#you languish how fucked up everything is and then go 'well! nothing to be done!' and continue on <3

[mayonakano-archive]

kikuo song today! my favorite, in fact (also from the mika playlist), batsu neko

the opening is what caught me first...kikuo intros are always unique to the rest of the song but this one in particular just.. hits harder than the rest for me? it's super cool and more assertive than usual, i feel

and as for the rest of the song. well. of course i have to say i love the meowing of course i do. But like other than that it really does feel like a punishment or a series of what is perceived as warranted punishments!!!! and the chorus in particular + the leadout to the carefree life does a damn incredible job of capturing an agonizing helplessness and intense emotionally charged internalized responses before going oh well that's just how it is huh

...just for funsies im gonna send you the kikuo song i have on my shu playlist for tomorrow's song (i do a lot of parallels on theirs i have parasites eating my brain)

kikuo... from a mika playlist... with neko in the title... <- already intrigued

ough the intro is so good... and the way part of the background melody kind of sounds like something shattering??? wonderful. i dig that. the art is so fun, too <3

it's so good... the very dark sounding chorus to that very end of it being called "carefree" like... ough. it's so good... BUT NO IT DOES FEEL LIKE THAT??? despairing and agonizing because you're so helpless only to pick yourself up and say "well, this is just how it is~"

[steveharrington]

But we’re not told WHY they’re vecna’d. There’s no reason why vecna targets traumatized teens EXCEPT to make it even more horror-movie-ish. Why do they get trash compacted like that specifically? It’s implied that’s how vecna a powers work but why? No idea.

The show has left so many unanswered questions already and this new element (vecna itself!) just over complicates everything

And I’m actually kind of pissed bc Patrick gets vecna’d and we know almost nothing about him. But stranger things… hates poc

I actually kind of hate Chrissy because of how differently she (pretty white girl) was treated from Patrick (black boy). And. her eating disorder existed SOLELY for exploitative purposes just to cause an emotional reaction it’s not something that adds to her as a character it’s just there to freak the audience out, meanwhile other REAL LIFE ACTORS are being forced to starve themselves for the roles. We get it eating disorders are scary good thing they’re not real! /s

Acting like this new girl will be important focusing on her ed only to kill her off in the most horrific way possible… i don’t like it it feels exploitative especially of a real world problem this show is absolutely complicit in spreading

We got a LOT less development for Fred than chrissy and didn’t fucking. Languish in such a triggering topic I think he was the happy medium.

Regardless the focus on traumatized teens with no other similarities was already so random they could have just picked literally anyone with no special backstory and it would have worked just as well? At the end of the day Chrissy ONLY matters as motivation for Jason, who only matters as motivation for Eddie ( and since Eddie’s death did nothing like. It didn’t seem like he was saving Dustin’s life or anything) who only matters to make Dustin kind of sad? She died for man pain except the ultimate man pain was for some guy she never even met

Chrissy isn’t a person or a character she’s a bafflingly written INTENTIONALLY TRIGGERING and misogynistic plot device with an outrageous amount of minute details they could have given to any of the real characters. They didn’t have to spend 10 minutes pretending she mattered only to beat her to death with a rock and then run over her a few times for good measure

well first of all i am no authority on the topic of whether or not chrissy's struggles with her ed were done correctly and therefore i will not speak on it because its really....not my place as someone who hasn't experienced that!

as for why vecna targets people with trauma specifically, i think it serves a greater narrative purpose and that's depicted best through max's arc this season. vecna's whole backstory as henry shows that he was obviously traumatized himself by brenner and when he appeals to chrissy, fred, and max he attempts to persuade them to just give up/join him/etc because it's easier than carrying on. he's using their trauma against them. and then when max is faced with this threat of losing her life to vecna, it motivates her to want to get better and want to stop isolating herself from lucas and the group, she literally says "i don't want to go, im not ready" and it kinda overall like. saves her life! vecna acts as a narrative tool to explore mental health and trauma and guilt. imo it's much much MUCH more impactful for our characters to overcome him through their bonds and their desire to live despite what they've been through than like.....killing a monster of the week

obv you dont have to agree with me and that's fine but i don't think chrissy is like...a misogynistic charicature in the slightest. like i said before i really don't think chrissy's treatment in the show was uniquely different than fred's or even max's. i don't really understand how chrissy's trauma was "languished in" any more than fred's? i feel like they got equal screentime and fred's vecna vision was just as brutal as chrissy's, even if they talked about two entirely different topics. and if im being completely honest (again not trying to be rude or demean your view of the show, but you did send this ask to me personally so im going to give my honest opinions back) i think referring to chrissy as a "plot device" and not a "real character" is intentionally reading the show in bad faith.

this season is a horror season. people die like they do in any slasher movie. i understand if the vecna plotline isn't for everyone because like yeah watching characters who are already suffering die very tragic deaths is hard! but i think the point of vecna like i said before is to personify trauma, guilt, and shame to allow our characters to overcome those feelings. chrissy's death worked both to establish what vecna does and to involve eddie. but i dont think that automatically makes her a "prop" or a "plot device" because she's given a personality, she's given a lot of thought and care from the actress, she's given people who mourn her. i think it was genuinely one of the sweetest moments in the whole show when eddie dedicated his little guitar solo to her because it showed that her death affected him and in motivating him to want to kill vecna and save his friends from her same fate, it had meaning

[ebitchwriting]

Dragged Into The Blood

Story Summary: Never staying in one place for long, moving nearly every year, Lea Anderson was used to impermanence, chaos, and having to leave everything behind at the drop of a hat. Lea never expected that she would be kidnapped and wake up in a rusted, decrepit prison cell because of a madman's delusional belief in eugenics and cleansing the Earth of imperfection. By herself, with only the clothing on her back, she will have to rely on luck and logic to escape before she's killed or worse. Chapter Summary: Finding an escape from this compound was easier said than done when everything was locked, and the captor was seemingly watching their every move, pulling their strings where the captor wished. More than that, it was getting harder for Lea to hide her true nature from her fellow prisoners, and there seemingly being a feral creature around every corner, ready to tear them apart. How long could Lea keep her mask up in the carnage? Chapter Warnings: blood, gore, guns, death, and sensory overload issues.

I'm back! After a month! Sorry, an ice storm hit, which led to me losing power for 12 days. Then I noticed how literally every single chapter has typos or weird nonsensical crap in it because, apparently, Grammarly sucks now. So once I got power back, I obsessively started to go over each chapter and edited out all the mistakes until it was acceptable in my eyes. And, in all honesty, my MA Apprenticeship overwhelmed me as well. Regardless, I'm back with a new chapter and working on the next! However, I will be changing my upload schedule to once a month rather than once every two weeks to account for the apprenticeship, this fic, and also the passion project of my own epic fantasy world. Anyway, enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think of it!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17.

Chapter 15: Locks and Keys

No one said a word as Claire took the first step forward. No one said a word when they pushed past the door and entered yet another ominous, dark hallway, lit only by the flickering overhead lights. Moving slowly, cautiously, anticipating someone or something to pop out and attack them. Yet, with each step, nothing jumps out of the shadows. Leaning against the wall behind Claire as she peered over the edge, there was still nothing. Turning past the corner, everyone stayed eerily quiet, not wanting to tempt fate. 

‘… And whoever is puppeteering us…’ 

Lea couldn’t help the twitches at every distant screech. Wails reverberated off the walls, and it was impossible to tell where they originated. Eyes wide beneath the cover, darting back and forth as she shuffled forward. 

‘… The doors conveniently unlocking… that butchered guy dropping as soon as Claire grabbed the keys… the fact we found each other damn near immediately… There is no fucking way that whoever kidnapped us isn’t watching us right now...’  The corner of her mouth twitched into a grimace. Back taut, feeling like a thread threatening to snap under the tension. 

‘… This is actually worse than Wesker… at least that fuck couldn’t be bothered to keep tabs on me after… that…’

Another corner. Another stop to peer over the edge for anyone or anything malevolent. After a moment, Claire silently begins moving again. Moira tentatively followed, honey eyes alert and darting around the dimly lit area. Lea languished behind, struggling to keep her movements calm and controlled. 

‘… They always have a goal… no matter how fucked it is… there’s always one… I’m swear if it’s godhood again…’   

Claire pushed open the red-lit double doors, the hinges groaning, timed almost perfectly with the low wailing of something far in the distance. Every hair not singed from Lea’s body stood on end as a rush of frigid air poured out from what looked like the remains of a morgue. Teeth chattering, shivering hands reaching up to rub at her shoulders. Lea’s clothed gaze stared enviously at the other two and their jackets. 

“Hey, what’s your name?” Moira whispered, rushing towards the knocked-over desks, rummaging through the drawers as fast as possible with shaky hands. The corners of Lea’s lips curled into a vindicated smirk at the sight, rubbing at her shoulders as she trembled. 

“It’s L-” Lea froze, eyes falling to the floor as she tried to focus on what I.D. the B.S.A.A. supplied her. She cringed with every second that passed as Lea struggled with her memory. 

“… Uh, you alright?” Moria asked, giving her a quizzical look as she moved across the room, idly looking over the counters for anything useful. 

“Yep! It’s… um… Lana… Westerna.” Lea awkwardly drawled out as the name finally resurfaced, instantly burning with embarrassment when she peeked at Moira’s incredulous face. 

“… Like from Dracula?” Moira asked, quirking up an eyebrow at her, eyes meeting cotton. Lea could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks as she blushed harder from the embarrassment. 

“At least they didn’t name me Lucy,” Lea tried feebly to laugh it off, her attempts at laughter sounding painfully forced. Lea cursed under her breath for jokingly suggesting that name and her inability to use the correct tone. 

“Shh, we still don’t know what’s out there. Come on.” Claire warned, the octaves of her voice falling down a few notes for a moment. The two quickly finished giving the room a once-over before falling back behind her. 

Out and around the corner, the group found a ladder going down. Lea rises to the tips of her toes, peering over Claire’s shoulder to the lower platform. A surprisingly small room, hardly lit by fallen lights, just as run-down as everything else in this building. Her gaze locked with the two corpses on either end of the room. One covered in a bloodied and dirtied white tarp. After a moment of focusing her gaze, she recognized the fallen butchered guard as the other corpse. 

“Alright, we made it. Key’s over there.” Claire breathed a sigh of relief, stepping down a few rungs of the ladder before gripping the sides and sliding down. On the other hand, Moira chose to go down each rung, complaining about the smell. After a pondering second, Lea slid down like Claire, not wanting to waste more time than necessary. 

Tentatively stepping toward the butchered guard, about fifty feet away. Forty. Cries of agony, but the other two didn’t hear it.

‘… Not safe yet…’

Thirty feet. Twenty. A loud crash that as all flinching back. 

“Shit, what was that?” A scared muttering nearby, Moira, perhaps? Or was it herself? It certainly wasn’t Claire. 

Ten feet. Five. Then, finally, they’re at the body, the air thick with apprehension as Claire kneels and inspects the corpse. The more experienced woman grimaced slightly at the sickly-sweet stench of death but ignored it. 

“The key’s gone.” 

‘… The keys aren’t on the belt… did it fall to the ground..? No... nothing… not a damn thing… maybe it’s caught..?’ 

Claire pulled out the handgun from the guard’s belt, quickly ejecting the clip and inspecting it alongside the chamber of the 9mm. Lea’s eyes were trailing upward, looking at possible hooks and crevices. A shuffling step backward echoes in the room. 

“Do you, uh… are you gonna use that?” Moira asked timidly, her voice just wavering a little bit. Shuffling of fabric, something plastic being clicked open. 

“More reliable than any person,” Claire responded without a beat. A click, then something being pulled out from under the corpse, quickly followed by something plastic clicking close and something heavy being holstered. More shuffling steps backward. 

“If you say so,” Moira said, her tone wary but dropping the subject. Lea opened her mouth to ask Moira a question when a metallic glint caught her attention. The keys, hanging off the side of a rusted water tank. 

“I found the keys!” Lea excitedly announced, pointing at the rusted tank with a smile. A smile that fell as soon as she turned around and was met with the confused gazes of the other two women. “Uh… I really don’t need much to adjust to the dark…” Lea mumbled under her breath, reaching a hand to scratch at the back of her head. 

“Moira, shine on light on it, will ya?” Claire asked, unholstering her gun. Lea didn’t miss how Moira’s amber honey eyes flickered with fear as they locked onto the 9mm. After a moment, the pixie-haired girl shook her head and pointed the flashlight at the water tank. Lea quickly raised her hands to cup her ears and turned away from the pair. 

A jolt of pain shot through her head the second the trigger was pulled, followed by a high-pitched ringing muffling all other sounds. The jingling of the keys as they were quickly scooped from the ground was barely audible, much less the loud, mechanical beep of the nearest door being unlocked. Lea shook her head, rubbing at her ears as if that would make the ringing go away quicker. 

Turning around, the three started making their way back. Fifty feet, forty. Lea nervously glanced around the room as she followed Claire, her nerves filled with urgency. Memories start flickering in the back of Lea’s mind, sidestepping her attempts to shove it down. Thirty feet, twenty. The temple, bullets flying back her head, debris coating her lungs, blood dripping down her hands. Ten feet. 

The door crashes open, practically hanging off its hinges, as another mutilated shell of a person starts wailing, spewing blood and saliva everywhere. Without waiting another second, Claire aims and shoots, the bullet lodging in its throat and sending another jolt of agony through Lea’s head. Lea’s clutching at her head, hardly aware of the whine that escapes her lips. 

A hand grips her shoulders, and suddenly, she’s being pulled along and toward the ladder. Someone’s shouting voice warbled as if from underwater, the horrid ringing muffling anything identifiable. Snapping back into action, Lea climbed the ladder as fast as possible. Sprinting down the hall, skidding around the corners. Eyes locked forward, ignoring everything behind her. 

Slamming past the door and entering the frosted morgue, skidding to a stop at the sight of another one of those creatures baring its teeth at Claire. Lea’s eyes went wide. Claire lashed out with her knife before Lea could try to launch herself forward. She slashed the cheeks, forcing the thing to clutch at its face. Spinning around, Claire kicks at the thing, sending it back into the knocked-over trolley. 

Claire looked over her shoulder, shouting something indiscernible back at the two girls before running again. Lea’s eyes flitted to the mutilated body in the corner for a moment before going against her instincts and following Claire and Moira. 

Through the double corners, swerving around the broken door hanging off its hinges and down the hall. Skidding around the corners to a screeching stop. There was no one in sight except another one of those monsters. It shrilly cried out, charging her. 

Lea cringed at the sound but forced herself to slip into a fighting stance. Closer and closer, leaving bloody footprints on the linoleum floor. Shoulders tensing, eyes locking with a bloated, malignant form. As soon as it reached out to grab Lea, she grabbed the closest arm, flipping and slamming the body into the ground. One swift stomp to the skull, crushing it beneath her heel. The ringing still hadn’t let up, but Lea could feel the crunch, the wet slick of blood and tissue. 

‘… Doesn’t matter… need to find the others…’ 

Lea’s eyes roamed the corridor for anything familiar. After a few seconds, a flash of movement. Eyes snapped to the barred windows, and heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of auburn hair and a dirtied hoodie. 

Relief was short-lived as the door at the end of the corridor flew open, and another one of those creatures toppled out. It wasted no time to start sprinting at Lea. Just as Lea slipped back into fighting stance, a shot rings out, the bullet lodging in the eye. The teen flinched but forced herself to close the distance, grabbing and slamming the skull into her knee. Once, twice, thrice, then it went limp.  

A hand grabbed and pulled on Lea’s shoulder, and it took everything in her to not twist it off, focusing instead on the flash of auburn hair and blood-spattered leather jacket as they started sprinting again. Lungs burned with every breath, muscles aching with every step. Mind blank for once as her gaze is locked forward, uncaring of whatever is behind her. 

Another walking, screeching horror charges from the opened isolation rooms. Another shot rings out, bringing the monster down to its knees. Instinctually, Lea swings down into its temple with her shin, bringing it down. From the corner of her eye, she saw Claire quickly searching for something in the isolation room. 

Before the three could continue their escape, something leaps out from the dark. Without thinking, Lea pushes Moira out of its path. Within a second, it tackles the teenager. She reaches out with her hands, keeping it as far away as possible. It clawed at her with its gored and reeking hands. Lea gagged at the stench. From behind the writhing creature, Lea’s covered gaze caught the glint of the barrel pointing at the thing. She ducks her head to the side, squeezing her eyes shut. Another shot, and the splatter of something hot and putrid coating the back of her head and shoulder. Lea pushed the corpse off and flung herself back onto her feet. Running.  

