrection Day. Even now, three centuries later, we cannot forget that awakening: our bewilderment, our terror and our joy. Each of us had experienced death, imagining ourselves bound for oblivion, Heaven or Nirvana, according to taste. Instead, we found, each member of the many human species — from tool-wielding australopithecines to posthuman philosopher-gods — had been harvested, gathered here by the Founders’ unfathomable technologies.

Reborn in our countless immortal bodies, we were given the freedom of the City of the Saved. A single conurbation as broad as a spiral galaxy, she has been our sanctuary from the ravages of the War. That monstrous conflict between inhuman cultures cannot touch us here: we live our afterlives beyond the end of time, in perfect safety.

We may be certain, therefore, that these rumours of a murder (the brutal stabbing of a City Councillor, no less!) are nothing more than lurid fabrications. The supposition that the murder weapon is missing, or that it could have been — as hysterical conjecture has claimed — a "potent weapon", capable of injuring a Citizen within the haven of the City, is equally absurd. The idea that a guerrilla war has already begun in one of our less harmonious enclaves need not be dignified with refutation.

Please go about your business, Citizens, as normal. We are perfectly safe, here in the City. Humanity has never been safer.

Propaganda  no propaganda submitted

Doctor Who and Shada (fan novelisation)

Synopsis

The Doctor and Romana visit Professor Chronotis, a retired Time Lord living at Cambridge University. The Professor wants to return an ancient and very powerful book to Gallifrey - but the book has gone missing.

Skagra, an evil scientist, steals the book and the Professor's mind - and also takes Romana and the TARDIS.

In order to stop Skagra, the Doctor must discover the secrets of a notorious Time Lord criminal, and a long forgotten prison called Shada...

Propaganda

The first ever adaption of Shada and one of the only fan novelisations (anonymous)

Harvest of Time

Synopsis

After billions of years of imprisonment, the vicious Sild have broken out of confinement. From a ruined world at the end of time, they make preparations to conquer the past, with the ultimate goal of rewriting history. But to achieve their aims they will need to enslave an intellect greater than their own...

On Earth, UNIT is called in to investigate a mysterious incident on a North Sea drilling platform. The Doctor believes something is afoot, and no sooner has the investigation begun when something even stranger takes hold: The Brigadier is starting to forget about UNIT's highest-profile prisoner. And he is not alone in his amnesia.

As the Sild invasion begins, the Doctor faces a terrible dilemma. To save the universe, he must save his arch-nemesis... The Master.

Propaganda

An amazing 3rd Doctor story that feels very much like the typical Delgado!Master stories of the time! Featuring: UNIT, Original Characters, a poster with the Master’s face on it stating to remeber him, and more! (anonymous)

[willfulscarlet]

I love superhero stories that effectively involve the Furies - the unstoppable force of heroic intent meeting the immovable object of worldly reality. The Greek tragedy of it all - this is insoluble, it is already written, this is your fate, you cannot act other than how you have but it will be your downfall. If the (long, distant) roots of superhero comics are in heroic myths and legends, these stories and closer to that root.

The Sandman is a great example - Morpheus is obliged to act as he does, and killing Orpheus is an act of mercy that Orpheus begs him for. But it’s still the murder of his son, and it is his doom.

The Hiketeia is another good fate-and-fury tragedy. You should absolutely go read it now.

A young woman, Danielle Wellys, comes to Diana, and pledges herself, using a sacred ritual - the Hiketeia - which pledges her life to Diana’s service, in return for Diana’s protection and hospitality. But she’s informed by the Furies that they are watching her and her new charge - both are bound by the ancient laws of vengeance. Danielle killed her sister’s murderers, who tricked and abused her into prostitution and who killed her - by the laws of the Kindly Ones, she was obligated to seek vengeance on her sister’s behalf. But Diana is bound by her sacred vow - If she fails to protect Dani, she’ll be subject of the Furies vengeance, for reneging on her oath of protection.

Enter Batman. Dani wrought her vengeance in Gotham, and so Batman is hunting her - he can’t ignore four murders, even of murderers. He tries to fight Diana to get to Dani, which goes poorly for him. Dani explains why she killed them and Diana understands - her mind goes to Donna and Cassie, and what she’d have done in Dani’s place. Batman refuses to wait, to listen and see if together they can find a kinder route to justice - Bruce has his own oaths of vengeance.

After dealing with Batman Diana asks Dani to rest, so they can talk about what to do in the morning. Dani instead flees, and Batman catches her, leading Diana to have to stop him again.

Rather than keep putting Diana in an impossible situation, Dani jumps to her death. She survives long enough to release Diana from her oath, so Diana is free of the Furies physical vengeance - but this is a tragedy, and Diana is still left knowing she was unable to protect Dani.

I love the voice Rucka gives Diana. She’s so often an idealised caricature- here, she feels weighty and burdened. Her instinct to do good - to accept Dani’s plea without asking why - is what puts her in an impossible situation, one which would have destroyed her if Dani hadn’t released her. Diana wasn’t compelled - she chose this, and the concomitant fate that came with it. She could have refused - but she wouldn’t be Diana if she had, and so her choice is no choice at all. The story doesn’t adopt a breakneck pace in case you get bored between panels - the art is allowed to breathe, to carry the pauses and build the tension. You hope and hope that there will be a way out - for Diana to fulfill her vow of protection and her vow of justice. But of course she won’t be allowed that kindness. All tragedies end the same way.

[dnangelic]

" ... how did you manage ? " mafuyu eventually asks dark after a long period of silence . speaking had been hard the past few days ; whenever late into the night , struggling to get out of the thick of his anxieties and overthinking , the empty sekai had always been there . " — when you're alone , when you feel lost - "

or , when you feel like you ruin everything you touch .. leaving you to second guess yourself at every turn . " i just want to know .. how ... do i stop feeling horrible .. ? dark , did you ever regret your choices at some point ... ? " mafuyu hugs his knees close , looking down at the floor . talk about your feelings however you can , that was the advice given to him . but his chest runs cold from the thought , and he could feel the eventual spiral —- combating it with the softer memories that he's made with nii-go , with daisuke and dark alike only softens the blow a little , though it eventually becomes a muddled mess in his head .

he hides his face now , mafuyu knows he can't get the answer for everything ; but it's an unbearable process in the meantime , wishing for these emotions to end .

