#we need to keep liberals away from sharp objects at this point

[hussyknee]

Genuinely thought this was calling for Biden to step down and then that last line fucking nuked me from orbit.

[belit0]

Sibling Issues

Chap 2

Rating: E

Pairing: [Uchiha Madara / Uchiha Izuna / Fem Reader]

TW: nope

[DON'T HATE ME OMG THIS HAS BEEN ON MY MIND AND I HAD TO WRITE IT laufuekwslak]

Madara has always been perverse with his punishments, profoundly enjoying the sight of you suffering in front of his eyes, witnessing your despair to an almost maddening extent. It is not as if you had something to complain about, being tied up and over-stimulated to the limit of frustration by a man like him seemed like a dream, and every time you felt his expert fingers wandering through the scars he created in your skin, you wondered if your relationship with the Uchiha was not purely a charming fantasy.

That's how you felt at that moment, imprisoned in bed, naked and bound by hands and legs. With your limbs forced to stay apart by ropes, it is your man who watches you from his intimidating height, standing in front of you, rejoicing in your humiliation.

Gagged with your panties, you cannot speak or beg for mercy, for knowing him, you know that something heavy is coming, even considering the torture he has been inflicting on you for the past thirty minutes. How did you end up in this situation? You refused to accompany him to his meeting with Hashirama this morning, as the previous night was filled with passion and rudeness on his part, and you really needed to sleep. Of course he did not take your disobedience well, and no opportunity escapes Madara to punish you when you are a bad girl.

Crossed arms in front of the bed, wearing a black turtleneck shirt, with his hair pulled up in a ponytail and ready to leave again, he observes you with malice. In one of his hands, a black vibrator is off, glowing with your fresh fluids because it has been recently removed from you. He's only wearing gloves on one of his hands, and it's the one he's not holding the object he's using to tease you.

"Now, [Y/N], I'd love to stay and play with that sweet, tight pussy of yours, but I've been summoned by the elders of the Clan to a private meeting. You have 10 seconds to cum, otherwise you will remain tied up until my return."

Flushed and on the verge of tears, you did your best in begging him to take you, as the constant stimulus he had been applying to you for the past half hour was too much, and you could no longer bear it. In fact, you weren't even sure you could concentrate enough to cum with the speed he was demanding.

The incoherence of your words, which were suffocated by the fabric of your underwear, and the drool that fell from your mouth because of the inability to close it completely, only made Madara laugh in front of you, sending even more heat to your lower body and a feeling of deep humiliation to the whole situation.

This man delights in throwing you low.

"Keep quiet, are we clear?"

Approaching your dripping cunt again, he turned on the vibrator, while slowly positioning himself between your legs. He travelled all over your skin with the moving object, rubbing all areas of your body and purposely avoiding your clitoris. Staring into your eyes, the devilish grin on his face was unable to wipe off his features, enjoying your helplessness and cravings, the need to feel pleasure and liberation once and for all.

When a tear escaped from one of your eyes, he decided he could give you what you finally deserved, and without warning, he directed the vibrator that was slowly massaging your nipples towards your pussy, pressing it directly on your sensitive pearl, watching you with expectant eyes.

Your back curved upwards, while you pressed your hips towards him, seeking even more support and contact with the object that would give you your long-awaited orgasm. Your eyes inevitably closed, and your mouth opened in an incredible way, making your underwear go even deeper into it.

“1… 2… 3…”

In the face of Madara's hasty account, you remembered with effort his warning, and made your greatest effort to direct your mind to the greatest point of pleasure, even without being able to move your legs or arms.

"4... 5... 6... such an obedient little whore..."

At the compliment of your man, the motivation you really needed appeared, and you could feel the much-awaited moment finally arrive.

“7… 8… 9…”

And before he could reach the end of the count, one of your best orgasms hit your senses, causing your whole body to shake and your limbs to seek compression against your figure, protecting your sensitive clitoris from the abusive prolonged sensation of the vibrator.

When he saw that you met his demand, he walked away from you and removed the object, took the panties from your mouth and gave you water to drink.

"Well done [Y/N], I expected nothing less from you... but I regret to inform you this is not enough."

"W-Wha-at?"

"You abandoned me all alone with Hashirama and his delusions of worldly friendship all morning. Did you think such a modest punishment would save you, doll?"

"Madara please!"

He took your jaw with his gloved hand, exerting a slight pressure to open your mouth, and pushed the same underwear back into your cavity. A muffled scream escaped your mouth in surprise, which the Uchiha easily silenced with a slap on your thigh.

Leaving you tied up, he turned on the vibrator again, and there you understood the worst was what you were about to face. He pushed the object deep inside you, wiped his fluid-soaked hand on a towel, arranged his clothes and put on the missing glove.

"I'll take my time; I expect to return and find you a mess."

You couldn't even think of an answer, as the pleasure and sensitivity your body was experiencing at the same time was too much to concentrate on anything else.

With a firm step and completely unconcerned with your condition, Madara disappeared out the door of the room, while his steps were heard increasingly faint in the corridor. A second later, the front door opened before closing again, leaving you alone in front of Uchiha's mansion.

Your figure twisted in bed, thanking every orgasm caused by the vibrator inside you and trying to cooperate with the over-stimulation, forcing the ropes that kept you tied up, trembling at every sensation and movement, your skin bristling and your eyes watering from such torture.

So abstracted were you in your world of self-indulgence that you did not hear the front door open and close again.

Nor did you hear the footsteps outside the room.

Nor did you hear the voice of a man who was not Madara asking if everything was okay.

Reality hit you again when your reddish eyes met those of Uchiha Izuna, who, for some reason unrelated to you, was at your house, at your bedroom door, witnessing the kinks you and your man shared.

"...I-I... I-I... shouldn't b-be here..."

As the Uchiha was about to leave, the vibrator touched a key point inside you, making you scream loud and deeply while another orgasm was released into your body. The muffled moans caught his attention, and the way your body contorted itself mesmerized him into an inexplicable spell.

Awakening from the enchantment of your figure, Izuna realized that his Sharingan had been activated, and that in his memory now lay engraved the intimate moment of you reaching your peak of pleasure. Ashamed of himself for even having such thoughts with his brother's partner, he walked over to the bed, and removed the garment that prevented you from speaking.

"I'm sorry [Y/N] I'll leave you alone and..."

"PLEASE IZUNA HELP ME."

Stupefied by his uselessness and feeling guilty about your clear suffering, the Uchiha tried to regain his composure and not let himself be carried away by the image in front of him.

"S-Sure! Just... just tell me what I have to do."

"UNTIE MY HANDS."

Obeying your demands, he quickly released your two wrists, having to lean slightly over you to untie the one at the other end of the bed. When you regained movement, something fierce took hold of your mind, and the fact of having another Uchiha in front of you, belonging to Madara's family, no less than his little brother, set your senses on fire even more.

Taking him by the hair with force, you made his face bend towards you, brutally bumping his lips against yours. Izuna found himself reluctant to reciprocate the kiss at first, but when your tongue slipped over his lips in hunger and need, his mouth opened without hesitation and devoured you with the same intensity.

Separating slightly and for a second, you managed to look him in the eye and tell him.

"Please fuck me Izuna."

"Shit, if you ask like that."

He quickly positioned himself between your legs, and rapidly Dropping your almost numb extremities on the mattress, you watched as he removed the vibrator from your interior, moaning at every centimeter of the object.

In the blink of an eye, his clothes lay forgotten somewhere in the room, and a hardened limb stood in front of your entrance. Aligning himself with you, his thrust was sharp and direct, penetrating you mercilessly.

He leaned over you, hiding his face in the hollow of your neck and biting into your skin, while your legs locked around his waist to feel him completely within you. Your hands became entangled in his hair, and soon you found yourself undoing his ponytail so you could pull his strands more easily.

His breaths became agitated, short and deep, arousing you even more, to the point where you thought it was no longer possible to receive stimulation. His muscles above you tensed with every movement of his hip, and with your tightened eyes, you breathed in his male scent with despair.

"I'm going to... ah... fuck you so well... shit... that you'll forget... his name... Kami... you're so tight [Y/N]"

"I-Izuna-a -gasp- I'm c-com-ming -gasp-"

Upon hearing your response, his thrusts took on a new speed, an almost overwhelming pace for your labored body, making you reach the last orgasm of the night with just a few moves. You felt his cum spread inside you, covering your walls with that warm liquid, and your mind was delighted with satisfaction.

Until you realized what had really happened.

And when Izuna came down from his orgasm, he couldn't help but feel less guilty than you.

"[Y/N]... what... what have we done..."

[porcelain-blue]

Let Me Help Your Aching Bones

Canon Divergence AU where Lan Zhan doesn’t run away from Wei Ying after kissing him in the Pheonix mountains. 

----- 

What if it didn’t turn out the way it did; not fire and blood and years of Wei Ying’s absence like a discordant note of a guqin song?

What if Lan Wangji catches Wei Ying right before he hatches his plan to liberate the Wen civilians? Maybe it would be something like this.

The dark circles and angry set of Wei Ying’s shoulders feels like a punch to the gut, and leaves Lan Wangji’s chest tight, out of breath. It feels like the boy he fell in love with is fading before his eyes, and Wangji must do something about it before Wei Ying is lost. He has a sour feeling in his gut, a grim certainty that if he does not reach him now, Wei Ying might forever be lost to him.

So he goes, corners Wei Ying during the Night-hunt on Phoenix mountain, pushes him up against a tree as the dusk settles around them like a lover’s embrace. He cannot help himself, despite his shame, his patience and heart frayed beyond measure after months of worrying, worrying about Wei Ying dead, and after the brief elation of hearing him alive, worrying about Wei Ying dying, eaten from inside by the resentment of the path he walks. 

He kisses him, and there is enough of the sunlit boy he fell in love with in Wei Ying’s response, fluttery and flighty, an awkward laugh even as he is pushed against a tree and kissed by a stranger. Wei Ying’s hands flex despite being pinned, and something in Lan Wangji’s heart breaks, knowing that even in this vulnerable a situation, Wei Ying is compassionate enough to not fight, to let someone take something Wangji is sure he thinks is expendable, for the sake of another. His hand pinning Wei Ying’s wrist spasms at the thought, angry that Wei Ying could give something like this away, ashamed that he himself is the one taking it, when it was not something that belonged to him. 

Wei Ying does not belong to him.

He pulls back, guilt coursing through him, and hesitates a moment before releasing Wei Ying’s hands. He pauses, waiting to see what Wei Ying would do. 

He does nothing, and Wangji’s heart lurches. He can almost imagine Wei Ying’s mind working, quicksilver in its deductions, assuming that someone had plucked up all of their courage to approach him when he couldn’t see them, holding himself back instead of pulling his blindfold off, so that he doesn’t embarrass his attacker.

Wangji knows Wei Ying well. He would give everything for the sake of another. Wangji knows how, having taken for himself the sweet breath of Wei Ying, knows that he cannot bear to see Wei Ying give anything else to him without wanting it. Lan Wangji will do everything in his power to stop Wei Ying burning himself whole for the world.

For that, Wangji must atone. He does not run away. He grips Bichen so hard that he is sure a lesser sword would shatter in his hands, the way he is sure his heart will do soon. He speaks.

“Wei Ying,” he says, softly, with shame.

At his voice, Wei Ying stills. Wangji knows he has been recognised, and he feels like everything inside him will break at once.

Wei Ying rips off the ribbon, staring at him with wide eyes, a flush still high on his cheekbones. 

“Lan Zhan?” He says, confused and unsure.

Lan Wangji steels himself. Lying is prohibited. He gathers every ounce of courage that has been pressed into him since he was born, every virtue and precept that has formed into his core and he prepares his integrity like a weapon he is using to stab himself with.

“Wei Ying. I am sorry. I have taken what I should not have. I have forgotten myself.”

He bows, back straight even as his hand shakes around his sword, and hopes that Wei Ying can see that at least in this he is sincere, he regrets.

---

Wei Ying is quiet for many moments, the shock of seeing Lan Zhan bowing so deeply almost eclipsing the shock of seeing Lan Zhan in front of him after that kiss. The usual animosityshamelonging that usually surges in him at the sight of Lan Zhan’s stupidly perfect face has apparently been kissed out of him temporarily, and Wei Ying feels like he can breathe without the dead in his lungs for the first time since he came back with Chenqing in hand and the dead at his fingertips. 

“Lan Zhan, what-what why? Were you the one who..?” He doesn’t know what to say, even as heat flushes through him at the idea of Lan Zhan kissing him. Kissing him! It is obvious, though, in the shame and pink in Lan Zhan’s ears that he is he one who had taken Wei Ying’s first kiss. Despite how ridiculous the situation is, something soft unfurls in his heart at the sight of Lan Zhan like this, so noble, so full of integrity after doing something that, apparently, his heart desired. Wei Wuxian thinks of the cloud recesses, the sharp straightness of Lan Zhan as he kneels beside him and takes the punishment that Wei Ying had gotten him into. He hasn’t changed at all. The pain that pricks him at the sight of such perfect morals comes back, then, and Wei Wuxian wonders what the paragon of virtue is doing, kissing him in the backwoods of the Phoenix mountains. 

Still though, the first kiss of his life from the man he has been in love with for years tugs stronger than his self esteem, for once tugs stronger than the gaping hole in his chest where his golden core once was, where now resentment pulses like a sick parody of what power his body once held. It tugs, and the soreness of his lips and wrists pull him right into the present, and Lan Zhan is still here, trembling and bowed in shame.

He steps forward and places his hands gingerly under Lan Zhan’s elbows, pulling him out of his bow and tilting his head so he can look him in the eye. Lan Zhan’s mouth is pressed into an unhappy line, despite being a little swollen, and his eyes-

Oh.

His eyes are soft and looking at him like Wei Ying is going to break, like Lan Zhan, Hanguang-jun, one of the twin jades of Gusu, cares. He looks frighteningly like he is about to cry, and Wei Wuxian finally sees in that perfect face that what he assumed was derision and judgement was something far simpler and purer- it was worry. 

“Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, I’m not mad, please don’t cry,” he stammers, still gripping onto Lan Zhan’s elbows as though those two points of contact in his palms are the only thing keeping him from becoming unmoored.

“I’m not mad, it’s not a big deal, it’s just a kiss, even though it’s my first one, so you should be really proud, okay?” Nervous chatter pours out of him as he shakes.

“I just. I just need to know. Why? Lan Zhan? Why did you kiss me?”

If it is for a joke he will shatter, and the only thing that is allowing fragile hope to grow in him is the knowledge that Lan Zhan is the most honest man he knows, the most un-shameless, un-flirtatious person ever to exist in the cultivation world. So by process of elimination-

“Because I care for Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, resolute even as the flush travels even further down his neck. He has chosen this path by not running away, by revealing himself to Wei Ying. At the very least, he is glad to know that by owning up to his lack of control has returned him to himself, and his own character. Honesty comes from him now, as it always has, frank and unvarnished.

“I have always cared. Since we fought in the cloud recesses. I did not show it well, then, but I am tired of lying,” he continues before Wei Ying can interject or object, determined now to get the words clawing out of his chest a space to exist. 

“I do not expect anything from Wei Ying, and if you wish it you will never see me again. But I.. I wanted Wei Ying to know, that he does not have to do things alone. I will stand beside you, if you wished it.”

Wei Ying is staring at him, mouth agape. He closes it, opens his mouth, and closes it again. After a moment, he speaks. 

“Lan Zhan, are you serious?” He looks lost, and Lan Zhan wants to hold him until he knows he is found, if Wei Ying will let him.

He nods. “Lying is prohibited, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying huffs a little laugh at that, and Lan Zhan’s poor, pathetic heart jumps at the sound, and impossible hope beating with his blood. 

“Lan Zhan, did you forget that I’m going down the path of evil? I thought you didn’t approve? Your reputation is going to get dragged through the mud if you’re with me, you know that, right?” 

Wei Ying’s hands are clutching at his sleeves, and they are warm through the fabric of his robes. Lan Zhan frowns, and answers haltingly, as honestly as he knows how to.

“Wei Ying is not evil. There is something else that I do not know. You are not one to be reckless without reason. And… my reputation is good enough for both of us.”

He cannot help but be a little petulant as he says it, even as he flushes with guilt. Arrogance is prohibited. It is true, though, and Lan Zhan is not above using his social position if it means he can help Wei Ying through this.

Wei Ying groans, and pulls his hands back toward himself, leaving Lan Zhan’s elbows and forearms bereft of his warmth. His heart drops, fearing that Wei Ying will want nothing to do with him now, that he messed up and now he will be unable to even watch him from afar, but the Wei Ying drags a hand down his face and sighs, looking back at him with a wry smile that is achingly familiar. 

Wei Ying steps closer, looks at Lan Zhan with eyes more open and clear than they had been for years, even. A hand comes up to rest over Lan Zhan’s heart, fingers curling slightly in the white fabric. 

“You’re serious. You really are.” The dawning realisation tinges his voice with awe, and Lan Zhan dares to hope, again.

“If I said. If I said I was going go against all the sects. What would you do?” 

“I would help.” The answer is simple, a clear, honest truth.

“If I said I was weak, I couldn’t fight equally with you without the demonic path, what would you do, Lan Zhan?” 

He hears it now, in the crack in Wei Ying’s voice, that they are closer now to the thing that is haunting Wei Ying, that is hurting him in a way that turns him into somebody that Lan Zhan does not know.

“Then I will protect you. And I will help bring you back, when the powers are too strong. If Wei Ying will allow that.”

A sharp intake of breath comes, and Lan Zhan hates to hear Wei Ying’s breath hitch like that, like a small broken thing when Wei Ying is always stronger than anyone he knows. But, Lan Zhan amends, if Wei Ying is wounded and hurt and not strong, Lan Zhan will protect him until he is again. 

The hand curled into his chest tightens, snagging the fabric and pulling Lan Zhan forward, until his chest hits Wei Ying’s forehead. They stay like that for a while, and Lan Zhan finds patience in him again, having said all he could say. Wei Ying’s shoulders are shaking, and he is mumbling into Lan Zhan’s chest, his voice broken and muffled. 

“You. You’re crazy, Lan Zhan. You’re so fucking crazy. I must be too, I shouldn’t let you go down with me, but god, I want to,”

Lan Zhan places his hand over Wei Ying’s, closes his palm gently over the white knuckles. 

“Then let me. But I will not let either of us go down.”

Another watery laugh. Wei Ying nods, and his head up at Lan Zhan, and smiles.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’ll allow it, Lan Zhan. Please, please stay with me, I like you so much, I don’t want to let you go now,” Wei Ying pleads, as he cranes his his neck up to look at Lan Zhan, their breaths mingling now, puffs of white in the settling cold of the mountain night

Lan Zhan’s heart soars as he leans down to graze his lips against Wei Ying’s. 

“Then I will stay.”

Every nerve inside him feels cleaved open, every sense alight and narrowed in on the sight weight smell taste of Wei Ying this close to him, kissing him shyly and softly, so unlike the heated press of their first kiss earlier, but so much better.

The night-hunt ends and Wei Ying and Lan Zhan are the only two cultivators who haven’t gotten a single kill, and the cultivators murmur amongst themselves that the infamous Wei Wuxian must not be that powerful, must be all talk and hot air, and Wei Ying finds that he does not mind.

———-

Wei Ying goes to Gusu with Lan Zhan after, telling Jiang Chen that he needed to pay respects and catch up with Lan Zhan. After an irritable slap to the shoulder and a reminder to not cause trouble, Wei Ying is free to go. He feels lighter, now, even though technically nothing has changed him, but he still feels that the pull of the resentment is weaker, frail and easy to break out of. He runs to catch up with Lan Zhan, who is walking at the back of the group travelling to Gusu.

Lan Zhan looks up when he sees him, and while his face is impassive as ever, Wei Ying sees his eyes soften, and warmth suffuses him at the knowledge that that look is for him.

They talk, quietly, about everything and anything, carefully skirting around what they both want to say, mindful of the other disciples. When they finally stop at an inn, Lan Zhan gracefully talks his way into letting them share a room since they did not account for Wei Ying accompanying their party. Wei Ying plays along, dutifully bashful and thanking the esteemed hanguang-jun for his hospitality. The years had tempered his mischievous spirit, but his silver tongue, now reigned into a shape resembling propriety, makes the sect leader and other disciples pause and reassess him against his reputation. He smiles, and they retreat for the night.