Slamming past the blue door, sprinting up the stairs. Claire practically rips the key from her pocket, shoving it into the lock and unlocking it. Yanking the key out of the lock, her hands push the door open, and all three rush past the threshold, slamming and locking the door behind them. 

Moira and Lea collapsed, heaving and trembling, while Claire leaned against the door. Lea cupped her ears, closed her eyes, and focused on breathing through her mouth, trying to not gag at the never-waning scent of decay and excrement. The slowing thrum of her heartbeat. The feel of her now sweat-slick skin and sticky hair. Slowly, the high-pitched ringing ebbed, and the mumbling curse words of Moira right next to her brought Lea back down to the present. Behind the stained cloth, Lea opened her eyes, taking in the image before her. Moira, on her hands and knees, dry heaving and cursing up a storm that would put a sailor to shame. Claire, leaning against the door, breathing slowly and deeply, eyes closed yet focused. 

After another blessed minute of rest and silence, Claire’s cerulean eyes opened, darting between the two younger women. She knelt, helping Moira back onto her feet before switching to Lea, offering her hand and a tired but warm smile. Tentatively, Lea took Claire’s hand and pulled herself up. They all exchanged glances with each other before Claire took the lead, slowly walking down the new corridor. 

They had barely turned the corner before coming upon another corpse. However, Lea wasn’t focused on the fresh carnage but rather on the extended barrel of a shotgun that lay just out of reach of the gnawed hands. Very little of his blood contaminated the gun, only the barest amount on the handle. Claire grabbed the weapon and slung it over her shoulder before moving past the body. Lea couldn’t help but notice how Moira’s already pallid skin grew greyer at the sight of the weapon, honey eyes locking with it as the three turned the corner. 

Claire swipes at the wooden crate, shattering the fragile wood. She knelt to rummage through the debris before picking up a small pack of shotgun shells. She holstered her 9mm and grabbed the shotgun slung over her shoulder. 

“You need a gun too, Moira,” Claire said flatly as she started loading the shells. Moira froze mid-step, eyes going impossibly wider. 

“No, I really, really don’t. Sorry, I don’t do firearms.” Without a beat, the words rambled out of her mouth. Her eyes fell to the ground as they seemed to grow distant, far away. “Not after what happened,” Moira asserted in a hush, her arms crossing over her chest, almost as if cradling herself. Claire swiped the knife through two more crates, grabbing another pack of shells and a handful of green herbs. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. I forgot.” Claire turned, looking at the brunette. She let out a small sigh as her eyes trailed to the floor, pondering momentarily. “Maybe we can find you something else.” Claire raised her eyes to try to meet Moira, but the brash young woman scoffed, brushing past Claire. 

“No, I’ll just… be on flashlight duty or something. It’s fine.” Moira insisted, despite the waver in her cadence. Walking over to the surprisingly intact storage shelf in the corner, rummaging through the cluttered boxes for anything useful. There were a couple of 9mm bullets, which were hurriedly handed off to Claire. Then, there was something small and blue glinting in the light, but it was pocketed away before Lea could look at it. “Nice,” Moira pulls out the discarded and surprisingly not dirty or rusted crowbar from behind a few boxes on the bottom shelf. “Blunt weapon. I can do blunt weapons.” Moira moved to the other side of the room, inspecting the bright blue graffiti on the wall. 

‘… What the fuck happened…’  Lea wondered to herself as she observed the pixie-haired girl walk over to the door, using the crowbar to rip off the nailed-on bar. 

‘… I need to step up and get my shit together…’  With a muffled but loud grunt, Moira ripped the bar off, breathing laboriously. 

“Lea,” Claire quietly called out, her voice slightly hoarse. Lea stopped, turning her clothed gaze towards the more experienced woman. “You know how to use a gun, right?” Lea’s gaze fell to the shotgun still in the older woman’s hands, the barrel pointed to the ground. 

“Oh, uh, yeah. My uncles and aunt taught me, but I only know basic shit.” Lea said awkwardly, bringing a hand to the nape of her neck to rub at it. “I’m fine with the shotgun. It’ll give me more distance.” Claire nodded, handing the gun and shells over to Lea. Claire moved to the door, motioning for the two younger women to stay close behind her. 

As soon as they pushed the door open, they were met with the menacing sight of flickering lights, blood stains drenching the walls and ground, and a lone figure dressed in something white and poofy. In an instant, Lea’s jaw dropped in horror as she processed that it was a little girl. Before anyone could react to the sight, the girl ran off, eerily silent. 

The three froze, staring ahead where the girl was for a long moment. Claire slowly started inching forward, the others shuffling behind her. 

“Clarie, you saw that, right?” Moira tentatively asked as the group turned the corner, careful not to step into the coagulated blood puddle. Rounding the corner, the dark hallway was nearly entirely silent, save for the rasping yet even breathing of dozens of probably more of those things. Were they resting? 

“Yeah, I saw… something.” 

“Something? That looked like a kid.” Lea snapped before remembering that the two couldn’t see as well in the dark as she could. “Fuck, I hope that’s not a kid. She doesn’t deserve this… no one deserves this.” Lea tacked on, feigning uncertainty as another rush of anxiety flowed through her veins. 

“Are you sure, Lea?” Claire paused, turning to face the teen, tone deadly serious yet unjudging. Lea inhaled sharply before nodding just as sharply. “Then we need to keep an eye out and bring her with us. No sudden movements, don’t yell, and stay calm.” Claire flicked her eyes between Lea and Moira, not moving until they both nodded or made affirming noises. 

Bizarrely enough, no child was in sight when the three crossed the next threshold. The prison door was sealed and barricaded with large metal crates. There were no crevices she could have hidden in, nor lockers or unlocked crates. After a moment, Claire sighed dejectedly as her cerulean eyes trailed over to a metal divider lifted just slightly so that someone could crawl underneath it. 

The group fell back into the routine of breaking the wooden boxes and searching the crevices between the metal crates. Luckily, the search yielded more ammo but did nothing to ease the dread settling in their guts. 

‘… There’s no way that kid is infected… too quiet… too good at hiding…. how long has she been here..?’  The thoughts rolled uneasily through Lea’s mind as Claire and Moira started to lift the metal divider to eye level. Lea quickly slid under the divider. She gripped the bottom edge of it, holding it up while the other two crossed over before letting the barrier slide down as quietly as possible. 

The horrid stench of dried, old excrement got more potent with each and every step up the stairs, making Lea gag under her breath. The rasping yet even breathing also got louder as they made their ascent, leaving no doubt in her mind that there were at least a dozen more of those poor bastards throughout this new area. 

When they reached the last step, Lea immediately recognized this area as an abandoned detention center. Like every other room in this hellscape, blood and dirt caked the walls and floor, though some stains appeared fresher. The stench of urine and fecal matter emanated from the locked solitary cells, strong enough to force Lea to breathe through her mouth to avoid its inescapable odor. The hanging lamps didn’t even flicker, so the only light source came from the tiny slivers of sunlight shining through the barred windows above. As Lea walked underneath one of the slivers of sunlight, she shivered in the minuscule warmth the feeble ray provided compared to the desolate prison. 

A familiar electronic screech from a radio filled the relative silence, shocking them to a halt, heads whipping around to find the source of the noise. 

“Fear what you will become and become what you fear.” A husky feminine voice languidly said, slightly distorted by the radio waves. Claire lifted her now orange wristband to her ear quizzically. 

‘… She’s the bitch… I can feel it in my bones…’

“Are you afraid? You can tell me. Talk to me.” The mysterious voice continued, taking on an almost hissing, cold tone. With every word the mysterious woman said, the more her suspicions started nibbling at the back of her mind.

‘… Why does she sound so familiar..?’

“Those bracelets change color in response to fear.” The voice cryptically trailed on, frustratingly holding only clues and yielding no answers. Even though Lea couldn’t see the face of their captor, she could envision the sadistic smile painting her lips. 

“And who exactly are you?” Claire demanded, not an ounce of fear in her tone. Eyes hard, lips pressed into a firm frown, Lea practically sees the fury rolling from the woman in waves. For a moment, she was envious of Claire’s fearlessness and collectedness. Why couldn’t she be like that?

“So much suffering… you don’t even know what to be afraid of yet.” Just as suddenly as the melodic voice had come, the voice went silent, leaving the three with even more questions as well as a palpable and undeniable atmosphere of annoyance. The more experienced woman rolled her eyes and started walking again. 

“Was she talking to us or at us?” Moira vented, rolling her eyes as the group entered the next room, a dark room lit by a singular fluorescent light in the corner, otherwise devoid of objects. 

“At us. She was definitely talking at us.” Lea concurred, walking over to the desk off to the side. Immediately, she took the map to the detention center before opening the drawers. She grimaced as she noticed that the drawers held nothing. “Here, found this,” Lea said, walking up to the leather-clad woman and handing the dirtied parchment over. For a moment, Claire said nothing nor moved, just stared again with an exhausted expression. 

Scrunching her eyebrows, Lea’s eyes traveled over to where Claire was staring. Immediately, she understood Claire’s expression. There was a path, possibly an exit, barred and locked off. Just next to the doorway were gears, clearly missing two vital parts. 

[the-one-where-casey-watches-tv]

The Handmaid’s Tale episode 5.07 “No Man’s Land”

I wanted to start my blog here, partly because it’s fresh, and partly because I found this to be one of the best episodes of TV I’ve ever seen. I’ll say it: The Handmaid’s Tale is one of the best shows of all time, and I’ve been watching it all unfold with bated breath from the start- but I also struggled with the beginning of this season. I found it to be a little aimless now that June had made it to Canada, and I worried this show was about to overstay its welcome. I went into “No Man’s Land” ready to disappointedly declare this show another victim of Big Money (stay tuned for my thoughts on Stranger Things), but June and Serena stopped me in my tracks.

            Something I think is significant about this episode is that everything that transpires, the entirety of both women’s thoughts and actions, aren’t at all pre-meditated or influenced by anything other than their raw personalities. From the moment Serena shoots Ezra, neither of them knows what they’re going to do or how they’re going to feel about it until it’s already happening. It’s June and Serena’s authentic selves, and it’s the inevitable power shift that has been brewing for five years. We know what Serena does with all the power and we know what June can do with none of it; turning those tables in an unpredictable situation is what shows us who these women really are. Throughout this season I made a lot of guesses about what was going to happen, and I was wrong every single time. Throughout this episode, though, I felt incredibly in step with every beat in the most cathartic way. This show is nothing if not true to its characters, and this episode languished in knowing exactly who all these people are.

            Let’s start from the beginning- Serena’s driving a car, in labor, gun in hand, and June’s in the back seat. Already I’m smiling and on the edge of my seat, but it’s also a little silly. Where does she think she’s going? Really, three seconds later she’s crashed the car? But this isn’t a flimsy plot device, it’s the set-up of both Serena’s chaotic helplessness and June’s agency. Serena is stuck. June is not. Of course Serena crashed the car. June said it best- “Jesus Christ, are you in fucking labor right now? Stop waving that around, you’re going to get us both killed” (this episode made me laugh just enough to remind me that none of this is funny at all, but June herself is very funny).

            At first, she doesn’t even hesitate to ride this out with Serena. But Serena is her consistently unpleasant self, and she pushes her away. And June, being her own usual self, doesn’t take it for a second. In a flash, she’s digging out the car. What does she owe Serena? Less than nothing. Serena’s lucky June has even let her live this long. But in the time that it takes to get the car out of the mud, the bigger question sets in. It’s not about whether Serena deserves grace from June of all people. She doesn’t. But June is looking towards a future in which they live in a merciful world. She’s done with people giving birth alone in cold abandoned buildings, done with children growing up with false parents, done with any human being thinking they get to determine whether another human being is deserving of humanity. So the car is good to go, but she goes back in the barn. And Serena now couldn’t be more relieved to see her. She’s looked down the barrel of this situation and felt real fear for her life for the first time, and she is no June Osborne.

            With June at the wheel, this birth goes so smoothly they might as well be in a hospital, but once baby Noah (of course) arrives, it’s time to talk about why they aren’t in one. Serena has burned every bridge she could possibly cross next, and with her ethical duty fulfilled, what happens now isn’t really June’s problem. Or so it seems, at first glance. While Serena prattles on about the Lord, beautifully expressing the inherent selfishness of Christianity, June realizes just how deep this all goes. Serena is never going to be a good person. If after all this, she’s still thinking everyone else in this world is just an angel or a snake or some metaphorical entity existing purely to serve her life experience in one way or another, she’s just not gonna get it. And June recognizes this- saying “I’m a person” with a shake of her head- but she recognizes something about herself as well. She’s had multiple opportunities to fuck Serena over and I think it was a mystery to her just as much as it was to us why she wasn’t taking them. That confusion and conflict was written all over June’s face every time she had the chance, but this is the first time she consciously understands and voices that she doesn’t want to kill Serena.

            Changing the world isn’t going to happen through a handful of isolated good deeds. Mothers deserve to nurse their babies, and babies deserve to come into this world with their parents. As June muses on motherhood, and Serena explores her options, a bond creeps in between them. What good does it do that June saved this woman and her baby if all she’s going to do now is leave them to die or deliver them to be separated by the same organization she’s trying to dismantle? When Serena laments another woman stealing her baby, the irony is so abundant it’s just plain laughable, but she does remind us of something: the evil factory of Gilead is still churning away, and June is looking at its next victims if she doesn’t do something. It’s the ultimate test of June’s integrity that Serena of all people is who is put in front of her to save, but it doesn’t change what she should do. Serena’s lack of growth is what makes June’s choices so significant. Of course June would help a woman in need; the only question left to answer about her character, and about right and wrong, is if she would help this woman.

            So I know this episode is called “No Man’s Land” because that’s where all of this goes down, but nothing punctuates the huge emotional distance we’ve just traveled, and the fact that it was an intensely female experience, like the arrival of Luke in the final moments. Let me say first that I don’t think Luke has ever done a single thing wrong in his entire life, and his wholehearted goodness is what underscores the gendered nature of Gilead’s oppression. When this episode started, June and I both wanted bad things to happen to Serena. June and her friends ripped Fred to pieces with their literal teeth and took pieces of his body just to further relish the experience, and we’ve all been waiting for Serena to get hers too. But now, even though Serena hasn’t changed, June’s understanding of the world and what is called for has expanded. Serena is still falling prey to a broken, oppressive world that does to women what it could never- and would never- do to a man. There was nothing but justice in Fred’s death. Serena’s suffering in her current situation is, to sum it up, complicated. But it doesn’t seem complicated to Luke. He doesn’t hesitate to do what June has, inexplicably even to herself, been unable to bring herself to do. His confusion as to why June isn’t happy about this, while understandable (if I hadn’t seen what happened over the last 45 minutes I would be confused too), confirms the chasm Gilead has created between man and woman.

            As is the sign of a great episode, I feel like I could go on and on about it. It’s filled me with thought, and I’m still kicking around so many feelings about the significance of the individual, the ethics of extending a hand to the corrupt, and the fact that June is actually an incredibly biblical and Christ-like character. I couldn’t possibly say everything there is to be said about all this, so if you’re having thoughts and feeling inclined to share them, I’d love it if you reblogged, followed, or sent me a message!

[fanficsrusz]

POWER - Henry Cavill Smut

Warnings: Smut.

Pairing: Y/n x Henry cavill

Summary: Y/n's plan to seduce Henry backfires but in a wondrous way.

Word Cound: 7.7k

A/N: Its been a while since I've posted anything and I feel a little nervous 😅. However I've missed the thrill of creating a world all of my own. I also apologise for any spelling/grammatical mistakes. I havent edited anything for a long time so yeahhh. 

Please comment/reblog if you enjoyed ❤️

"You're drunk" 

The accusation, issued through Henry's teeth, was an angered hiss and Henry's reaction was everything that Y/n could have wished for… And more. 

Y/n forced a little hiccup, feeling it bubble its way through her body before it made its escape out of her mouth, and almost laughed at the thin set of lips across from her that stayed in a straight line. 

He looked positively prim - just like he always did. 

"No-" she defended, "-I'm happy". The correction came with a sly smile, her upper body leaning towards him across the bar, her inner amusement increasing as she watched his body stiffen in annoyance.

 Henry was keeping a distance between their bodies, as if he thought her intoxication may be infectious. 

The hold he quickly took to her waist was more of a brace rather than an intention as she swayed forward and then backwards. 

"Don't you want me to be happy, Henry?" 

Y/n pouted, tilting her head back and looking at him with what she hoped would be a sultry invitation. She laughed, a bold, wicked sound that drew a few glances from others in the bar. Henry stared stiffly over her head, swallowing the lump in his throat that had seemed to form as he grew more irritated with the woman's involuntary outbursts. 