@1amsong

something heavy hangs in the air ; colder and sharper than usual . dark and all of his unusual senses can tell when the atmosphere of the empty sekai turned stale , and the songless quiet of an endless forever shifted from something tranquil to grey-grim . similarly , there were times that mafuyu seemed to be losing any semblance of spirit and color , a genial greeting or bawdily tossed joke on dark's behalf restoring what it could , if anything --- though never lasting , never enough , and how could it be when he could never reach the root ?

his own silence is long . ( how do you manage ? ) again , that question . for his audience , it seemed to always be impossible , miraculously undone ; the arrogant acts of a phantom thief confounding one after another as he broke beyond all boundary of common sense and reason with a wink and a smirk . yet he's never bore any sense of legitimate awe in regards to himself , severed from humanity and shunned by his own kin , nursing never-healed wounds as he sorely wandered : the sole bearer of black wings amongst brilliant , light-filled works .

like this --- lost , ghost-like and drifting . dark could have lowly laughed ; could such words have even been used to describe someone who was perpetually chained and bound ? why was it the more anyone found themselves forcibly set upon any single path , simple fates and immovable destinies , that their steps only became more and more unsteady , until they themselves were lost ?

i should never have been born --- he shuts his eyes . not to mafuyu's suffering but his own , a soft-mourning whisper long turned away from so that he might not succumb to the same hollow feeling , of being nothing more than a child for whom everything felt to be in jagged , unsalvageable shards and pitiful tatters . he can feel himself snarl and bite in stubborn , furious resistance : even if things were in pieces , someone still had to do something . if there was no one left but you , then it was you who had to . pick things up , even if it hurts . even if you have to cry . even if everyone else tells you , there's no meaning , the world will forget , all is lost , forever and ever , amen .

azumano's fallen angel , after two thousand long , rotting years , had still not forgotten . neither the kindness nor misery that had created him , nor the things lost , nor the things that he still so desperately tried to save and protect , even now .

' ... is there anyone who doesn't have regrets ? '

dead or alive , timeless or temporary . although he says nothing of his own , the words , alongside the twist of his expression , from the low set of his brows to the thoughtful melancholy of his ironic smile , remain bittersweet . it's herein that mafuyu hides , and dark quietly approaches . one step at a time 'til he crouches besides the other , the purer blacks of his shrouding cloak and fabrics sinking into soft pools about them both . the winter chill of his hands draws the other inwards --- allows mafuyu to continue hiding his face away from the world , into another's arms instead . the dawn demanded but still nights coaxed and bid peace as it might have sorrows ; just like so , dark hopes that even if only by a little bit , the soft marble of his form might still feel softer than to be without .

he lacks lecture , just as he lacks any chide . mafuyu's head must have already been spinning , toppling with whirling ideas that ripped even a struggling heart apart as it creaked and ached . dark's whisper , thus , accompanies a small , familiar hum . humans were horrible , the world could be cruel and unjust . even so ,

' i look for love . '

light as the grace of his fingers brushing gingerly at the bangs of the body cradled in his arms , or the simple , clear melody reverberating within an empty world .

' and sometimes ... it finds you first . '

[swansong-archive]

Swansong short story #1: Blood

Archived from the official Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong website.

Three short stories were posted on the official Swansong website, providing more information on its main characters. Originally posted on 6/20/2022 at "news.vampire-swansong.com", this was the entry that feature Galeb, his origin story and his sire, Tavernier.

***

“Justice. You must understand, Galeb, that there’s no better motivation for our kind than the righting of wrongs.” Tavernier’s elbows rested on the ship’s balustrade, his chin perched on his interlaced fingers as he looked not as his progeny, but at the restless sea, and tried to make sense of where the darkness of the water gave way to the sky. The stars above were scant and the moon absent behind thick clouds, forcing Tavernier into the very human gesture of screwing up his eyes to see a little better. Of course, it did nothing. Light proved elusive beyond the lamps hanging and placed on the ship, their flames protected but still caught in the stiff wind.

“Whether it’s seeking vengeance for wrongs done to us, or making amends for sins we witnessed but did nothing about in our lives. Think of everything you’ve ever lost and what you could gain, in your mind and your heart, by preventing others from falling to the same ill fates.” Tavernier remained locked in position, finally certain he could spot the horizon, though it may have been a trick of the light.

“There was I, thinking the answer was blood.” Galeb leaned next to his sire, but unlike the elder vampire, Galeb’s back was to the sea and his gaze cast purely to Tavernier. He was examining the old creature’s form, from the blonde, bound hair on his head, resisting the breeze, to his arched nose, his tight shoulders, his narrow waist, his feet poised on the planks in their soft leather shoes. “You’re immovable, you know? Like a statue carved from…”

“Yes?” Tavernier’s mouth twitched a little, concealing a smile.

“... ah, I don’t have the words. I’ll opt for a pale wood.”

Tavernier let out a laugh and stood straight. “Wooden. Yes. You wouldn’t be the first to describe me that way. But I believe it’s more complimentary to be described as a rare gem, or carved from alabaster. You know?” He clapped Galeb on the shoulder and walked the deck with his childe, the two unaffected by the churning sea not far beneath them.

“Allow me to reserve for you the finer compliments, to be delivered at a time where you rightly deserve them. For a deed,” Galeb gestured with one hand out to the right, “or a misdeed,” his left hand reached out in the opposite direction, before he dropped both to his waist. “I’ve known you for a score of years, and you are still unknowable. You patronize, but you don’t direct. You advise, but I never gather you have any motives of your own…”

“And so this is why you ask again about motivation?” Jean-Baptiste Tavernier grinned at his undead offspring. “Well as I’ve told you many times, the righting of wrongs…”

“I am not some angel to go about delivering vengeance on behalf of the helpless, my friend. And nor have I seen you performing such heroic deeds, so clearly as motivations go,” Galeb spoke the words clearly, but found himself trailing off, “you must be lacking...” There were wrongs in need of righting, but he was too far removed from them to address them in any meaningful way.

Just over ten years prior, Galeb had first made Tavernier’s acquaintance, the two becoming associates and business partners. Galeb wasn’t blindsided by Tavernier’s eventual admission of undeath; he knew there was something mysterious and dangerous about the merchant explorer, but the vital parts he was missing were the ones regarding blood drinking and ungodly powers. The night-time existence was one he was more prepared to handle, having only encountered Jean-Baptiste Tavernier — in all their time together — in the hours after dusk. But when Tavernier, after five years of knowing him, offered him what he called “the gift of an eternity to explore, learn, and change the world,” Galeb wasn’t thinking about the curses that came with such an existence.

Galeb accepted the gift, but found it left him bitter and empty. Where immediately Tavernier tried to turn his childe toward growth and influence at best, or at worst, avenging slights against him, Galeb was unable to see unlife through either lens. He swiftly detached himself from humankind and living concerns, and closer to his sire, courting interest from other Kindred in the ports they visited, but ignoring the overtures of mortal politics and wealth. He was content to expand his mercantile empire and fill his pockets with the profits, but the day-to-day interested him far less than the night-to-night. And so, as they came to cross the sea on one of their many voyages together, Galeb had asked Tavernier again for motivation. And again, Tavernier directed him toward justice.

“Why is it that you repeatedly peddle this line?” Galeb’s buoyant demeanor had slipped, his expression blank, his words low. “What is it you want from me? I hear you frustratedly describe to others like us that I won’t be drawn on the matters of mortals, that you expected more of me upon my Embrace, and that my merely furnishing us both with fortune is insufficient. Do I disappoint you, sire?” He spat the last word.