Despite the temptation to get Lan Zhan back into his arms and continuing the whole kissing thing, he knows he must get some truths out of the way. Ushering Lan Zhan to the table, he puts up a silence talisman on the door and window before joining Lan Zhan at the table.

He looks beautiful, in the low light of candles and moonlight, straight backed and gentle faced. Lan Zhan has always been patient, and now that the patience has extended to him, Wei Ying truly understands why he is heralded as the paragon of virtue. He thinks about himself, his reputation, the gnawing hole inside him, and tries not to freak out about the two of them together. At the very least, he does not want to disrespect Lan Zhan, who would not be here if he did not mean it.

So he talks. He tells Lan Zhan what happened at Lotus Pier, lets his voice shake and talks into the quiet of the room, and Lan Zhan listens, ever so patiently as Wei Ying spills the truth that has been suffocating him for months. 

Core melting hand, Jiang Cheng’s own golden core melting away to nothing, the mountain, Wen Qing. How the golden core he had developed now sits behind the sternum of his brother, how Jiang Cheng must never know.

“Wei Ying.” 

Lan Zhan’s voice sounds so broken, and Wei Ying tamps down the desire to lash out, fear and shame squirming inside him as he wonders whether Lan Zhan will even want him now, knowing what he knows. His heart stutters until Lan Zhan is kneeling in front of him, grasping his wrists gently with his long, slender fingers. Wei Ying waits. 

“I will protect you, so you do not have to shoulder this alone.” There is something warm and fierce inside those golden eyes, and Wei Ying’s breath stutters as finally, the last knot in his heart loosens, the burden of shame and secrecy halved. He knows, knows that Lan Zhan will not coddle him, knows truly that he is no longer on this godforsaken path alone.

He holds Lan Zhan’s hands in his own, and squeezes his thanks, throat too constricted to reply. Lan Zhan seems to understand, and his eyes do that not smiling but smiling thing again as he moves back to sit, keeping one hand clasped with Wei Ying’s. 

The warmth of Lan Zhan’s hands is an anchor, and he finally breaches the topic of the Wen civilians, and his plan to liberate them.

“What was Wei Ying planning to do?” There is no judgement or censure in his voice, and Wei Ying lets his eyes close for a second as he replies.

“Go in, play the flute and fight my way out?” It sounds feeble, when he says it like that. A small furrow appears between Lan Zhan’s perfect eyebrows.

“Wei Ying.” Ah, there, there’s the censure.

“Wei Ying is usually smart, what happened this time?” Lan Zhan sounds pained, and Wei Ying sputters in indignance. Before he can protest, Lan Zhan continues. 

“What about after? If you liberate them all alone, who will heal you, or them? Where will you go? How will you feed yourselves?” 

The familiar defensive anger wants to surge forth again, wants him to throw the warm hand off his own and tell Lan Wangji that he can do all that and more by himself, but even as his blood heats along with the resentment he knows that Lan Zhan is right, and his plan had been incredibly short sighted. He drags his free hand across his face and through his hair, and sighs.

“What do you think I can do, then? No one else cares, all the sect leaders think all Wen people are dogs for slaughter. What am I supposed to do, Lan Zhan?” 

Lan Zhan thinks for a moment, considering all the information he now has.

“The sect leaders don’t care about the Wen civilians, but they do care about losing face. Now that they are vying for power to fill the Wen clan spot… reputation is important to them now. It’s why they like using you as a scapegoat, so they seem whiter against your black.”

Wei Ying nods, patient. Lan Zhan is like he always is, precise, laying out his answer as though they were at their desks in front of Lan Qiren in the lecture halls of the Cloud Recesses. 

“Wei Ying’s strength is his power and cultivation, but you forget you have other skills.”

Wei Ying blinks, tilting his head to the side in question.

“Your mouth, and shamelessness,” Lan Zhan says, ears going pink. “Wei Ying is good at talking around people until they see your point. If we use it well.. we might be able to turn the tide. The Jin sect will be wary of another uprising.”

The surprise at his shamelessness being a good thing in Lan Zhan’s books notwithstanding, Lan Zhan does have a good point. Wei Ying smiles, wry and soft. In the horror of the past few months, the loss of his home and core, he had forgotten parts of himself and tried to fill the holes with darkness and power. But Lan Zhan remembered. 

He nods in assent, and they start to plan, talking through the night.

———

They begin the next day. Lan Zhan had played Cleansing for him that morning, pulling the roar of resentful energy in him down to a manageable hum. He feels better than he has in months, and greets the Lan Xichen with grace and a genuine smile. Lan Zhan’s brother smiles in surprise, and they have a relatively calm morning as they prepare to continue their journey to Gusu.

Along the way, he chats with disciples of the Lan sect, gossiping with them until their wariness bleeds away when they see that Lan Zhan is amicable with Wei Ying’s antics. They gossip about everything and anything, and slowly the conversation moves towards the Wen clan.

It doesn’t take long before one of the Lan disciples, bless their virtuous hearts, wonders aloud about all the civilians in Qishan who aren’t cultivators. Some of the older disciples shush him, but the topic has ignited an ethics debate, and Wei Ying makes a well placed comment worrying about another clan becoming a new Wen clan with too much power.

Soon most of the desciples are talking about it, enough so that when they stop for a meal at another town, the waiters and innkeepers, mouths loose with such a large party of paying customers, ask them about it.

Wei Ying regales them with the stories, knowing that cultivator gossip is usually eaten up very willingly. He lets the disciples at the table talk first, so that he isn’t the one spreading the story.

“Are there kids too? And old people?” The innkeeper asks, alarmed.

“Yes, they’re just normal people with no cores,” a Lan disciple piped up, indignant with righteousness now that everyone is talking about the Wen camp. “How can they do something like that, they’re just defenceless people!” 

A round of restrained, but unanimous assent goes around the table.

“Aiya, what can we do?” Wei Ying says, sighing with exaggeration. “I tried to bring it up, but the sect leaders probably have more important things to consider, I guess.”

He lets a little bit of bitterness come through the slump of his shoulders, the perfect image of a disappointed young man who tried to do the right thing.

“I guess it’s true that people only care if you’re from an important clan, no one listens to me because I’m just a commoners kid. Maybe those Wen people are also just commoners to the big sect leaders…”

He looks at the innkeeper and the disciples gathered around their table. Their eyes are suspiciously wet, seemingly moved to tears at the idea of the inequalities of life. Wei Ying knows that most of the disciples have never had to consider just how much higher their lives are valued just because of their birth, and smiles at the reminder that he can always count on Lan sect disciples to be full of empathy, even if they are a little lacking in street smarts. 

Lan Zhan, who is quietly eating by Wei Ying’s side, puts down his chopsticks, having finished his meal. 

“They can only be helped if all the sects come together. It would be unfortunate that the cultivation world lets more bloodshed happen even after the Sunshot Campaign has concluded.” 

The juniors look on in awe, and quickly chorus their agreement. 

“You said it right, Hanguang-jun, it’s true, I would hate to be compared to the Wen sect especially so soon after the uprising!”

The conversation continues after the innkeeper leaves their table, and Wei Ying knows that in days, every traveller will be regaled with the story of the plight of civilians suffering just because of the prejudice of the big sects, and also that the infamous dark cultivator Wei Wuxian is actually a tragic underdog that is maligned because of common birth.

———-

 A night before reaching the cloud recesses, the party camps in the woods, with Wei Ying and Lan Zhan accompanying the junior disciples on the night patrol. When they encounter a few angry corpses, Wei Ying nags at the juniors, pushing them to deduce the situation from clues on the corpses, while playing chenqing just enough to keep the disciples safe. Between the two of them, it becomes a practical lesson, and the corpses are dealt with magnificently by the students, and by the end of their journey, at the very least the Lan disciples have lost most of their fear of Wei Wuxian, cultivator of darkness. He eventually becomes senior Wei, and he ribs them all with good nature as Lan Zhan stays behind and beside him, watchful but never overcrowding, a warm, comforting presence. 

They finally reach the cloud recesses, and Wei Ying is ushered into the jingshi for the first time. He laughs at the austere decor, amused and fond as he settles down by Lan Zhan at the guqin.

The notes sound, resonant and rich with spiritual power, and Wei Ying feels Cleansing wash over him, then Rest, calming his mind as the music sinks into his empty, sluggish meridians.

“Thank you, Lan Zhan. It.. it feels better now. Clearer.”

Lan Zhan nods, hums a response, and finally he is there, close and clean and smelling of sandalwood, pressing his forehead into Wei Ying’s as he kisses him, chaste at first and then insistent, hungry. Wei Ying feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to have this, not while people are dying and hurting and maybe he could do something about it, but the spiritual power humming in his veins anchors him, reminds him that he is doing something, that this might, probably will be, more effective than whatever stupid plan he came up with without Lan Zhan. 

For once, he decides to trust, and lets himself go, sinking into the steady wet warmth of Lan Zhan, tugging at him till he is lying atop Wei Ying, chest to chest and dark hair spilling around them, tickling Wei Ying’s nose.

“I still don’t believe you like me like this, Lan Zhan,” he teases, voice lilting as he cards his hands through Lan Zhan’s hair.

“Mn, I was not truthful before. You did not know because I was too afraid.” Lan Zhan’s voice is wry but open, and the warmth and honesty of it all bowls Wei Ying over. It’s dizzying, the knowledge.

“Aiya, you Lans and your show no feelings rules. I’ve been flirting with you for so long, and you didn’t know I liked you? Lan Zhan, I gave you cut sleeve porn!”

Lan Zhan sputters, pale skin giving way to a deep flush at the memory.

“I know now. Wei Ying can keep flirting with me, I will not misunderstand again.”

The determination in his voice makes Wei Ying laugh, terribly fond and almost normal again. He pulls him down for another kiss, and smiles into Lan Zhan’s mouth as he asks, “Did you read any of it? Did you think about doing any of that stuff to me, Lan Zhan?”

The thought makes a bolt of heat rush through his spine, and Wei Ying feels like he is drowning. Lan Zhan presses his face into his neck, embarrassed. Wei Ying heaves himself back up onto his elbows, taking Lan Zhan up with him. The shift pulls the fabric of his inner robe apart, exposing a wide expanse of collarbone and chest, the brand mark an angry welt on his left.  The sight draws a breath out of Lan Zhan, who gently reaches fingers out to graze at the scar. Wei Ying’s breath hitches, and again, that bolt of heat curling in his body at the sight of Lan Zhan’s pale eyes darkening at the sound. 

He licks his lips and summons some of that famous shamelessness that he is known for, pulling his robe open further in invitation. Lan Zhan’s eyes open even wider, and the sight of him staring at Wei Ying, lips spit slick and bruised, eyes wide and dark with his hair in disarray is enough to pry a groan out of Wei Ying.

“Lan Zhan, please, you can.” He clears his throat, and tries again,  “You can touch me. In fact please, please Lan Zhan, I need, I want you to touch me.”

At those words, Lan Zhan finally moves, wide hands splaying on his chest as he runs his palms down Wei Ying’s body, callouses catching on smooth skin until they reach his belt, and after getting a breathless nod, he pulls the belt loose, parting his inner robe completely.

Wei Ying whines at the cold air against him, trying to hold off his embarrassment at being laid bare, flushed and aroused. He tugs at Lan Zhan’s robes, pulling them off his shoulder. Lan Zhan shrugs out of his own robes, bends down to kiss Wei Ying, and wraps his hand around him. He can’t help but gasp, hips bucking as Lan Zhan begins to stroke him, and Wei Ying is going insane, knowing that Lan Zhan is doing it. The thought of being the only one to see Lan Zhan like this, debauched and breathless, sends a thrill through him, and before he loses all his composure he grasps at Lan Zhan’s biceps, squeezing at them until Lan Zhan shifts further up, close enough for Wei Ying to reach down between them and- 

Oh god. 

Lan Zhan is thick and heavy in his hand, the soft, keening sound Lan Zhan makes when Wei Ying grasps him sends a jolt right through every vertebrae in him. He takes a shuddering breath, and wriggles down until their cocks are lined up against each other, gasping at the searing sensation of blessed, perfect contact. Lan Zhan’s fingers stroke the both of them together as Wei Ying gasps into his mouth, incoherent moans and pleading escaping him as he rocks up against the man he has loved for years without knowing that he was loved in turn. The cracking edge of loneliness and warmth chokes him, and he sobs a little, mindless with emotion and pleasure as he crests closer to the edge. 

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, please,” he breathes, “I’m close, please, please,” he trails off into more incoherent mumbles as Lan Zhan strokes them hard, once, twice, and Wei Ying throws his head back and arches against the hard floor, pleasure whiting out every other thought in his brain outside of Lan Zhan’s name, Lan Zhan’s body, Lan Zhan against him heavy and solid and perfect as he follows Wei Ying, hips and hands stuttering until they lie panting, pressed together in a sweaty tangle on the floor. 

After some time Lan Zhan shifts up, leaving to grab a cloth to wipe them both clean before pulling Wei Ying up on his feet. He winces, rubbing his sore back.

“Lan Zhan, why didn’t we do this on your bed? You have a perfectly good bed right there!”

Lan Zhan hums, fond and warm.

“Next time,” he says, leading him to the bed and settling the covers around them as Wei Ying’s brain tries to process the idea of a next time, tucking it somewhere safe like an idea to be treasured. He smiles, warm and sated, snuggles closer to Lan Zhan, and drifts off to sleep, more content than he has been in a long time.

————-

In weeks, the rumours of the Wen camp in Qiongqi has spread far and wide, exaggerated and heated by the indignant murmurs of innkeepers and travellers spreading news where they go. The general dissent and disapproval from the people is palpable, and while that normally might not have any effect, many minor clans, many of which live more off taxation than actual exorcism and hunting, were starting to lean towards the general public. Coupled with the testimony of Lan Wangji, whose flawless reputation somehow caused the rumour that Wei Wuxian had been tamed and brought back to the light by the righteousness of the Lan clan, meant that the general animosity had been moved off from him and towards the Jin sect.

Caught between wanting to bristle at the idea of needing to be tamed and somewhat pleased that Lan Wangji’s reputation didn’t seem to suffer much from his acquaintance, Wei Ying endeavoured to fan the rumours, behaving relatively nicely while maintaining some roguish impertinence to ward off any suspicions. 

He goes back to Lotus Pier, drinks his shijie's soup and finally apologises to both her and Jiang Cheng for making them worry. He doesn’t tell them about the core, but he tells them about being thrown into the burial mounds, how he had to fight his way out with resentful energy, and talks about how it makes him angry and violent. He apologises, and means it.

Jiang Cheng’s hands are clenched at his sides, and Wei Ying thinks he’s going to get yelled at before he’s roughly pulled in for a hug, too tight to be called comfortable, but he wants to cry all the same. 

“You idiot,” Jiang Cheng grits out, and Wei Ying laughs and pats his back, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat when he feels Yanli join the hug from behind. For a moment, it feels like they’re children again, huddled together in the dark. 

When they finally pull free, he and Jiang Cheng talk.

“What about the resentful energy now?” He asks, evidently confused by the general lack of dark foreboding brooding that Wei Ying is doing.

“Ah, Lan Zhan is helping me. His ah, guqin keeps it under control so I can practice controlling it,” he explains, sticking to the truth. His brother seems surprised at that, and Wei Ying can see the moment his brother comes to his conclusion, the familiar brows furrowing as he nods in assent.

“I’m glad he’s willing to do that for you, then.” Everything else he is thinking goes unsaid, but Wei Ying smiles, understanding. He thinks, with this, the relationship between YunmengJiang and GusuLan might improve, if Jiang Cheng upholds propriety and gives due thanks to the Lan sect for helping a member of the Jiang sect. For the first time in months, Wei Ying settles into that knowledge that he still has a place in Lotus Pier.

They talk about the Wen clan next, almost coming to an argument again. But the notes of Lan Zhan’s guqin are still humming in his veins, and he stills himself, patient, remembering all the things that Jiang Cheng is. He knows now that Jiang Cheng is scared, angry and hurting, and wants his revenge wholly. He feels small to Wei Ying, now, and it is clear to him, without the resentment crawling in his lungs, to give his shidi what he needs.

He pulls Jiang Cheng roughly into another hug, tight, and lets his grief for Lotus Pier bleed through honestly, for the one person who would understand, who was there with him all.

“Jiang Cheng, I know. I want to burn everything to the ground for them too.” He shakes his brother, who is still a little shell shocked at the embrace, anger and grief in his eyes as he tries to understand why Wei Ying doesn’t want to kill every person named Wen. He tries to swallow the anger bitter betrayal and listen to his brother.

“I was there too. I wanted everyone dead. I used the dead and had them rip Wen cultivators apart till you couldn’t even tell their corpses were human anymore.”

Jiang Cheng nods, and lets him continue.

 “Think of Wen Qing and Wen Ning, shidi. Think about Shi Jie,” 

Jiang Cheng jerks at the mention of their sister.

“Do you really think she’d be okay with us running around and killing a bunch of children and old people? Are you okay with letting her see us go so low?”

Jiang Cheng falls to his knees, bringing Wei Ying down with him. His grip on Wei Ying’s arm is tight, and Wei Ying feels the fury and grief and sorrow, knows his brother feels things fully, incandescently, just like his mothers zidian, and Wei Ying holds him through it.

“Then what am I supposed to do, Wei Wuxian? I can’t just let it go. They’re gone, and there’s nothing else I can do!”

Wei Ying pulls him up, forcing his back straight and chin high. 

“Shidi, we do the right thing. We do the right thing because that’s what shushu taught us, so shijie can still smile at us. When she has kids with that stupid peacock, we can take care of them with our heads held high and tell them we were the good guys. They’re gone,” And at this, Wei Ying chokes a little, the words thick on his tongue, uncomfortable in the way that honesty always is, but he tries.

“Theyre gone, but we’re still here. I’m still here, shijie is still here. We can’t forget that.”

Jiang Cheng presses his eyes shut, and Wei Ying knows that every instinct is screaming inside him. He waits, knowing his brother, hoping that the boy he grew up with is still there, the boy who is quick to anger but quick to forgive, who loves harder than he hates. He hopes he has reached him, the way Lan Zhan had, reminded him of the lighter things he has forgotten.

Jiang Cheng nods, eventually, resolute, bitter.

“The Yunmeng Jiang clan will do what needs to be done.”

———-

Lan Zhan conces Lan Xichen easily, knowing his brother walks with virtue in his path. Instead of discussing whether or not to help, the discuss how to help, in a way that is in keeping with the limitations and powers of their sect.

Lan Qiren, proud that the Lan sect has been attributed to bringing Wei Wuxian into decorum and propriety, credits Wangji and Xichen, and listens to their petition, clearly listing the responsibilities their sect to live by their rules, to uphold virtute and not tolerate arrogance, cruelty, and violence. 

Lan Qiren signs and stamps his name, aligning GusuLan with the other sects petitioning for non-cultivator Wen civilians to be released, in return for "the recognition by all clans herein to pledge allegiance to a Jin sect that is wholly unaffiliated with the very actions that led to the Sunshot Campaign.". The threat of another uprising from the united front of the major sects is very much implied. 

The pressure is unanimous, and the Jin sect, wary of another campaign against them, decide that a bunch of commoners are not worth the censure and trouble they are receiving. A couple branch families are made scapegoats, and the Wen civilians are released to a shouldering Qishan.  

They eventually settle, moving further to the outskirts of Qishan province where the fires have not spread, and change their names to a different character Wen, to start rebuilding their lives. 

Wei Ying visits with Lan zhan, delivering supplies as reparations. It feels like absolution, to see turnips and potatoes sprout after some time passes, green and tender. He buys Wen Yuan toys, throws him in the air and drinks with the uncles in the new Wen village.

Lan Zhan talks to Wen Qing about Wei Ying's core, finds out what he can do to at least help alleviate the physical symptoms of a body used to having one, that now must do without. 

Wen Qing gives him a list of herbs that Wei Ying must take nightly, as well as a reminder that Cleansing must be played after every battle that Wei Ying fights with resentful energy. 