 "For God's sake, Y/n, control yourself", he whispered tightly. 

Was he embarrassed by her lack of inhibition? No. It was quite the opposite. He felt… lost. As if he had no idea how to act in the situation he had found himself in. 

It was normal for him, the playboy, to taunt her with his fancy words, to distract her with his sinfully dark looks and honeyed phrases, but turn the tables and he wasn't quite so poised himself and Y/n felt a delicious thrill of power at the knowledge that she had him off balance. 

She deliberately let herself go  limp in his arms, and, when his grip relaxed in relief at the stability her body found, she quickly slipped under his guard, pressing the entirety of her body sinfully against him. 

Her tactics immediately threatened to backfire as Henry's coldly rigid body seemed to be generating an incredible amount of heat and that in itself was enough for her to lose focus of her goal. 

She rested her check against his chest and willed away her trembling response even as she measured his annoyance by the wildly uneven thump of his heart. 

"You'll regret this tomorrow," he told her sternly, his hands tightening painfully on her waist.

"'Why in hell did you drink all that champagne? Do you want to make a total fool of yourself, jeopardise a deal with Dere-?" 

"Rubbish. Derek thought I was as graceful as ever; he told me so," y/n said airily, thinking that it was too late to regret drinking at a business meeting with her boss and other potential clients. 

Y/n moved steadily in his arms to prove it, brushing her breasts against his chest, hoping that the crushed velvet of her dress would hide the multitude of her sins that had seemed to accumulate quickly throughout the night and not to mention the past year that she had worked beside Henry, every single dirty thought she ever had about him portraying itself as nothing more than a red stain upon her cheeks and chest. 

She had never been sinful before, always a dutiful daughter, just as she had later been a faithful business partner to Henry but there was only so much a woman could take before she had to take drastic measures. Now she was neither a daughter nor a business partner. She was Y/n Y/l/n. Herself. A woman before anything else and more specifically a woman with needs. 

"You're the only one who thought I was wrong for declining the partnership" , she drawled mockingly, too caught up in her reckless self-absorption to monitor his surfacing awareness. "Chill out, Henry. If you can't fix it with a snap of your fingers, you might as well lie back and enjoy the open bar…" 

The thud of his heart had settled down to a swift, arrhythmic beat that set up a sympathetic vibration throughout her body from her scalp to the soles of her restless feet.

There was a small pause as he manoeuvred her pliant body away from another couple that wanted to get to the bar. Then he tilted his head to look down at her.

 "Chill out?" Amusement leaked through his iron control as he suppressed the grin he held in tight. " wow- I never thought I'd hear street-slang from that elegant, business-lady mouth of yours…". 

For a second Y/n gulped, thinking she had lost all control of the situation that she had perfectly built up all evening but then Y/n moved dreamily against him, fully immersed in her ideal scenario. 

She linked her arms round his back and arched her neck slightly so that she could see his expression. 

"But I'm not a lady tonight, Henry, I'm a woman," she said huskily.

 "Should I lie back and enjoy that too?" he enquired cynically. 

That conjured up indecent images that for a moment left Y/n shocked, breathless even and if it wasn't for the distant sound of a glass breaking somewhere in the bar then she would have stayed in her trance like manner. 

Her lips parted as she tried to say something sophisticated in response but she couldn't think of a thing and for a moment she feared that she had lost the edge. Y/n bit her lower lip and suddenly he had control over her again, his voice rough with threat, as he gave her a small shake.

"Behave yourself, Y/n. Stop being so fucking provocative. You should go home" 

"I'm not ready to go home yet" she mewled, eyes darting over to the dance floor that served as a pick up ground. 

Henry sighed, his eyes following her gaze

"One dance, that's all you get. Then I'm getting you out of here before you start leaping onto table-tops and doing the can-can!" 

"What a killjoy you're turning out to be, Henry" with fresh fury, she suddenly spun out of his arms and danced freely for a few moments before cutting mischievously in on another couple. Soon Henry was glaring murderously over the shoulder of a blonde woman while Y/n languished in the sweaty grasp of a nervous young man who was very aware of the hovering blue-eyed menace.

 When Henry cut back in a short time later, Y/n was relinquished with ill concealed relief. 

"You're playing with fire, Y/n" , Henry warned, his firm hand taking hold of her again. This time he held her so captively close that she could feel the lines of his suit being imprinted on her velvet dress. 

She had the feeling that if he had been able to shackle both her wrists behind her back without attracting attention he would. He wanted to cage her, tame her, but tonight, surrounded by the security of a crowd, she was determined to be untamable, just to see how far she could push him. 

"Mmmm, I know, and I feel so gloriously toasty and warm," she murmured wickedly, waggling her eyebrows at a passing male. 

Henry swore under his breath and pulled her flirtatious eyes away from any male that passed by capturing her gaze before she could perform some similar impropriety. He quickly brought his own hand to his mouth to mask his aggression in the pretence of courtesy. She had been right about the shackling. 

"You're drunk", he repeated raggedly, more as if he was telling himself than her. She rather liked the hint of desperation that seeped into every word he spoke. It was almost as satisfying as having him grovel at her feet. 

Y/n laughed, a sensuous 'cat-with-the-cream' look of satisfaction on her face as she widened her eyes and purred, "But not incapable, darling…".

She tamed a deliberate misstep as she spoke so that her leg slid caressingly between his thighs as they turned. 

Henry almost stumbled as she lifted her knee, briefly applying the pivoting pressure of her thigh firmly to the juncture of his. Her provocation had an immediate effect and she drew back instantly, finally aware that her teasing had gone too far. But it was too late. Henry had reached the end of his tether. 

"Fine -" he seethed, "-we'll do this the hard way then" 

Five minutes later Y/n  was belted roughly into the passenger-seat of her own car. 

" I'm perfectly fit to drive, Henry" she raged at the man who slid angrily behind the steering wheel before inserting her keys into the ignition. 

"I'm as sober as you are!"

" For your sake, I hope that's a lie, Y/n". 

His voice was nothing but a growl and y/n felt the shiver that started in her groin slowly rise up through her spine. 

"But if it is true then maybe you've done me a favour. If you were teasing me deliberately I don't have to feel guilty for what I'm about to do." his eyes stayed focused on whatever he was staring at, his fists curling tightly around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned pale. 

"Do?" Y/n asked faintly as the car sprang into motion with far more power than she ever managed to coax from under the unimpressive bonnet.

"Did you think I would calmly walk away like an obedient lap-dog when you got tired of your little game ?"

 "I...I... didn't think-" she began to splutter. 

"No? Just instinct, was it? Trap the beast, then rattle his cage until he howls? Wasn't that your goal?" 

"Henry!" 

He hadn't looked at her since they had got in the car, driving with a narrow-eyed concentration, but now he slipped a grim sideways glance at her shocked expression and what he saw there seemed to ease his ferocious tension but the wolfish twitch of his mouth wasn't reassuring

"You did, didn't you? You really thought I'd let you get away with it. You didn't think I'd have the guts to drag you kicking and screaming out of there" 

Y/n swallowed the dry lump in her throat. She had definitely underestimated her victim and definitely forgot to plan this far ahead. 

"'I wasn't kicking and screaming," she protested weakly, avoiding the obvious answers he wanted.

 "Not on the outside maybe. But your innocent act never did cut any ice with me" Henry's eyes glanced over at Y/n

Y/n clenched her fists tightly, until her nails dug into the palm of her hand, but she barely noticed. The only thing she was really aware of, was the sound of her heart throbbing against the cage of her chest. 

It wasn't until she looked up into the rear view mirror, that she noticed she had been biting her lip so much so that they were almost as red as the lipstick that had wiped off hours ago. 

"Scared, Y/n?" Henry jeered softly as she swallowed again, this time audibly. "You should be." he said lowly

"What about your own car?" she began weakly, hoping that practicalities might prevail where argument hadn't. 

"I'll pick it up tomorrow." Y/n went quiet. This fantasy was easier to plot when she didn't have to concentrate on parrying his verbal thrusts and she tried to calm her nervous actions with whatever had made her think that she could best him at his own game. 

She wished she were drunk but all she could do was hope that the drive would cool down that scorched male pride. All she could do momentarily was create another plan. 

When they would finally get back to her apartment building she would placate him, contrive to convince him that it had all been a silly mistake. For all his threatening manner, she knew instinctively that he wouldn't use violence to enforce his threats. He didn't have to... all he had to do to seduce her was to take her in his arms and then she would be at his mercy. But once she had bolted her door on him she would be safe from her own wicked urges. 

He could rage and huff and puff all he liked but he wouldn't be able to get in. The irony was rather quaint. All the security locks that he had insisted she have installed on her doors and windows when he first found out she lived alone in a not so friendly neighbourhood would ensure that her virtue remained unassailable - well for tonight at least. 

Y/n had almost convinced herself that she had already outwitted him when she noticed the unfamiliarity of their route.

"This isn't the way to my home!" 

He ignored her. The moving light thrown by the passing street-lights illuminated his shadowed expression. It was a hard mask of satisfaction.

 "Dammit, Henry, where are you taking me?" 

"I told you. Home." 

"This isn't where I live." 

"I never said I would take you to your home. I simply said 'home'. It's not my fault that you assumed I meant your home." 

Henry turned into a steep, dark, curving driveway that seemed to drop away directly into the deep black glitter of a Lake that Y/n didn't even know existed in the area. 

 Y/n's heart was in her mouth as the car swooped towards the water, but when they reached the lower curve into darkness, security lights suddenly flickered on and she saw the brick paved courtyard clearly for an instant before the car was swallowed by the lower level of the house.

The garage door closed automatically after them, and for a moment after Henry cut the engine, the only sound in the softly lit enclosed space was the faint ringing echo of the metal door. Y/n was irresistibly reminded of the metallic springing of a trap. One that she had baited herself into.

"Welcome home, Y/n." Henry leaned towards her and she flinched, but he was merely flicking open her seatbelt.

She couldn't see him smile but she could hear the amusement in his voice as he continued, "No, not here in the car. I'm not so crude as to take up your generous invitation without due ceremony and at least a few comforts." 

Henry leaned even further, reaching across her to push open her door, this time dragging his arm deliberately against her rapidly rising breasts as he withdrew. 

"Get out. I'd prefer to go inside" he purred dangerously, pointedly placing her car keys out of reach in the inside pocket of his jacket.  

" but If you can't restrain your wild passion and don't mind a little discomfort I'm quite ready and willing to make love to you against the dashboard" 

Y/n was up and out of the car with as much alacrity as her fumbling apprehension would allow. His mocking laugh as he followed suit had her searching for the door, but he was there before her, opening it with a flourish and a small bow.

" After you. " 

All the way up the narrow, spotlight staircase, Y/n was aware of the movement of her hips and legs, the breathless difficulty in her chest and, most of all, the steady, inexorable masculine tread that stalked her. 

The room at the top of the stairs was shrouded in darkness, relieved by vague glimmering white shapes that made her gasp. 

"Afraid of ghosts, too, Y/n? What a timid little thing you're turning out to be…". The murmured words smoked across the small area of vulnerable skin between her shoulder-blades, exposed by the discreet scoop of her gown, whispering across her sensitised nerves. There was a faint click and the room sprang into light. 

The white shapes were sheets, draped over bulky objects. 

Even the floor was covered by a dark green sheet, and the reason was obvious. The walls were stripped and primed, but had not yet had their first coat. 

They were in the kitchen, Y/n guessed from the positioning of the shrouded fittings. Scattered about were cans of paint and rolls of wallpaper, brushes soaking in paint and the odd ladder or two. The only ghosts here were those of the tradesmen. 

Yet,  Y/n's heart continued to flutter with a deliciously disconcerting fear, an excited apprehension.

 Without a word Henry took her by the elbow and ushered her impatiently through several more similarly dust-shrouded rooms with the unswerving instinct of a guided missile, not bothering to turn on any more lights. 

The place seemed huge, and as silent and brooding as the explosively primed man beside her.

 "You-you're redecorating!" Y/n grabbed at the chance to divert him from his relentless intention. Honestly it surprised her that she had known him for so long and yet had never seen his home, he didn't even talk of it much. 

Henry didn't answer and she fell quiet. 

He let her resistance slow him but he didn't let his grip ease. He had already been taken by surprise once too often that night.

"Have you been feeling hunted, Y/n?" Her answer was in her uneasy sidelong look. He smiled secretively. "Now you know how I felt this evening: like the helpless prey to your brazen huntress…" Y/n flushed, her whole body heating at his words. She had been brazen, utterly so, and she had enjoyed it far too obviously to try to deny it now. 

Henry let her dwell on her folly for a moment before he murmured, "The answer to your question is…" his slow smile drew out the suspense for a wickedly long second "...perhaps." 

His eyelids drooped, not quite hiding the predatory gleam that smouldered in the darkness. He was still very, very angry and he wanted her to know it.

  "Certainly it turned out to be very convenient for you…"

 His free hand came up under her other elbow and he stepped around to face her, forcing her backwards and into the realisation that while he had held her enmeshed with his equivocating words he had been slowly backing her to the wall.

"I'm no one's convenience," she spat, determined not to see the effect his calculated menace was having on her already chaotic nervous system.

"You have to admit you qualify in one or two forms of the dictionary meaning, Y/n," he drawled, driven to foment her the way that she had tormented him. "You're certainly suitable for my purposes and needs and you're close by... but no, I don't suppose you could be considered "easy to use"...

The fear that had inhibited her flared into an open temper at his overt mockery. 

"If you think I'll let you-" "-Challenging me, y/n?" he interrupted softly, and watched her hesitate as she realised the certain consequences of goading him from her very vulnerable position.

"Actually," he continued almost kindly, "it's a little late for second thoughts. You've led me this far with your little game. Now it's time to pay the piper…" He dipped his head and to her tingling shock bit her gently on the side of her satiny throat. She reared back, but there was nowhere to go, no escape that didn't involve going through that broad-shouldered, lean-hipped wall of male arrogance!

"led you! You're the one who practically kidnapped me" She was appalled to hear the breathy lightness in her words when she had meant them to be firm. 

"Mmm. Exciting, isn't it?" He bit the other side of her throat. "Just think how thoroughly helpless you are right at this minute. You're in a strange house, while I know every nook and cranny. All the exits are deadlocked. Even if you ran, where would you run to? I'm stronger than you are. bigger, harder, faster. You can't get away, no matter how hard you try. I can do anything I want with you. And there's nothing you can do about it, except…" 

" Except what?" The mouth skimming her throat was having as violent an effect as his taunting words, arousing the deeply buried desires that she had tried to deny. 

" accept what you caused" She felt the curve of his lips against her smooth skin, heard the amusement in the sensuous rumble.

 He was laughing at her. 

He wasn't content with merely seducing her. No, he wanted to humiliate her, too.

Sudden panic struck and with a fierce surge of strength she shoved at his solid chest. To both their surprise, he staggered back, far enough for her to dart away. With a roaring curse he gave chase.

Y/n's heart hammered as she scuttled from the safety of one covered piece of furniture to the next. She froze, listening for the direction of his pursuit, but Henry had also stilled. He was out there somewhere, crouched and aware, listening, just as she was, waiting to pounce. Her skin prickled hotly and she could feel the blood pulsing heavily through her veins. Y/n shivered with a strangely febrile excitement. She peered around what appeared to be a small table and saw a graduation of the blackness - A doorway!, 

Taking a deep breath, she took to a low crouch and ran for it. As she did so she felt a rush of air as close as a blow and a throaty growl. He had only just missed her! She couldn't help letting out a little scream as she abandoned stealth and bolted, darting breathlessly to the darkened room.

Henry was never far behind and at first she was grateful that he didn't switch on the lights, the better to find her, but as his taunting laughter infiltrated the night she realised that he was revelling in the chase...and so was she! 

Her inner certainty that Henry would never physically hurt her, even in genuine rage, gave an added piquancy to the situation. 

She had challenged him in the most clemental way possible and he was responding in a way that was as different and exciting as he was. 

The panic which had precipitated her flight became a delicious terror as the teasing game of hide-and-seek continued. 

Sexual tension flourished in the shrouded silence like a living thing. He was no longer in a hurry to catch her, whispering silky-voiced threats into the night that curled her toes and dampened her palms, describing in sensual detail what was going to happen when he found her.

 It didn't take Y/n very long to break. When Henry suddenly went quiet her imagination ran riot. She pressed herself even more tightly against the reassuring solidarity of what appeared to be a sideboard and quavered, "Henry?". 

There was no answer and she tried hard to sound convincingly calm. 

"Henry, this is ridiculous. Why don't you turn on the light and we'll talk about it sensibly?" Sensible was the last thing she felt but she couldn't stand the waiting no longer. 