“Do not call me that.” Tavernier held up his left hand, his right steadying his balance against the mast as the ship’s crew darted about, trying to control the vessel as it overcame a swell. For the first time in a long while, Tavernier looked unsteady on his feet, and he couldn’t meet his childe’s gaze. “You see me that way, but I see us as equals, as friends, peers, lovers. I’m not your commander. It’s not my place to be disappointed in you.” He lifted his face to study Galeb. “I am in awe of you. We’re told that a fledgling Kindred requires a mentor’s steady hand. In our clan, in particular, great importance is placed on lineage and the relationship between creator and creation. But here you are, Galeb, already prepared to step aside from the trivialities of the living and embrace the world of the dead. Your mind works differently to others. Sometimes you flourish, sometimes you lay as if you were a corpse, in need of affirmation before you can continue. And I believe I know what you need to become whole.”

Galeb forced a roll of his eyes and walked close to his sire, holding him tightly in his arms. “And you say what I need is justice. That if I were to adopt your view, I'd better understand my place in this world?”

Tavernier kissed Galeb on the lips and counted to ten before pulling away. “Set yourself a cause among the living, stand up for what is right among them, and yes, you’ll grip onto this world with firmness instead of just sailing on the tides from vampire court to vampire court. There must be an injustice you want answered. Now you have the power to address it!”

Galeb stroked Jean-Baptiste’s cheek before backing away. “There is. Of course there is.” He took Tavernier’s previous position at the balustrade, looking out to sea as the ship mounted a wave and crashed into the churn, sending sailors tumbling with shouts and nervous laughter. It was starting to rain. “But I maintain blood is the motivation, regardless of how you dress it in terms like ‘vengeance’ and ‘justice.’”

***

“Hektor, it’s been too long.” Galeb strode through the vampire’s antechamber and clasped the thick-set Brujah’s hand in a tight grip. Galeb had only arrived at Cyprus’s shore the night before, but whenever visiting a domain, it was his belief that early introductions made for better exchanges.

Hektor chuckled loudly as he pulled Galeb in close and patted him hard, three times, in the center of his back. “I received your message, though not long ago! As soon as I heard Galeb Bazory was sailing his way down the Mediterranean, and would be pulling into port on my island, well… I prepared for your arrival with what limited time I had! I’m frankly surprised you didn’t outpace the messenger!”

The two laughed and each took a mortal by the arm, placed in the hall by Hektor in the style of posed statues, ordered to not move until a Kindred came to claim them. Galeb’s prey had a dry trickle of urine down his leg, while Hektor’s struggled to move from having been held in place for so long. “I appreciate your grace in offering me a meal. I hadn’t wished to hunt in your domain, and Hunger stings after such a long voyage. I have to be very careful around my crew, Hektor.” Galeb’s fangs became visible in his mouth, thin and sharp. “They’re too well-trained and far too expensive to replace in every port just because I have an appetite.”

The two compatriots fed from their vessels, both man and woman stiffening and groaning, first in pleasure and then in distress, as the Prince of Cyprus and the visiting Galeb Bazory took their fill, and more besides. The air filled with the sound of the victims’ panting, hurried breaths, before Galeb dropped his mortal gently to the pillowed floor. Hektor however, didn’t relent. By the time he dropped the young woman, her chest had stopped rising and falling with breath.

The rotund Brujah wiped the gore from his mouth and dragged fingers through his knotted gray beard, forcing blood to spatter the tiles. “In my family, we consider it improper to leave a meal half-finished,” Hektor smiled through his thick facial hair, “but of course, you’re not of my family, are you, Galeb? Do you ever wonder how I know your preferences for feeding?”

Galeb stared at the fallen woman. Not the first dead body he’d witnessed, and unlikely to be the last. “No, I can’t say it’s ever troubled me. I doubt you’d be a Prince if you weren’t well-versed in knowing your guests ahead of their arrival.”

“Ah, well, on that matter you are correct. Praxis is a many-splendored thing, but does come with its share of demands… But you’re not here to engage me in political discussion, are you?” Hektor clapped his hands together loudly, drawing Galeb’s attention from the corpse on the floor. “Don’t worry about her. Someone will come to clean up the mess.”

The young Ventrue shook his head. Tavernier made clear to him early on in their new relationship that some Kindred valued life more cheaply than others. Galeb had long convinced himself he would see mortals as little more than feeding stock, but still; when presented with the unfeeling way with which Hektor fed from and dumped his bodies, and the rumors of the Brujah’s habit of tossing them off Cyprus’s cliffs, leaving families forever in the dark as to their relatives’ fates, Galeb clenches his teeth. There was a difference between vampires like he and Hektor, and it wasn’t — as Tavernier liked to say — due to lineage. This was a question of morality, and what brought Galeb to this island in the Mediterranean.

Galeb was in no mood to continue dwelling on the monstrosity of his host. “If my messenger arrived here, you’ll know my reasons for visiting, and that my stay will not be overlong. I promised high payment for good information. So tell me, Hektor: is the information good?” Galeb pulled a purse from his belt and threw it directly into Hektor’s cupped hands. The Brujah didn’t check the contents, but did squeeze the small pouch before giving a nod… which swiftly evolved into a shake of the head.

“Galeb, boy. You should blame that rogue, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, for all this. You’ve sailed a long way and I’m sad to say I do not have the information you seek.” Hektor shrugged stiffly. “Only news you do not wish to hear.”

Galeb’s jaw once again clenched, and he ground his fangs together. He felt his hands balling into fists. Another very mortal gesture. Interesting how proximity to my mortal life makes me behave in mortal ways, he thought to himself before making an effort to temper his temper and ask for more information. “Please do not think me rude, Hektor, but get to the damn point. Fair or foul, I wanted to know the location of my mother and my brother in Constantinople. I doubt very much that you discovered nothing, so tell me what it is you know.”

Galeb had departed Constantinople as a youth, and not of his own volition. His mother, once named Jeannette de Bazory, served as an honored concubine in Sultan Ahmed III’s court in Constantinople. It was a good life for her, and a wondrous existence for the young Galeb, or Şehzade Süleyman, as his father named him. He enjoyed the luxuries of the court, the doting of dozens of beautiful, caring, intelligent women, and the love of a mother who adored him.

And then his father fell from power, and the young Galeb conspired, in foolish and naive ways, to have Ahmed restored. His mother, discovering this, and suspecting others might have done the same, sent her resisting son away from Constantinople before the Janissaries could capture him and murder him for treason. He’d not seen his family since, had never again set foot in Constantinople, and had resisted the urge to discover their fates.

But then came Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, with his talk of wrongs being righted, of justice being done, of vengeance for past ills. Again and again, Tavernier drummed into Galeb’s head that he would find purpose and satisfaction were he to revisit the past and see to it that injustices were answered. So, finally, Galeb agreed to sail for Constantinople and find his family.

“Answer me, Hektor. What became of them?” Galeb leaned forward, close enough to touch the bulbous vampire.

Hektor imitated an appearance of sadness. Galeb knew it was false as soon as he saw it on the Brujah’s face. Hektor had never looked anything other than angry or jubilant in the time he’d known him. Sorrow didn’t seem to appear in his register. “My poor boy… Ahh, Galeb. I’m sorry. I hate to be the bearer of such tidings, but I present you with the unfortunate truth that your mother was killed not long after you left the Holy City, and your brother was imprisoned. His fate is not confirmed, but it’s likely he expired in the cells and his body disposed of as that of a peasant or criminal. Always… tragic, when that happens to children.” Hektor offered his hands in condolence.