Lan Zhan nods, grateful. He will always be happy to play for Wei Ying. 

They return home to the cloud recesses, pausing on the way to stop by the one month celebration of Jin Ling. Wei Ying has made a bell for him, and Lan Zhan has brought a tiny flute, small enough for a young child to play, when he is old enough.

----

When they finally are done paying respects and enter the safe haven of the jingshi, Wei Ying lets out the breath he has been holding onto.

"We did it, Lan Zhan. The Wens are safe, I have a nephew, I can't.. I can't really believe it." 

Lan Zhan pauses from setting up the guqin, walking over softly to pull Wei Ying into him.

"Do I really.. can I really have this?" Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan tightens his arms around him.

"Yes, Wei Ying. You can have this." 

He kisses his forehead, his temples, and pulls him towards the guqin to soothe the ache in his beloved's bones.

After Cleansing, after Rest, he plays WangXian -forget envy- the two of their names a song he imbues with the depth of his love, and lets his spiritual energy suffuse the notes that sink into Wei Ying’s meridians, enough to soothe the ache.

When the song ends, Wei Ying is calm and warm and soothed, and they go to bed amidst soft touches, curled up around each other.

----

The "treatment plan", as Wen Qing puts it, works, and for the most part Wei Ying manages to cultivate his demonic path in peace without it taking a hold of him. He spends his days tinkering, coming up with talismans and inventions that change the way cultivators have worked for centuries. 

He takes the juniors on night hunts, relishing in thr act of teaching, of being surrounded by people and laughter and the thrill of improvement. 

He goes to Lotus Pier regularly, even though he has made his home in Gusu with Lan Zhan, at which Jiang Cheng scowls and punches his arm to hide how happy he is for Wei Ying. He helps, when he can, with the rebuilding of YunmengJiang, lends his expertise and mediates between GusuLan and YunmengJiang.

He visits his nephew Jin Ling even more, teasing him and teaching him. With Jiang Yanli's influence, his pride is tempered by humility, his anger is wielded towards injustice, and his laughter is free and clear like a chime when he plays with his uncle, getting in trouble for stealing lotus seed pods and running amok. 

---

He goes home, to the Cloud Recesses, to find his husband, to drag him out to go play with rabbits and otherwise do mischief instead of working.

Pulling Lan Zhan to him, he kisses him. 

"Thank you, Lan Zhan, for staying that day on Phoenix Mountain. You could have run away, but you didn't, and I'm here now because of you." 

Lan Zhan pulls him close, and murmurs against soft hair. 

"Between us, there is no need for thanks or apologies, Wei Ying."

He walks amongst the cloud recesses, feeds rabbits with Lan Zhan, and is content, no longer alone.

[c0smicheaux]

Twelfth House In The Signs

Aries-

When the twelfth house is set in the sign of Aries, it is almost always a sign that problems with healthy boundaries will be present in a person’s life. Others will intrude in their world as if they had no membranes to recognize and defend themselves from those who steal their energy. In time, they will have to “remember” what it was like to follow the passion within, fight for their rights , yell at others if that is what the moments asks for, and be true about everything that is on their mind. While Aries would like to have a certain goal and aim all its energy towards it, this energy seems to get bent here only to end up in a strange subconscious state where it is neither manifested nor used. This is a position that speaks of a past life that ended in aggression, in the army or from fire weapons, sharp objects, and most often “before one’s time.”

Taurus-

If the twelfth house is in the sign of Taurus, the mystery of the material world can remain a hidden for years, as well as hedonism and the chase for satisfaction in this material world. This is a position typical for those who have never felt real pleasure, and everyone with secret sexual encounters, or at least those who have the need to eat hidden from everyone else. Spirituality and real talents fall into the sign ruled by Venus, meaning creativity and inspiration come as a given, but only once they are discovered and approached studiously. True intimacy is found in secret bonds, and warmth will have to be built in solitude, realizing at first just how much we are worth and only later starting to search for someone who will recognize this. If one wants to make their dreams come true, this position is perfect, for it brings the Earth into our personal dreamland, making everything we imagine possible.

Gemini-

The twelfth house in Gemini isn’t very easy because of its Piscean nature and everything it has to do with emotion as an entity entirely apart from rational thought. Speech can be impaired, while those with lower self-esteem easily turn to gossip and matters that aren’t theirs to discuss to begin with. This is also a position that could give a wonderful talent for languages, words and writing. It is a shame to use it on other people and spend too much time thinking of their business, abilities and weaknesses. Those born with the twelfth house in Gemini must have ended their past life with a vast desire to speak their mind, share their inner truth, and express their personality in some way. Ties that get created here will manifest through strange friendships and their relationships with children, but most of the time, they will manifest through difficulties in their mind they cannot fully explain.

Cancer-

With the twelfth house in the sign of Cancer, you can see a family secret instantly, as well as the tendency to idealize one or both of the parents. This is a burden of an entire family tree and a mark that debts were left in spheres of the emotional and the fragile within. Strange matters are hiding in the twelfth house and when Cancer is here, you can see these strange matters in one’s home and intimate relationships. Depending on a very personal position of the Moon, we will see how well incorporated this can be in their everyday life and if disappointment is their family story or not. The emphasis on sensitive emotion is also seen here, and we will come to find that the twelfth house cusp in any Water sign gives one the ability to feel what others feel, often being unable to recognize where one person ends and their emotional body begins.

Leo-

When the twelfth house begins in Leo, the personality itself seems to be strange, sensitive, and unknown. These individuals will have to learn about their power and their inner truth, while they remain in the blurry waters hidden from plain sight. This is often a signal that previous life carried a story of success, and image that was maintained and remained important to the person until they died. It can be extremely rewarding if unconscious memories of it are pleasant and bring confidence and peace. However, if there was any dishonesty in their approach once upon a time, this will be the life to rectify it, accept the flaws in others, those we don’t want to see and don’t want to show, and find brothers and sisters in crime finally set free from self-criticism. Since the clear image of one’s Self is blurry, overall good of the mankind will be important to these people, as well as humanitarian efforts they often turn to at some point in their lives.

Virgo-

If the twelfth house is in Virgo, we can almost imagine the mechanism in a person’s mind making them seem stupid when they want to show how smart they are, and incredibly intelligent at the most unpredictable situations. They will rely on their brains while practical matters will keep some of their mystery at all times. Ties created here will have to do with old, used things, those that can or cannot be fixed. That halfway principle of Virgo can be quite difficult when we speak of someone’s twelfth house, for dreams tend to get crushed by reality, sensitivity by common sense, and vice versa. If a person with the twelfth house in Virgo wants to find happiness, they have to realize where their true talent lies, so they can use it and share it with the world. Very often their talents will be found in writing, detailed analysis or communication with the strangest of beings here on planet Earth.

Libra-

With the twelfth house in Libra it seems inevitable to lie or be lied to, and usually both. Still, if we put this aside, we can see the magical story of Libra in this mysterious house and realize that someone we once left behind is there for us to find them again in this life. Things that were lost in our twelfth house have a tendency to show themselves someday. This goes specifically for great loves, and with strongly set Venus, even greater loving relationships. If Venus is not that strong in this kind of horoscope, the obvious debt has to be repaid through emotional sacrifice of some kind. In most cases, this will develop through a romantic relationship in which the trust has been broken, finally liberating the person from unrealistic expectations. This is always someone talented to recognize beauty, often artistic and with a knack for drawing or music. However, they have to be very careful not to disrespect people around them in any way so that their personality has room to grow.

Scorpio-

The twelfth house in Scorpio is an interesting place. Something as taboo and as hidden as Scorpio rarely finds an appropriate secretive hideout, but this position allows them to. The most unfortunate thing here lies in one’s ability to bury their own feelings, doings, or aspirations, finally ending up without any awareness of their true inner light. This is the sign that speaks of our shadows and everything we want to bury and dismiss along the way, and when it is set in such a secretive house, shoving things under the rug becomes a routine. This can make these people explode in numerous ways, ending up in strange circumstances, weird conversations, interventions, institutions or even jail. To see the magic in Scorpio this person has to be truly and deeply open-minded, fully willing to accept the most devastating, darkest and most dangerous emotions they carry within.

Sagittarius- 

When the twelfth house is set in Sagittarius, we usually see someone who has no idea where they are going. Being lost seems to be the congenital disease in these people and they have no way of knowing where they want to end up. Ties were made to the most distant of places, and past life regression could help them discover where they have lived and what makes them lose their place and their hopes. Beliefs have to be examined, as well as their religion views. Blessings will come from the most unexpected people and places, and although there are a lot of secrets to be expected in lives of others, these individuals are able to sense anyone’s goodness of heart from miles away. This is a very strong position for spiritual work and meditation, but if they don’t get enough sleep, they risk their entire life passing them by.

Capricorn-

With the twelfth house in Capricorn, there is no knowing which responsibility falls under whose jurisdiction. The difficulty of this setting hides in the inability to see that a strong foundation makes all the work, and while good ideas can come a long way, they aren’t easily materialized if hard work isn’t put in. Even though it might not seem like it, this is one of the most demanding positions in the twelfth house, for it speaks of karmic ties and our strong, physical connection to past life experiences. Strange things will manifest as circumstances that are hard to avoid or overcome, with many obstacles standing in one’s way towards liberation. If Saturn is strong in a person’s chart, there will be a sense of security, wisdom and unconscious power in doing the right thing, and that will become a wind in their sails and open them up for real inner experience of faith.

Aquarius-

The twelfth house in Aquarius speaks of a stressful death that happened in our past life. This is a place of stress and strange mental orientation, pulling strongly with its humane gravity and the unconscious need to set free, set apart from everyone else, and sink into all natural oppositions as if there was no other way. Mending the differences and finding middle ground seems distant and impossible to these individuals, as if they had a talent for true friendship, but lack of awareness for those who don’t fall into this category. They need to learn to be humane, so charity work will come in handy, especially if they are the secret benefactor nobody knows about. Their eccentricity will make them happy but in secret and in silence, with as little words said as possible. Even though they might be on the mission of solitude, they are often calmed by the peace of their marriage and relationships that represent a good basis for their personality rather than making them feel at home.

Pisces-

If the twelfth house is set in the sign of Pisces, all secrets will be sunk even deeper than in other cases. This practically means that all digging through subconscious matter will have to be thorough and results will seem more distant than those others tend to dig up. Usually, these individuals tend to look forwards, fully unaware of their dependencies and ties to the mysteries of their distant past. They will live their lives unaware of their own inner faith, needing healthy sleeping routine in order to stay in a calm and peaceful state. In many cases, these people will sleep every day for eight hours, avoiding late nights out or losing sleep over any burning issues at hand. They understand that the night is not to be messed with and hide from their own family in plain daylight. With true faith in the background, it would be good to raise awareness about their talents and their true life within, however scary that might seem.

Source;Astrology-Zodiac-Signsdotcom

[pastelbrachypelma]

Blind Date

Requested by @swampythesweetsketch ! Thank you for your suggestion and I hope you like it!

~

“I’m so nervous,” Murray admitted, sitting in front of the mirror and staring at himself. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

“Dude, c’mon!” Sly retorted, barely looking up from where he was putting a top coat over Murray’s nail polish. “If he doesn’t like you, then I’m Santa Claus!”

“That can be arranged,” Bentley teased. “Seriously, though, Murray. Just be yourself. That’s how to be the most attractive.”

“Yeah,” Murray looked away. “I guess. But…”

“Hey,” Sly slid onto the vanity, gently pushing aside a makeup palette with his tail as he sat directly in front of his friend. “Stop worrying, okay?” He grinned. “You know this guy is into you. You’ve been talking for ages. It’s worth a shot at least, right?”

“Right!” Murray squared his shoulders like he was going into battle, and wasn’t wearing holographic nails and a smokey eye. “Thanks for doin my topcoat for me, Sly. And thanks for helping me with my suit, Bentley.”

“No problem,” his brothers said simultaneously.

Sly patted Murray’s shoulder. “Go get ‘im, pal.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Bentley promised.

Murray smiled, and headed out the door.

“All right, Sly,” Bentley said, “you know what to do.”

Sly grabbed his binocucom and cane. “On it!”

~

Murray was already nervous enough being in a sizable crowd with bounty on his head, but, just as Sly had assured him, Murray was the best at disguises out of all of them, and nobody would recognize “The Murray” with makeup on.

He liked his makeup look; just a foundation to match his skin tone, a little contour, blush, and a smokey eye. Sly had helped with his nails, and they looked good. It wasn’t like Murray couldn’t have done it on his own, but Sly wanted to help, and he was better at nails than at eyeliner. Murray chuckled to himself, thinking of the last time Sly tried to do a winged liner. He’d looked even more like a raccoon than usual!

He was sitting alone at the table, waiting for his date, like he had been for the better part of an hour. Every time the door opened, he would look up, expecting to see a handsome man looking for his table. But, it was just couples or families. He sighed. He was sure a blind date would’ve been better, seeing as nobody could turn him down just because of his weight, but maybe the guy had guessed, judging by how much Murray talked about recipes. Or maybe he thought Murray was a sissy, or…

The door opened again, to someone by themselves. Except Murray could recognize that tail in his sleep. Sly had a satin jacket over a button-down shirt, hair slicked back. He was wearing the dance shoes they’d stolen from India, and was looking a little lost. Murray was a bit worried for two reasons. The first was that Sly was here at all; had something happened? The second was that Sly could only handle big crowds if he was at a social event. Parties, he liked. There were excuses to mingle in small groups. He had never liked large throngs of people. If Sly has a panic attack…

But instead, Sly found him (after pretending to have been looking for him) and waved. Murray waved back, confused, as Sly strode forward confidently through the crowd.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Sly said, brushing dust off his lapels. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“You didn’t,” Murray said, a bit confused. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Sly demurred, giggling shyly. “Oh, don’t be silly! How could I ever turn down a hunk like you?”

Murray wanted to laugh. Sly liked playing the effeminate gay. The question was, why was he doing that in the first place? At that moment, the door to the restaurant opened again, and Bentley rolled his wheelchair inside. People who were waiting for a table stepped aside to give him room. He was disguised as well, a cloth hat matching the more casual dark wash denim jacket he was wearing over a black necktie. Murray could appreciate the aesthetic...but he was still confused.

Bentley made his way towards the table. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, pitching his voice deeper in contrast to the way Sly’s had been more high-pitched. “Hey! What’re you doing here?” He glared at Sly.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” Sly pointed an accusing finger at Bentley. “I’m here for my date!”

“So am I,” Bentley said, and Murray smiled, starting to catch on. “One of us has the wrong table and you, buddy,” the turtle wheeled into Sly’s space, making the raccoon step back, hand splayed on his heart in dramatic offense, “are definitely at the wrong table. This gentleman is far too handsome for you!”

“I think he’s just the right amount of handsome,” Sly argues. “Just look at those bulging muscles,” he gestured, and Murray flexed, having a bit of fun now that he was in on the joke. “A man like that deserves the world!”

“Guys, you’re gonna make me blush,” Murray grumbled under his breath. Sly winked before sliding back into character as Bentley charged further.

“And? You still kept this gorgeous man waiting! Look at the poor guy’s makeup! All smudged because you were off…” Bentley waved his hand as he searched for an insult, “vaping!”

Sly gasped. “Do you think I would smoke around such a deceptively delicate flower?! The nerve!”

Murray looked over again as the restaurant doors opened. It was his real date, a buck with gold chains draped artfully around his antlers, dressed to the nines in a slimming suit to complement his slender body. Murray recognized the designer logo on his tie, and felt shame creep up his throat as he thought of his thrifted jacket and pilfered shirt. Even the silk skirt he was so proud of made him feel like a freak next to this guy.

“What’s going on here?” The buck spoke, his voice like molten chocolate, as he approached the table. “Which of you is Murray?” His eyes slid approvingly over Sly, and Murray hid his face. “I hope it’s you, handsome.”

“Sorry,” Sly slid in beside Murray, hooking his arm through the hippo’s. “I’m taken. Happily.”

“Me too.” Bentley took Murray’s hand, glaring at the buck.

The deer narrowed his eyes, then laughed. “Oh, thank god,” he said, relieved. “I could never be seen with such a,” he waved his hand derisively, “hideous beast.”

“Hey,” Sly said, voice sharp despite the different pitch. Murray recognized it as the raccoon’s “don’t fuck with me” voice, a rarely seen anger flashing in his eyes. “Murray is amazing! He’s funny and kind and always knows what to say!”

“His strength and skill can’t be matched!” Bentley agreed.

“And tonight, he’s my date.” Sly declared. “So fuck off.”

“No, he’s my date,” Bentley argued. “You fuck off!”

As his two friends bickered, Murray watched the deer walk away. He felt a little bit upset at the rejection, but his friends were nearby, defending him on what was technically their night off. He felt warm inside even so. It was good to be with his brothers again.

Once the deer was out of sight, Sly deflated. “Ack, my throat,” he complained. “I don’t know how you do those high-pitches voices, Murray. I feel like I’ll be raspy by tomorrow!”

Murray chuckled. “It takes practice.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Bentley suggested. “I think we’ve caused enough of a scene.” He glanced at the table. “Nothing needs to be paid for, right?”

“Nope. I didn’t order yet.” Murray replied.

“Let’s get Chinese,” Sly said, stretching as Murray got to his feet. “I saw a great place on the way over.” He locked his arm through Murray’s, hiding a yawn in the hippo’s bicep.

“Do you mean you saw it or smelled it?” Bentley asked, guiding Murray to the handles of his chair. That was about equivalent to hand-holding, Murray knew.

Sly laughed. “Both!”

“Chinese sounds fantastic,” Murray said, sighing in the fresh air. He was still upset about being stood up. He was glad for his friends, but…

“That guy was a complete jerk,” Bentley grumbled, going back to controlling his own chair as Sly let go of Murray. It wasn’t a sudden “no homo” sort of thing, though. It was more of a natural progression as they walked together on the sidewalk, with Bentley’s chair a half-step ahead. “What didjya day his name was?”

“Pierce Monogram,” Murray said. “Trust fund baby, I think. Works in the family business selling shoes.”

“That’s ironic,” Sly mused, swinging his arms up to rest behind his head as he walked. “He wasn’t wearing shoes.”

Murray laughed. “No, I guess he wasn’t. That’s a dealbreaker for me.”

“Murray, you don’t wear shoes either,” Bentley said.

“Exactly!” Murray went on, still laughing. “Somebody has to wear the shoes in the relationship!”

All three of them laughed, and couldn’t stop laughing until they reached the Chinese.

~

“Ah, the smell of sweet, sweet MSG,” Sly licked his lips as he set out the various cartons and bowls.

“This isn’t going to give me indigestion, is it?” Bentley asked skeptically, wrinkling his nose.

“No, no, I got your egg rolls and plain rice here,” Sly set out the food separately for Bentley before using a set of chopsticks to serve himself liberal amount of pork fried rice and vegetable lo mein, claiming one of the containers of scallion pancakes for himself.

“Man,” Murray grinned, slurping his hot and sour soup, “I forgot how good Chinese food actually is.”

“Right?!” Sly beamed. “Glad I thought of it. I haven’t had a good Chinese in months!”

“It’s delicious, I agree. Pass the wonton soup, Murray?” Bentley asked.

“What’re we watchin?” Sly asked between shoveling noodles into his mouth.

Murray blushed. “Are you guys gonna kill me if I say I wanna watch “Pitch Perfect” again?”

Sly swallowed noisily. “Nah, I like that one all right. It’s funny.”

“I’ve no objection,” Bentley said, taking off his glasses momentarily to clean them of the fog from his soup. “It’s date night, after all. You always pick the films for date night.”

“You guys still wanna call it date night?” Murray asked.

The gang had always jokingly held “date nights” for self care, movies, and video games. But that had been before Murray was officially out of the closet. His friends were straight. He thought they hadn’t had a date night in a while because his friends didn’t want to do that sort of this with him now that he was out as gay.

Sly leaned forward. “You okay, big guy?”

Murray sniffled. “I...I dunno, I thought you guys...didn’t wanna do this with me anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Bentley asked.

“I’m gay,” Murray confessed. “I like guys.”