Y/n was just close enough to the edge of her self control to try shameless grovelling.

" All right, so I acted foolishly this evening. Now you've got your revenge and now we're even aren't we?" 

Silence 

"okay fine , yes, I admit it!" she cried. "I pretended to be drunk to tease you but…" 

Silence,

"I did it because... because I didn't expect you to respond." And may God not strike her down for that awful lie!

 "I wanted to annoy you, that's all. It was wrong of me. Childish. I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine. You always seem to have this - control over me. I just wanted to get under your skin for once."

Silence 

"Henry? Henry!' Her placatory tone slipped badly. 

" Fuck!, stop it. Henry, this isn't funny anymore!"

A soft chuckle floated out of the darkness. Y/n was too disorientated to guess its direction and she whirled a full circle. 

" I'm not playing your stupid game any more, Henry, so you may as well come out. I won't try and run away again. I promise."

Silence. 

Y/n began to tremble, not from fear but from helpless desire. Dammit, why didn't he come out and finish what she had started already. There was a soft sound to her left, a tiny echoing click that acted like a trigger on her taut nerves, catapulting her automatically to the other wall of the room, where she backed hastily between two tented objects that provided her with a solid sense of security. A false sense, she discovered, when a hand suddenly whipped across her mouth from behind, smothering her scream.

 "So much for your promises, Y/n," came the clipped murmur in her ear. "That was only my cuff-link. You ran straight into my arms."

 The hand across her mouth tightened as she tried to protest, and an arm lashed around her waist, drawing her back against a hard, familiar body. He hadn't lied in his silken whispers. He was just as aroused as she was by their foolish game. 

She stood there for a moment, her head against his shoulder, trembling and breathless. She tried to speak and tasted the sweat of his palm. Instead of dropping his hand he trailed it deliberately across her lips, his fingers curving into her parted mouth, stroking the inner surface of her mouth and fondling her tongue with an intimacy that was far more shocking than any explicit sexual caress.

Her heart thundered in her breast as he softly probed her moistness, scaling the breath from her lungs, as he whispered, "Do you like this, Y/n? Your mouth is like wet satin, wrapping around my fingers. Use your tongue, tell me if you like the taste of me…" The sheer intoxication of his husky plea made her moan and he quickly let his hand drop. 

"Am I hurting you?"

 She couldn't answer and his hand continued to fall, until it settled on the firm roundness of her left breast, his palm cupping her, feeling the pounding tumult within.

" You...frighten me," she managed to say, her taste buds tingling with each word, drowning in the full flavour of him. 

"This isn't fright, Y/n…" His hand tightened and then released, to flatten and move against her in soft rotation, compressing the flesh in a way that made her tremble even more. 

"This is excitement. You wanted to be caught, didn't you? You're as curious about me as I am about you, only you wouldn't let yourself admit it. Tell me now if this is not what you want, Y/n, because from here on in I can't guarantee my control…"

As he issued his rough command his hand moved to explore her other breast. The hand around her waist strayed, fingers splaying against her velvet belly, digging into her softness, reaching for the ache that was forming in the pit of her stomach. His mouth was moving against her shining cap of hair, seeking the sensitive hollows at the nape of her neck. 

 He was handing control to her because she made him feel wildly out of control. She had never driven a man so wild with desire that he didn't know what he was doing...

"Henry, God, -" 

"don't say no, Y/n. Not now." He spun her tightly in his arms and she made a discovery that drenched her with sensuous delight. 

"Your clothes…" 

He had taken off his jacket and tie some time during his dark pursuit and unbuttoned his shirt so that it hung free from his broad shoulders. The hands that she had placed against his chest met with bare skin- hot, damp, satiny skin covered with thick, soft hair. His heart was almost leaping from his chest and he shuddered as she pressed her palm harder against him, marveling at the strength and power rippling beneath the skin.

"I got hot, chasing you," he said.  "I still am. Wanting you makes me that way. Hot and so ready that I can hardly stand!" 

He made a subtle movement with his hips and groaned as he brushed against the thick velvet folds of her dress. She felt a fresh moisture break out on his skin and in an instinctive gesture of acceptance leaned forward to nuzzle it from his chest, her mouth inadvertently brushing against one of his large, flat nipples in his nest of hair.

He made a choking sound in his throat, arching back to give her free access to his upper body and in the process ground his swollen hardness against the juncture of her thighs

"do it" 

Y/n barely heard his ragged plea. Henry was so exquisitely responsive to every tiny movement she made, even to the very breath from her lips upon his skin, that he was soon deep in the toils of a dreamy delirium. 

She  wasn't aware of the rip he made in the back of her dress when his shaking hands wrenched the zip down, only of the molten sensuality of his gaze as he steered her into a shaft of light near the window and studied her breasts. nestled in their cups of pure white lace. 

"Did you wear this for me?" he asked thickly, roughly tracing the outline of the lace across the curving swells. "Did you want me to take off your dress tonight, Y/n? To admire you like this?" 

 His arousal was so flatteringly intense that she couldn't deny him the truth.

 "Yes…" 

She closed her eyes, gasping as she felt the stroke of his thumbs across the seams, finding the rigid tips that were evidence of her own desire. He made a sound and she felt him kneel to pull her velvet gown over her hips, revealing the white panties and suspender belt in the same simple lace design as the bra, demure yet sexy in their essential femininity.

 He made another sound, this time deep and guttural, his hands running up the backs of her thighs, pulling them closer and parting them slightly. 

She opened her eyes, clutching at his naked shoulders as he moved his mouth hotly against the lacy front panel of her panties and pressed a string of kisses from the soft skin at the tops of her stockings to the deep, frantic pulse at the hollow of her hip. 

Y/n could feel the cool air along her pussy as warmth settled there. Rough hands sent a shiver through her body as they ran the length of her thighs, kneading her ass before finding their way back to her pussy, and pushing her panties to the side  for a better look at what she had to offer. Y/n shook and he purred in approval of her reaction.

Henry pressed forward until Y/n felt his lips along her folds, teasing her before delving deeper. Y/n gasped at the first taste, the tip of his tongue poking at her entrance, her arousal spilling forth. Henry ran the length of her pussy until he flicked her clit, the twitch it brought forth made him snicker into her skin. He dragged his tongue along her clit again, grazing it over and over as her pelvis flinched unwillingly.

“shit,” she hissed, trying not to moan though it felt so good.

Y/n clung onto his shoulders, the buzz she felt in her stomach coming closer to finding its release. Her thighs trembled as he grew more persistent, his tongue agile as it drew forth an orgasm but just before she could relish in the exquisite feeling, he pulled away. It had been almost a year since you had been pleasured by anything other than her own hands and this was starting to drive her mad. 

The sight of his dark head moving against her and the sensations he was creating made her cry out in helpless need and he looked up, a dark blush crossing his face when he saw her starlit expression. 

He stood and kissed her on the mouth until they were both breathless. Then, still holding her, he reached behind him, dragging the sheet off the nearest object.

It was a smooth, polished mahogany dining table, it's dark surface reflecting the muted lights from the moon.

Y/n imagined him laying her down on that smooth hardness and leaning over her, feeling the melting pleasure of his touch. 

Henry turned her, pressing her hips against the carved mahogany edge.

"I've never made love on a table before," she whispered raggedly, hoping that she wouldn't disappoint him with her relative inexperience. No doubt he was used to women who were terribly adventurous and sexually sophisticated. She thrusted the jealous thought away and linked her arms around his neck, reminding herself that she could make him shake with passionate need. She could make up with enthusiasm for what she lacked in experience and he would never know the difference. 

He stilled and she was afraid that she had destroyed the moment with her naive little confidence. Henry lifted his head and looked at the table behind her. Then he stopped and swept her off her feet, lifting her into his strong arms.

 "No, not here," he said hoarsely. "The first time should be in a bed.." He began to move with Y/n in his arms and she turned her hot face against his broad chest, adoring him for caring enough to make this exactly right for them. 

"I don't want to wait." She told him shyly of her need and his arms tightened, the muscles of his shoulders and neck bunching into prominence as his stride quickened.

 "You won't have to." He turned into another doorway, dipping an elbow against the wall until twin lamps glowed, their light filtered into a soft, golden delicacy by the cloths that swathed them. 

Henry didn't let her go as he removed the covering over the bed and stripped back the dark feather quilt. When he finally put her down it was on to crisp white sheets that released a lavender fragrance to mingle with the heated scent of arousal that perfumed their bodies.

Henry stood by the bedside, looking down at her. Then he spread his hands, revealing the light tremor that shook his hand ever so gently. 

 "Look what you do to me. You make me weak. No one has ever had that effect on me"  Y/n reached out a hand and touched his trident stomach. 

"You're the strongest man I know," her hand ran down his stomach and over the muscle underneath as she moved down to his belt. She tugged at it gently

"I want you" she purred. 

The knowledge of their mutual desire flared in his hungry eyes, hardening the planes and angles of his face until it looked as rigid as his body under her exploring hand. He caught her wrist before she would have touched him intimately, folding her arm back into the pillow behind her head he knelt beside her.

 "Say it again. Say my name." 

"I want you to make love to me, Henry." Her words were a promise to give him all that he wanted and more. 

"No more running?" he raised his eyebrow jokingly and Y/n shook her head, unable to speak as he unclipped the front fastening of her bra, sensing that he wanted her to lie quiescently as he bared the last secrets of her body. 

She felt shy, like a precious gift being gloatingly unwrapped, but she didn't resent his moment of purely masculine triumph. The glory of the moment was also hers, this beautiful man that she had known for so long finally hers. He was giving himself to her and asking nothing but what she was willing to give in return. For tonight and perhaps for many nights to come she would let him satisfy the hunger in her soul, colour the cold grey corners of her world with a warmth and vibrant life that would dispel, at least for a time, the loneliness she had come to accept many years ago. 

"I want you, too…" she whispered as she welcomed the joy of his touch. 

Henry undressed himself with a fumbling haste that she found inexpressibly exciting and when he came down on to her she gasped at the violent energy of his enthusiasm. Y/n stared up at him, his cock hanging out for all to see. 

The controlled, disciplined man she had grown to know vanished completely. In his place was a greedy, intemperate, ardent and impetuous male, urgently intent with plundering each and every lavish pleasure of flesh. 

Henry smirked, his hand slowly pumping his dick a few times before he bent down and slid the tip over her slit and pushed inside roughly, allowing her no resistance as he filled her entirely.

This moment when he took her would live vividly in her memory forever.

 The shocking reality of his first thrust stilled them both but then he stilled, chest shaking, half across her body, his head buried in the curve of her neck. 

'Surely he's not going to stop now,'  y/n thought hysterically as her body slowly adjusted to the agonising fullness, and she felt the involuntary ripples of tension begin to absorb him even more deeply into her being. 

 Y/n dropped her head back as she let out a low growl as he thrusted sharply, allowing a moment between each as they were jolted into the bed. His hands were on her hips, holding her down as he slid in and out. 

Relax and enjoy was about all Y/n was capable of doing as his sensual onslaught built towards a fiery climax. He devoured her, feasting on her body with blind hunger, biting lushly into her skin, sipping and suckling the sweetness from her achingly swollen breasts as his hands adjusted her body around his, moaning and shuddering so violently when she even lightly caressed his body with her own that she  resorted to merely riding the exquisite storm as he sank deeper than before. 

Henry groaned and y/n felt a sudden burst of warmth, his cum leaking down her legs as she let the feeling of her own orgasm near

She plunged a hand into his sweat-drenched hair, and pulled his head back.

"Henry-" 

The moan came quickly and she hardly recognised him as she gawked up at him. His mouth was full, reddened, the skin drawn tightly over the bones of his face giving him a lean, hollowed-checked wildness, his deep set eyes open but blank with inner turbulence. He looked almost totally insensate. 

Y/n felt shaken by a sudden wave of tenderness as his cock slid over a soft spot inside her, her fingers curling tightly into silky-damp hair.

"Henry--" 

The tenderness flooded her being and was just swiftly followed by another wave of intense feeling as Henry stiffened and pulled back slightly, the pupils of his eyes contracting, his jaw clenching as he fought the blind instinct that was relentlessly driving him. 

"I hurt you, didn't i." he gritted. "I went too fast for you. I'm sorry." He moved up on his braced arms and tried to withdraw further but she stopped him, almost sobbing.

"No... oh, no" 

Henry hesitated and she moaned again, this time a bitter protest, "No, please, no, not yet…" 

Y/n's pussy tightened and she murmured in delight as he slowly thrusted against her again, her sensitive walls sending a thrill up her spine.

She was fighting to hold on, and he watched, puzzled and then fascinated, as she moaned, her eyes wide with a strange fear and confusion. Her fingers slid laxly out of his hair to clench and unclench helplessly on the pillow. A deep rosy flush spread up from her damp, heaving breasts to mantle her throat and face. He realised then what was happening to her and waited, afraid to move again for fear of breaking the wondrous spell, watching hotly as the inexorable momentum built swiftly to a flashpoint.

 Only when she rolled her flushed cheek sideways into the pillow did he move, cupping her face with his strong hand, forcing her to look at him.

 "No, let me see... let me watch it happen to you...I want to watch" 

Her eyelids fluttered at his husky command, her blush deepened, but she was too enraptured to feel embarrassed, too stunned by the speed of it all to deny him anything he asked. Her mouth trembled and parted and she began to gasp in light, shallow breaths that made her flushed breasts quiver deliciously, invitingly. 

He bent and touched a stiff pink nipple experimentally with his mouth, very gently. She jerked and cried out, exploding beneath him in a series of violent convulsions that almost unseated him. He gripped her thighs and held her steady while she sobbed and moaned and poured herself into him, and then, as she melted lovingly around him he at last began to move, uncertainly echoing her undulating movements until he established his own powerful rhythm, this time driving her with him, until his raw shout of exuberant satisfaction signalled that the whirlwind was spent. 

~

In the morning Y/n  was grateful for the resilience of her relative youth. Even after a long hot shower, her muscles ached with the extravagance of her strenuous exercise. She felt as if she had been battered, not by one whirlwind, but several. And she had. If she had thought that Henry's incandescent passion would swiftly burn them both out she discovered, through the ravishing reaches of the night, that she was marvellously mistaken.

 His desire, like his curiosity about her body, had proved insatiable. And, although the second and third time they made love it was not with the stunning speed of the first, it was still fiercely, gloriously energetic. He encouraged a boldness in her that she hadn't known she possessed. 

He made her feel unutterably sexy, as if she was the only woman in the world who could satisfy his lavish appetite for lovemaking, and he devoted and demanded the same kind of single-minded commitment to creating pleasure that he did to his more worldly objectives. In short, he was every bit the fantastic lover she had imagined he was.

Y/n smiled to herself as she sipped her coffee. Was this a case of being hoist by her own petard? If so, everyone should have such a virile executioner! 

"You look quite disgustingly smug." 

 Henry had showered, brought her coffee and toast in bed and casually dressed in front of her with the ease of a man who was thoroughly satisfied with himself and the world in general.

"You're looking fairly smug yourself," she answered boldly. 

"Making love in the morning obviously suits us both and in the evening, and at night. By the way, what are you doing at lunchtime?" Y/n couldn't stop blushing and Henry smirked.

 She wasn't that bold - yet.

 If she and Henry were lovers for long she didn't doubt that she could become very, very brazen. 

"Eating," she said repressively. 

Henry refused to be repressed. "you're a wicked, decadent woman." He leaned over and tugged at the sheet that was tucked over her breasts and down to her waist. Y/n squeaked and held out her cup, afraid she would spill some of the hot liquid as he bent to lightly kiss her rosy softness. 

" is all of you on the menu, or just selected divine parts?" 

"You're a glutton!" Y/n murmured weakly, closing her eyes, shivering at the tingling pleasure his delicately teasing tongue evoked. 

"Ouch!" Henry winched, The coffee having splashed onto his cheek as y/n unconsciously let the coffee cup slip.

"Serves you right." She didn't pull up the sheet, sitting primly among the crumbs and cotton sheets, deliciously aware of the contrast between her nudity and his dark, formal suit as he moved away. 

He had told her he had an early meeting --one reason for the necessity to rouse her just after dawn by making love to her sleepy, languorous body. 

Waking up to find Henry inside her was just one of the new, fresh pleasures of life! 

"Will you meet me for lunch? This meeting should be over by then." He straightened his tie in front of the mirror then walked back to her.

"If you want me to…" He cupped her chin, reminding her of the way he had refused to allow her to hide from him last night.

 "I want you to. Make no mistake about that, y/n. I have no regrets. None." 