Galeb didn’t take them. He looked away from Hektor and out through an archway in the wall, where he could see the sea beneath the moonlight. “I… I cannot blame you for this, though I feel a rage stirring within me. They were not your responsibility, but mine, and I have been gone too long.”

Hektor laughed, much to Galeb’s annoyance. “And they say Ventrue are without emotion! Ah, Galeb. My boy. I truly am sorry you travelled all this way for such bad news. Still, you are welcome to remain here for as long as you desire it. I am always happy to host you, and your diamonds are always welcome in my court.” The implication was clear. You can stay, but you’ll be paying for it.

Galeb stood sharply, and once again clasped Hektor’s hand. “No, I will not be staying. Though my family may be dead, my journey remains incomplete. Tavernier says I need this to complete myself, or further my growth, or…” Galeb lifted his hand to his head and pressed his wrist to his temple. What was the point of this? How is this supposed to help me? What do you want from me, Jean-Baptiste? As Galeb contemplated, he felt that familiar roar inside his heart. That old voice, wanting to lash out.

Galeb locked eyes with Hektor.

“Can you see that ship out there in the bay, Hektor?” Galeb walked over to the archway, pointing into the distance.

The Prince moved to join him, sucking at some of the pieces of skin still wedged between his teeth. “Which one?”

Galeb didn’t answer. Instead, he moved back a step, and rammed his shoulder into the Brujah’s back, sending him tumbling through the archway and down the side of the building.

The drop wouldn’t kill the Prince. It wouldn’t even hurt him significantly, if rumors of his age were to be believed. But random and sudden acts of violence like this? Galeb found them to be very useful in curtailing the Beast. Even with his increasing distance from mortality, Galeb felt it better to unleash on a monster like Hektor than some undeserving mortal.

With vampires like Hektor, another purse filled with diamonds would be enough to make up for the poor manners.

***

Constantinople. Galeb recognized the streets, the sounds of a hundred accents, and when he forced himself to take a breath, he recognized the smells.

In particular, he recognized the odor of blood.

Currently, Galeb was covered in the tacky fluid, occasionally licking around his mouth or sucking some of it from his hands. He stared through a crimson mask at a Janissary he knew was named Ibrahim, the disarmed man cowering before the vampire. “Please understand, I’ve not lost control.” Galeb kicked the man’s sword far away, lodging the blade into the back of one of the Janissary’s fallen bodyguards. “This is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”

The Janissary nodded feverishly, his eyes wide, his one good hand held up in surrender.

“I’m not berserk. I’m not in a rage. I’m delivering justice in place of injustice. I find the entire concept ludicrous, honestly, but Jean-Baptiste says this is what I need to do, so…” Galeb thrust his dagger into the Janissary’s stomach and provoked a scream from the terrified man. “I’m not going to lie to you. You’ll die here. But how quickly you pass on to the next life comes down to your answers to my questions.”

The Janissary didn’t respond with anything intelligible, instead gurgling in pain.

Galeb wasn’t feeling sympathetic, squatting down and leaning over the man as he twisted the blade. “When I lived here, my name was Şehzade Süleyman. I was one of the Sultan’s many bastards. It’s possible you remember me.”

Galeb gritted his teeth. He wasn’t a sadist, but there was that growl again, deep inside him. All this blood spilled, and he hadn’t fallen to his hands and knees to lap it up yet. He needed to maintain control to get the answers he sought.

“Even if you don’t, these are the facts: you and your cohorts ousted my father and made him place his nephew on the throne. By rights, that throne should have been mine, but I care little for rulership over your kind. What I care for more, is the fate of my father, who I’ve found died incarcerated; my mother, who smuggled me from this place and was subsequently butchered by you, and your friends; and my brother, Mustafa. It’s his whereabouts I need to discover, to ensure wrongs are righted.” Galeb extracted the dagger, and as it left the Janissary’s body, a small fountain of blood followed, which swiftly formed a spreading puddle on and around the old man. “So tell me. Where did you put him?”

The Janissary’s eyes were shut, but they opened as Galeb struck him across the face. “Yes! Yes! Mustafa! He’s imprisoned in the Topkapı Palace! Please! Please have mercy…”

The vampire considered his next move. End this traitor’s life. Drink deep and leave him as a drained husk. Leave him in agonizing pain… “I’m not a cruel man, but I am who I am tonight, because of men like you. And frankly,” Galeb surveyed the blood leaking from the Janissary’s body, “I doubt you’re my type.”

Galeb gripped the man’s jaw and stared into his wide eyes. “You will not remember my face, my name, or what I asked. Know that you’re dying, call out for help, but forget your attacker.”

The Janissary slowly nodded as Galeb stood and walked away, the dying man’s mind completely altered, left only with a blank space where the vampire once stood. Galeb licked the blood from his dagger and winced, before spitting it to the floor. “Definitely not my type.”

***

Seven throats were cut in the palace as Galeb made his way to the dungeons. The fledgling Ventrue was coated near head to foot in blood, and stood on one side of the bars separating him from his mortal brothers and cousins. It appeared the new Sultan was keen on locking away any potential claimants to the throne, but desired to keep them alive, in case he required their support. The prisoners awake to see Galeb gasped and let out moans of fear. Words like “demon” and “monster” reached his ears from their trembling lips.

“I’m not here to harm any of you. I’m here for Mustafa.”

Some of the prisoners gathered to hide the soft young man, who closely resembled the more severe Galeb. Others pointed him out in fear of what might happen if they refused to follow Galeb’s command.

Galeb fell to one knee and passed his dagger through the bars toward Mustafa, who let the blade drop to the stones. There was no recognition in Mustafa’s eyes toward his brother, whether due to their time apart, or the blood caked over him. “Mustafa. You do not need to know who I am, but know I’ve killed the men who killed our mother, and I will do my best to ensure you one day come to power, as… It would be justice.” Galeb’s voice lowered. “This blade opened the throats of your enemies. Keep it close and do not hesitate to use it to protect your own family, when you escape this place. I should have used it long ago to protect my own.”

Without receiving a response, Galeb rose and turned on his heel, quickly leaving the prison. He only found one guard in his path, who made no effort to tackle the vampire when she saw the monster before him.

***

Emerging from the Bosphorus, the blood streaking and washed from his skin, Galeb let out a roar, giving his Beast voice for the first time since arriving in Constantinople. As he trudged ashore and in the direction of his ship, he thought of the life he’d once lived, the eternity ahead of him, and his connection to Kindred, kine, and the world. He reflected on his relationship with his sire, how scared his brother looked, how those Janissaries screamed…

As he climbed the side of his ship, making his way up to the deck, Galeb muttered to himself, looking for the last time at Constantinople. “I was right, Tavernier… It wasn’t ‘justice’ that would make me grow. It wasn’t ‘righting wrongs.’ The motivation for all our kind is simply blood.”