“So?” Sly twitched his tail in confusion. “You’re still my brother. My friend.” He waved his tail in Murray’s face, making the hippo sneeze. “In case I haven’t made it abundantly clear,” the raccoon snuggled up properly against Murray’s side, chittering quietly, “I love you, pal.”

“So do I,” Bentley affirmed. “And...not to be too blunt about it, but...it was pretty obvious to me that you weren’t straight. But,” he cleared his throat, smiling. “That never mattered to me. You’re still my brother. And I still love you.”

Murray rubbed the tears out of his eyes. “Thanks, guys.”

“Sure thing, Murray,” Sly replied, butting his head against Murray’s shoulder before sitting up to properly shovel more food down his throat.

“I’ll get the DVD,” Bentley abandoned his food momentarily and rolled his chair over to set up the TV. Once he was done, he took his food and rolled closer to the couch, so Murray could enjoy his comfort, too.

Murray smiled warmly, happily chowing down on Chinese food and shouting all the words to the songs at the top of his lungs.

That was the best part about being home, Murray decided as he laughed at Sly nearly choking on a wonton and Bentley snorting soup out his nose. Being with the people who loved you unconditionally.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Loved By You | Damian Wayne • Tim Drake

Pairing: Older!Damian Wayne x Plus Size Reader, Tim Drake x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Request: Tim and Damian were in love with the reader, they were rivals. The reader who didn't know about this rivalry started dating Tim while seeing Damian as a friend. Damian kisses the reader who thought it was Tim, Tim discovers this and feels a certain fetish about it, and Damian and Tim make a deal where they keep switching places. When the reader finds out and gets angry, the two boys want her to choose one of them.

Warnings: love triangle, mentions of cheating, kissing, light angst, fluff.

A/N: the ending was also requested.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Tim’s kisses lately felt different from the other. He’d be more passionate on some occasions, usually at night when he came back from patrol. You liked to feel the difference, it made some shows of affection more special.

Like that night you stayed at Wayne Manor, waiting for him to come back safe. He had hugged you so tightly, his scent so strong due to his very recent shower that it lingered on your pajama — his kiss had been heavy, the most passionate he had given you. And since then, he kept it up.

You had asked what was going on with him, worried that there was something he hadn’t told you. He assured you everything was more than fine, hugging you from behind as you laid in bed. He had never been one for being the big spoon every single night but you weren’t complaining.

Scanning the room as you walked beside Tim with your arm intertwined with his, you smiled at Damian from afar when your eyes landed on his green ones. He nodded cordially, in the same fashion he did while in public. You would’ve taken issue with the cold gesture if you didn’t know him so well. Your boyfriend sighed, but before you could ask what was wrong someone came to introduce themselves.

Galas bored you, the family you were so attached to had to act in ways you weren’t used to seeing them. You didn’t like it, it almost saddened you how much they had to fake and repress for the sake of the city — and the world to an extent.

You got so distracted by Dick’s dance moves that you didn’t feel Tim slipping his arm off yours. You reacted when Alfred hurried down the main hallway, away from the reception and turned left on the second door.

Following Alfred’s steps, the yelling from behind the door caught your attention. Well, the voices. You closed the door behind you. Damian and Tim were yelling on each other’s faces, Damian’s startling sharp gaze filled with anger.

You seemed to be the only shocked person, Alfred was trying to interfere with so much calmness, as if he had done it thousands of times, that you grew worried. Had your boyfriend and best friend been fighting on a regular basis?

Both turned to look at you apologetically. You stared at Tim, then at Damian. “What is the matter with you two?”

Tim stuttered, “nothing, it was nothing.”

Damian scoffed, tutting in that way he did when exasperated. Seeing you focus on him, he dropped his arms to his sides. “There’s something you need to be aware of.”

Tim stiffened, his head snapping to glare at his younger brother. “Damian,” he warned.

“Tell me,” you demanded to know what they were talking about.

Damian stared at Tim, waiting for him to speak first. Tim, knowing he was the one responsible for all of this swallowed harshly. Alfred seemed to realize he wasn’t wanted and scurried out of the room and back into the reception.

“A month ago,” your best friend started explaining when Tim didn’t speak quickly enough, “no. A month and a week with two days, almost three, ago—“ Tim groaned, but Damian didn’t give him the word, “I kissed you. You thought I was Drake, and I didn’t say anything to deny nor confirm.” A sound in the back of your throat came out before you could even open your mouth to reproach him. Damian used it to his advantage to continue explaining, “he found out and let me know he was more than fine with it.”

Your head whirled in your boyfriend’s direction who nodded, “it was hot, I liked seeing you kiss someone else.”

“And why didn’t you tell me then?! What part of it was so fucking hard to articulate?” Tim lowered his eyes to the floor, prompting you to glare at Damian. Your best friend didn’t shy away from your eyes. “And you?”

Damian did answer. “You would’ve chosen him again, why bother?”

“Because I deserved to know. You said it so earlier, for goodness sake!”

“Well, I didn’t think it would go that far!” Damian excused himself at the same time you were speaking.

“And why did you let it, Damian?”

“Because I fucking wanted it to!”

Tim wasn’t shocked by Damian’s confession, your boyfriend simply waited for your reaction. You didn’t react, you weren’t sure what to say or if you should say anything at all.

However, you asked, “Is that why you were fighting?”

Tim explained, “Damian knows he shouldn’t stare at you like that in public.”

You tilted your head to your right. Damian had always stared at you in the same way, no matter the setting. In fact, the two of you instantly found each other in any crowd every time. It was an unspoken rule between the two of you, it kept him grounded and lessened your nerves— it was a comfort, a fundamental part of your friendship.

Without realizing it, you did just that. Damian’s green eyes told you everything you wanted to know, slowing down his blinking for you to get his point across. The intensity of his gaze was new, the twitch of his brow so unusual in your presence.

Damian saw it on your face, the realization of how deep his feelings for you were. He didn’t try to hide them, not anymore. It was liberating, nodding as he followed your shifty eyes that couldn’t stop examining every inch of his face.

“Now that you know,” Tim grabbed your attention, “we can stop this, but you need to choose.”

You immediately found it unfair when you hadn’t decided to be in such a situation.

“You two should go back to the party,” you reacted, hoping they wouldn’t object so you could be alone with your thoughts.

Tim frowned whereas Damian nodded curtly, emerald eyes lingering on your face for a few seconds before he fixed his suit and turned around to leave the room.

“Why?” Tim inquired, “you don’t care about galas.”

“I want to be alone,” you deadpanned. He was playing dumb which you found endearing when you were in a good mood but shitty and annoying in that situation.

“Baby,” he cooed, placing his palms on your shoulders, “you don’t have to worry. Damian will understand,”

You moved away from his touch. “Understand what?”

He spoke as you walked toward a cushioned chair, “that you don’t love him.”

“Don’t I?” you inquired, craning your neck to face your boyfriend.

“Do you?”

Shrugging, you reminded him, “I made out and cuddled with him for a month. Yes, I thought it was you but now I know the truth and the truth doesn’t change the fact that I enjoyed it.”

Tim wriggled his tie out of frustration. “You can’t love two people that way, and he’s my brother.”

“Your brother who you fight over everything from what I see.” Reclining against the back of the chair you placed your hands on the seat’s arms, “why didn’t you tell me it turned you on? We could’ve tried something, I guess...”

“I didn’t want to get cucked. And Damian surprisingly followed the rules of just kissing and cuddling you.”

The fault in Tim’s logic and plan was glaringly obvious, it didn’t please you but you weren’t going to lie and say you could still choose him in a heartbeat.

“Where did you sleep while I slept next to your brother? Here?”

Your boyfriend shook his head. “At Conner’s.”

“Really, Timothy?” you chuckled bitterly, “at Conner’s from all people?”

“You love Conner!” he tried to defend himself.

You sprung up from the chair. “I do! But come on Tim... what are we doing?” You hadn’t wanted to speak about it with a hot head, you wanted to think this through at your pace. Fuck it. “Have we been emotionally cheating on each other?”

“I’m not—“ he shook his head, rubbing his hands against his face. “Are you telling me you’re choosing Damian?”

“Don’t deflect, please.”

“I don’t know,” Tim confessed, “maybe? I lost control of it.”

You supposed you would’ve lost control of it too. It would’ve been nice to have control in the first place,

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

You couldn’t find him anywhere, the garden was his favorite spot to lose time when galas took place but you only found a couple making out near Alfred’s roses.

Trotting up the stairs as quickly as you could in high heels had been tricky. He seemed to hear you, by the time you reached his bedroom door it had cracked open already. You still knocked, sticking your head into the room to ask if you could come in. He beckoned you in, avoiding your eyes when you closed the door behind you.

You couldn’t stop staring, his hair was disheveled from tugging on it and he had discarded his tie and blazer but hadn’t bothered on changing into more comfortable clothing.

“Were you going to tell me?” you broke the silence. He shook his head. “Why not?”

“You made your choice a long time ago.”

“It wasn’t a choice.”

Damian scoffed, “you picked him and started dating him.”

You set your jaw, “I didn’t know. It was not a choice because there weren’t options to pick from.” It sounded awful, but you were sure he had understood what you meant.

“I tried to make you fall for me,” he recalled, “but you were busy seeing whatever it is you like about Drake.”

You never saw it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, yet you felt a slight pang on your chest as a few memories came to you. Your connection with Damian had been instant and therefore special from the get-go, you wouldn’t have identified it as attraction in any other instance.

You wouldn’t even think of yourself as his type, no one imagined Damian with anyone who wasn’t a fit model or a badass superhero. You were clearly none of those, and now as you mulled it over you realized how much sense it all made.

“Why did you kiss me?”

“I wanted to know how it felt.”

You hummed, “you could’ve asked me for a kiss.”

“I wanted to know how it felt to be loved by you,” Damian clarified.

You had been there in very important moments of his life, when Alfred scolded him for his language for the first time, when he got his second Ph.D., when Dick died, when Bruce died, when Jon went to another reality, when he trained Titus, the day he officially got his driver’s license, the third time he fought his mother... you had gotten him hooked on your favorite tv-series and he had to feign hating it at first to not look pathetic, the two of you cried out of laughter when he told you.

He wanted you to be there in other ways, for firsts and lasts. He wanted to be grounded by taking your hand in social events instead of staring at you from afar, to get back from patrol and see you asleep on his bed, to be the one you pampered by playing with their hair. Damian wished he could lay his head on your lap on movie nights, take you out on dates even though he had never been a fan. He had fantasized with so many things, romantic and sexual, a few a combination of both due to the nature of his feelings.

“I do love you,” you stated. “All of this is overwhelming, but no matter the outcome I need you to get through your head that I do.”

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Tired of staring at the window, you sat up on the bed with your back against the headboard. The past week had been a roller coaster of emotions and dilemmas with sleepless nights in between.

You had seen his silhouette on the fire escape every night, but neither one of you had attempted to speak. You had hoped he would that night, he must’ve known how things had gone with his brother already.

Playing with the edge of the fuzzy blanket, you got the sensation of being watched. He was there again. Your gut told you to get out of the bed and confront him, yet you were aware that if he had wanted to speak he would’ve entered the room already. The window wasn’t difficult to open from the outside, he himself had pointed it out in more than one occasion — and even if it was, you had left it unlocked in case he wanted to come in. You were sure he knew that, too.

You did leave the bed in direction to the kitchen, the night was being the warmest of the week but you were cold still. As the kettle boiled you considered inviting him in, at least to warm up a little bit. You waited impatiently for the water to be ready, swinging your hips from left to right.

The clear water turned murky as soon as the herbs came in contact with it under your eyes. You carried the tea back to your bedroom, closing the door with your foot.

“What are you doing up?”

The question startled you, making you jump and consequently spill the hot liquid. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Damian?!” you shrilled.

“You knew I was there,” he pointed out matter-of-factly, extending an arm to turn the lights on. His tone changed, “did you hurt yourself?”

Shaking your head, you put down the ceramic in your grasp. He smirked to himself, seeing you had been carrying two cups and not one. “Not badly,” you answered, looking down at your now stained shirt.

“I’ll prepare some more while you change” he announced, his hand brushing your arm as he stretched his own to reach for the cups.

Throwing the dirty shirt into the laundry basket once you had changed into a clean one, you walked out of the bathroom and directly toward the window. The room had gotten colder due to Damian not closing the window when he sneaked in.

You got distracted by the light reflecting on the pavement, the simplicity of the observation amazing you when you lived in a chaotic city. Getting lost into the complications of what being a Gothamite entailed was so easy that you had forgotten to enjoy the trivialities the city had to offer.

Damian stood behind you, looking outside to get a glimpse of what you were so interested on. The familiar position made you unconsciously lean backward, prompting him to lightly lay a hand on your hip out of reflex.

He inhaled the scent of your lotion, the one that had lulled him to sleep for a month, the one he had missed the entire week. You craned your neck to look at him.

The tea would get cold if you didn’t drink it soon, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything about it. You didn’t want to move, to lose the comfort of his chest against your back nor the tickling warmth of his breath on your face.

Your eyes shifted to his lips. You still found weird to know you had kissed him without being aware it was him— you also missed kissing him. It had been the cataclysmic realization that ultimately drove you to make your choice.

“Can I kiss you?” You whispered very timidly, afraid he’d say no.

Damian leaned forward, his free hand coming up to rest on the side of your neck. With his thumb on your cheek, he nodded and waited for you to close the gap.

You wetted your lips, breathing a laugh almost on top of his. You felt him chuckle and part his mouth, impatient for you to kiss him already. You took him out of his misery, slowly moving your lips against his at first. Chastely kissing him, you turned your body around to not hurt your neck. Damian pulled you closer by snaking his arm around your hips, his thumb digging into the side of your face as he deepened the kiss.

Damian grunted, tilting his head to change the angle and be able to kiss you the way he wanted. Fisting his hoodie when he swiped his tongue across your bottom lip, you parted your lips.

Both of you panted when you pulled away, his arm tight around you and your knuckles lighter in color from gripping the grey hoodie.

He was staring at you, it wasn’t clear if he was waiting for you to say something or not. You spoke anyway. “I missed you.”

“Me too.”

Letting his hoodie go, you wrapped your arms around his torso. Damian mover his hand away from your face to hug you back, sighing contently when you rested your head on his chest.

“I thought you wouldn’t talk to me anymore,” you confessed in a low voice, ashamed for doubting him.

“I didn’t want to pressure you, that’s all,” he assured. Upon hearing you hum, he took a breath, “what does this mean?”

“It means I love you.”

“Good.” You could hear the smile in his tone, feel the breathiness of it on his chest.

Looking up, you smiled at him too. “Yeah?”

Damian pecked your lips, “more than good.”

[arcticdementor]

Never encourage a child to keep a secret from her parents. That’s what we used to say, in decades past, when we believed a sacred boundary encircled every American home.

Last week, I spoke with another mother who discovered her 12-year-old daughter’s middle school had changed the girl’s name and gender identity at school. The “Gender Support Plan” the district followed is an increasingly standard document which informs teachers of a child’s new chosen name and gender identity (“trans,” “agender,” “non-binary,” etc.) for all internal communications with the child. The school also provided the girl a year’s worth of counseling in support of her new identity, which in her case was “no gender.” Even the P.E. teachers were in on it. Left in the dark were her parents.

This duplicity is part of the “plan”: All documents sent home to mom and dad scrupulously maintained the daughter’s birth name and sex. But Mom noticed her daughter seemed to be suffering. Although far from alone in declaring a new identity - many girls in the school had adopted new names and gender pronouns – this girl’s grades fell apart. She became taciturn and moody.

When the mother failed to uncover the source of the girl’s distress, she met with teachers, hoping for insight. Instead, she slammed into a Wall of Silence: no teacher was evidently willing to let a worried mom know what the hell was going on. (Finally, one did.)

When I wrote Irreversible Damage, I documented that California and other public school systems had adopted a policy of creating two sets of documents around minor students’ gender. Similar policies have cropped up across the country, modeled on the one created by the activist organization Gender Spectrum.

A “gender support plan” isn’t merely a secret held between child and teacher, which might be bad enough. This is no private student confession, the silent whisperings of a troubled teenage heart. A Gender Support Plan, or any similar scheme, effects a schoolwide conspiracy to create a secret name and gender identity specifically withheld from parents. I’ve talked to a mom whose middle school daughter slept in the boys’ bunk on the school overnight before she learned her daughter’s school had, for more than a year, called her by a different name and openly referred to her as a boy.

Teachers and activists who support this policy typically make two arguments in its favor. The first is that the very fact that a teen would want to keep her new gender identity a secret from parents is proof that home is an “unsafe” place for her; that is, her parents, if they knew, would abuse her. The second is that this gender declaration is a deeply held and personal decision of the child’s. The school, in this scenario, is merely a polite bystander—at most, a kindly chaperone. It’s not the school’s job to ask mom and dad for their approval.

The first is absurd; the second, dishonest. Why would a teen agree to keep a secret from her parents, if not for the presence of abuse? Well, as one sharp Twitter user pointed out in response to the documents I posted, one can think of a few things a teen might want to keep secret from mom: an eating disorder; her decision to join a religious cult; her dabbling in drugs; a decision to send or post nudes; or have sex with a much older boy. Teens tend to keep from mom and dad a wide variety of healthy and unhealthy teenage experimentations—sometimes to avoid parental protest; sometimes, just for the pubertal frisson.

And in virtually none of these cases is the primary motivation to keep secrets from parents necessarily fear of abuse. Sometimes it’s to avoid—groan—another lecture or even a conversation. Other times, teens keep something a secret just to avoid a “No.”

Which, in fact, is what the schools seem to want to avoid as well. The non-stop sex-and-gender celebration that begins in many public-school Kindergartens is an attempt to liberate children from any traces of sexual innocence.

…

A peculiar power imbalance has arisen between public school teachers and the parents for whom the necessity of work renders them too dependent on these schools to question them.  Parents discover radical materials pushed on their children by accident, like passersby happening on a crime scene. They are treated as interlopers, trespassers; they are made to understand they have no right to be there; information on the ideology pushed on their kids is revealed on a strictly need-to-know basis. When parents do object to classroom gender ideology, they’re treated as morally obtuse or child abusers.

The contempt shown parents would be inexcusable even if teachers stuck to reading, writing and arithmetic. In a time when so many public school teachers are properly described as activists, that arrangement strips children of their families’ protection. And families must indeed protect them from an ideology that would turn students against any adult who suggests that a seventh grader suddenly jonesing for hormones and surgeries slow down. I have more than once wondered whether public schools that would openly pit students against their families, turn them against themselves and each other, aren’t doing more harm than good.

I mean no disrespect to teachers when I point out the obvious: the moment a middle-schooler whom they’ve encouraged to transition graduates to high school, they more or less wash their hands of him. Soon after the janitors have stripped the lockers clean and rolled fresh paint on the walls, teachers will mentally and emotionally prepare for the next crop of students. They may remember a few fondly—but that does little for a child they’ve set on a medically perilous path toward a dramatic identity swap. If it backfires – as it will in so many instances – it won’t be the seventh-grade music teacher who contends for years with the damage.

All of which might make you wonder, how on earth are schools getting away with this? Is there no law that bars public schools from concealing a “coming out” to parents?  Actually, there really isn’t—not a good enough federal law, anyway.

…

For the past year, parents have been placed in the absurd situation of playing Whack-a-Mole with the worst excesses of Woke ideology. A book here, a curriculum there. It’s exhausting—and it’s a losing game of endless defense. Time for offense.

This is where the most critical cultural battle will be fought. Not with reckless doctors, for whom lawsuits are coming. Not even with the therapists—in many cases, a luxury, parents can walk away from. It will be fought with America’s activist teachers. Will we allow the activists among them unaccountable access to the next generation of America’s children?

…

For Pete’s sake, the state requires that teachers ask parental consent before they offer a child Tylenol. Maybe the state should require schools ask parents before inculcating a whole new identity for their child. Indeed, federal law should insist upon it.

Funny thing about this “debate” over parental rights: it cuts clear across party lines. Republican, Democrat, gay, straight—the Mama Bears of America have a very particular idea of what sorts of identities we’ll allow other adults to push on our minor children. Those insisting that teachers must “protect” seventh graders from their parents—they are rarely parents themselves. What they demand is continued unmonitored access to your children. It’s past time we stopped giving it to them.