"Good." She lifted her chin and tried for a little of the sophistication he was no doubt used to. "I wouldn't like to think that I had disappointed you." 

To her annoyance, he laughed. He straightened, letting his fingers trail down her throat. "There wasn't much chance of that, believe me." 

"Oh, are you so confident of your prowess?" she snapped defensively, feeling suddenly restless and mentative. "You can turn any woman into your personal love machine?" 

He seemed unruffled by her irritable crudity, a strange smile still playing around his lips.

 "On the contrary. I'm afraid I have no basis for comparison." 

"What?" Y/n stared at him blankly.

He scooped up a slice of toast and bit into it. "Couldn't you tell, Y/n? Was my gift such a paltry thing? I thought one's partner could always tell." 

What was he talking about? To her horror, Y/n suddenly realised that, although he had used protection afterwards, that first, rough coming-together had been utterly spontaneous and Henry certainly hadn't held back. Did he purposely try to get her pregnant? Was he not really the man she thought he was? No- that couldn't be it. 

 "What gift? T-tell- me. what?" she stammered, raising her cup to hide the quiver of her mouth, hoping he wasn't going to prove as selfishly arrogant as she suspected!

" Why, that it was my first time, of course." And, as she continued to stare at him uncomprehendingly over the top of the cup, his smile gentled into a tender warmth. "You were my initiation, Y/n. I gave you my virginity, you gave me my manhood." 

And, leaving her gasping and choking with shocked disbelief, a pool of hot coffee soaking into the sheets around her, he calmly turned and walked out of the house, a new found pride in his stomach and so much more to be discovered.

Taglist (added in reblog ❤️)

[whothehellisdante]

I NEED TO CAPS LOCK AND FEELS DUMP OVER THE FINAL CHAPTER ON THIS BLOG TOO REGARDLESS OF HAVING ALREADY DONE SO ON MY RP BLOG BUT I’M ADDING A FEW OBSERVATIONS I FORGOT ABOUT INITIALLY and really I’m just languishing from the onslaught of emotions. I had a good idea of what to expect, and yet it came at me like I wasn’t expecting it at all. I mean...

LITTLE VERGIL AND V HAVING THAT HEART-TO-HEART THEY NEEDED SO BADLY AAUGHGUAGHGUHGHGH

FIRST OF ALL THAT PANEL OF V HOLDING LITTLE VERGIL AS IF PROTECTING HIM FROM THE NIGHTMARES THAT CONSTANTLY CHASE HIM??? AND BEING SO COMPASSIONATE AND REASSURING AND TALKING ABOUT HOW AS HE WAS RUNNING AWAY FROM THEM HE WAS ACTUALLY LOOKING BACK HIS ENTIRE LIFE, AND THAT INSTEAD HE SHOULD HAVE FACED THEM FROM THE BEGINNING. AND ONLY HIS HUMANITY WOULD HAVE LEARNED THAT LESSON WHICH IS WHY V IS THE ONE WHO CAN SAY IT WITH SO MUCH CONFIDENCE.

THE BOOK IS HIS HEART. HIS MEMORIES, HIS HAPPINESS, THE THINGS THAT HE ENJOYED WHICH HE BURIED FOR MOST OF HIS LIFE WHICH WAS WHY V HAD IT FROM THE MOMENT VERGIL CARVED HIM OUT. BECAUSE ALONG WITH ALL HIS NIGHTMARES AND TRAUMA AND HIS PERCEIVED WEAKNESSES, HE LUMPED HIS HAPPINESS AND HIS CHILDHOOD AND THE THINGS HE LOVED ALONG WITH THEM. HE THOUGHT THAT HUMANITY MADE HIM WEAK. WHICH IS WHY V CARRIES IT AROUND BECAUSE IT’S LITERALLY VERGIL’S HUMANITY TAKING CARE OF HIS OWN HEART. NOT TO MENTION WHAT IT MEANS FOR VERGIL TO LEAVE THAT BOOK (HIS HEART, MEMORIES, EVERYTHING HE LOVES) TO HIS SON, HOW ALL OF IT TIES TOGETHER... A PHYSICAL GODDAMN METAPHOR AND SYMBOL WHICH I LEGIT DID NOT EVEN CONSIDER UNTIL THIS FINAL CHAPTER EXPLAINED IT TO ME I’M CRYING SCOOB.

AND THEN V JUST ENCOURAGING LITTLE VERGIL TO GO FIGHT AND BEAT HIS LITTLE BROTHER IN A JOKING/POSITIVE SORT OF WAY????? AND THEN ASKING HIM IF HE HATES FIGHTING WITH DANTE?????

AND THE BABY JUST. ADMITS IT: “I like it.” I SCREAMED INTO MY OWN ASS !!!!!!!!!

LISTEN. IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT EGO OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. HE LIKES IT. HE LEGIT ENJOYS IT. IT’S HIS FUN. AND THAT WAS ALWAYS SORT OF OBVIOUS, BUT FOR HIM TO COME RIGHT OUT AND SAY THAT HE LIKES TO FIGHT WITH HIS BROTHER JUST JAEUGAKJFEUGLWOAFNKDJGKEFJGH.

OH AND VERGIL ACTUALLY DOUBTING THAT DANTE WOULD STILL WANT TO BE HIS TWIN ?!?!?! OF COURSE HE DOES YOU IDIOT, WHY DO YOU THINK HE’S FIGHTING THIS HARD FOR YOU?

AND THEN and then and then inevitably, V kinda disintegrating alongside Vergil so the two can finally become one again and the real Vergil is reborn on the surface where Urizen used to be……

And then, the second-to-final panel. Suddenly, Griffon’s in the sky and V’s all in white and he’s turned to the reader (or Griffon perhaps I can’t say, the framing is ambiguous) with a finger on his lips as if THIS IS ALL A SECRET? OR THAT NOTHING SHOULD BE SAID TO DISTURB VERGIL? THAT MAYBE HE’S TELLING US TO BE CALM, NOT WORRY ABOUT HIM BECAUSE HE’S ALWAYS BEEN THERE AND HE ALWAYS WILL BE?? I DON’T UNDERSTAND IT BUT ALL THE SAME IT FUCKS ME UP BECAUSE IT’S THE LAST OF V YOU’LL EVER GET TO SEE AND HE’S BEING HIS USUAL CLEVER MYSTERIOUS BASTARD SELF AND I’M CRYING LIKE A REAL MOTHERFUCKER BABES. DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME I MISS HIM SO MUCH I LOVE HIM I LOVE VERGIL THIS MANGA WAS SO WELL DONE AND THE ART WAS OGATA’S BEST THE ENTIRE CHAPTER AND I’m sick, I’m sick with feeling, it was excellent. Easily my second or even top-fave manga. I can’t believe how amazing the writing’s been the entire time. And now it’s all over and there is nothing else and god, GOD. I’m sad.

[dialux]

I’ve been going on a reading binge of all your Tolkien Women fics, and I cannot stop thinking about Indis. As a consequence I’ve created a headcanon that hurts my heart and I am going to inflict it upon you because this is clearly your fault.

Indis is one of those people just meant to be a parent, it fits her so well everyone knew it was just a matter of time before she became one. And once she gets married she tries so hard to be there for Feanor despite her own grief, but he won’t let her in. She has her kids and everyone congratulates her on having four (four!!) wonderful children, but in her heart she has five. Because Feanor might not have let her into his heart, but she certainly let him into hers, and she will always think of him as her eldest son.

It will haunt her to the end of all days and beyond, that he was always her son but she could never truly be his mother, and on her bad days she thinks that every catastrophe and death of the first age can be laid at her feet for not succeeding in the one thing everyone said was her speciality.

Okay, so a) fuck you, b) fuck you, c) fuck you. This story is basically just saying that, only in more euphemistic terms, anon.

...

Once, there were three: a woman with fair hair, a man with fair eyes, a woman with fair skin. 

...

The woman with fair skin is captured and taken by the Dark One to his fortress, where she languishes for long weeks in grief and agony. She is not turned, even as those captured alongside her become evil beings, twisted and gruesome and cruel. Melkor wonders why this woman- this limpid-eyed, weeping girl- can withstand what no other has managed.

He does not get the chance to find out.

The woman with fair hair storms Utumno. She drags her sister out alongside whoever is left of their people. But the fair-skinned woman collapses only a few days’ from the chill of Utumno, and she shows her sister the secret she expended all her fea upon: a child, a fair-haired, fair-eyed, fair-skinned girl.

Intyale the Fair-Haired buries her sister Indis in a cave of glittering light. Then she takes the child down to her people, and she bids her brother, fair-eyed Ingwe, to watch their niece. Indis he names her, for the mother she will never know, and he raises her as his own daughter, this girl who bears the brightest things of all his family.

...

She is the daughter of all three of them. Of Indis the Slain, and Intyale the Bright-Speared, and Ingwe the Grand. Indis bears one woman’s name and another woman’s steadiness and a man’s strength. She is the princess of the Vanyar. She will always be that.

She will always remember how desperately her mother fought to keep her alive. Hidden in Utumno, chanting song after song of hiding and cleaving and darkness, straining for one more moment- one more moment- to keep the little babe at her breast alive- defying Melkor himself- 

The Vanyar suffer the greatest of the losses to the Dark One before ever Orome comes to them. They- none of them, not from the eldest down to the youngest child- will ever trust Melkor ever again.

She was born in grief. 

The Doom that Namo places- it is shocking, it is pitiless, it is cruel. But then Alqualonde still rings with the laments of the Teleri. But then, Finwe is dead. Melkor has taken not just one from Indis’ life. 

She was born in grief, and, as one by one her children too learn that taste, she wonders: Perhaps the doom is my own.

...

When she is very young, she asks Intyale: What did I get from my mother?

And Intyale- this, Indis remembers very, very well- had paused, and considered, and then said, Her silence.

...

From Indis her mother, she receives silence. From Ingwe, she receives the knowledge of ruling and leadership. From Intyale- 

-from Intyale, she receives the strength of will to remain unbowed.

...

Indis loves Miriel with the kind of love of a calf for its mother: overwhelmingly, adoringly, all-consumingly. She spends hours with Miriel, learning to weave those tapestries, hands tangled in thread of silk and cotton and wool, eyes affixed to the wall just as often as she watches the silver spirals of Miriel’s hair.

The Noldor tend to craft to show their passion for the world, but Indis has nothing of that: she is a fair dancer, a well-versed scholar, a singer of surpassing talent. None of them call to her more than the rest.

She aids Miriel often, now that the building of Tirion is almost complete. Indis enjoys sitting with her and with Finwe, sipping a salty-hot tea as the light changes from gold to silver; she often falls asleep there, slumped over in her chair, and returns only at the second Mingling to Ingwe’s abode.

...

This is what they all forget about Miriel’s death: it was slow.

Slow and lingering and painless. She had dignity unto the end. Finwe clutched her hand until it could not be held. Little Feanaro is the only person in all of Aman, they say, who has lost his mother.

Indis bites her tongue until it bleeds, and does not speak.

...

Intyale dies upon the hills of the Ered Luin. Indis is still young in those days, not quite an adult and not quite a child. Three children are gamboling near the water, and there is- something. Not quite something, but not quite nothing either. Intyale realizes before anyone else, and flings herself forwards, bare-handed.

Bare-chested.

The water boar is driven backwards into the river. Indis grabs the children. Two maiar run, grasp the situation, calm the boar down with songs. Intyale emerges from the river dripping.

She collapses upon the sand, and Indis is there in heartbeats: Intyale is the only mother she remembers, distant and proud though she may be. When she dares to let her eyes drift to Intyale’s chest, everything tightens up inside of her. Her mother is rent open, from breast to belly. 

“No,” says Intyale, and reaches up, and grips Indis’ chin tighter than she ought to be able to, so close to death’s door. “Look at me, little one. We are more than our flesh.”

“You are dying,” whispers Indis, trembling.

“Yes,” says Intyale bluntly. “Call for Ingwe.”

Not for the maiar, who might save her. And not for the Valar either. Intyale has given up: Indis doesn’t realize this until later, but her mother- her aunt- would not have called for Ingwe had she not been determined to join the sister she watched fall.

Intyale forces Ingwe to swear to care for Indis as he would his own daughters. Then she asks for her spear, and to be burned until even her bones show no ash. She tells everyone who her sparse belongings must go to. And then, fingers clutching the bone-spear, she dies.

...

(Feanor, too, burns. Half her family burns to death, Feanor and Fingolfin and Fingon and Turgon and Maedhros and- and- and-

That fire is not of Finwe alone. Fire can be taught to catch, and Feanor never burned quite so brightly to anyone else as he did for Indis and her usurpation of his sainted mother. No: the fire is Indis’ inheritance, and Indis’ gift.)

...

Intyale does not tell anyone who her bone-spear should be given to. Indis finds herself holding onto it, and somehow never lets go.

...

This is what they forget: Miriel was the first to die in the peace of Valinor. 

The second is Finwe.

...

Feanaro has lost his mother, but Indis will become that mother if he will allow it. She would wish for nothing more. Of course she wishes for nothing more. 

But he does not.

Indis watches him when he does not realize. She can see it- the grief, the loneliness. He is a little boy, and Finwe is not half the father he would wish to be, and there are impossible things in this world that Indis wants- her mother, her Miriel, her peace- but most of all she just wants little Feanaro to be happy, to know happiness and joy and trust in it instead of fearing the joy will turn cold and dead in his arms.

...

Miriel had been- quickly angered.

So had Finwe. So do most of the Noldor. Indis is patient enough not to pay much attention to it. 

Well. She is patient.

...

Miriel had been easily provoked into greatness. A few insults, a carefree comment- Miriel would sit at her loom and weave, something ever-greater and ever-better. Even now, the finest gown in Indis’ keep is one that she received from Miriel the day after she spent hours insulting Miriel’s taste in fabric.

Indis would have done that to her in those awful weeks after Feanaro’s death. She would’ve gone in and insulted Miriel to within an inch of her life, made her so breathless with rage that Miriel would have levitated out of her bed to strike Indis about the face. 

But Este’s healers- called in when the labor lasted for more than two days- refused to hear of it, and Indis could only watch as Finwe’s face went whiter by the hour and all they heard from the sickroom were little Feanaro’s wails and the healers’ murmurs. She obeys the Valar: she watches Miriel fade into Lorien, and never return.

Little Feanaro is all that’s left of Miriel. 

She is certain that he’s very much like her, too.

...

Feanaro thinks that his dislike of Indis comes from her marriage to his father. Perhaps the dislike deepened into hatred then; Indis does not know. What she does know- for she’s ensured it- is that Feanaro hated her well before her marriage.

...

(“I expected better of you,” says Indis, once.

Feanaro is three years old. His eyes are Miriel’s in shape and size and beauty. Indis, determinedly, does not flinch. 

“I’m just doing with Rumil taught me!” he exclaims.

“In Valmar,” says Indis, “children learn their letters by the time they turn a year old.”

Feanaro flushes red. “I don’t like these letters. They don’t make sense.”

“Then make your own,” says Indis, careful not to let sympathy seep into her voice.

She does not smile when the news percolates through Valinor of Feanor’s Tengwar. She does not smile, but oh, oh: how she wants to!)

...

This is what they do not see: Feanaro is young, and while fire is forever dangerous, while fire is forever alluring, it is too easy, far too easy, to stamp it out. Especially when it is young. Especially when it is small.

Indis would have been the shelter to that little flame if he would have allowed it. But he will not, so all she can do is throw fuel onto the fire. Chaff and dross and dried straw: insults and backhanded compliments and petty slights. If Feanaro will not let her protect him, then she will build him so high that none will ever be able to strike him down.

(Letting him die was never an option.)

...

Finwe dies, and they leave, and then Feanaro dies, and then Findis disappears, and then Nolofinwe dies, and then Arafinwe comes to her, for the first time since his father’s body burned in Tirion’s courtyard.

“We have been given leave to go to Beleriand,” says Arafinwe quietly, solemnly. “Morgoth shall be defeated and thrown into the Void. The Vanyar shall all come, by King Ingwe’s decree.”

“Is there something you wish to ask me, then?” asks Indis gently.

Arafinwe swallows, one reflexive jump of his throat. “Will you join me?”

Indis rises. Steps away. Goes to her bedroom and plucks it from the wall, and returns in time to see her darling son’s shoulder slump with frustration. 

“I will not,” she says. Arafinwe jumps, startled. Indis steps closer to him and presses the bone-spear into his palms. “I will not return, Arafinwe, to that land. Already it has taken much from me. I will not offer it more.”

“But-”

“Take this,” says Indis. “It is your grandmother’s.”

Surprise glitters in his pale eyes. “I have a sword.”