[dailycharacteroption]

Creature Corner: Outsiders (Elementals) part 1

 Overview

 The whispering of wind, the crackle of flame, the immovable presence of stone, the gurgle of a stream… the elements are combined and mixed together to form all that is material.

Of course, that belief is pretty archaeic nowadays with the understanding of atomic elements, but the idea of these forms of matter being fundamental building blocks is a classic one, as are the entities that embody these elements.

Indeed, welcome to the final set of entries on the broad creature type of outsiders, in which we cover elementals!

Fundamentally different from other types of outsiders, which are typically made of quintessence, these elementals are either formed from material matter, or perhaps, represent the blurring point between soulstuff and atomic substance as we know it.

 Multitudes of cultures have all had mythical spirits of the elements in their stories across the ages, but the first time that such beings were categorized together as a group that embodied the four classical elements was Paracelsus in the 16th century, who described these being as somewhere between mortal creature and bodiless spirits, namely nymphs/undines, sylphs/sylvestris, pygmies/gnomes, and salamanders. You may notice that many of these names are used in Pathfinder and other rpgs for fantastical creatures, some retaining their connection to the elements, some not. It is said that followers of Paracelsus and similar orders that shared belief in such beings would actually choose to remain celibate in hopes of wedding an elemental, therefore gifting it with it’s own soul through their union. (Yes, that is real. Teratophilia is much older than the internet, I assure you.) Though one does wonder how such a belief would interact with polyamory and the like…

In any case, these elemental beings would inspire plenty of fantasy writers, and elementals as we know them now would appear in the novels of Michael Moorcock and in D&D and beyond, taking on their modern appearance as animate masses of the element in question, many being vaguely humanoid, but others being more fluid or even taking the shapes of other living creatures.

Indeed, the basic Pathfinder elementals do fulfill that image quite nicely, each elemental taking on a form that suits them, but still having the same basic stats by size. However, Pathfinder also has four mixed-element elementals: ice, lightning, magma, and mud, a fifth element “aether” elemental, and wood and metal elementals on the way in 2nd edition’s upcoming Rage of the Elements book. The former of those four falling in line with the old Planescape setting’s quasi- and para-elemental planes, while the last three coming from the idea of the fifth element and of eastern Wuxing elementalism, respectively.

Another common denizen of the inner planes are mephits, those oddly imp-like beings that are made from various combinations of the elements, and have distinctive, often somewhat comical personalities based on the nature of that element. Best not to underestimate them though, for while they are small fry, several have proven capable of attaining great personal power.

The classic civilized beings of the elemental planes are the various genie races, all tall, imposing beings that resemble humanoids, but are very much creatures of their element. While their societies vary by type, they are typically imperious beings capable of incredible power, including their ability to grant wishes. It is that power that often causes greedy mages to bind genies to their power, so even the most benevolent kinds of genies tend to be wary of mortals.

Of course, there are plenty of other elemental beings living on these planes, such as the masters of storm and wind known as the anemos, the dwarf-like and hardy azer, the structure-bound ahkhat, the electrical comozant wyrd, the invisible aerial servants and invisible stalkers, crystalline crysmals, the barely-tangible belker and mihstu, the earthen mudmen and sandmen, fiery magmin and salamanders, the golem-born ozimat, the harbor-blessing portunus, and so on. Some of these beings are natural denizens, though some arise purely from the actions of powerful spellcasters as well.

 The elements and the beings that are made from them may seem simple at first, but they have a surprising amount of depth even with that theming. Even still, elementals are clearly very different from other outsider types, their existence marked not by morality, but by composition. Because of this, they can have a much wider variety of alignments without “breaking the rules” and becoming risen/fallen beings. This means that there are a lot of stories you can tell with them as friend or foe.

 That does it for today, but we’ve only scratched the surface. First, we’ll talk about how elementals can be allies.

[forlorngarden]

- granite angel -

three years ago, when i was still trying to be studious and go to university lectures, i went to listen to my favourite professor talk about the city in literature. surprisingly (not at all) it is something that i am thinking about these days - how it shapes us as we shape it in return. how the place is the people in it, and the people live and breathe the city. how i do it.

i moved to Saint Petersburg essentially on a whim, a fleeting kind of confidence that’s too fast for you to catch and question, that later started feeling like some kind of divine intervention. somehow, in my heart of hearts, i had no doubt that me and the gloomy coastal city were made of the same thing.

this place is as beloved as it is granted no second thought by many. to them, i believe its opulent, dimmed bronze nature is enticing and memorable enough to put on a postcard or to make a weather joke that other people will surely laugh at - universal shared truth. to me and those who love it as deeply, it is what is beneath that truth - the life, the blood, the filth, the god. the immovable stones are warm in the sun and cold to your brittle palm at night; the bridges sew together a web of streets, and there are houses on the streets, and there are people in those houses. then there's me on the embankment, and me in the bakery, in the university library passing the time idly staring at the river, mostly - me in my room crying or laughing or everything in between. 

and then there’s the sea, of course - unclaimed, unbelonging, relentless. never changing and never staying the same. i wish to note here that i am writing this on a cold, windy beach, covered by the fog, and it’s almost night. i am here because last night i fell an intuitive call to come - the same guiding hand i grew to recognise. 

right next to me is a girl talking to her mother and she has said “i don’t like this at all” four times in the last twenty minutes - and she’s not talking about the sea, of course, or even the damning out-of-place skyscraper to the right. she is talking about how life gets duller and scarier by the minute, and she is talking about leaving the city. 

i am on this beach, sitting on the nex log because i am thinking of leaving too, and it is breaking my heart. when i moved here it took me two days and a breath of sea air to understand that me and the city are forever bound, and ever since i have been leaving Ariadne’s threads all over it. it saw me at my worst, hollow, unseeing and lonely, and offered help in the only way this place could - in standing still, holding me in its palm and burning me in all the right places, then hiding me under the bridge, winds in its piers whooshing something like “home, home”. and i was better for it, so i am saying thank you, city. home, stern teacher, unimpressed doctor, and however else you wish to appear.

i am saying sorry, too. i think i was always bound to leave you one day. but i want you to know, city, that if i could take you with me and place you anywhere else, i would. but it would be unfair to you, you stubborn thing, for you are not one to escape. the city is a way to live, and i am not living here anymore, not really, or not all of me, at least. but i still know you, and i love you all the same. i promise to ask god to come home.

now i sit with you until it’s too cold to write, and i drown in your freezing waters until the only option left is to swim - that is also, undeniably, what you’ve taught me to do.

[2n2n]

What do you think hanako kun and shijima San have in common

Shijima-san is pretty strictly explored within the confines of her arc so, I think I can only reply with the obvious things: that she hates the concept of feel-good surface-level lies meant to placate/comfort or hide you from reality, and they both feel as if murder is a good way to 'save' someone from something they see as far worse. Love and devotion and protection is both of their motivations for ~murder, possibly. Shijima-san is surely one piece of the big puzzle to teach us about the Yugi through example of similar thought process.