[shadowfromthestarlight]

The moment a group of people stormed the Capitol building last Wednesday, news  companies began the process of sorting and commoditizing information that  long ago became standard in American media.

Media firms work backward. They first ask, “How does our target demographic want to  understand what’s just unfolded?” Then they pick both the words and the facts  they want to emphasize.

It’s why  Fox News uses the term, “Pro-Trump protesters,” while New York and The Atlantic use “Insurrectionists.” It’s why conservative media today is stressing how Apple, Google, and Amazon shut down the “Free Speech” platform Parler over  the weekend, while mainstream outlets are emphasizing a new round of  potentially armed protests reportedly planned for January 19th or 20th.

What happened last Wednesday was the apotheosis of the Hate Inc. era, when this  audience-first model became the primary means of communicating facts to the population. For a hundred reasons dating back to the mid-eighties, from the advent of the Internet to the development of the 24-hour news cycle to the end of the Fairness Doctrine and the Fox-led  discovery that news can be sold as character-driven, episodic TV in the  manner of soap operas, the concept of a “Just the facts” newscast designed to  be consumed by everyone died out.

News companies now clean world events like whalers, using every part of the  animal, funneling different facts to different consumers based upon  calculations about what will bring back the biggest engagement kick. The  Migrant Caravan? Fox slices  off comments from a Homeland Security official describing most of the  border-crossers as single adults coming for “economic reasons.” The New York Times counters  by running a story about how the caravan was deployed as a political issue by a Trump White  House staring at poor results in midterm elections.

Repeat this info-sifting process a few billion times and this is how we became, as none other than Mitch McConnell put it last week, a country:

Drifting apart into two separate tribes, with a separate set of facts and separate realities, with nothing in common except our hostility towards each other and mistrust for the few national institutions that we all still share.

The flaw in the system is that even the biggest news companies now operate under the assumption that at least half their potential audience isn’t listening. This leads to all sorts of problems, and the fact that the easiest way to keep your own demographic is to feed it negative stories about others is only the most  obvious. On all sides, we now lean into inflammatory caricatures, because the  financial incentives encourage it.

Everyone monetized Trump. The Fox  wing surrendered to the Trump phenomenon from the start, abandoning its  supposed fealty to “family values” from the Megyn Kelly incident on. Without  a thought, Rupert Murdoch sacrificed the paper-thin veneer of  pseudo-respectability Fox  had always maintained up to a point (that point being the moment advertisers  started to bail in horror, as they did with Glenn Beck). He reinvented Fox as a platform for  Trump’s conspiratorial brand of cartoon populism, rather than let some more-Fox-than-Fox imitator like OAN sell the  ads to Trump’s voters for four years.

In between its titillating quasi-porn headlines (“Lesbian Prison Gangs Waiting To Get Hands on Lindsay  Lohan, Inmate Says” is one from years ago that stuck in my mind), Fox’s business model has  long been based on scaring the crap out of aging Silent Majority viewers with  a parade of anything-but-the-truth explanations for America’s decline. It  villainized immigrants, Muslims, the new Black Panthers, environmentalists —  anyone but ADM, Wal-Mart, Countrywide, JP Morgan Chase, and other sponsors of  Fortress America. Donald Trump was one of the people who got hooked on Fox’s  narrative.

The rival media ecosystem chose cash over truth also. It could have responded to  the last election by looking harder at the tensions they didn’t see coming in  Trump’s America, which might have meant a more intense examination of the  problems that gave Trump his opening: the jobs that never came back after  bankers and retailers decided to move them to unfree labor zones in places  like China, the severe debt and addiction crises, the ridiculous  contradiction of an expanding international military garrison manned by a  population fast losing belief in the mission, etc., etc.

Instead, outlets like CNN and MSNBC took a Fox-like approach, downplaying issues in  favor of shoving Trump’s agitating personality in the faces of audiences over  and over, to the point where many people could no longer think about anything  else. To juice ratings, the Trump story — which didn’t need the slightest  exaggeration to be fantastic — was more or less constantly distorted.

Trump  began to be described as a cause of America’s problems, rather than a symptom,  and his followers, every last one, were demonized right along with him, in  caricatures that tickled the urbane audiences of channels like CNN but made  conservatives want to reach for something sharp. This technique was borrowed  from Fox,  which learned in the Bush years that you could boost ratings by selling  audiences on the idea that their liberal neighbors were terrorist traitors.  Such messaging worked better by far than bashing al-Qaeda, because this enemy  was closer, making the hate more real.

I came  into the news business convinced that the traditional “objective” style of  reporting was boring, deceptive, and deserving of mockery. I used to laugh at  the parade of “above the fray” columnists and stone-dull house editorials  that took no position on anything and always ended, “Only one thing’s for  sure: time will tell.” As a teenager I was struck by a passage in Tim  Crouse’s book about the 1972 presidential campaign, The Boys in the Bus, describing  the work of Hunter Thompson:

Thompson  had the freedom to describe the campaign as he actually experienced it: the  crummy hotels, the tedium of the press bus, the calculated lies of the press  secretaries, the agony of writing about the campaign when it seemed dull and  meaningless, the hopeless fatigue. When other reporters went home, their  wives asked them, “What was it really like?” Thompson’s wife knew from  reading his pieces.

What Rolling Stone did in  giving a political reporter the freedom to write about the banalities of the  system was revolutionary at the time. They also allowed their writer to be a  sides-taker and a rooter, which seemed natural and appropriate because biases  end up in media anyway. They were just hidden in the traditional dull  “objective” format.

The  problem is that the pendulum has swung so far in the opposite direction of  politicized hot-taking that reporters now lack freedom in the opposite  direction, i.e. the freedom to mitigate.

If you  work in conservative media, you probably felt tremendous pressure all  November to stay away from information suggesting Trump lost the election. If  you work in the other ecosystem, you probably feel right now that even  suggesting what happened last Wednesday was not a coup in the literal sense  of the word (e.g. an attempt at seizing power with an actual chance of  success) not only wouldn’t clear an editor, but might make you suspect in the  eyes of co-workers, a potentially job-imperiling problem in this environment.  

We need  a new media channel, the press version of a third party, where those  financial pressures to maintain audience are absent. Ideally, it would:

not be aligned with either Democrats or Republicans;

employ a Fairness Doctrine-inspired approach that discourages       groupthink and requires at  least occasional explorations of alternative points of view;

embrace a utilitarian mission stressing credibility over ratings, including by;

operating on a distribution model that as  much as possible doesn’t depend upon the indulgence of Apple, Google, and Amazon.

Innovations like Substack are great for opinionated individual voices like me, but what’s  desperately needed is an institutional reporting mechanism that has credibility with the whole population. That means a channel that sees its mission as something separate from politics, or at least as separate from politics as possible.

The media used to derive its institutional power from this perception of separateness. Politicians feared investigation by the news media precisely because they knew audiences perceived them as neutral arbiters.

Now there are no major commercial outlets not firmly associated with one or the other political party. Criticism of Republicans is as baked into New York Times coverage as the lambasting of Democrats is at Fox, and politicians don’t fear them as much because they know their  constituents do not consider rival media sources credible. Probably, they  don’t even read them. Echo chambers have limited utility in changing minds.

Media companies need to get out of the audience-stroking business, and by extension  the politics business. They’d then be more likely to be believed when making  pronouncements about elections or masks or anything else, for that matter.  Creating that kind of outlet also has a much better shot of restoring sanity  to the country than the current strategy, which seems based on stamping out  access to “wrong” information.

What we’ve been watching for four years, and what we saw explode last week, is a paradox: a political and informational system that profits from division and  conflict, and uses a factory-style process to stimulate it, but professes  shock and horror when real conflict happens. It’s time to admit this is a  failed system. You can’t sell hatred and seriously expect it to end.

Matt Taibbi is one of the only people I subscribe to. He’s one of the few journalists I like because I actually believe he’s genuine.

[foundouthatdabiistouyatodoroki]

do you believe hawks decent into villiany?you reblogged a post about it.

Do I believe hawks is going to fall into villainy? Yes.Mainly I found the whole “Hawks is going to die death flag” idea distasteful.

BNHA is a feel good series. We had Nighteye already die with his character arc resolved ending in a high note. It would be far too depressing if Hawks died with a grim conclusion of his arc;for a feel-good series having Hawks die would be gloomy end to his character arc.

The person who first mentioned this is cutiesabyle who brought up this theory and made a lot of good points about it.

In chapter 191, Hawks and Dabi’s conversation in these panels  is what made me think that Hawks is turning to the dark side. If you look at the panels his face is darkened out in them:

Hawk’s face covered in darkness while he’s talking to Dabi in these panels. After his conversation with Dabi when he leaves his back is swallowed up by the darkness while Dabi is walking to the light.

This could refer to him falling into darkness.Hawks is compared to the fall of Icarus (the Greek myth); that why a lot of people believed he would die when they read this.

But, it’s something entirely different.This meant that Hawks will fall in a more disgraced unheroic or better yet turn into a villainy.

As hamliet described it if you see the BNHA volume 21 cover it would be this:

Hamliet:Hawks has his back turned, and in front of Hawks are blue-ish flames and darkness, which seems to be again symbolic of the panel in which Hawks walked towards the darkness, perhaps foreshadowing a future fall to villainy and of course, representing the deal we know he’s struck with Dabi.

As hamliet once described about Hawks on volume 21 this could be the passage of another hint of Hawks falling into villainy and this cover foreshadows it.

Having more free time may seem like he’s carefree response to Endeavor, but when you look even deeper you see a glimpse of his background.

Here in the flashback  of chapter 192 of Hawks back when he was a child,  in this panel he looks to be from a impoverished background holding an Endeavor doll. The words “must become a hero” isn’t something Hawks has said. These words are from his handlers;not his words but the word of the people who leashed him.He was exploited at a young age because of his quirk and circumstances of his background:

All we see that his entire life he had no choice. He was never given a choice to live freely he was never given a choice.

Hawks was no more than a tool to be exploited when he’s given are orders he can’t turn down. Hawks is very well aware this but obeys their orders.Hawks mentioned the investigation with Gran Torino: he hides in his hood when asked. He can’t talk back to his captors but instead jokes not to earn their ire.

These people control Hawks. He’s treated as a tool by these people.

They exploit hawks for their own convenience. Hawks is very well aware that he is essentially a captive; he knows this and he can’t escape because the people are the ones leashing him and handling his reins. Hawks is used as a sacrificial pawn by his handlers and forced to investigate the league of villains.Hawks acknowledges this, bows, and does what he thinks has to do for his goal.

What does this say about hawks he was never free was never given a free choice? This has a much more deeper meaning.

Hawks is self-sacrificing by nature; perhaps too self sacrificing.His self sacrificing nature is going to rear its ugly head.

During Tokoyami internship Hawks is isolated from the rest of his sidekicks being flown too fast and to show the difference what he has gone through.

Tokoyami interns with him which allows Hawks not only to get info on the USJ incident, but also shows how he sees himself in Tokoyami.

This personal moment with Hawks giving wisdom to Tokoyami: “no need for you to be on the ground.” These words reflect a part of himself that is trapped with no way out and cannot fly away.

Speaking of which, didn’t Hawk’s intern have a darkness quirk?Tokoyami who has the dark shadow quirk, which could also be a part that foreshadows his fall into villainy; the personal moment he said birds should not be confined to the ground could be another foreshadow of him flying the coop.

Hawks is a fan of Endeavor; he admires Endeavor for never giving up despite it looking impossible. This is genuine.

We seen in the way he talks to Endeavor he doesn’t know that Endeavor abused his family for the sake of his entire ambition to surpass All Might. This is going to be heartbreaking when Hawks finds out what Endeavor has done to his family for his ambition. Tragically Hawks and Endeavor formed a genuine bond; finding out what he’s done will hurt him deeply–not just Hawks but Endeavor as well. The truth is going to hurt the both of them let me point something about betrayal in writing it’s done by someone you trusted the most as it says down here:

is done by someone you trusted the most betrayal if its someone you trust.

Horikoshi plays around with symbolism seen when he first introduced Hawks. Who he in many ways is related to the Icarus theory with the opening quote: flys to fast for his own good. His quirk using feathers relates to the wax wings Icarus had.This is seen again when Hawks gives Endeavor his feathers to fight being burning up resembling

Icarus wings when they melted from the sun. There’s an interesting detail about about Endeavor: his super move being “prominence burn” came from solar prominence. Endeavor could be the metaphorically “sun” to the theory. Hawks will burn if he gets to close to Endeavor;the whole “flying too close to the sun” would refer to how Hawks becomes too close to Endeavor.

If he does, Hawks will find out the truth faster than anyone, and if he found out the truth what Endeavor has done he will get burned. The fall could mean his fall into villainy and Dabi could have something to do with it

Let’s  talk about Hawks’s character. Hawks is very carefree smiling and joking with the situation even joking around with Endeavor.He doesn’t take things too seriously when in reality he is surprising hardworking and diligent.During the Hood attack, Hawks managed to remain cool-headed in the crisis shown to be very calm in stressful situations not panicking when things got worse. Hawks is sharp and quick on the uptake, catches on faster than anyone noted by several characters. Hawks is an info leech and good at reading at people like when he works he is looking for information and he’s observant and his able to think quickly giving him the ability manipulated the situation based on the people’s characters.

Something I would like to point out about Dabi.Dabi was put in charge of the raid pulled of the forest mission.I pointed there’re a lot of holes in the plan in my post yes the plan may have a lot of things to point out but despite the forest raid only suffering three casualties and things he did not predict he completed his objective he completed his objective in capturing Katsuki.Dabi didn’t only pull off the summer camp raid he also helped the league of villains in making UA take a huge blow to its reputation hero’s protecting its own students.

Dabi achieves the same thing with Endeavor who recently became number one.He send a high end nomu Hood, a nomu stronger than the others on Endeavor succeeds in severely wounding endeavor this started to cause people to question the security of the hero society in question. Dabi drove Endeavor and Hawks into a corner. Even Hawks was greatly unsettled by this.

Hawks was the one that Dabi notified about the nomu Dabi threw Hood on him and didn’t tell him that he is stronger.He set the hood nomu in a heavily populated area of the city knowing full well that hero always save the lives of others first to further drive the heroes in a corner.Dabi manipulated the situation one that Hawks didn’t predict, Hawks who is perceptive and observant was run over by Dabi. Dabi pulled all this over Hawks’ head.Dabi is the only person who gets under hawk’s skin  Dabi is the one who made Hawks lose his cool.

Here are things you need to note about Dabi. I mentioned that Dabi is not unintelligent; I stated before in his stats. Dabi’s good at seeing through people this is seen with Snatch, Eraserhead, even Shoto. During the forest raid mission Dabi distracts the pros from the league’s true objective: Dabi was keeping the heroes on their toes while the plan proceeded.

He knows what makes people tick goes under people’s skins and uses that to his advantage.He attacks when they don’t retaliate like with Endeavor and Hawks weakened after the fight with hood, as seen with Snatch when he used “hero always save the lives of others first”

he identifies Snatch’s weakness.

He noticed that the rational Aizawa is fierce and asks if he’s gotten unders his skin:

Dabi knows that Aizawa cares about his students leaving behind a cryptic message which visibly unhinged Aizawa.

Dabi taunts Vlad, anticipating his reaction and saying that he voicing completed his objective while driving the rest of them in a corner.

Dabs ran both Hawks and Shoto in circles. Shoto is very powerful,quick and smartest in his class, known to be very agile, yet Dabi catches Katsuki in front of him.

These attacks are done by Dabi. He pulled off two successfully He. led two of the major operations that put the league of villains in the spotlight. Dabi would is one put the league of villains in the spotlight Dabi might really have a big effect on the media as a whole. Despite his success and failure of the last two attacks he was really good at doing what he is doing. Despite being called weak he could be one of the most dangerous members that’s how deadly he is this demonstrated just how ruthless Dabi is as a villain.

What does that half to mean for the media attention for Dabi? Well in the meta liberation arc Himiko doesn’t want to be pitted by others she wants to live life her own normal way:

She never wants to die and be painted as tragic figure. Himiko doesn’t want to be used for media attention especially for the meta liberation’s army motives.

Himiko’s backstory would not be seen as sympathetic I mentioned in of my posts. it won’t work since her backstory is far from sympathetic it wouldn’t be justifiable just be picked apart by critics why more quirk restriction. The meta liberation army tried to use Himiko to show the truth but unfortunately she’s not painted as a tragic lead that the meta liberation is going for as Himiko is not a sympathetic figure.

Dabi and Himiko are foils when they are first introduced:

Dabi seems to have the flare for the dramatics seen in the beginning of the forest raid standing on top with his opening speech.

with Vlad he talks about how the league of villians already completed the objectives with abudting one of their students how the loss of faith will spread like wildfire all the while pinned down.

While talking to Snatch he’s happy that he got media recognition for his burn murders:

Dabi seems to be happy that he is getting more media recognition for his villainy. Himiko’s story would not garner sympathy, but Dabi’s will. Which would make his reveal being Endeavor’s son turned villain exposing Endeavor is going to cause public outrage. His story would have more media attention than Toga’s; Dabi could be painted as sympathetic, not Toga.

People said that Hawks is going to find out about Dabi’s identity; here’s the thing” he won’t.As I mentioned before Dabi ran Hawks in circles he knows something that he doesn’t and he holds something over Hawks’ head that and Dabi is incredibly ruthless he knows how to get under people’s skin. Dabi is going to spring this on Hawks in a more dramatic and unexpected way. Also Hawks’ entire situation is that he’s trapped :exploited and used since his childhood.

Hawks would be integral into finding out that Touya is Dabi in the theory. His bond with Endeavor would also serve as a focal point for his character. This would be very great narratively speaking for a hero becoming a villain. Dabi would be the one who is responsible for his fall by revealing that he is Touya Todoroki and Endeavor’s abuse.

This is why I believe Hawks will fall into villainy and why I don’t believe in the death flags but him falling into the darkness. Thanks to cutisayble that brought up this theory and allowing me to talk about it.

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

Lone wolves are not alone…

Today we live in the time of fear, the kingdom of degeneration. All around us spreads a sick world which refuses however to die. The world of economy falls but does not collapse. All preachers of every ideology, scientists, economists, journalists, politicians, sociologists, syndicalists, leftists, humanitarians, agree to a common truth, called “economic crisis”.

Thus the ghost of the economic crisis hovers above the formerly privileged territory of the western civilization, after leaving behind it hecatombs of dead people and ruins of war in the “undeveloped countries” of the rest of the world.

But we refuse the truth they offer us. We refuse to be lost in mathematical equations, economical terms and loan contracts. We refuse to accept that life is shoved into statistics. Numbers cannot explain why our existence gets poorer. We speak of a different poverty and not only the poverty of the supermarkets. We speak of the poverty in words, emotions, thoughts, wanderings, tensions. We speak of the unity which resides inside the modern people-pets of the cages of the metropolis who by themselves imprisoned themselves.

Today there is a crisis which makes our life poorer, but this is not the economic crisis, it is the crisis of values. Society traded the values of freedom, respect, solidarity, dignity, with a position in consumerist paradise. Now is the time for it to fall in its hell, since today it experiences the collapsing of the system which it faithfully prayed to all these years.

The ambassadors of the modern way of life speak of the savior of economy through corrective changes and development programs, while the ideologists of the left beg for the cleansing of institutions. Unfortunately, in Greece the tension of bureaucratic social anarchy also joins the dance of the absurd and fantasies the revival of dead ideologies speaking of self-management of the production means and workers collectives.

Thus the socialist anarchists, while refusing the system, instead of destroying class identities and economy, speak their language. They speak of the overthrowing of the existent, without however uprooting from inside them the economic-centric logic. For us, as anarcho-individualists and nihilists, economy is not the key for liberation. Economy is a part of the problem and the problem itself. The only way to strike the heart of the problem is to destroy the economy and its distinctions and speak of human relations. The world will not become prettier or more free if we collectivize work but only if we blow up the relation of work and destroy its mentality, its ethics and culture. The same will happen with friendship, love, pleasure, the meaning of life itself.