“This has already held off Morgoth once,” says Indis. “There are tales that will never be told, of the courage of the elves that never saw the Blessed Isles. Intyale Bright-Speared was your grandmother named, and well-named was she! This spear held Morgoth back long enough to release prisoners in the depths of Utumno before ever Orome saw us, long enough to let Intyale’s sister flee. Long enough for Intyale’s sister to hand the child in her arms over to Intyale.

“The sister’s name is Indis,” says Indis. “I was that child. I was named for her.”

Arafinwe stares at her. “You speak so rarely of them.”

“I’ve no desire to relive tragedy for the rest of my life,” says Indis flatly. “Now come. You’ll need to learn how to use that, if you wish to hold Morgoth hostage!”

...

Perhaps she began this, when she chose this path.

Perhaps she could have averted this.

But Indis is the daughter of Intyale, and it will be her bone-spear held to Morgoth’s throat at the end of this awful, deathful road, and if nothing else- if nothing else- she has the will to remain unbowed, this girl born in the shadow of Utumno, this woman who watched all those around her fall as wheat before a scythe, this mother who would rather her children loathe her than die, this daughter who has lost both mothers and knows, bitterly, the whole of that unfathomable loss.

...

That is what she tells Feanor, finally, when he returns to life.

There is something thoughtful in his gaze. He nods, and returns, a week later, and when she blithely tells him that his sons have inherited his monotonous fashion sense, Feanor flushes, and then pauses, and then says, carefully, “I’d rather it be monotonous than Finarfin’s gaudiness,” and Indis drinks her tea- salty-hot, just as she likes it- and she says, smiling, “I am glad you can be taught.”

[thessalian]

Thess vs Crises

My mother has this really weird blend of “They’re making a huge deal over nothing” and “But I guess it’s not nothing really” when it comes to ... well, almost everything. And at the moment, it’s about the heat wave.

I hadn’t been sleeping well lately and was finally paying off some sleep debt when Mum phoned asking if there was anything she could do to help me during Monday and Tuesday, the two really bad heat days we’re expecting. Apparently some of the news outlets are calling it a “heat crisis” and my mother says that if she hears people use the word ‘crisis’ one more time she’s going to throw up. I mean, I don’t like it either, but mostly that’s because I am honestly sick to the back teeth of living in a state of crisis every fucking day. But that’s what I mean about how she complains that people are making a huge deal over nothing while still being supportive.

Thing is, some of the suggestions are fairly unworkable. Going over to theirs if it gets too bad ... I’m not even going to want to move if it gets too bad, and I won’t have anything to do to take my mind off it there. Bringing some ice over? Good thought, but I don’t have room in my freezer for any, and if I need to put ice on wrists and neck to take down my core temperature a little, I can just use frozen vegetables.

The really nostalgic suggestion was sleeping on the balcony, which I used to do when I was a kid in Montreal and the heat got bad (that mostly stopped being a problem when I started going to sleepaway camp, but there were still occasionally a few bad days in August). Unfortunately there are a couple of problems with that. Like the plants taking up one corner, and the fact that the balcony’s too narrow even for my current single mattress, never mind the small double that’s apparently still languishing in the other flat (it’s been nearly fifteen months, by the way), plus the problems that used to plague my sleeping on the balcony when I was a kid: biting insects and spiders. The mosquito population of my flat’s interior has miraculously gone down since I started having basil growing in my windowsill - which is part of why I moved my other basil plant into the bedroom, by the way; apparently basil keeps them away - but outside, not so much. Also spiders. Look, I don’t mind spiders in general but one year while sleeping on the balcony in Montreal I woke up to find my wrist itching like crazy and swelling up until it looked like a golf ball was embedded in it. Spider bite, apparently. That was bad enough when I was a kid; don’t want to do it again.

I’ve made what preparations I can. I’ve done some advance preparation of meals so I won’t have to use the oven overmuch. I can more or less approximate sleeping on the balcony by opening the door out onto the balcony and sleeping on the sofa. And I do at least have the fan - at least this kind of heat wave probably qualifies as a good use of the electricity and there was an article about “how much does it cost in electricity to run a fan?” (which is how you know the electricity bill situation has just gone stupid) and it’s not that bad. So we’ll see, but I’m hoping to be able to manage. Besides, I want to be here for my plants. I have a watering strategy - little, but often. I did not put in all this work and watch it pay off in the form of flowering cayenne peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers - not to mention slowly ripening alpine strawberries - to lose my plant babies to extreme heat.

One thing did bewilder my mother, though - when I told her I’d taken Tuesday off, she went, “But wouldn’t the office be air conditioned, and thus better for you?” My stepfather, who was hearing her side of the conversation, flagged up to her that it’s the getting there and back that’d be the problem, and I agreed with that ... but I also flagged up that my office does not have air conditioning. A lot of admin offices in hospitals don’t have air conditioning, because a lot of the admin offices are repurposed labs, scanning rooms and the like and some don’t even have windows, let alone air conditioning. Hell, most of the hospital doesn’t have air conditioning. This country is significantly ill-equipped for this kind of heat and yeah, people - and we’re not just talking the vulnerable here - are going to die. THIS IS WHY IT’S A CRISIS, MOTHER.

Well, that and things like transport infrastructure is built according to estimated needs and no one estimated 30+ heat, never mind approaching 40, so train tracks could buckle under the heat and roads ... well, not just ‘could catch fire’ but have caught fire. I can sympathise with my mother not wanting to hear the term ‘crisis’ anymore, given the amount it’s been used, but... I guess it’s the difference between her, who is insulated from the worst of the fallout from all this, and me, who only has a minor buffer through her, and has disability issues besides. She doesn’t have to think of it as a crisis because the people most hurt by it are just people on the news to her. So the difference is partially proximity but mostly empathy, I guess? On one level, I can see it being healthier to a point to be more selective in one’s empathy to avoid empathy fatigue ... but on the other ... caring about people other than yourself is good? And I think more people ought to do it? Especially the ones who are currently making crises - or making them worse - through power-hungry, greedy, assholish behaviour that puts the burden of their bad decisions onto those who least deserve it?

[makeste]

my long boring post about chapter 293 and Kacchan’s hero name

lmao I think that’s all of them. anyways, so I said I was gonna do a post on this, and so here goes.

first off, I just want to say that people are allowed to not like the name! it’s a completely subjective thing, there’s no right or wrong “it’s good” or “it’s bad.” or rather, there is a right or wrong, and it’s whichever one you think it is. if you think it’s good, you’re right. if you think it’s bad, you’re also right. it’s an opinion, it doesn’t need to be backed up by peer review lol.

that said, here is my own completely subjective opinion: I think “Dynamight” (though please not with the capital “m”, I beg you lol) is a terrific name for him honestly. it’s clever wordplay, it’s a subtle callback/tribute to his favorite hero who is also his inspiration for becoming a hero, and it’s a perfect fit for his chosen aesthetic. it’s honestly great.

and what makes it even better is that at the same time, it is also stupid as fuck lmao. this is a name that encapsulates the duality of man. it’s the perfect metaphor for this boy who think he’s the hottest shit god ever invented, and has no idea that the number of people who take him seriously after interacting with him for more than ten seconds is actually in the single digits. this hero name is the equivalent of an excited puppy ferociously bounding towards a squirrel only to trip over its own feet and fall flat on its face. it thinks it is scary as fuck, and has no idea that 30,000 people on TikTok think it’s the most adorable thing they’ve ever seen. I unabashedly love it, and will also ceaselessly roast the everloving shit out of it without the slightest remorse, just like I roast the beloved boy attached to it. that’s just how it is lol.

so that’s how I feel about the name! however, this next part I need to emphasize: my opinion of the name, and my opinion of whether or not I actually think this will be his name, are two different things. I like the name Dynamight. I really do. and I also think there is next to no chance that this will actually be his hero name.

here’s the thing. this would have been a perfect name for him if it had been his chosen name back in chapter 45 when everyone else picked their aliases. it would have fit in seamlessly with the rest of his class. Red Riot, Chargebolt, Earphone Jack, Sugarman, Uravity; those are all names that stick in your mind and look great on official merch. those are names that sell action figures, but they also do a great job of representing the individuals behind the names. they have personality. and so does “Dynamight”, for sure.

but the thing is, for whatever reason, Horikoshi didn’t have him pick this name back in chapter 45. he went with a running gag instead. “King Explosion Murder”, “Lord Explosion Murder”, and so forth. and in the end, we never got a hero name at all. he could have had him pick Dynamight after we’d had our laughs. hell, he could have used it as an early easter egg hinting at Kacchan’s admiration for All Might, which wouldn’t be officially revealed until the final exam arc about twenty chapters later. “Dynamight” in Japanese is written out in katakana -- ダイナマイト (“dainamaito”). this is the word that’s used in Japan for actual dynamite. there is no inherent indicator that it’s a pun; it just so happens that the “mite” in dynamite is spelled out phonetically in Japanese the exact same way that “might” is. so the pun isn’t obvious unless you know to look for it. Horikoshi could have left us all thinking that “Dynamite” was his name until chapter 62 or thereabouts when he revealed that Katsuki looked up to All Might, at which point Horikoshi could finally reveal the official English spelling and it would be like a second name reveal. which would have been pretty sweet, actually.

but my point being, for some reason he instead chose not to do this. instead he chose to drag it all out for 250 chapters, content to let us all languish. this man had not a shred of mercy for the thousands of Bakugou fans who were all “please, sir, the fic,” before eventually giving up and adopting Ground Zero as the official-unofficial name until we either got a real reveal or died of old age. he dragged it out, and kept it as a gag, and eventually it was just like, fine, whatever.

and then this happened.

and it changed everything.

because you see, all of a sudden “Bakugou’s Hero Name” wasn’t just a running joke gag plot anymore. in the span of three sentences, Horikoshi changed the entire meaning of it. “your hero name represents your desires. the embodiment of how you wish to be. your ideal self.”

just like that, the whole mystery of “what will Bakugou’s hero name be” goes from being a funny little ongoing thing to an existential question, with the implication being that the choice he finally makes, whatever it may be, will in essence reveal the very core of his character. “your ideal self.” in other words this will really be almost the pinnacle of his entire character arc. his hero name, when he finally picks it, will show us just how far he’s come. it will show us his answer to “what kind of person do you want to be.”

that is an insane amount of meaning to suddenly dump onto something that up until this point had just been a funny little running gag. “lol Bakugou loves murder and death.” “lol at this rate Bakugou will graduate while still not having an actual hero name.” from that, to suddenly out of the blue, “Bakugou’s hero name will show us who he is as a person.” like, holy shit though. and mind you, this isn’t something that’s been done for any other character. this is very Bakugou-specific. all this build-up and significance has been ascribed to his hero name specifically. at this point his name is basically its own fucking plot. it’s literally its own individual little arc. all of that build-up. all of that meaning and importance given to it.

and then Horikoshi goes and gives us this.

so. like... okay, I guess??

like, just some quick things of note here though:

he is still doing the whole “explosive destruction murder” thing on top of the “Dynamight” part. indicating that there has not been the slightest bit of thoughtful consideration actually given on his part. literally the one thing that everyone and their mom was trying to explain to him not to do, and all of it went in one ear and out the other. which is fine!! he is adorable here and I want to ruffle his hair, honestly. but it’s clear to me that he still hasn’t grasped what Jeanist was trying to explain to him before, if this is really his answer to “what would you consider to be your ideal self” lol.

the name is INSTANTLY panned by every single person in the surrounding vicinity, villains included. hell, Mirio might as well have stabbed him all over again. obviously this is intentionally being used as a lighthearted moment to briefly give the audience a breather before we wade back into the Todoroki drama; but at the same time it indicates that this name isn’t exactly going to be taken seriously by anyone who hears it in-universe. they are literally wincing upon hearing it skjlklhkgf.

lastly, none of the people closest to him -- Deku, All Might, Kirishima, or Shouto -- are even there to hear it. all of that build-up, all of that “Kacchan’s hero name will show us how far he’s come in his character development”, and then when it finally happens, the people who have had the most impact aren’t even there to partake in the moment. Shouto and Deku are busy dealing with an entirely separate plot and trying very hard not to be set on fire while Kacchan is out here providing comic relief.

because that’s really what this is, though. this is a joke. like, I don’t mean that in a pejorative sense; I mean that it is literally a joke. and so what you’re telling me is, if this really is his hero name, we waited 250 chapters and Horikoshi built up an entire character arc around it, only to have the end result be a joke panel that in the end was arguably not even the biggest thing that happened in the chapter.

like, idk, maybe there’ll be a flashback about it later after all’s said and done which will imbue it with more meaning as some have suggested. maybe Horikoshi will explain how it’s a childhood throwback name that Deku once picked for him, like that theory that’s been making the rounds. I’m not saying it won’t be possible to build on this after the fact. but it will be after the fact, all the same. as far as the initial reveal goes... this is it. the epitome of anticlimactic. a brief joke reveal mid-fight where everyone immediately goes “are you fucking serious” and he’s all “I WAS FUCKING SERIOUS” and falls down out of comedy lmao.

and so, to wrap this post up finally, basically the way I see it is that there are two possibilities here. either (1) I have been way overthinking this from day one and it was never really that deep and Horikoshi thought this would be an appropriate and funny conclusion to a plotline which in his mind was always meant to be mostly lighthearted, with the Jeanist stuff mostly just thrown in there to push Bakugou into picking an at least halfway-decent name in spite of himself.

or, (2) this isn’t going to be his final hero name either. this is instead the last hurrah of the “Lord Explosion Murder” part of that plotline, and after he’s laughed out of the room yet again he will mope and cross out this one as well, and Horikoshi will sit on it for another 500 chapters until he finally reveals it at the very fucking end of the series. like at this point I wouldn’t put it past him to wait until the very last page. I s2g, this man. but the flipside of it is that when that moment finally does happen, I fully believe it will be a moment that actually feels earned. it will feel right. it will feel like the moment we spent all that time waiting for. or at least that’s what I hope.

so anyway, those are my thoughts on it! tl;dr, while I like Dynamight as a hero name in and of itself, I don’t think it’s going to be endgame, mostly because nothing about that reveal moment actually felt right to me. and of course, it’s very possible that I’m completely wrong about this; it wouldn’t be the first time (Kacchan’s quirk says hello). but on the other hand fandom isn’t totally batting a thousand either (Ground Zero says what up), so hey. we’ll see!

[nightshade-minho]

-Free Rent Part 1-

Stray Kids + fem!reader

Warnings: None in this part, except for shirtless Jisung I guess, and very slight suggestiveness. Eventual smut.

You wish you hadn’t agreed to this. What were you thinking? You could feel eight pairs of eyes on you, and you couldn’t help but feel utterly helpless under their gaze. You knew you had no reason to be afraid- everything had been discussed in detail and a safe word had been decided upon. However, you couldn’t stop your heart from thudding loudly, butterflies in your stomach.

It had all started a week ago, when your best friend Mina had told you about how ‘Chan and his gang of misfits’ were looking for a female roommate to live with them at their apartment. You were curious at first, prompting Mina to tell you more about this peculiar requirement.

“I don’t really know much about it y/n. All I know is that there’s a lot of candidates applying for the position already.”

You gasped. “Why? I mean...doesn’t this whole thing sound extremely sketch?”

“I mean, it’s clear what their intentions are, I suppose. But here’s the catch- you wouldn’t have to pay rent.”

You almost spat out your drink at that. No rent!? It sounded too far-fetched. From what you knew of the boys, they were quite well-off and lived in a huge, fancy apartment off campus. You, meanwhile, had been languishing in the dormitory with a despicable roommate- one who liked having her boyfriend over all the time, making the already tiny room feel cramped as fuck. She also had a penchant for leaving her dirty clothes all over the place- laundry was probably a foreign concept to her. You’d been wanting to move out since forever, and had already tried looking up some apartment listings since the dorms were full...however most of them were too expensive for you to afford.

As you bid farewell to Mina, making your way back to your dorm, there was this tiny part of your brain that was considering their weird proposal. It was clear what their intentions were...and you didn’t know how you felt about being a fucktoy for 8 people- it sounded demeaning and kind of scary, to be honest.

You finally reached your dorm, and was about to unlock the door when you heard moans coming from inside the room. Your head was boiling with anger, why did this always have to happen to you? You were extremely drowsy and just wanted to get to sleep already, but that was clearly going to be impossible.

Maybe...maybe you should check this new place situation out? Besides, you kind of knew Chan and Minho. The three of you had mutual friends and you’d been partnered up with Minho for a project once. They were genuinely cool, funny guys...and very attractive too.

You decided to go to their apartment, and if it was a really good one, you might consider it. Ugh...you couldn’t believe that you were even contemplating this right now.