Both feel like lying to yourself is worthless. Neither want to perpetuate self-delusion. Hanako is quite brutal to Mitsuba about giving up on dreaming of life, and Shijima-san is quite brutal to Nene about the absoluteness of her short lifespan.

Both are fussy, aloof, antisocial people, with a fakey-fake upsetting veneer of cheerful positivity fronted particularly intensely in circumstances that upset people (intentionally creating distance). Both will look down on the living for their foolish, limited understanding of the reality of life/death.

I really think they butt heads because they are so similar. I can't see a single world they get along. Shijima-san is like… too alpha, wwww. Amane is put-off by it. They can't, talk.... immovable pieces.

Both are intensely self-hating, and feel guilty/responsible for something done to that which they find precious and live to protect or help.

And they both need a cheerful, perky counterpart! The living Shijima Mei is more similar to Nene or Tsukasa. Thoughtful, sweet, energetic! Cheerful, hopeful!

The largest divide between them though, is that Hanako does a lot more…. performance? He can maintain his r'ships with others and does despite that he seems to only truly (by his own definition I assume) care about a few things? I think Shijima-san is the more honorable between them, with her lonely belief system being taken all the way to the bank. She's not out there palling around with Kou and Akane and partying with Yako and Tsuchigomori. Amane is very broody and emo and can make dramatic displays of his indifference to others and lack of humanity, but he isn't quite the epic loner he believes himself to be. Shijima-san is a lot more thorough in her isolation. She lacks 'guff'.

Shijima-san is pretty right to hate Hanako, even while sharing similarities, I mean if you take that kaii distance and emotional brokenness but Also combined it with sexual irreverence and possessiveness of a 'random' (as far as she knows) girl, it's like, innately disgusting and uncomfortable to watch. LOL. Hanako sure is hard to like..... and as Shijima-san is bound to her duty and takes it seriously, I'm sure seeing Hanako faff off with a girl is like..... impossible to respect. Kind of a betrayal to what it means to be devoted to your object, to obsess on something unrelated to it. He looks disloyal or half-committed or distractible. You couldn't imagine Shijima-san moving away from her 1-track devotion to Mei.

[bh-writingdump]

C@ve Sl@ve

Last Chapter of Divine Punishment

[1st draft]

It reminds me of Red/Sans in Divine Punishment. He endured being murdered by someone he loved only to come back and not being able to cope with that reality. If it was cut and dry, kill his mate, it’d be one thing but seeing someone else make a toy out of his mate broke something inside him.

I don’t think it clicked while he wasn’t quite as bad as crest but he wasn’t all that much better. he still pushed and bent the rules of consent.

Its about how when your destroyed feeling something so strongly, it takes time to feel safe enough to put the pieces back together.

I could see Red coming back but not entirely remembering what happened. He remembers that he couldn’t find CEO but not the reasons around it. he may know he was beaten but not know all the details. Maybe it’s even a shock that CEO doesn’t beat him the moment CEO sees him as him.

This would be after clothing and either at or close to the temple.

CEO wants to know, “Did you disobey the spirit of the deal due to insatiable hunger or did you have control?”

Red: fuck yeah it was me. enjoyed every second of it.

You: course it was, why did I ever—

You clutch your belly as the vines bounce around inside. To think that even for a second you thought he had a redeeming quality… You turn your back on the bound skeleton.

Red: are ya seriously leaving me with the fish?!

You: why not it’s what you deserve

Red: what you say?

You: but not the rest of you

You return, kneeling beside red staring at him with a kind of intensity that makes him ready for an attack.

You: Wolf, I know you can hear me.

Red: who the hell are you talking—

You covered his teeth.

You: you’re good. same as Mx wolf. I’ve not known many folks in my life but you two are some that…” CEO opens and closes their hands, blinking away the tears. “I wish I had appreciated the time I had with you two but.. it wasn’t the right time.”

Red: you’re going insane now? heh, who would’ve thought I’d be the one to break you.

You: you can do better. be better

You take a dep breath, “Goodbye”

Far down the hall, the pain gets worse. Glaring as you feel spindly vines pour out of your cunt. Alphys tries to help you out but its out of her field of expertise. All you can do is give drugs and strap you down for observation.

Vision fills your eyes. You see yourself back with Red again. “You don’t’ get ta leave till I say you do.”

You laugh, he slams you against the wall. You see him depict you as scared. You merge with his vision, you control you, he controls him. staring back. at him you say “it’s over.”

“I fucked up. Is that what you want me to say?”

You sigh s he drops you. the vision shimmers as his concentration falters. “Red, do you remember Crest?”

“Who?.. we never… did you?” His gaze narrows.

“Wolf got most of the eggs. Couldn’t get one. it’s a clone.

“Then lemme get it. I can fix it.”

You shake your head, too tired to explain.

Wolf howls in the background. For once, the immovable mask on Red shakes but he shrugs it back on. “there’s no way. You should be dead.”

“Up until recently, I might’ve made it. Wolf was flushing me out ever week. it’d been suppressing the clone’s progress but now… there’s nothing to hold it back.”

“Get back here! I’m getting that out!”

You sigh, rubbing your face. “Red, there’s a million humans out there. Go find another to toy with.” The vision breaks down. your brought back to the room. As you predicted, the vines had taken over, in their center, Crest stood in a collection of pollen and dust. His smirk as sharp as ever.

“It’s over. I’ll be bead within the hour.” You explain.

Crest: don’t worry, the first thing I did was nullify that pesky poison.

With the vines out, your cunt feels overused. So when a slimy vine slides along its lips, you shudder.

“Liar.” You hiss.

“We’ll see~”

He calls down the hall. “Doctor, if you so please?”

Alphys stumbles out jerkily, vines coming out of her mouth. She pulls out a needle, pressing it into your arm. You wince as the cold fluid is pumped into your veins.

“Thank you~ that will be all.”

Alphys collapses in a corner. You founder as Crest forms a physical body out of vines. “Relax, I’m about to bloom, if you do exactly what I say, you too can be reborn with me.”

“I’d rather die.” you want to say but his touch silences you. Every part o your body equal parts terrified as slowly getting aroused. “Yes…” he purrs, angling his dick for your cunt. He inches in.

You try to hold back your moans.

“How exquisite. Are you sure you weren’t made for me?”

You try to lean away as he inches into you. his lips follow, peppering soft kisses up and down your neck. You whimper. “oh, com now. I can see how your body wants me. don’t lie.” The wet slap of his dick in you sends a flash of headiness through you. you moan as your body works against you, tightening around Crest’s dick.

Out of nowhere, Red breaks in, cuts down Crest, then tears his dick and the vines off you. You can’t stand with the drugs in you begging for something in you. Red tries to escape the facility but the vines restrain him no matter how he shifts into a wolf so he returns to himself.

“Aw, how precious.. why don’t we give you a happy reunion before you die, yes?”

Crest fucks you from behind until you’re a babbling mess. Begging for more. Billions of tendrils drill into your ass while you jerk off red. Red, for his part, keeps trying to attack crest but the vines restrain him, giving you free access to his dick.