On the road for continuous anarchist insurrection we do not keep anything which holds us down on the past. We tear down the myths of the revolutionary subject, of the proletariat, of the eternal wait for the right objective conditions, the social likeness towards the population, this slow moving mass which with its inactivity stops us from breathing….

Therefore, looking back in time, we recognize as our own prints, the traces left behind by some lone wolves, who walked then against their time. It is all those conspiratorial anarchists illegalists who made the anarchist insurrection their only home land. It is those who chose to stay away from the glory of the dead ideologies and bureaucracy of the social anarchism which awaits the masses in order to begin its insurrection. Lone and unique they armed their desires, out aside the pathetic rot of the mob and went on to the storming of heaven.

Their star fills our eyes, the fire floods our thoughts, the vendetta of revenge beats in our hearts and, our hands embrace the guns and dynamite which they inherited to us. We live for an endless explosion of actions, thoughts, feelings, desires, which reaches the edge of the world.

There is no nostalgia, there is only today, while tomorrow is already late. Today is our turn, our life, our time.

Anarcho-individualism and nihilism, the gates of the new anarchy, invite us. In the era of generalized crisis, the sun of the new anarchy continues to rise. Now that the global economy is ill, we do not look for the “just” social cure, but on the contrary we seek the poison for its final death.

As we wrote above, life, before being strangled biologically from the economic crisis, had already been cut in its desperation, the illusions and the loneliness of modern society.

It is important therefore, to think, to feel and attack against anything which glorifies the empire of authority, against anything which preserves the religion of economy, anything which carries the death of silence and immobility. And if sometimes we seem like lone crazy people, the sure thing is that we are not alone. We live in a home full of voices, dreams, desires, laughter, melancholies, actions… Our home has no hosts and guests; it belongs to all of us. In our home we do not speak just one language but many and we always communicate with our eyes.

The basement of our home is full of weapons, explosives, plans, communiques, whatever the enemy snatches from us, our hands and desires will never remain unarmed. At the table of our home there are always spaces and glasses of wine for new friends and comrades who we never met before. There are as well some empty places for the brothers and sisters who are absent, for our dead, for the wanted, for the imprisoned, but their glasses are always full because they are always next us too. Our home has no doors, no rooms, not even walls. Our home has no roof because it would hide the sky and stars. Our home has no windows because it would stop the wind. Our home has no street or number. Our home has no name and lives in our hearts.

Our home is FAI-IRF and we will never abandon it, neither in the easy moments nor the tough times.

FAI-IRF is the lost Atlantis of the practical theory. It is the meeting point of thought and action, imagination and the present, violence with poetry, desire with decision, the ‘I’ with the us…

This moment it is important that there are many dozens of anarchist individualities and cells participating in the network FAI-IRF. FAI-IRF is an illegal anarchist union of egoists which despises the gather-ism of Marxist organizations and the bureaucracy of the anarchist reformists.

There is no protocol or rules. Our only compass is our values: direct action, anarchist critique towards the social silence, international solidarity, constant insurrection… At the same time all of us anarchists of praxis preserve unquenchable the desire to continuously recreate the formation of FAI-IRF with as an epicenter the human desires. We do not even feel the need to propose to society some ready-made recipe for happiness. Our life does not need ready-made solutions. Besides, experimentation even a mistake is the best way for the discovery of freedom. From the still waters of traditional ideologies you can expect only poison.

The insurrectionist-nihilist anarchist thought remains alive, not as a flawless and final ideology, but on the contrary when it seeks the dialectic confrontation either in order to try itself by overpassing the disagreements it has to confront, or when it discovers its gaps and re creates itself with beginning point evolution. Thus, also FAI-IRF is not the end of the road of final utopia but one of the roads for the constant course towards anarchy.

This is why when someone reads the dozens of responsibility claims of the cells of FAI-IRF internationally they will locate some differences, even some disagreements. This is the beauty and uniqueness of the new anarchy. Besides the basic values shared by us the conspirators of the Black International, there are the specificities of each one of us which promote the constant search of our existence.

Because we will always discover independent areas of ourselves, unknown passions, unlimited desires which arm the bet of Existence, replacing the misery and correctness of economic equations which are praised by the overgrown revolutionary ideologies.

Today FAI-IRF is not simply an idea, just as the Conspiracy of Cells of Fire is not limited to the land of the Greek state. Our desire is to not drain ourselves at making our existence known. Our spreading to dozens of countries transfers us to an asymmetric threat for the interior of the states. The CCF of Mexico transforms the words into fire, in Russia and Belarus the Conspiracy transforms the frozen rooftops into lava, and in Italy the Olga cell of FAI writes its own poetry with bullets. At the same time dozens of conspirators in Chile, Ecuador, Bolivia, Peru, Brazil, Spain, England, Poland, Greece, Indonesia, Australia conspire with chaos and transfer the fire of anarchy into the foundations of the existent.

This is why we constantly create new invisible crossroads of meeting and communication in order to talk about the death of the existence and the storm of new anarchy. We want our fire to be written in all languages. Tireless comrades constantly translate prisoners texts, books, responsibility claims, while at the same time solidarity is internationalized and the FAI-IRF network becomes the Lernaen Hydra of the new anarchy. For every arrest of a cell, two new ones are ready to attack.

Thus we enter the land of continuous anarchist insurrection. In our uncontrollable course for the destruction of authority, we meet across us the enemy and its conservative powers, but besides them there is still a lot of excuses, inhibitions and dilemmas which attempt to make our feet heavy, bothering our walk. Often these camouflaged cowardices disguised as theoretical analysis live in the bureaucracy of the circles of social anarchism which hopes for the mass awakening of society. Thus the words “anarchy” “direct action” “anarchist insurrection” get confused, they lose their sharp content and remain handicapped going around like harmless blabbering in student amphitheaters… This is why we see in Bolivia that there is an “anarchist organization” which states its conformity to the state authorities and is indifferent to the imprisoned Bolivian comrades accused of being part of FAI, in Italy parasitic anarcho-hippies who with a text of theirs condemned and slandered the action of the Olga cell of FAI, in Germany a part of the anarchists forget and slander the imprisoned comrades (e.g. Aachen4 case) while in Greece many from the anti-authoritarian movement discuss about whether or not they will vote for Syriza (left party) in the elections and generally there being a turn towards collectivization through workers and “white” democratic assemblies.

We on our side want to avoid such misunderstandings and make this confusion untouchable. Therefore it is necessary that we make a clear separating line between the insurrectionist-nihilistic circles and the refuges of reformism. This is why we would like every text and act of ours to be immediately recognized, adopting our own stigma. The stigma of continuous anarchist attack.

But it is not enough to speak about the attack, on the contrary we desire to be a part of the attack. This is why through this text we want to throw a proposition into the fire of the battle. a proposition which is being discussed for some time now in the circles of the new anarchy in Greece. We mean the transmission of technical knowledge and experiences for the construction of explosive and incendiary devices and for the spreading of other forms of sabotage. Through small printed practical manuals or through digital form on the internet we can share information, patents, technical points, ideas, applications, diagrams and enrich our arsenal. When knowledge and experience are shared, they become dangerous. First of all it brings down the separation between theory and practice and the myth of the “specialists” of violence is abolished. At the same time the fetishisms of Marxist ideological rigidities about the avant-guard of “armed struggle” are withdrawn and the illusions of the hierarchy of the means cease. Between the bullet in the head of a cop and the rock in window front there is an invisible line connecting them.

We want to make this line visible. Everything is for everyone, there are not specialists of violence, there are individualities and choices…

We do not share our choices only by speaking and writing texts against the state and its society but also when we offer each other possible practical ways.

To make our theory practice. This is why we propose to the comrades of the FAI-IRF that we proceed to the publication of manuals which describe i.e. the way to construct an explosive mechanism, the wiring of a time bomb, the assembling of a parcel bomb, the use of a home-made system of time-delaying in incendiary attacks, the strengthening of the destructive power of a molotov, the synthesis and mixtures of ingredients for the creation of explosive materials… also our “work” in the chaotic arts of sabotage can open its thematology from the destruction of cameras, the blocking of ATMs and the construction of home-made smoke bombs up to burgling and stealing cars and motorbikes and the conservation and use of weapons.

All this knowledge which is conquered everyday and cannot and shouldn’t be a privilege of an initiated elite of veterans of praxis. On the contrary we want to acquire a common arsenal with all anarchists of praxis where we will share ideas and practices in order to strengthen the constant anarchist insurrection against the Existing. Thus, comrades which carry inside them the wolf of praxis, but have not yet acquired technical knowledge in order to intensify their attacks against the social structures of the system, now with this proposition get access to an endless stock of destructive and chaotic ingenuity which will strengthen their fire.

Of course these practical manuals will not be considered the “holy bible” of the anarchists of praxis since they will be constantly renewed and enriched, since the experimentation and searching never stops.

Also we stress that because of the public character of the spreading of the techniques and the forms of sabotage, it is sure that the eyes of the police will constantly be on our attempt.

This is why this letter is made with special attention. Not only so the enemy cannot track us, but also so we don’t give them information they don’t know, helping them without meaning to, “neutralize” our attacks. For example in the presentation of a time bomb, there will always be variations so the police are confused and it is not easy to deactivate it without the danger of blowing up their bomb disposal team.

This way we strengthen the union of anarcho-individualists - nihilists promoting the constant clash with the world of authority and the social mass. It’s the new way of the new anarchy to attack without relying on the vague sympathy for the proletariat and the economism of classes, but instead abolishing the classes themselves. Neither rich nor poor, neither bosses nor workers, but autonomous individuals with anarchist values and choices.

At the same time we abandon the victimized image of the “social fighter”, who is being attacked by the state. Several comrades of the Conspiracy of Cells of Fire and nuclei of FAI are now in prison, from where we write this text. Not for a moment however do we beg for our “rights” from the state, nor do we invoke its laws. When we chose to arm ourselves and to assassinate social peace, we knew the consequence of the choice we made. The fact that we are in the prisons of the enemy does not make us harmless. We are creating and organizing 10, 100, 1000 cells of the Informal Anarchist Federation and the Conspiracy of Cells of Fire. Neither will we become “anarchist writers” who will publish our theories from inside prison. Our words are our thoughts which were anxious to become actions. Every day, every night we breathe for them. We still have some scores to set with the existent and we keep the knife between our teeth. Our strategy is to make chaos our friend. That is where all forces of the negative are liberated. Conventions, hypocrisies, ethics, cowardices are abolished there.

Brothers and Sisters let’s dare everything. Political executions, blowing up government buildings, bank robberies, arsons of symbols of authority, molotov on the cops, knifes in fascists, communiques, texts, discussions and whatever promotes the spreading of the new anarchy and the progression of the Black International of the Anarchists of Praxis.

DIRECT CONSTANT ANARCHIST INSURRECTION

P.S. The text “Lone wolves are not alone… FAI/ IRF/CCF” is dedicated to our brothers and sisters all around the world, to the dead, the prisoners and those wanted…

In this difficult time we send our most warm greetings to the wanted comrades in Greece: G. Mihailidis and D. Politis, who are accused for participation in the CCF, the wanted comrade in Mexico, FR, and the imprisoned comrade Mario Lopez who was injured by an incendiary device he was transferring.

At the same time our thought and heart is next to the comrades in Italy who are experiencing repeated oppressive operations.

Strength comrades.

[thesilverdragoon]

Griffin, Gryphon, On The Wall Final

The sky had grown dark and the smell of smoke and fuel filled the air. Loud metallic clamors rung out in all directions, along with distant screams and shouts.

A bloody massacre. That’s what it was.

People in Grand Company uniforms who were not formally a part of them, against the Garlean soldiers and their giant and menacing machines, fighting on just about every nook and cranny that Baelsar’s Wall had to offer.

Balthasar could scarcely remember a time when he needed to run anywhere.

His feet hardly knew the lay of the land here. Of the steel floors and metal winding paths littered with bodies or weapons or bits of machinery. Were it not for the lights coming from those still living, he would have never been able to see the path leading up to the top.

No one stopped him, in fact, they hardly noticed him. Likewise, he did not stop for any of them.

Most, if not all, those who had come would die here. There was nothing he could do for them, not like this.

Still…

There! Up there!

He slowed to a stop and glanced around quickly, before directing his attention upwards.

The darkened form stood surveying the chaos below, though...how there was still light coming from him…

Balthasar ran on, up the path along the side of the wall until he’d reached the top. Another cloud of smoke and steam billowed in front of him, obscuring the pulsating dark form before wafting away.

In his hand however- there lied an even darker shape, black and bits of red aether flashing like lightning during a storm.

“I know not how you managed to meander your way up to a place like this storyteller, it doesn’t particularly seem like a place you’d have decided to wander. Though...storytellers need stories to tell, don’t they?”

The miqo’te’s jaw tensed. “You know what I have seen.”

The Ala Mhigan glanced over his shoulder. “Oh? I would imagine nothing at all, not blind folded like that.”

Balthasar said nothing.

“I’m doing right by Ala Mhigo, our home. That’s more than anyone else still left could say, save for the few brave ones that decided it was time to pick their arses up out of the dirt and do something about it.”

“You are taking these people to their deaths, this is a hopeless venture!”

“Hopeless- that’s what everyone keeps saying. It’s what they’ve BEEN saying for years. I’ve seen it, in their voices, in their eyes, their posture- they believe what the Garleans have led them to believe- that we have NO chance of taking back what is rightfully ours!”

Ilberd gave a long sigh, letting his shoulders drop.

“You’re here on behalf of the Scions aren’t you?”

“No.” Ilberd’s brows furrowed.

“I am here, for you.”

The man let out a small sound of disbelief, though it was laced with a humorous note.

“Aye, well I suppose I could use a storyteller, once this is over and through with. Someone’ll need to write us a new ballad, about the real heroes-”

“LOOK AROUND YOU! Surely YOU can see what devastation and destruction you’ve wrought on MORE than yourself!!” Balthasar interrupted him, his voice becoming much louder and unusually forceful. It didn’t fit his image.

Small, meek, scrawny, barely a whisper to most people.

But his voice…

Don’t hurt him- please don’t hurt him-

“All those you have laid low, in the name of becoming a savior of your own lands- that is NOT a noble cause, nor will it EVER be!”

Slowly the miqo’te’s shoulders fell, still rising gently and falling again afterwards. “I have COME to stop YOU, Ilberd!”

For a moment only the sound of battle rang out below them, and the wind ceased to move. The air lied still, filled with the stench of death.

The Ala Mhigan, despite knowing otherwise, held his gaze where Balthasar’s eyes supposedly were.

“...You aren’t really from Ala Mhigo, are you?” He took a step back, catching the miqo’te by surprise. “I should have guessed as much. That or you’ve lost hope long ago just like everyone else. A wandering elegy only fit for reminding people of what they once had.

Well no matter. You’re too late anyway.”

Balthasar cast his hand forward in one quick motion. Ice quickly shot out from under his feet, branching through the floor like a rapidly growing tree and its branches as it headed straight for the Ala Mhigan.

It erupted as soon as it reached him, bursting outwards and sending shards every which way accompanied by a spray of mist.

The miqo’te waited briefly, blinded by the light of the aether in the air- only to be met with a hot and sharp blast that managed to throw him back several paces.

What happened?? Where is he?

Once the mist cleared again, he could see a thin layer of shimmering light surrounding the man. A force field. Emanating from the one- no, there were two now- objects that he now held in front of himself. Despite them being clouded by blackness, they almost seemed to roll in his hands, before opening to reveal a set of slit pupils that dilated briefly.

“You can’t stop what has already been put in motion, storyteller.”

“What do you plan to do with those.”

Dragon eyes.

“I plan to win the war, and put an end to all of this.”

“Then you are a fool.” Regardless, Balthasar stood up straight again and approached him, fists balled, and with a firm frown. “And fools do not win wars.”

It- it doesn’t have to be this way- please- Balthasar ignored him.

I’m BEGGING you-

Ilberd smirked as he backed away from the miqo’te, towards the edge of the platform. The eyes seemed to be watching them both.

“I really believed I had found an ally within you, Balthasar. But you’re just like the rest of them. That’s your talent. Weaving fantastical lies.

If you would, at least, make this one just as entertaining as the rest.”

“ILBERD-”

ILBERD-

He took another step backwards. Balthasar broke out into a sprint, rushing forward at a frightening speed with a sudden burst of aether.

The Ala Mhigan threw himself backwards first.

The miqo’te quickly peered over the edge of the platform, only to hear his vicious cackling on the way down, before there was the sound of the impact. Even at a distance, the noise shot through him like a physical bullet.

He felt paralyzed. Nothing would move, his arms, his legs, his head, his gaze, none of it. Not even his breath.

Until a sudden well of energy began to boil and bubble up from below. Thick and heavy- like slogging through burning tar. A beam shot up into the sky for only a moment before dissipating. The wind began to pick up, being sucked into a focal point that began to form in the sky.

It was blinding- like staring into a sun. Balthasar turned away, holding an arm over his face as he backed away.

There was nothing left to do here.

He ran.

___________________

Baelsar’s Wall had stood silent for many days, and many nights after that.

Even from the Twelvewood, anyone with a view of the area could see that no soul walked among the ruins.

Haunted. Cursed. Those were some of the words the forest’s residents had used to describe the place. Not that it hadn’t been a bad place before.

But to be the birthing ground of a new primal, one to dwarf even the mighty Bahamut’s destruction…

Balthasar stood on a grassy hill, gazing upwards towards the wall in the distance, his fingers curling around his simple staff.

It seemed so long ago.

Ala Mhigo had been liberated after all. But not in the way anyone had expected. So he had heard, anyway. The victory was short lived, as the Garleans had retaliated shortly afterwards, and the fighting continued.

All the while he felt a harsh pang of sadness ache in his body’s chest.

“…Man has always been this way. As I have described to you. And as you have seen, time and time again.” He said aloud.

...They aren’t all that way…

“No...You are right. But, very few turn out differently.”

We could have saved him- maybe I could have- “There was nothing you could have done.” The pain sharped, causing him to hunch over slightly.

You don’t know that. The miqo’te took in a breath through his mouth. A sigh that was more of an inhale instead. “You would save someone who has done many terrible things in the name of good?”

He wasn’t terrible. He just wanted to go home. He just…

It was pointless to argue.

Balthasar righted himself, shaking his head as he turned to walk away. He hesitated in doing so however, glancing over his shoulder to take one last look.

We should have tried...tried HARDER...we… maybe I…

I could have done something, if it weren’t for you.

I could have stopped him.

“...Perhaps, little one.” The sorcerer muttered, as he disappeared into the woods.

[phroyd]

What A Dumb-Fuck Ass, pandering to his Dumb-Fuck Ass Base! On the other hand, with this precedent, in 2020, our Democratic President can call a National Emergency for Climate Change setting the goal for Net Zero Carbon Emissions,  as laid out in the Green New Deal!  Now there’s a silver lining in this Trump Cloud! - Phroyd

WASHINGTON — President Trump plans to declare a national emergency so he can bypass Congress and build his long-promised wall along the border even as he signs a spending bill that does not fund it, the White House said Thursday.

The announcement of his decision came just minutes before the Senate voted 83-16 to advance the spending package in anticipation of final passage on Thursday night by the House.

Mr. Trump’s decision to sign it effectively ends a two-month war of attrition between the president and Congress that closed much of the federal government for 35 days and left it facing a second shutdown as early as Friday, but it could instigate a new constitutional clash over who controls the federal purse.

“President Trump will sign the government funding bill, and as he has stated before, he will also take other executive action — including a national emergency — to ensure we stop the national security and humanitarian crisis at the border,” said Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the White House press secretary.

Speaker Nancy Pelosi of California said Democrats were “reviewing our options” in responding to Mr. Trump’s anticipated declaration and did not rule out a legal challenge.

“The president is doing an end run around Congress,” she said.

She also raised the possibility that Mr. Trump was setting a precedent for Democratic presidents to come, precisely what Republicans fear.

“You want to talk about a national emergency, let’s talk about today,” Ms. Pelosi said, reminding Mr. Trump that it was the first anniversary of the massacre at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla. “That’s a national emergency. Why don’t you declare that emergency, Mr. President? I wish you would.”

The spending legislation includes the seven remaining bills to keep the remainder of the government open through the end of September. House and Senate negotiators unveiled the 1,159-page bill on Wednesday just before midnight, leaving little time for lawmakers to actually digest its contents.