And that’s how you ended up standing outside their apartment door at 8 in the evening, wringing your fingers nervously. You’d spoken with Chan on the phone earlier, and he’d recognized you almost immediately. He’d been very courteous and kind. You would think he was just a regular old landlord...if it weren’t for the end of the phone call.

“And...y/n? I hope you know what the payment consists of?”

“Oh? I thought it was free-“

He cleared his throat. “I mean...it doesn’t cost any money. We would prefer to be paid in another manner.”

“Ah. Um, yes...I’m aware.”

“Good. And remember, you can back out any time you want okay? If you’re completely okay with it, you can come.”

You suddenly regretted your choice of wearing a skirt today. Sighing, you silently gave yourself a pep talk. Breathing in deeply, you rung the doorbell.

“Coming!”

The door swung open, and you were met face to face with a shirtless blond haired dude, who stared at you wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry, but if you’re someone I fucked and never called back, I can’t go on a date with you. I apologize for-“

He was suddenly pushed to the side by Minho, who smiled at you warmly.

“Sorry about Jisung. You’re y/n, right? And you’re here for the apartment?”

“Mmhmm!”

He cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t we work on a project together last year?”

You nodded, trying to smile but ultimately failing. Your nerves were all over the place, and you were focusing on not running away right then and there.

There was an awkward silence as the two men stared at you and you stared back. You could see that they were analyzing you subtly, and your heartbeat grew faster.

Jisung yawned. “So...is she gonna come in or...?”

Minho silenced him with a sharp look, and then softened as his gaze turned back to you. “Would you like to come in, y/n?”

You paused, nodding again.

Suddenly, a slightly dark look flashed in Minho’s eyes.

“Use your words, sweetheart. You’ll find it a necessity if you want to live here.”

You gulped. “Uh. Okay. Is Ch-chan here?”

Minho nodded. “He’s in the shower right now. But I’ll show you around the house for now!” He beckoned you in, and you followed him as he walked into the apartment. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you looked around. The hallway was fairly short, but then as you walked further in, you softly gasped as your eyes took in the huge living room. There was the biggest TV you’d ever seen, and right in front of it was a sofa that was so wide it looked more like a bed.

Seated on the sofa were two guys that you recognized from previous classes that you’ve had. Both of them noticed you, however one of them spared you nothing more than a glance, immediately looking back at the television. The other quirked a brow in interest, and made his way over to you and Minho. If you were right, his name was Hyunjin. He was very handsome, you noted.

“Minho, you never told me you went and got yourself a girlfriend!

Minho cleared his throat. “Hyunjin, she’s here for the house.”

Hyunjin’s eyebrows shot up, and a smirk grew on his face.

“Great. Cause I was thinking, it isn’t fair that you get such a pretty girl all to yourself.”

Your face grew red. Hyunjin smiled at you, grabbing your hand and pulling you along.

“So, this place has 5 bedrooms. Two master bedrooms, and the rest are normal. The master bedrooms are occupied by Minho and Chan, because ‘they’re the oldest’ or some shit.”

Minho groaned. “That’s not the reason, y/n, it’s because we started living here first, and the others came here later. Also, I’m willing to move in with Chan so you can have a bedroom all to yourself, so it’s not gonna be a problem.”

You meekly nodded. Minho raised an eyebrow, and you remember his statement from earlier with a blush.

“I’m not completely sure I want to move in yet, though.”

A disappointed look crossed both faces, and you quickly stated “Um, I said yet.”

They quickly regained their smiles, and you wanted to chuckle to yourself. The two of them were kinda cute.

“Alright so three of the rooms are downstairs. The two master bedrooms are upstairs, so if you were to move in, you’d be living there.” Minho resumed.

Hyunjin cut in, “There’s also a bathroom downstairs, and an open kitchen, as you can see.” Minho looked at him with an annoyed expression and you almost giggled.

“Chan!”

You turned around to see Chan himself descending the stairs with a smile on his face.

“Hey guys! And hello, y/n! Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier, I was in the shower.”

His hair was wet, and his white shirt was insistently sticking to his pecs. You felt slightly flustered.

“So, would you like to see the upstairs? I’ll take it from here, thanks Minho.”

He beckoned you to follow him. Chan showed you the second floor of the apartment, which was every bit as amazing as the bottom floor. You were trying to resist it, but you couldn’t. Your brain was rapidly falling in love with this house.”

As you made your way back downstairs, you saw four of the boys from before- Hyunjin, Minho, Jisung and...Seungmin? Yes, that was his name. Along with those four, there were two more who were in the kitchen, whose names you didn’t know very well. You knew one of them was from Australia, just like Chan, but not much else. The other’s name was...Changmin or something.

As you reached the bottom of the stairs, Chan spoke up. “So...are you interested in this place?”

You were extremely conflicted. You were no virgin, but you still felt this situation was entirely unorthodox and your mom back home would probably murder you in shame. However none of these boys seemed like bad people, and you were already familiar with a few of them. Your logic was telling you to get out of there and forget you ever came, but then there was this very very tiny part of you that not only wanted the house, but the sex too. Even though you’ve had sex a few times, you were often called a prude, and you weren’t very popular. And...these boys were the kings of the college. Being their friend would be an automatic ticket to ruling campus.

Your brain told you you were being an idiot and not thinking this through, but it was too late.

“Yes.” You blurted, and Chan’s grin grew wider.

Fuck, what had you done?

•••

(There will be smut in Part 2...which will probably be out by tomorrow. Happy SKZ anniversary!)

[phynali]

so not to ruminate on things that vex me, but the past 2 or so months have been kinda shit, and i’m trucking along and there absolutely are high points and good things and joys that balance some of this out, but i need to vent out some of the negative emotions somewhere to get ‘em out. so i guess i’m doing that here because - 

we’re in lockdown#6 where i live (state of victoria) and it’s hard, this yo-yo of restrictions and swinging in and out of one lockdown after another. 

for those who understandably won’t know, what we call lockdown here means not just restaurant and commercial closures and mandatory working from home unless you’re in an industry where that’s impossible -- it also means no guests (0) inside you’re home unless you’re both living alone and single or else romantic partners, it means not leaving your home at all except for one of 4-5 necessary reasons, not being outside for more than 2hrs per day even to exercise, and not going more than 5km from your home unless required for work/medical/etc required reasons.

it’s intense. we spent (i think) 128 days in this degree of lockdown in 2020, never mind how many we spent in other forms of restrictions and working from home. and we’ve been back in it four (4) times in 2021 already. in-out-in-out-in-out - 

it’s taking a toll on the mental health of every person i know. we get weekly emails with wellbeing and resilience tips from my job -- not just “be productive or else” capitalism but heartfelt ones from wellbeing officers with copies of articles like this one on languishing from the NYT, acknowledging we’re all struggling and directing us to the plethora of wellbeing resources our workplace is trying to provide, not only to us but reminding us they offer it to our families too.

i’m one of the lucky ones. i’m really not trying to wallow here or to pretend otherwise. i appreciate that i can work from home, even though i can’t focus when i do and it this interacts with my adhd to fuck my productivity. even if i’m so behind and delayed it feels like i’ve lost 12-18 months worth of work and it will have long-term ramifications on my career -- even so, i still i have a job. i still get paid. and i even kept my job, a bit by the skin of my teeth but i did, when my sector downsized last year. yes, the way my employer went about lay offs left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth (my own included), but i made it through. 

and my sector, while affected, is by no means the worst of the collateral damage.

the yo-yo of lockdowns is taking a very very real toll on industries like hospitality, tourism, commerce. and the economy does have indirect effects on health and mental health as well. my friend, a waitress, was on her way to work the evening shift at a restaurant when she got the call about the latest lockdown. she had to turn around and go home because the announcement came just hours before the lockdown was imposed, and every place suddenly had to close by 8pm. bye bye evening shift. so much of the government support for these industries has dried up, has been inadequate. 

lockdowns save lives. i don’t begrudge my state for imposing one except that yes -- i’m resentful we’re here again with only six cases. i can be both accepting and grateful and also pissed and tired and more all at once. 

even more than the latest lockdown, i’m pissed about the yo-yo. that we went into lockdown in june, came out in july, went back in in july, came back out in july, are going back in now, in the first week of august. three lockdown/re-openings in 10 weeks, as if this rollercoaster doesn’t completely incapacitate our ability to plan or prepare for anything more than a week out, more than a day out -- in this case, more than a few hours out. 4pm the lockdown was announced, with an 8pm start time. as if that doesn’t have more insidious consequences on individuals and industries than a more clearly articulated and consistent approach. as if all the restaurants that got to open up this week didn’t purchase large food orders for this weekend that will spoil because they were given 4 hours notice to close their doors.

that’s the part i hate, right now more than the lockdowns themselves. consumer sentiment was at a high in april, optimism was everywhere. people felt good, and like we had a plan forward. now -- well, now my job is sending me emails about how normal and okay it is that i might be ‘languishing’ because aren’t we all?

and i absolutely do begrudge my federal government, and i’m angry with them, and this is part of why:

but i also accept, to some extent, that these decisions have all been made in difficult circumstances, and i’m not really about to pretend i could do any better. 

at the same time, australia’s vaccine rollout is among the slowest and lowest at least within OECD countries. i know that’s partly because we’ve managed the keep cases low and therefore we are prioritized less when it comes to who needs the vaccines most (and thus who is earlier in line to be able to purchase) among other geo-political reasons i won’t get into, but it still very much sucks. our timeline and ability to move forward and ability to stop having lockdowns requires a mostly-vaccinated population, and that’s not something we’ll have anytime soon.

and i am a visa-holder here and my family is back in canada and with our current border restrictions leaving to visit is honestly is not an option because i wouldn’t be able to return, to work. i’m managing that distance okay most of the time despite my homesickness and frustration but my partner’s parents are older and his mother’s health just isn’t amazing and it’s weighing on him a lot. 

a phd student i work with just had a parent die in another country while stuck here, had to drop everything to return, is devastated by not being by their parent’s side when it happened because it came on sudden, and now won’t be able to come back into australia after, will have to finish their thesis remotely from abroad. stories like that are becoming commonplace in certain circles, here. this student is not the first or only person i know who has been in that exact situation in the past year.

it’s enraging, and upsetting, and instills a sense of helplessness because -- there’s nothing that can really be done about it. there’s no good answer, but it’s scary to think of what could happen. i know it scares my husband. if his mother’s health suddenly dips -- does he drop everything and leave? how can he not? would i go with him or hold the fort here? what ramifications does that have either way?

right now, we’re in the first stages of getting permanent residency, my job is putting in the nomination, and this is one of those awesome high-points i mentioned. it’s a very much needed sense of security in my career and my future in this country. but while a PR application is pending and under review, you can’t leave the country, even in pre-covid times. it takes months to get the application fully nominated, accepted, then submitted, and months on months to process.

in january 2020 we had agreed that for xmas 2020 we’d return home to canada. obviously the world changed and we quickly determined that wouldn’t be the case. we pushed that plan back to july-aug 2021, then to october 2021, xmas 2021. my partner’s sister asked him last week if we started making plans, booking things for xmas, was calling to check that we’d had our second jabs. he had to explain the situation to her, that we aren’t even eligible for our first vaccine yet, that we aren’t holding out any real hope of visiting, not this year, not until mid-next.

anyway - i’m just. languishing, i guess, if that’s the word for it after all. i know it’s not the same as depression -- i’ve had episodes of that, been treated for it in different ways. this is and feels different, even if there are obvious similarities. whatever to call it, it sucks, and i hate it. and i hate the other lows and anxieties and crap i’ve been dealing with in the past few months as well that didn’t make it into this post about covid. crap with work, with friends, with goddamn car rentals of all stupid things. crap that’s making me anxious and crap that just needs processing. crap that is, ultimately, massively exacerbated because lockdowns turn us into little rats gnawing on the bars of our cages.

and i guess i just needed to talk about it somewhere, to organize my thoughts and free up some headspace (emotion space?) currently being used to hold these thoughts and feelings in place. i kind of hate posting personal crap like this and always get the urge to delete but i also have a hard time organising my thoughts if i don’t write them out with this intent to post. sort of want to go outside and scream at god, sort of want to phone up a friend and yell at him for an hour for being an exhausting ass, sort of want to be alone for a day to curl up under a blanket with a movie that’ll make me cry because raging at the universe is always so much easier when i’m alone and unobserved. but i guess since those aren’t especially kind or feasible i’ll post this instead.

anyway - if you read to the end of this for any reason, i’m not trying to be maudlin, and there’s really no need to respond. it’s just a feelings dump, sucking some of the poison out, not really much different than journalling but i’ve always been better at that online than on paper. 

[thiswasinevitableid]

77. a prophecy said that we’ll save the world together but I’ll be damned if I enjoy your company while we do because you insulted my best friend the first time we met

Ot4, sfw, please!

Here you go! I'm very pleased with this one

The drive hasn’t changed. The road into Kepler goes under the same covered bridges and winds up the same hills it always has. Even the views from driveway to the October House are the same one’s he watched through back windows with rising delight. He’d hoped to get here when the fall colors were still crisp and bright, but they droop from the branches like mourners from the weight of the grey rain.

No one batted an eye when he said he was moving North on Joe’s invitation; Joseph Stern inherited the ancestral home in Vermont, with its sprawling grounds and stately decay. It would make sense that he’d ask the friend who spent so many summers with him there to take up the role of groundskeeper.

Duck pulls his truck into the carport next to a languishing Chrysler Imperial. He runs his finger over the black curves, raindrops plinking on the tin roof as he wonders whether he could coax Joe into taking him for a ride.

He leaves his bags in the car for now. Letting his friend know he’s here is the top priority.

The house is just as tall and mismatched as he remembers, turrets and wide windows mixed with sloping eaves and a sun room. It’s patchwork quilt character extends to it’s color; some walls are red, others goldenrod, and the door is bright as a ripe pumpkin.

Joe christened it the October House the first summer he and Duck visited there. Joseph’s aunt, a proud spinster, suggested his transplant parents send him to the family farm for a few months of growth. When Joe showed his characteristic skepticism about spending his summer alone in Vermont, she offered to let him bring a friend. He chose Duck every year.

The October House was the last thing they spoke about the night before Duck left for basic training (and, soon after, Normandy). Joe was already slipping off the map, recruited for secret purposes by men who valued his intelligence over his humanity. He told Duck to remember the summer they were thirteen, to remember he was brave.

It wasn’t Duck Newton’s first war, but it was for damn sure his last.

He opens the door with the tarnished key Joe sent him. Anywhere else, he’d call out to find his host. But he knows where he’ll be.

One flight of creaking stairs, a left turn down the hallway of faded photos, a right into the room with the mural of Noah’s Ark on the wall, and there he is. Black hair slicked back, blue silk robe covering old scars and new, and eyes that are bluer still turning to take him in.

That’s Joe alright; immaculate even in his madness.

“You’re here.” He stands, dazzling smile reflecting the firelight.

“Told you I’d come. Can’t leave you here to get buried alive in books.” He opens his arms, unsure even as he commits to the movement. Joe hesitates, then steps across crumpled maps of stars and seas to hug him.

“I missed you.” He whispers. Duck doesn’t mention that Joe was the one to disappear once the war was over. They had one night in Huntington celebrating the boys who made it home; Joe’s smile stayed painted on the whole time, but Duck couldn’t get him alone to ask why. Then he fled north and didn’t respond to letters.

“Missed you too, Joe.” He peers over the taller man’s shoulder, takes in the mural and all the materials on the floor. Duck steps from the hug, paper crunching under his boots as he goes to trace the door of the ark, “you’re tryin to go back.”

“I want proof Sylvain was real. I, I want to see it again, to know we didn’t dream it.”

“Got a scar on belly that says we didn’t.” Duck turns, slips his hands into his pockets, “why are you really tryin to go back? They told us we couldn’t, said that if we came home the gate would shut for good.”

Joe doesn’t answer right away, runs his fingers over the badgers and bears fleeing the flood, “Do you ever wish we’d stayed?”

Duck thinks about bloody sand. Then about Jane getting married. His folks celebrating their twentieth anniversary.

“No. Christ, Joe, we were thirteen. It was fucked up to ask us to. Who the fuck asks two kids to rule a kingdom?”

A weak laugh, “and people say I’m the smart one.”

“You are.” Duck touches his shoulder, “now c’mon, smart guy, you don’t show me where my room is, I’m takin yours.”

------------------------------------------------

“You sure this is the spot?” Barclay keeps a close eye on the gathering darkness for any bursts of sickly white.

“Yes. The maps align with the stories that they emerged near “a stone like that of a broken heart.” Indrid draws hurriedly in the dirt with his claws, his lower hands uncorking bottles as he does, “come closer, if this catalyzes before I expect, I do not want you to be left behind.”