“Why wait? Why not make zem yours?”

Crest puts you on Red’s dick. You immediately get nervous even with the drugs. He’s big erect. You sob at how you stretch.

Red’s pissed but tries to calm you, coaxing you into sucking his tits to cover up the pain with arousal. Though the tears keep coming, barely gives you relief.

Crest puppets Red. “See what you missed?”

“Don’t listen to him. just you and me.” Red says.

You cling to Red, burying your face in his chest as you slowly get fucked a vine in your mouth stops you from speaking, more burrow into your ass.

It’s so much stimulation.

Too much.

“How dull. Alphys!” Crest calls.

“you fucking—gah!” Red says.

Reds dick swells from the injection until blood leaks from your cunt and the vines hall you hard on and off Red’s dick.

You flop up and doll like a rag doll. his dick burrowing up into your ribcage.

Alphys kills Crest but not before your rendered insane, groaning and choking on so much cum and vines as they pump cum into you.

Red can’t stand the blood, you dying like this so when you ask for more, unable to beg for death except by sending a vision, he complies.

And snaps your neck.

.

.

.

[CS: Last] pg9 -->

[nashamuktipunjab]

Nasha Mukti Kendra in Punjab

Introduction:

In the heartland of Punjab, where rich areas influence the breeze and dynamic culture flourishes, there exists a reference point of trust for those hooking on the chains of enslavement. The Nasha Mukti Kendra stands as an asylum, advertising comfort and bolstering people longing to break free from the clutches of substance mishandling. Inside its dividers, stories of versatility, change, and recovery unfurl, portraying a representation of boldness amid adversity.

Understanding Addiction:

Addiction, a persistent enemy, knows no bounds. It creeps treacherously into lives, shattering dreams and tearing families separated. In Punjab, the flay of substance mishandling, especially liquor and drugs, has cast a shadow over endless lives, clearing out behind a path of demolition. However, amid this haziness, the Nasha Mukti Kendra develops as a beam of light, advertising a way to freedom from the shackles of addiction.

A Safe House of Healing:

Nestled amid a quiet environment, the Nasha Mukti Kendra serves as a sanctuary for recuperating for people hooked on compulsion. Here, sympathy rules are incomparable as devoted experts and volunteers amplify making a difference hand to those in require. The travel to restraint starts with detoxification, where people experience a handle of cleansing both body and intellect, clearing the way for significant transformation.

Holistic Approach to Recovery:

At the Nasha Mukti Kendra, recuperation rises above insignificant restraint; it envelops an all-encompassing approach to mending. Through a mix of counseling, treatment, and otherworldly direction, people set out on a travel of self-discovery and recharging. Gathering sessions cultivate camaraderie and solidarity, reminding people that they are not alone in their battle. In addition, professional preparation and ability improvement programs enable people to chart a modern course for themselves, free from the limitations of addiction.

Breaking the Stigma:

In Punjab, where societal shame frequently compounds the challenges confronted by people fighting enslavement, the Nasha Mukti Kendra catalyzes alteration. Through community outreach programs and mindfulness campaigns, Kendra endeavors to break down obstructions and cultivate a culture of acknowledgment and understanding. By destigmatizing enslavement, the Kendra clears the way for more noteworthy compassion and bolsters those on the way to recovery.

Celebrating Victory Stories:

Amidst the trials and tribulations of compulsion, minutes of triumph sparkle brightly at the Nasha Mukti Kendra. Each victory story is a confirmation of the unstoppable human soul and the control of flexibility. From recovering misplaced connections to rediscovering a sense of reason, each turning point marks a noteworthy step toward a brighter, calmer future. Through celebration and praise, the Kendra reaffirms its commitment to strolling nearby people on their travel to sobriety.

Looking Towards the Future:

As the sun sets on another day at the Nasha Mukti Kendra, trust waits in the discussion like a delicate breeze. Each first light messengers an unused starting, advertising new openings for development and change. With immovable commitment and boundless kindness, Kendra proceeds to serve as a reference point of trust for all those looking for flexibility from habit. Together, hand in hand, we walk towards a future where restraint rules are preeminent, and each person is enabled to live life to the fullest.

Conclusion:

In the maze of enslavement, the Nasha Mukti Kendra stands as a directing light, enlightening the way to collectedness with kindness, mettle, and conviction. Through its all-encompassing approach to recuperation, the Kendra offers a haven where people can set out on a travel of mending and recharging. As we celebrate the triumphs and flexibility of those who have strolled through its entryways, we are reminded of the transformative control of trust and the persevering guarantee of a brighter tomorrow.

For more information visit us :

[yhwhrulz]

Worthy Brief - April 26, 2024

We are the "bikoreem" of creation!

Leviticus 23:10-12 "Speak to the children of Israel, and say to them: 'When you come into the land which I give to you, and reap its harvest, then you shall bring a sheaf of the firstfruits of your harvest to the priest. He shall wave the sheaf before the Lord, to be accepted on your behalf; on the day after the Sabbath the priest shall wave it. And you shall offer on that day, when you wave the sheaf, a male lamb of the first year, without blemish, as a burnt offering to the Lord.

1 Corinthians 15:20-23 But now Christ is risen from the dead, and has become the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For since by man came death, by Man also came the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ all shall be made alive. But each one in his own order: Christ the firstfruits, afterward those who are Christ's at His coming.

This season of the Resurrection also occurs during a significant Old Testament feast day, the feast of “Firstfruits” (Hebrew, “bikoreem”). When Yeshua (Jesus) rose from the dead he was the firstfruit of the resurrection. On that day the keys of Hell and Death were obtained by our Lord. The apostle Paul connected the resurrection with the feast of Firstfruits in his letter to the congregation at Corinith. "But now Christ is risen from the dead, and has become the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep."

Remember in the Garden of Gethsemane that all the disciples had fled in terror because of their connection with Yeshua. Yet not much later they experienced an astounding transformation which empowered them to preach the gospel fearlessly and face all kinds of suffering and martyrdom. What inspired this transformation? The resurrection… the living, breathing Lord who appeared to them in a glorious resurrected body. No longer were they concerned about this life, having experienced the reality that death's power had been absolutely overcome and there was nothing remaining in this world to threaten or shake their complete confidence in eternal life.

The letter of James identifies believers in Jesus as "a kind of firstfruits of all He created"; [James 1:18]. Through our faith In the Lord's resurrection, we have received His Holy Spirit and gained His resurrection life and power. It is a power over the fear of death, an overcoming power which enables us to endure and triumph over every kind of threat, problem, affliction, every trial or test involving suffering, pain, even the greatest anguish this life can bring. It's the same power that filled the Lord's disciples and transformed them from terrified men into fearless witnesses.

We are no longer bound by the circumstances of our lives – but, as "firstfruits" who share in the resurrection life of our Lord, are empowered to endure, be transformed by, and ultimately overcome everything we face. Paul exults in this wondrous triumph, “But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." And then he offers this exhortation, "Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.”