“The president is once again delivering on his promise to build the wall, protect the border, and secure our great country,” Ms. Sanders said, as she announced that Mr. Trump would sign it.

The border security compromise, tucked into the $49 billion portion of the bill that funds the Department of Homeland Security, is perhaps the most stinging legislative defeat of Mr. Trump’s presidency. It provides $1.375 billion for 55 miles of steel-post fencing, essentially the same that Mr. Trump rejected in December, triggering the shutdown and far from the $5.7 billion he demanded for more than 200 miles of steel or concrete wall.

In opting to declare a national emergency, Mr. Trump would seek to access funds for the wall that Congress had not explicitly authorized for the purpose, a provocative move that would test the bounds of presidential authority in a time of divided government. Legal experts have said Mr. Trump has a plausible case that he can take such action under current law, but it would almost surely prompt a court challenge from critics arguing that he is usurping two centuries of congressional control over spending.

And some Republicans were clearly nervous about his course of action.

“I don’t think this is a matter that should be declared a national emergency,” said Senator Lisa Murkowski, Republican of Alaska. “We as legislators are trying to address the president’s priority. What we’re voting on now is perhaps an imperfect solution, but it’s one we could get consensus on.”

Senator Rand Paul, Republican of Kentucky, said, “We have a government that has a Constitution that has a division of power, and revenue raising and spending power was given to Congress.”

Mr. Trump disregarded objections raised by Senator Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, the majority leader, and other Republicans who balked at what they deemed presidential overreach. Conservative lawmakers and commentators said that such a move would set a precedent for a liberal president to claim the same power to take action on issues like climate change or gun control without congressional consent.

But Mr. Trump ultimately could not see any other way out of his standoff with congressional Democrats over the border wall without shutting down the government again. The first government shutdown prompted by the wall fight deprived 800,000 employees of their paychecks, sapped the president’s standing in the polls and ended only when Mr. Trump gave up last month without getting a penny of the $5.7 billion he had demanded.

Democrats immediately prepared to advance legislation that would curtail the president’s abilities to use certain funds after a national emergency declaration.

A group of Democratic senators — including Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts, Kamala Harris of California and Kirsten Gillibrand of New York, all aspiring presidential nominees — collaborated on a measure to prevent Mr. Trump from using funds appropriated for disaster relief to pay for border wall construction.

The Senate is expected to vote on a border bill to prevent a government shutdown.

Mr. Trump made the wall his signature promise on the 2016 presidential campaign trail, where he was cheered by supporters chanting, “Build the wall,” only to be frustrated that he was unable to do so during his first two years in office, when Republicans controlled both houses of Congress.

[Sign up for Crossing the Border, a limited-run newsletter about life where the United States and Mexico meet.]

In waging a shutdown battle over the barrier, he has made it the nearly singular focus of his presidency in his third year in office. But Democrats, who took control of the House in January, have made blocking it just as high of a priority, leaving the two sides at a stalemate.

Negotiations since late December ultimately went nowhere. Speaker Nancy Pelosi, who led Democrats to power in the House, went beyond simply criticizing the wall as unwise or ineffective by declaring it “immoral,” drawing a hard line even though many Democrats have voted for fencing along parts of the border in the past.

At one point during the shutdown, Mr. Trump asked Ms. Pelosi if she would be willing to support the wall in 30 days if he agreed to reopen the government. When she said no, he got up and walked out of the room with a sharp “bye-bye,” then posted a message on Twitter declaring talks a “waste of time.”

Mr. Trump’s national emergency declaration could provoke a constitutional clash between the president and Congress. Under Article I of the Constitution, Congress has the power to appropriate funds. “No money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in consequence of appropriations made by law,” it says.

But Congress has passed laws in the past providing presidents with authority in national emergencies, laws that remain on the books. Scholars pointed to two that could be used by the Trump administration to justify a presidential expenditure for his border wall without explicit legislative approval.

One permits the secretary of the Army to direct troops and other resources to help construct projects “that are essential to the national defense.” The other law authorizes the secretary of defense in an emergency to begin military construction projects “not otherwise authorized by law” but needed to support the armed forces.

Democrats or other critics of the president will almost surely file legal challenges to his move, which could ultimately lead to a confrontation at the Supreme Court. The court is led by a five-member conservative majority, but it has shown skepticism of presidential excesses in recent years, reining in both President George W. Bush and President Barack Obama when the justices concluded they had overstepped their authority.

As lawmakers took up the spending bill on Thursday, Democratic leaders, like their Republican counterparts, urged their rank-and-file to get on board.

“It is incumbent on Congress to come together to responsibly fund our government,” Representative Nita M. Lowey of New York, chairwoman of the House Appropriations Committee, said in a statement released shortly after midnight. “This legislation represents a bipartisan compromise and will keep our government open while funding key priorities.”

Even with Congress’s left and right flanks grumbling, a solid majority of lawmakers has signaled support for the package, with Republicans and Democrats unwilling to court another shutdown less than 48 hours before funding for nine cabinets and multiple federal agencies is set to expire.

The Homeland Security section of the measure allows for 55 miles of new steel-post fencing, but prohibits construction in certain areas along the Rio Grande Valley. More than $560 million is allocated for drug inspection at ports of entry, as well as money for 600 more Customs and Border Protection officers and 75 immigration officers.

It includes a provision, pushed by Representative Henry Cuellar, Democrat of Texas and the only negotiator from a border district, granting communities and towns on the border a period of time to weigh in on the location and design of the fencing. The White House finds that provision objectionable.

The bill also prohibits funds from being used to keep lawmakers from visiting and inspecting Homeland Security detention centers, following a number of highly publicized instances where Democratic lawmakers tried to visit detention centers and were turned away.

Lawmakers were also pulled in by the other six parts of the spending package, which finance a number of agencies, including the Internal Revenue Service, which is in the middle of tax-filing season, and the Commerce Department. Allocations include $77 million for addressing the opioid epidemic and funds to address natural disasters, including nearly $4 billion to wild-land fire programs and $12.6 billion for the Federal Emergency Management Agency’s disaster relief fund.

The package also negates an executive order that Mr. Trump signed to freeze pay for federal civilian workers, and instead extends a 1.9 percent pay increase. Vice President Mike Pence, cabinet officials and other high-level political appointees will also receive raises, about $10,000 a year, which were frozen during the shutdown.

Negotiators failed to resolve other matters, including back pay for federal contractors caught in the middle of the shutdown and an extension of the Violence Against Women Act, which expires Friday — although grants under the act are funded in one of the spending bills.

All but one of the 17 House and Senate negotiators signed off on the final package. Representative Tom Graves, Republican of Georgia, refused to sign, saying he was given no time to digest the seven spending bills. But he did not rule out voting for the bill on the floor.

“Maybe the policy is good, maybe it’s not,” Mr. Graves wrote on Twitter. “I’ll work through this ahead of the final vote later today.”

Phroyd

[tertiovitae-blog]

— TASK 001. STATISTICS

BASIC INFORMATION.

Full Name: Simon Chun, as far as federal documentation says.

Nickname(s): Sy, if he has any beyond that, he doesn’t know about them.

Age: 32

Date of Birth: September 22nd, 1986

Hometown: New York, NY

Current Location: Dertosa, CA

Ethnicity: Korean

Nationality: American

Gender: Cismale

Pronouns: He/him

Orientation: Purposefully emotionally unavailable tbqh

Religion: Raised under a Presbyterian mother and an apathetic father. Currently swings between atheism and agnosticism: he’d like to believe there’s some higher power but fails to see much evidence for the presence of one - at least in the form most modern religions teach. There’s no proof in Simon’s eyes of a God that’s both powerful and benevolent. 

Political Affiliation: Independent. Mixed liberal and conservative attitudes. 

Occupation: Former assistant district attorney in Suffolk County, MA, current owner of Pulp Kitchen and Pulp Vintage, his side business in the rare book & documents. PV specializes in early editions, maps, signatures from significant persons predating the 21st century, and the ever-popular vintage movie posters, as well as a few specialized items (architectural blueprints, maps, letters) from Dertosa’s history. Only a handful of these precious items he actually displays: in the very back of the store, close to his office and locked behind a delicate metal gate. Walk-in purchases are not welcome, though interested customers may contact Simon through PV’s website or by phone to make an appointment to examine the collection in person.   

Living Arrangements: The second floor of Pulp Kitchen is dedicated to Simon’s living space, accessed through the stairwell connected to his backroom office, which also empties out into the alley behind PK. He likes the simplicity of an all-in-one building (as well as the feeling of security afforded by elevation and insulation from other people and structures). He’s managed a mish-mash aesthetic of spare industrialism and coziness: exposed brick walls and steel beams, a dark floor but the living room popping with a deep goldrod-yellow carpet and anchored on a large, buttery, reddish leather sofa. There’s a knit throw blanket tossed over the back of just about every seating surface that isn’t the chairs at the kitchen island. All doors are sliding and usually left open for the feeling of greater space. The apartment is blessed with the same wall-to-wall windows of the cafe downstairs and Simon enjoys having his morning coffee with a chair pulled up to them to soak in a little sun and watch the street wake up below. There’s a surprising lack of bookshelves considering the man himself, but less surprising considering the abundance of them downstairs. 

Language(s) Spoken: English, Korean (less frequently than he knows he should). 

Accent: Fairly neutral American, a very clear, well-enunciated way of speaking.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

Face Claim: Steven Yeun

Hair Colour: Black, slightly wavy, usually brushed back or curling over one side of his temple, just a little too short to tuck behind his ears. It tends to not bother him enough that he lets it do what it wants

Eye Colour: Dark brown - call it coffee. 

Height: 5′9

Weight: 145-150 lbs

Build: Closer to slim than wiry or bulked, he pushes himself to stay in shape but he ain’t out to get buff.

Tattoos: N/A

Piercings: N/A

Clothing Style: Man’s got a big spectrum. Take your normal urban book-keep stereotype and add a few more colors and much nicer shoes. Almost always in a collared shirt of some kind, sleeves rolled up above the elbows and leather bracelets on his wrist, or maybe under a well-cut blazer with a discreet watch. You’ll never see Simon in a simple t-shirt if he’s got any choice about it, but at work he’ll range anywhere from this level of fancy jacket to this level of relaxed everything. If he’s going to go casual, it’s definitely in a hoodie with a some kind of weird reference plastered on the front. 

Usual Expression: Neutral and a bit removed, he tends to look ten levels deep in daydreaming even when he’s just sorting shelves or making a cappuccino. There’s pretty clear tells as to whether was he’s thinking is upsetting or pleasant: pinched brows or the smallest upward quirk to his lips.

Distinguishing Characteristics: A rigid scar above his left hip from the struggle three years ago that nearly cost him his life. Simon thanks the bullet scraping his side for giving him the panic-adrenaline to even survive it. A single dimple in his left cheek. Oh -- and we can’t forget the goddamn glasses. He felt like a jackass at first with fake lenses in, but over time he’s learned that they generously contribute to his fulfilling a certain stereotype within this new identity, and he’s now happy to hide behind the thin extra layer of protection granted by longer hair and a useless pair of wire frames. 

HEALTH.

Physical Ailments: None.

Neurological Conditions: His move to Dertosa came with a government-recommended psychologist, though Simon only met with her for a month before dropping out of his appointments with the stubborn belief it was better to take care of himself. There’s a bit of a self-stigma in Simon’s mind regarding mental health: depression and paranoia are emotions from his point of view, not conditions, and he expects himself to manage them like an adult, regardless of whether or not that’s a realistic goal. 

Allergies: Lower level lactose intolerant, but the kind who just pops a lactose pill, says ‘fuck it’, and has his latte anyways.

Sleeping Habits: A pretty solid seven to eight hours a night, in bed before midnight and out before eight 90% of the time. Structure is something Simon actively works for, in the hopes it’ll encourage stability. 

Eating Habits: Somewhat of an accidental vegetarian, his typical diet skirts close, but he lacks the moral rigidity on that particular stance. He’s weak once a really good smell hits his nose, meat be damned. Tries to keep his eating habits as regular as sleep, breakfast is a cup of coffee and any fruit he can grab and take downstairs, lunch is grazed from whatever’s on the menu at PK, dinner thrown together before after seven and before nine, always with some sort of fresh green veg involved. It’s tempting sometimes to revert to old college ramen-and-microwaveables habits, but he’s grudgingly taking care of his body with the full knowledge that the work of cooking is worth pushing him for.

Exercise Habits: Swims laps for an hour and half at the YMCA three times a week and tends to bike or walk for groceries, errands, ect. 

Emotional Stability: Mmmmm, let’s say 6, 7? There’s plenty of emotions tugging at Simon’s sleeve, but he’s simmered down to a more stable center as time has passed and he’s proven to be good for better or for worse at systematically approaching, sorting, and stuffing down what he thinks is useful to acknowledge or not. He purposefully tries to keep away from situations of high emotion, he knows himself well enough to know once he is propelled to extremes, it’s hard to get himself down from them.

Sociability: Simon definitely needs his alone time to refuel and recenter, but he also needs the stimulation of other people or he’d go stircrazy. He keeps an arm’s length, but he’s also too curious about what’s rattling around in other people’s heads to be a true isolationist and can be very warm with the right crowd. It’s a pleasure to have social connections, as long as he can keep the frame of mind that they can only go so far as PK’s front door. 

Body Temperature: Cool-natured, there’s a reason he can get away with wearing suit jackets in summer.

Addictions: Lil bit of a hoarder of sentimental objects. Does not matter is the memory is positive or negative and he doesn’t need to be able to lay eyes on it, just to know it’s within his care.

Drug Use: None.

Alcohol Use: Strictly self-enforced as social. He doesn’t bring booze into his house unless it’s for cooking or a guest. No point in tempting a bad habit.

PERSONALITY.

Label: The Advocate, The Enduring, The Cynical

Positive Traits: driven, educated, perceptive, disciplined, curious, conscientious, discrete, generous, steered by an inner moral code

Negative Traits: dogmatic, detached, stubborn, overly self-reliant, impulsive and bold in matters of principle, deeply buried vulnerability to self-criticism, and the capacity to be truly venomous

Goals/Desires: Stay in his own damn lane while making a life for himself he can actually enjoy. 

Fears: Having to start over again, any form of his past biting him in the ass, having an opportunity to do something just but being rendered unable to because of his situation, forgetting the past.

Hobbies: Cultivating Pulp Vintage’s collection is as much hobby as work, swimming, snapping up new posters for the wall of the cafe, listening to podcasts, reading, handheld puzzles, volunteer work. He hasn’t been back to his self-defense course since his first year in Dertosa but his teacher is slowly attempting to wheedle him back into other classes at the gym. Monthly trips back to Dertosa’s legal indoor gun range to keep himself sharp.

Habits: Cleaning those useless glasses as a way to stall a conversation or action, drumming his fingers, the two-handed mug hold, reading behind the cash register, skimming the paper every day from front to back and impulsively checking the news bar on his phone, covering his mouth with his hand while laughing, doing the lazy half-tuck with a shirt, tapping his foot when he’s jazzed up. 

FAVOURITES.

Weather: Daytime summer rain, that perfect crisp winter day when the air is frosty in his lungs and the ground is coated in snow. Real winter is one of the big things he misses about the Northeast.

Colour(s): Green, blue

Music: He started playing classic jazz/oldies in PK for the sake of that bookshop aesthetic, but he’s gotten genuinely into a lot of it. Nina Simone, Cab Calloway. Longtime listener to The Black Keys, Red Hot Chili Peppers. Vivaldi, Andrés Segovia.

Movies: Clever comedies or character studies, psychological thrillers, old Hollywood experimental movies, all the campiest of 80s horror. ‘Nightcrawler’, ‘the Exorcist’, ‘Metropolis’, ‘In the Mood for Love’. 

Sport: Basketball & fencing. He was a pretty damn good at the latter in high school and he’s entirely self-aware of just how pretentious a thing a boarding school fencing team is to be an alumni of.  

Beverage: Water with a few lime slices, sue him for being boring. Guilty pleasure is those stupidly sweet matcha green tea lattes from Starbucks.

Food: Hit him with that spicy shit. Fuck it up with savory flavors. Finish it with good n’ sweet. There’s definitely love for Korean, but he’s big on Thai and Southwestern cuisine as well. 

Animal: Panther. Just about any big cat, tbh.

FAMILY.

Father: Jeong Yung-sik, aka Howard Jeong. Incarcerated since 2003, age 67. Eligible for release 2249. 

Mother: Jeong Su-jin, aka Sujin Jeong. Deceased as of 2015, aged 56. Official cause of death: craniocerebral ballistic trauma aka a gunshot to the head. 

Sibling(s): Jeong Min-chul, aka Erik Jeong. Deceased as of 2002, aged 16. Official cause of death: exsanguination aka prolonged and fatal blood loss.

Children: None, despite liking kids he doesn’t realistically see a future where it’d be wise to have them. 

Pet(s): His cats Darlene and Mister Meowgi have the run of Pulp Kitchen, the first named after a character from Mr. Robot, the second by an ex-girlfriend. The pun stuck; Simon still can’t bring himself to rename him. He had to give up his boxer, Odin, when he moved to Dertosa and he misses that damn dog every day. 

Family’s Financial Status: Raised very upper class, currently a comfortable upper-middle. Technically, he has none of the money left over from his family’s generous supply, but some of his earnings from his work as an ADA came with him to start him off in Dertosa and fund the opening of Pulp Kitchen.

EXTRA.

Zodiac Sign: Virgo - reliable, practical, critical, seeking goodness while expecting disappointment, prone to overthinking

MBTI: INFJ, ‘The Advocate’ - creative, decisive, perfectionistic, incredibly private, “INFJs have strong beliefs and take the actions that they do not because they are trying to advance themselves, but because they are trying to advance an idea that they truly believe will make the world a better place”.

Enneagram: The heart of Enneagram 8 (the Protector) under a strong shield of Enneagram 5 traits (the Observer) - a conflict between the desire to be confrontational and assertive in issues of justice and protecting the weak and the knowledge that oneself is the person who must be protected first, as well as tendencies towards hoarding and intellectual pursuits. 

Temperament: Melancholic - thoughtful, schedule oriented, economical and perceptive, interested in the philosophical and poetic 

Moral Alignment: Neutral Good - belief in the intrinsic rights of all beings, drive to help the innocent, desire for justice but a willingness to defy the law and do usually immoral things in order to see that justice happens

Primary Vice: Wrath

Primary Virtue: Charity

Element: Water - evolving, inward, empathetic

[marveloustark]

All or Nothing 3/?

A few hours had gone by, before I ultimately determined the communication system dead. The drop ship didn’t have much to salvage either, with everything basically burnt to the ground or fried. There was no way we would be relying on technology or electricity anytime soon.

I looked outside the dropship, feeling defeated. Wells had just gone outside to see what the commotion was all about, hearing people screaming in excitement and what sounded like a crackling noise outside. I sat down, staring at the fuses and wires in front of me before a deep voice filled the air.

“I wouldn’t fix that if I were you…”

I turned to the direction from where the voice was coming from.

Bellamy stood at the entrance, blocking my view of the night filled sky. I tilted my head up to him, furrowing my brows together in confusion by his words. Why wouldn’t he want me to fix this?

“Why not? We have to try and find a way to communicate with the others in the Ark.” I replied, grabbing onto a burnt out fuse as I used part of a broken metal to tear apart the broken wires.

Bellamy took a few steps closer to where I was sitting, kneeling down as he turned to face the fuse box I was working on. He took the wire from my hands, bringing it up to his face before quickly yanking it off the box.

Widening my eyes, I looked at him in shock before shoving his hands away from the fuse box.

“You don’t get to destroy what little we have left!”, I exclaimed as I stood up, positioning myself between the box and Bellamy. Taken back by my sudden action, Bellamy took one step back, before letting his eyes fall down to my cuffed wrist.

“You need to go outside, now.” He said sternly, as he turned on his heels and made his way out.

I contemplated for a few seconds, looking back to the box. He had ripped out a part of a fuse that could’ve been somewhat repaired, which left me with nothing to fix inside. Defeated, I took a deep breathe as I dragged my feet out the drop ship, walking into the crowd outside.