We are the “bikoreem”, the "firstfruits" of the resurrection and we are no longer bound by the troubles and problems of this world. We can "count them all joy" as "steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord" we know that our labor is not in vain!

Shabbat Shalom and have a great weekend!

Your family in the Lord with much agape love,

George, Baht Rivka, Obadiah and Elianna (Dallas, TX)

(Baltimore, Maryland)

Editor's Note: During this war, we have been live blogging throughout the day -- sometimes minute by minute on our Telegram channel. - https://t.me/worthywatch/ Be sure to check it out!

Editor's Note: We are planning our summer Tour so if you would like us to minister at your congregation, home fellowship, or Israel focused event, be sure to let us know ASAP. You can send an email to george [ @ ] worthyministries.com for more information.

[lotusug]

IN THE QUIET, 3RD HOUR || CHAPTER 1 EXECUTION

“Now let’s see what your story of your life beholds.”

cw: decapitation

To everyone else:

A scroll emerges from the same inky depths, open to three simple characters.

清悪果.

Sei Ak-ka. 清 Sei, meaning pure or clean. 悪果 Ak-ka, meaning disastrous result. The aftermath of a tumultuous, 12-hour labor, with a newborn grip that could snap tarsals. What a beautiful, contradictory name: to be pure but to bring calamity where one goes. To have evil in your name, and to be complicit to it because there is no other option. What kind of a life does someone with that name lead?

On an endless rolling scroll of paper, you see exactly that play out.

To Ak-ka:

She opens her eyes to a beige, flat expanse, almost pulp-like in texture. (If there was a mirror to peer into, Ak-ka would realize that she was ink on a page, a pawn in her own story. But alas: victims in a scheme do not realize that they are being played. Such is the case here.) Truthfully, she expected an execution to be more… terrifying. Borne, hot flames and righteous gavel, the snap of a neck, the jolt of a shock so strong that it would obliterate her veins to cinders. No, there was no such thing here. No, it was, really, much worse than she could ever imagine.

Ink splashes onto the space, outlines the scene. It's two children, each in their respective homes adjacent to each other. They don't know each other yet, but will soon. Ak-ka remembers them. She remembers them all too well. 

Even at 6 years old, K▓▓▓– 

Or, no. She remembered now, didn’t she? Remembered her name. 

Kiyo. 

To everyone else: 

梅山清. 

Umeyama Kiyo. 梅山 Umeyama, meaning plum mountain. 清 Kiyo, meaning pure or clean. Ak-ka has always loved that they shared the same kanji between them; the only good thing about her surname, really. (She has always loved everything they shared.) And unlike Ak-ka– Kiyo suited her name well. Through the years, she bloomed like fresh spring water from the ground. Ak-ka was the rage of a river; Kiyo was the silence of a pool, ever-reflecting. 

Perfect sides of the same coin. 

Back to Ak-ka: 

The years, truly, pass in blissful insignificance. They manage to enjoy many years together despite Kiyo’s weak constitution, despite the sudden bouts of illness. When she was bedridden, unable to weave or dye or tend fields– Ak-ka was there, immovable and sure. And there, by her side, was where Ak-ka wanted to stay for the rest of her life. In their snow-capped, isolated village, untouched by time. But reality is, of course, not so kind. 

A splotch against the background, Ak-ka watches the next scene unfold. Watches as Kiyo collapses to the ground, sweating from fever and unresponsive. Another Ak-ka– it’s almost uncanny how she can see the expressions on her own face unfold in real-time. Pensive worry, exploding into something more the longer Kiyo doesn’t respond. 

In stolen, sleepless moments, they decide together: it was time to descend the mountain. 

Ak-ka has never known life without Kiyo. Doesn’t care to. She would do anything to shoulder the weight that drags Kiyo to her knees, that drags the breath from her lungs, sinks the life in her eyes. She would even leave behind the comfort of her hometown, the reach of her family and younger sisters, the life they had always imagined far, far away from civilization. She would even move to Tokyo if that meant Kiyo could be saved. 

And, well. You know the rest, don’t you? 

Bed-bound to hospital-bound. Farmer to bouncer. Ak-ka makes ends meet through sheer perseverance. When her sisters follow quickly after, reunited, she thinks that things might just be alright. It wasn’t ideal but… Ak-ka could survive this. This was nothing. 

Until of course, nothing becomes something. 

A descent into Shibuya. A descent into an unfamiliar world, where Ak-ka is powerless to control her circumstances. A descent into slow madness as the core of her is removed, Kiyo, Kiyo K▓yo K▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓. 

What (or who) was the reason that she even agreed to play this game for? What was the question that she wanted answered? Why doesn’t she remember? 

(The place beside her bed is warm, but there is no body to fill the space. She is 6 years old and approaching the house next door, but nobody is home. Ak-ka feels the wrongness of it in her teeth. The absence wrenches her gut like poison.)

Ak-ka has always been bound. Bound to familial responsibility; bound to her name. Murder is the least she could do, to fulfill her purpose. Ak-ka was always born to be a pawn in someone else’s game. 

Ruri seems to think so. So when she brandishes the kitchen knife from her gaudy sleeve, Ak-ka already understands: she has already lost. It is one thing to be a murderer– it is another thing to be a good murderer. Ak-ka, in this world, only knows what she can see right in front of her. Slave to that empty space, yawning through the years. K▓▓▓ is the only thing that matters. 

Ruri thought they were on equal ground? Ruri’s paltry career failings, equal to her dying wife? Don’t be absurd. You, deserving that wish? You couldn’t possibly believe… you, over her? You? YOU…?

To everyone else: 

The scenes of this life story are coming to an end, and the scroll runs blank for a minute before lines re-appear. The image is… familiar. Very familiar. 

Ak-ka for the last time: 

The beige walls surrounding Ak-ka seem to close in, compressing her sides from every angle until she feels herself flat against a wall. Her limbs are heavy and can’t move, almost suctioned in place like fish at a market. In front… there is everyone else, still on that train. They’re watching, their gazes surely in several states of disarray, or perhaps disinterest. Ak-ka doesn’t find it in herself to blame them for what’s about to happen. Love, right? 

Sweat is beading on her upper lip. The blood is draining from her face, she can tell. Ak-ka doesn’t think she can face the music… so she doesn’t. 

To everyone else: 

Ak-ka closes her eyes. And that’s when Enma appears. 

It happens fast, and without much warning: with a flick of her wrist, she brandishes a blade– perhaps it’s the same one that was plucked out of the fruit kitchen, maybe not– and pierces the scroll right at the edge. Teasing. Ak-ka, unable to move or escape, instead waits for the final piece to fall, and the game to end (at least, for her). The dark pigment that lines her features is starting to feather and bleed.

And indeed bleed it does– when the blade slices its way right through the fabric, blood– real blood, red and melting– falls into the inkstone below. The portrait of what used to be Ak-ka Sei chokes on it; tries not to. Enma holds the scroll like she might hold a head, and then– drops it into the waiting pool of ink below. The waves take it, eagerly. 

Her shrill laugh is the last thing Ak-ka hears before everything fades away into inky black.