I scanned the crowd for anyone that I knew, my eyes quickly falling on Wells as I walked to fall right next to him. He nodded his head at the acknowledgment of my presence, before letting us both examine the scene in front of us.

A girl was sitting down on a log, extending her wrist out for two guys to grab it, with one of them being Murphy. Murphy had a makeshift knife in his hand, letting the sharp object close to her wrist.

They were trying to take off her wristband.

Before Wells and I could do anything, Murphy and his accomplice had already taken the wristband off of her, with everyone cheering happily as soon as the band was off her wrist.

“Who’s next?!”, yelled out Bellamy, stepping out close to the fire as he looked around the crowd.

Wells stepped forward before opening his mouth to speak, “What the hell are you doing?!” He spoke to Bellamy directly.

Someone stepped forward to reply to Wells before Bellamy stopped him with his hand, signaling he would be the one to talk to Wells.

“We’re liberating ourselves, what does it look like?” He replied, looking from Wells to me.

“It looks like you’re trying to get us all killed! The communication system is dead. These wristbands are all we got. Take them off, and the Ark will think we’re dying, that it’s not safe for them to follow.”

“That’s the point Chancellor” Bellamy said, looking pleased with himself at his new nickname for Wells before continuing, “We can take care of ourselves, can’t we?”

The crowd agreed, with some yelling a few “yeah”s as they rallied behind Bellamy.

“You think this is a game?” Wells interjected, stepping closer to Bellamy as he began to call out, “Those aren’t just our friends and our parents up there. They’re our farmers, our doctors, our engineers. I don’t care what he tells you. We won’t survive here on our own, and besides, if it really is safe, how could you not want the rest of our people to come down?” Wells gestured up to the sky, referring back to the Ark, to his home where his father is.

Bellamy quickly replied, “My people already are down. Those people locked my people up.” He said, as he pointed up towards the sky in disgust, “Those people killed my mother for the crime of having a second child. Your father did that.”

Wells and Bellamy quickly entered into a conversation that was more than just about everyone here, something that he home for both of them.

“My father didn’t write the laws” Wells said, Bellamy clearly pushing a button in Wells as he defended his father.

“No. He enforced them, but not anymore, not here. Here, there are no laws.”

As Bellamy spoke, he began to encapture the favor of the crowd, with people quickly siding with him as they yelled out their agreements.”

“Here, we do whatever the hell we want whenever the hell we want. Now, you don’t have to like it, Wells. You can even try to stop it or change it, kill me. You know why? Whatever the hell we want.”

“Whatever the hell we want!”, exclaimed Murphy, taken by Bellamy words as he faced the crowd.

Everyone began to chant along, but Bellamy and Wells continued to stare down to each other.

I stepped forward, having had enough of their personal argument as I grabbed onto Wells’ arm, pulling back towards me to tear his attention away from Bellamy.

Before I could speak, I felt a drop of water on my arm. As I looked closer, I felt millions of other drops hitting my skin.

As we all turned to the sky, we discovered that water was falling from the sky.

Rain.

Everyone cheered in excitement, as no one had ever experienced that phenomenon of having water falling from the sky.

I didn’t have time to enjoy the rain before Bellamy and Wells resumed to talk.

“We need to collect this.” Wells said logically.

“Whatever the hell we want.” Bellamy replied, standing his ground.

Remembering I had my hand on Wells’ arm, I began to pull it away once again, trying to gain Wells’ attention.

“Wells, come on. You don’t need to listen to him. Collect the water” I said, reminding him of his idea.

Wells nodded his head, still looking at Bellamy before tearing away, walking away from the crowd and leaving me alone with Bellamy.

I turned my attention to the taller, dark haired man. He looked at me as he raised an eyebrow.

“This should not turn into a two sided war. We should be bringing people together, not apart.” I said to him, tilting my head towards Wells’ direction.

Bellamy scoffed, tearing his attention away from me for a few seconds before letting his eyes fall into mine.

“This isn’t the Ark. We decide what we do.”

“Yeah? And what if it ends up killing us all?” I replied back, before turning on my heels and walking away, not letting Bellamy have the chance to reply.

————————————————————————————————————

Wells and I spent our time making small barrels in order to collect water from the rain, spreading them out around the drop ship before we both parted ways.

I decided it was time for some sleep, given the long and hard day I just had. I walked down towards a patch of grass that had no trees around it, laying down as I finally began to unwind.

To think, this time yesterday, I was spending my time inside the cell, recounting the stories my mother used to tell me as a child.

Everything was so different: I was in a small, confined space. But now… Now I’m on Earth, the largest space I could ever have. Something that I’ve had stripped away.

I looked back up the sky, picturing the cell once more. It’s crazy to think I called that confinement my home for so long. And now I am here.

As these thoughts began to take over my mind, so did sleep. I closed my eyes, and felt myself being drifted back to the bed in my cell.

————————————————————————————————————

A few hours must have gone by, before I heard a noise coming from yeh other side of the trees.

Yelling, screaming.

Panicked, I got up from my spot, looking around me for any signs of danger before I heard a familiar voice.

“”No! Don’t do this!”

It was Wells.

I let my feet carry me over towards the voice, fearing for the worst.

Images of Murphy standing over Wells with a knife began to flood my mind, as Murphy had tried to hurt him before.

And it’s not like Wells was my friend, but he was one of us. I can’t let anyone die at the hands of the other.

As soon as I was in the clearing, I saw Murphy and Wells, along with other men surround them. I began to run faster, calling out Murphy to stop before Bellamy came from my right side.

He quickly reached out to grab my arm, stopping me from getting to Wells as he held me back before leaning down to talk to me.

“He isn't going to kill Wells. We are just taking off his wristband.” He said to try and calm me down.

I kept trying to pull him away, too distracted to actually try and break free as I watched Murphy take off the band from Well’s wrist, with Wells becoming totally hopeless.

I stopped trying to fight Bellamy, looking up to him.

“What, now you’re going to force me to take off my band too?” I practically spitting out my words to him.

He looked at me, not expecting that type of question from me before completely letting go. He looked away from me, turning to the direction of Murphy before turning his head so only I can hear him.

“Go, before Murphy sees you.” He said, before running towards a now stunned Wells.

I took one last look at Wells to make sure he wasn’t harmed before running back to where I was once sleeping.

I couldn’t let Sinclair think I was dead. I couldn’t let Raven, and the rest of my friends think I was dead. They were the only ones back in the Ark who were family.

I needed them back.

A/N: Sorry about the late upload, as I quickly discovered, doing this episode by episode proved to be a lot more complicated and time consuming than I thought. With that being said, I will be cutting down some scenes in order to save time and effort. I will make the parts longer, so each part will represent an episode.

Please let me know if you’re enjoying this, so I don’t keep wasting my time! Thank you for your patience!

[wingsofanillyrian]

The Dance: Chapter 3

Summary:  Everyone knows the High Lord of the Night Court is a monster. Not that Rhysand has ever cared what the other Fae of Prythian think, but when he meets Feyre, Tamlin’s betrothed, he realizes everything is about to change.

Chapter Masterlist

“Well well, what have we here?” Tamlin cocked his head to the side, a predatory grin on his face as he circled me. “High Lord of Night’s come to play, eh?” He threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp enough to set my ears ringing.

“Let him go!” Feyre shouted, shoving against his chest. Tamlin was taken aback, seemingly noticing her for the first time. He blinked once before his lips curled back from his teeth.

“I told you to stay with Lucien. I finally let you out on your own and this-“ he pointed to me, the tip of Lucien’s dagger piercing my skin- “Is how you repay me?”

“We were only talking, Tamlin!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides. I actually thought she might take a swing at him, judging by the rage that coated her features.

“I don’t give a shit if you were just talking,” he snarled, claws ripping from his fingertips. “I gave you one rule. Stay with Lucien.” Feyre was physically trembling as he towered over her. “But you couldn’t even listen to that!”

A tiny whimper passed Feyre’s lips and she instinctively braced herself for more verbal blows. Tamlin’s face softened, realizing what he said was scaring her. He rubbed at his temples, as if he was dealing with an unruly child.

“I’m sorry, Feyre.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched. Flinching meant that she had anticipated a blow. Anticipating a blow meant that he’d laid hands on her before.

That realization snapped the last of the fragile control I held over my power. Lucien yelped, leaping back as the dark tendrils of shadowy night snaked from my fingers and pooling around Tamlin’s feet.

“Get away from her,” I growled, slamming Lucien against the wall with a flick of my wrist. Wisely, he stayed there without complaint. Stalking towards Tamlin, I saw the flash of fear in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide.

“She’s mine,” He growled back, wrapping his hand around her arm. Again, Feyre looked at me with pleading eyes and white-hot rage pulsed through my veins.

“You don’t own her,” I countered, stopping within inches of his face. My tall stature allowed me to tower over him, turning the tables and unsteadying him.

Good.

“She isn’t some possession that you get to squabble over,” I continued, letting those inky ropes flow of their own accord. One glance at Feyre told me that she was enraptured by the magic rather than terrified. Her blue eyes were fixed on the pool flowing at Tamlin’s feet, deep purple and blue specked with sparkling light- just like the sky.

“You don’t know, do you?” Tamlin sneered at me, possessing the audacity to laugh.

I drug my attention back to the manipulative male. “Know what?”

“That Feyre here-“ He clasped his hands behind his back and took a step to the side, the shadows parting to allow him past- “Is my betrothed.”

The world tipped from under me. I was vaguely aware of Feyre shouting something, either at me or at her lover, but all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. That’s why he was being so possessive over her. Because he could.

The laws governing the Spring Court were vastly different from those of my court. Here, when two Fae were engaged to be wed, whomever held the higher social standing could force the other into submission. ‘Within reason,’ the law stated. But who would ever dare challenge the High Lord?

A grin broke across Tamlin’s face as I put the pieces together.

“That’s right, Rhysand. She’s all mine, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He laughed again, and there was nothing sane or stable about the sound. Something had been broken within him many years ago. This was not the male that I had once befriended.

He was a monster.

“But there is,” I murmured, snapping out of my daze to meet Feyre’s eyes. “The laws of Prythian allow a mate to object to a marriage between their mate and another.”

There it was, laid out on the table. The big secret that I’d tried to protect in order to keep her from harm.

Tamlin’s head whipped back to Feyre, who was staring at me wide eyed and shocked. “Did you know?” He demanded of her, reaching as if to seize her arm once more. All it took was a snap of my fingers to freeze the limb midair.

“You don’t touch her.”

“This is an act of war-“

“It is no such thing. I haven’t harmed you.”

Tamlin growled, the sound ripping from his throat. I had him cornered, and he damn well knew it. Lucien sniffed the air, scenting for the mating bond.

“They haven’t accepted the bond, my lord.”

“I know,” he snapped, shooting daggers at the flame haired male. “I’d have scented it when we fucked last night.” Another pointed jab, but it didn’t hit home. I let it roll right off me, much to his dismay. Tamlin’s face contorted into further rage as he grew more desperate.

“And they never will accept it. She is my fiancé. You can’t have her!”

I tuned out his words, my attention fixed wholly on Feyre. Her breathing was heavy as she shook her head in disbelief. I felt a second, duller snap in my chest, and I knew instantly that the bond had finally locked into place for her, too.

“Feyre,” I breathed, daring a step forward and holding out my hand towards her. “My offer still stands-“

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

She shook her head, caught between the monster that was her betrothed and whatever unknown threat I might pose.

“Feyre please, I won’t hurt you, I won’t cage you, I swear!” I’d reached the point of begging. I didn’t care. Tamlin snarled and gnashed his beastly teeth at me from a few paces away, where my magic kept his feet pinned to the floor.

“I can trust you, right?” She breathed, blue eyes searching my violet. There was a vulnerable look in them, raw and unsure. Gods, so much hurt was held in such a tiny frame, broken and battered and bruised.

“You can trust me.”

Tentatively her hand found mine. I released Tamlin as I winnowed, his deafening roar of rage following us through the endless black.

***************

Feyre sputtered and fell to her knees when we landed at the House of Wind. I knelt beside her, offering her my jacket once more. She accepted it gratefully, leaning her head back against the stone wall of the balcony.

“Are you alright?” I asked cautiously, scanning her for any sign of injury.

“I think,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I can’t wrap my head around what happened. Tamlin’s never done that before.”

Her voice was small and laced with the pain of betrayal. Pain was something I had become very intimate with over my lifetime, and I could recognize when it held someone in it’s sharp claws. Feyre curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her knees and effectively shutting out the night’s events.

“It’s a lot to take in.” She pulled the lapels of my jacket tighter around her to ward out the chill.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, rocking back on my heels. “That’s not how I wanted you to find out, but I didn’t see any other way-“

“I know.”

A cold wind whipped in from the steppes, and I shivered. Feyre did too, though I could tell she had no intention of moving anytime soon. Her face was blank but tears rolled liberally down her hollow cheeks.

Her eyes held no fire.

“Thank you for saving me,” she rasped, finally looking up to me.

As carefully as I could manage, I slipped my arm under her shaking knees. Wrapping the other around her torso, I murmured, “It’s alright, Feyre. I won’t let him hurt you.” That broke whatever dam she had carefully constructed within her heart, and her emotions poured out of her in waves.

Her fingers clung to my shirt as she sobbed, and I carried her through the House of Wind to one of the many chambers within. I chose the one with the most windows and the most exists, lest she feel like a caged bird and need to fly away.

Another feeling I knew well.

Setting her gently on the bed, I made to take my leave. It had been a long day, and I figured she would want some time to sort out everything that had happened.

“Stay,” she whispered, catching my wrist as I turned away. “Please.”

I nodded, her grip remaining firm as I summoned a chair. “I’ll watch over you,” I promised, her hold relaxing enough for me to take her hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes already sliding shut as sleep claimed her. She was out within moments, but I remained by her side.

“Anything for you, Feyre darling.”

Tagging: @spegetty @viajandosinalas @personpersonper @thisisnotmynamefml @photofeesh@4clovermania @highladyofluna @darlingfireheart @highladyofidris @bluephoenix222 @krm00623 @jordangg13 @highlady-of-slytherin

[spockowhales]

Know No Shame

I just finished Black Sails and holy shit I’m in pieces. This is a ficlet I wrote for @pirategf for her bday a while back, before I got into the show, and she’s to thank for getting me into, as she likes to call it, the gay treasure island prequel

When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you are the reason it has become so mangled

-           Caitlyn Siehl

The sun is high and hot over the brown fields of freshly upturned earth and the swaths of green stalks swaying in the warm wind of the tropics. The hands with which they touch their faces are harder, rougher than they were all those years ago in that London house, under that grey and rainy sky. Their faces are harder too, lines of time etched into their skin like wicked treasure maps, brutal histories that will be twisted by others or buried away so that the world can paint them into villains or irrelevant side-notes. They’re harder and older and still beautiful and the world can go fuck itself.

The foreman shouts at them to get to work, so they do. They plough the field side by side while the sun crawls its way west. James cannot stop stealing glances. Thomas is there, barefoot and thinner than before and alive. More than anything, alive.

The day drags on and by the time the dinner bell rings out in the dusk, James’s skin is crawling with the heat of the day and something else entirely. They eat dinner in silence, or what constitutes as silence when there is the chatter of other inmates and the clinking of cutlery echoing around them. They do not speak, what for the lack of privacy and what for the simple lack of words. It is not that there is nothing to say, but quite the opposite. There is so much to say that it cannot possibly be said. All those years, all those words, pressing together until they are their own opposite.

After dinner, Thomas takes his hand and leads him through the hallways. If anyone casts an odd glance their way, they do not notice. They do not care. This is a place where things are hidden from sight and so there is no need to worry about being seen. There is something to be said about being forgotten by the world, James thinks. In a way, it’s oddly liberating. The building smells of scorched earth and lye soap, of simplicity bordering on harshness. Somewhere in the distance, the smell of salty water speaks of waging wars and making choices. In front of him, Thomas still doesn’t speak at all but still the touch of his hand feels like an armistice a decade in the making. A single safe harbour.

They stop at a door in the back of the building. Thomas opens it, pulls James into the room. Once the door is closed and they’re alone in the soft darkness, he turns around.

“My father made sure I was comfortable here”, he says, and those are the first words he speaks to James in ten years.  Apparently, Lord Alfred arranged for a private room when he exiled his son to the ends of the known world. James doesn’t know if it were an attempt at mercy or a wish to keep Thomas isolated. Alfred Hamilton never struck him as a merciful man and Thomas’ words are wry, his mouth twisting in a distortion of a smile, a subtle irony.

“Never say he was anything other than a gentleman”, James replies, bitter words spilling like the dregs at the bottom of a bottle. He sounds harsh even to his own ears, but Thomas just smiles at him, pure and honest.

“Even if we said it, who would believe us?”

No one. They’re not the ones who will be writing history. History will be writing them, or forgetting them. It doesn’t matter now, James decides. History can have him, do with him as it pleases. He only fought for a legacy because he thought the only true thing worth fighting for lost to him.

Not anymore.

When he kisses Thomas, it’s a homecoming. There is a familiarity that he almost forgot, something so very human that he almost lost along the way. Thomas lays his hands at James’ waist and it feels like coming onto solid ground after years at sea. James can feel him smiling into the kiss and even with their eyes closed, it’s blinding.

When they pull apart, they stay close, simply looking. Thomas’ hair is shorter and lighter than James remembers it, bleached by the unforgiving Florida sun. His skin is tanned and the palms of his hands are calloused, but his eyes are the same and James is almost back in that attic flat, with Thomas reading to him, their world so much smaller, so much softer than it is now. He wonders what he looks like to his friend, his lover, his driving force. His love. Suddenly his hands feel bloodied and while he will never regret the war he waged – the war that, in some ways, kept him alive even while threatening his life – he thinks it a shame to smear Thomas with the sins soaked in his skin. Something must show on his face, because Thomas cups his cheek gently, meeting his eyes.

“What is the matter?”

James lets his gaze drift away.

“How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it. Though in this case, the cause was grievous enough. Yet the consequences, too, were fitting to the offence. I have not been a good man, Thomas. I have not been what you have envisioned me to be.”

Silence stretches between them and still James cannot lift his eyes. Flint was fearless, but then Flint was the half-living creation with a single purpose. James McGraw is a man, and men fear just as men love.

Thomas looks at him softly for a long time before speaking.

“The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane. I do believe you did just that.”

At that, James finally looks up.

“Some would call me a monster.”

“And some had called us both monsters for far different reasons. That doesn’t make us so. Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth. If we’re quoting Aurelius, I think that particular quote is rather relevant.”

The sounds of the night swirl around them. They are still so close.

“Do you remember”, Thomas says, “what else was written in that book?”

There is a sharp pain in James’ chest, in the place where his heart should be. He closes his eyes, nods his head, and breathes. Thomas brings his other hand up to his face, leaning in.

“James, my love, open your eyes.”

He does. Of course, he does. What else can he do.

“What else was written?” Thomas asks, his face soft. His eyes look like home. James is wrecked and healed and dismantled and put together again.

“Know no shame”, he says. Thomas smiles.

“Know no shame.”

Their next kiss is a re-learning of a lesson and James wonders if maybe Thomas has kept his soul for safe-keeping all these years and now it’s finally returned to him. It should be harder, he thinks, to re-learn a body after so long. Then again, maybe he just got used to having to fight for things because nothing came the easy way, except for pain. As it is, they fall into each other the way light folds into shadow beneath stretched-out sails, with a fluttering ease.

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asks at some point, his breath coming in short gasps, half-declaration, half genuine worry.

“I have always known”, Thomas replies, his cheeks flushed as they move together. “All these years. And all these years, I have loved you back.”

Love, James thinks, is like daylight. And there are no monsters in the daylight.

He never understood the phrase honest sweat but he thinks he might now. With every movement, every slide of bodies it is as if the grime of the world is being washed away, the humid heat of the night and their twined limbs exorcising the demons that he spent so long fighting. The last vestiges of Captain Flint die that night in Thomas Hamilton’s narrow cot and when dawn comes it finds James McGraw sleeping peacefully in his lover’s embrace.

When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it. 

-          Caitlyn Siehl

 All the italics are from Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations (the book Thomas gives James)