Barclay sets a hand on his shoulder. Feels his feathers shudder as he inhales.

“It’s time. I, if this does not work, I am sorry.”

He bends, kisses Indrid between his antenna, “I trust you, little moth.”

Indrid hums as amber light fills the clearing, and then everything he knows and loves dissolves into heat and empty air.

---------------------------------------------------

It's the same static, the rush of heat like wind in a wildfire. The hairs on Duck’s arm snap to attention as Joe leaps from his chair. The door on the ark shimmers and glows with alien majesty. Then two figures fall face-first on the floor and the light is gone.

“Are you alright?” Joe bends to help the first, feathered shape but it stands in a flurry of down, the hairy figure following suit.

“Yesyes, we are fine.” The feathery one looks like a massive moth with some human features.

“Oh.” Joe grins, “I’ve never seen a Sylph like you before. This, this is incredible.”

“You know what we are?” The other asks hopefully.

“We do. We, I’m, I’m Joseph Stern, and this is Duck Newton-”

“Thank the stars.” The mothman bends one knee, his friend doing the same, “yes, we are humble emissaries of the kingdom of Sylvain. We have searched for months to find our way to you. You, who prophecy says will aid us, return and take your rightful place as kings, and save our home once more.”

“No. Nuh-uh, not a fuckin chance.” Duck steps back, spots conflict in Joe’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” The mothman stands, “you, the prophecy, my visions showed you-”

“Then they showed fuckin wrong. I just got my life into some kind of order, I’m not letting you and some giant fuckin ape-thing drag me into another mess.”

Red eyes narrow, “Do not speak of Barclay that way.”

“I’ll speak about him however I damn well please because this is my house!”

“Technically, it’s my house.” Joe sighs, “But Duck is right. We almost died saving Sylvain once before. As, as much as I miss it, I’m not sure I can go back if it means risking our lives again. I was sort of hoping for a middle ground between being stuck here and a near-death adventure.”

“Please-” Barclay steps towards Joe.

“Hey, he said no, so fuck off.” Duck growls. The Sylph growls back.

“Buddy, do you have any idea how much we risked to get here? How much energy Indrid just used to open the gate. Oh, and, by the way, without the stuff we came here for we can’t go home. We’ll be stuck here.”

“Then you shoulda had a back-up plan instead of assumin you could just say a few fancy words and get us to go back. Oughta get some brains to go with the brawn there, big fella.”

“Enough” Indrid hisses, glaring at Duck. “I do not care if you are a chosen one, nothing gives you the right to speak to him, or to me, so callously. We came to you, you who are--if I did not make it clear--our last hope, and you respond with cruelty. I ought to teach you manners, but I will restrain myself.”

“Like to see you try.” He turns to where Joe is carding a hand through his hair, expression lost, “it’s your place, so you decide how we get rid of ‘em. But I’m done here.” With that, he stomps down the stairs, already suspecting Joe will let the Sylphs stay. When it becomes clear that’s the plan, Duck heads into the garden to work and stays there until all the lights are off.

It’s just after midnight when he wakes from a dream, slicing at the air while weak cries die on his tongue. He sits up, then goes gravestone still as the door opens. Indrid’s eyes are warning lights in the dark hall.

“Are you hurt? It did not seem fair to leave your calls unanswered.”

“No. Just had a, uh, a bad dream.”

The Sylph steps through the door, turning on the small, standing lamp, “It is strange to be the only one not waking in terror for once. Well, I suppose Barclay doesn’t.”

Duck tosses off the blanket, “Fuck, is Joe-”

“He is fine now. Barclay was up looking at cookbooks when he started screaming and went to him. Your friend did not wish to wake you, but was so shaken Barclay offered to stay with him.” A little smile, “he is very comforting. Soft, too.”

“You’re sure he was just dreamin? Not sick or anythin?”

“Positive. He was yelling in some other language.” Indrid fiddles with the knick-knacks on a shelf.

Duck runs a hand across his face, “Probably German.”

Indrid cocks his head.

“He had to learn it when he was a, uh, a spy in the last war. The one here. He...he got caught, I only know that because everyone talked about how miraculous it was that he escaped. Joe never talks about it.”

“One can imagine why.” Indrid murmurs.

“Then ‘one’ can probably imagine why I don’t want either of us near a goddamn battlefield.” Duck snaps.

“Is...oh dear, you think that is what we’re asking of you? Nono, we came here for help in preventing a war, one that may destroy both our worlds.”

“You coulda led with that, y’know?”

“I suppose. I, I am, or was, the court seer. But as the evil spread across our kingdom, it disrupted my powers. Now they’re gone entirely. It’s as if I am navigating the woods with no compass and no stars.” His antenna droop. Duck turns the chair near his bed in invitation. The Sylph moves quietly across the worn boards, “The last vision I received before they disappeared was of you two helping us; I saw a new timeline of futures, bright and hopeful, unfurl before it was gone. When you said you would not help us, it was like ripping my wings from my body mid-flight. That is why I was angry. Well, that and how you spoke to Barclay.”

“Sorry about that.” Duck scratches the back of his neck, “I just...when y’all showed up, all I could think about was bein back in the middle of a fight. Of, of seein Joe die.”

“I am sorry too. I did not know you had suffered such things.” Indrid picks at the blanket with chipped claws, “I cannot promise there would not be danger if you aid us. But I give you my word that you shall hear no more of it from me. I only wish for you to accept this quest if you wish to.”

“Thanks. That already puts you ahead of the last time.”

Indrid hums, then peers at Duck’s arm where a tattoo peeks from his shirt, “What is that?”

Duck rolls up his sleeve to reveal the pine tree, “got it because it helped me think of home.”

“Yes but how? To wear art on one’s skin, that is amazing. Do you think they could do it on mine?” He holds out his upper right arm. Duck runs a finger up it, thinking of the polished cherrywood on the table downstairs.

“Might be tricky. You need skin for it to work.”

“Blast.” Wings flutter once, “do you have more I may see?”

Duck unbuttons his shirt as Indrid scoots closer; if he’s not going to sleep tonight, at the very least he can make someone happy.

-------------------------------------

“Gotta say, y’all bein’ here is doin’ wonders for him.” Duck hands Barclay a glass of water as he joins him on the porch. Joseph and Indrid are sitting on a sunny path of lawn, Indrid showing the human his wings and explaining them in detail so he can make notes.

“Seems to go both ways. Indrid hasn’t been this animated since we left to find you two. He’s even more talkative.”

“Joe’s always been good at that. He can get anyone talkin, and can make almost anythin sound interestin.”

Barclay sneaks a glance at the human; he’s much friendlier these last two weeks, but his protectiveness of Joseph hasn’t waned.

“I wouldn’t say him cheering up is all on us. From what he told me, the week you got here made him feel like his cares were washing away.”

“Really?”

Barclay nods.

Duck sips his water, rubs the condensation with his thumb, “In, uh, in Sylvain, am I rememberin right that men could marry men? Ain’t always easy to tell when there’s so many kinds of beings runnin’ around.”

“Why wouldn’t that be okay? Some kinds of Sylphs, like Indrid’s, don’t even have things like men and women. I mean, when they offered you and Joseph a chance to rule as kings, the records make it sound like the two of you would have gotten married.”

Duck chokes on his water, splutters as Barclay pats his back, “I, fuck, I’d never, we’d never, I, fuck, definitely never ever didn’t think about it.”

Barclay lets the horrible excuse for a lie slide, “It’s a way bigger deal that Indrid chose me for this; being a seer makes him noble and I’m just a cook. Going off into the wild with me? Trusting me? Thought some of the ministers were gonna faint.”

“Was it just you helpin him or are you two, uh, y’know?”

“Yeah, I do. Can you blame me? Look at him” he gestures to where Indrid is spreading his wings so Joseph can study them. Stars would he like to go down there and hold the human tight while he taught him how to make Indrid purr.

“He really is somethin.” By the look on his face, Duck wants to do the same thing, just in reverse. After a moment, he murmurs, “the night before we were supposed to face the Red Devourer Joe and I were in the tent by the battlefield. Curled back to front, my arms around him and I could feel his heart beating hard as mine. Shoulda been thinkin about strategy, or prayin, or somethin’ like that, but all I could think was that I oughta kiss him, just in case we didn’t survive. But I didn’t. There were chances after that. I never took ‘em.”

“It’s not too late.”

“If you found out Indrid wanted to kiss you for years and was too chicken to, even when he thought he was gonna die, would you really let him?”

Barclay thinks of claws in his fur, of Indrid huddled against him and chirping softly when Barclay asked to kiss him.

“Of course I would.”

--------------------------------

“How long until the summer?” Indrid tosses the wool scarf Duck lent him over one wing.

“Months. Y’all got here in October, which means we ain’t even into the worst of the winter yet.”

An annoyed chirr, “We need more blankets.”

“Get you more when we’re in town tomorrow, fluffball. Hah, here’s some.” Duck kneels to cut some surviving leaves from a wild yarrow. They’re out in the woods because Indrid is running low on his feather oil, which keeps him from being miserable and itchy. He described what it did and let Duck smell some (it’s a bit like aloe and vanilla) so the human could reverse engineer what earth plants might do the trick.

Duck brushes off his pants, looks around, “Huh, we made it to the Maples. Joe’s aunt said she never got much from ‘em, but I don’t think she ever really tried.”

“What is special about them?”

“It’s how you get maple syrup. It’s in these trees.” Duck smirks, remembering Indrid licking the dregs from the bottle at the house with his long, long tongue.

Crunch

He whirls to his left, finds Indrid with both rows of teeth sunk into a maple branch. He giggles, then guffaws as the Sylph pulls off with an indignant chirp.

“You, you gotta, hee, you gotta tap the trunk, n-hee” he doubles over as Indrid bites the same branch while drumming his claws on the trunk, “not quite, need some other tools.”

“Perhaps lead with that?” Indrid grumbles, wiping bark from his face.

“S-sorry just, just didn’t expect you to go to town on it like that, heee”

Indrid grins, “It was worth it to hear you laugh like this.”

God, when was the last time he laughed this hard? The thought sobers him, his joy faltering like a bird in a storm. Then he cackles as four spindly arms hoist him into the air.

“ACKhey, put me down fluffball! Ahhno thatheee, that tickles.” He laughs louder as Indrid holds him to his chest and rubs his fuzzy face against his neck.

“I thought that might do the trick” Indrid purrs, nuzzles his cheek, “no more despair, Duck Newton. Not today.”

Duck turns his face so they’re eye to eye, pine green to ruby red, “Deal.”

---------------------------------------------

“I found everything on the list.” Joseph crumples the note paper and tosses it away as Barclay gleefully unpacks the shopping bags.

“This is so fucking great, I can’t wait for you guys to try this, and Indrid is going to lose his mind when he sees what I made. This dessert is his favorite.” He tucks the heavy cream and pears into the fridge.

“I’m excited to try it. We definitely didn’t eat any tarts when we were in Sylvain. The badgers who hid us from the red mist were, I think, pretty poor.”

“Yeah, the borderlands were bad off in those days. I was just a kid too but I remember digging out roots to try and make some kind of soup.” The Sylph turns those endearing brown eyes on him, “up for being my kitchen assistant again?”

“Always.” Joseph tucks a dishcloth into his belt. He’s very proud of himself for finding earth equivalents to all the ingredients Barclay needed to make a fall dinner from home. Having the Sylphs living with them means he goes into Kepler more often for groceries or goods to fix up the house. Everyone in town thinks his childhood friend is a good influence, getting him out of the stuffy confines of the October House.

They’re not wrong. When Joseph saw Duck in the doorway, a little world-worn but just as kind, just as practical as he always was, he decided that if the other man didn’t want to return to Sylvain, Joseph would set the project aside. He’d focus on the world he was in, because with Duck there he might yet find things to marvel at, things to discover that weren’t mired in the mundanity of human evil. They’d make the October House into a home, live out their days as bachelors.

Then Barclay had come through, auburn-furred and so gentle Joseph wanted to make like butter in the sun and melt. And Indrid, magnificent and vulnerable (and very infatuated with Duck). When Duck announced he’d help them look for clues to stopping the war, Joseph felt buried bits of his mind rising to the light of the new challenge.

After dinner, they take a pot of coffee into the living room. Indrid is delighted by records, is already putting one on as Barclay puts wood on the fire. The seer lays on the rug, head in his lovers lap and purring low.

Love me like there's no tomorrow

kiss me like it's goin' out of style

“You know, I wonder how one dances to this. It is not fast, but the rhythm is not like the formal dances at court.”

“Here, I’ll show you.” Duck stands, offering Joseph his hand. Lord, he’s pictured this so many times but still has to coax his own hand to move, “Joe, you’re leadin.”

He settles his hand on Duck’s hip and holds the other, concentrates on swaying them to the beat.

Hold me like you're afraid I might get away

Love like I've been gone for quite a while

“You can come closer, Joe. I ain’t gonna bite. Not in front of company.”

“I’m holding you to that.” He presses closer, prays for Duck to rest his head on his shoulder.

Take and wrap me in the package

my future my presence and my past

And love me like there's no tomorrow

and each day might be our last

“Dearest, I am rather tired from that lovely meal you made. Shall we retire?”

“Good thinking, little moth.”

Love me like there's no tomorrow

Make each night one more remembered

we will let the heaven be our guide

“Seems they didn’t need much of a demonstration.”

“Not sure that was Indrid’s endgame.”

Just love me like there's no tomorrow

and keep me right by your side

Joseph tips his head down, whispering, “What was?”

Keep me right by your side

“Duck?”

In the crackle of silence between songs, Duck brings their lips together. Joseph forgoes their stance and pulls him against him, their hearts magnets that were finally turned the right way. Then his feet stumble on the rug, Duck pushing him back with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed.

Joseph drops into the chair, Duck pouncing before as he breathes. Joseph growls, the hunger that’s been chained threatening to crack his chest from the inside, and nips Duck’s lower lip.

“I said no bitin.”

“You said you wouldn’t bite.”

“You're right, darlin’” Duck cups his cheek as Joseph grips his thighs, “I’m gonna do so much more than bite.”

----------------------------------------

It never gets easier, waking from these dreams steeped in shame, fear, and sweat. Except this time someone’s arms are around him.

“I’m right here Joe, we’re here, we’re safe.”

“Very safe.” Indrid stands behind Barclay in the doorway, “another dream?’

“Yes. I, um, I-” he reaches for Barclay without meaning to, is ready to apologize when the Sylph slides into bed beside him.

“Is this okay?” It’s directed at both the humans.

“Yes.”

“Uh huh.”

Barclay adjusts so Joseph can hide his face in his chest. He should ask Indrid if he wants to be on the bed as well, the poor Sylph might think he’s not wanted-

“C’mon fluffball, my back is gettin cold.”

A delighted chirp and then a wing, black with a grey and red eyespot, drapes across him and Duck.

“Mmmmmm, I knew you would be lovely to hold.”

“Aim to please, sugar.”

“What happens now?” Barclay murmurs.

“My vote is we all get some sleep and work out the particulars in the mornin’.”

“Seconded” Joseph mumbles.

“We will need a good night’s rest; tomorrow I make the disguises for myself and Barclay so that we may begin our wider search.”

“Hope you guys like them.”

Joseph squeezes Barclay, smiling as Duck wiggles closer and Indrid’s wing grows heavier, “We’ll love them no matter what, big guy.”

[helenarlett-rex]

Goosebumps Review #14

So back in January of 2020 I said I would do a review of Werewolf Skin and then I never did it. 2020 sucked. I had other things on my mind. But I guess it’s time I finally go ahead and do that now.

(Spoilers)

Werewolf Skin

Goosebumps (original series) #60

Werewolf Skin was the third to the last book in the original Goosebumps series and the last book in the original series to get a TV episode made of it. The final two books, I Live in Your Basement! and Monster Blood IV would never get TV episodes made of them, or even reprints of the books themselves and would end up languishing in obscurity. In that case of I Live in Your Basement! that’s a real shame because as I said back in my review of that book, it is one of my favorites and one of the best Goosebumps I’ve ever read. And the same can be said about this book as well.

R.L. Stine is kind of a hit or miss author. Sometimes his stuff is great, sometimes he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing... and sometimes I have to tell him to go fuck himself because he’s body shaming again... But when he is writing about werewolves at least, he never seems to do wrong. And yeah, I still haven’t read The Werewolf of Twisted Tree Lodge, The Werewolf in the Living Room, or Full Moon Fever yet, but the three out of six I have read have all been great. So great that I have to wonder why R.L. Stine hasn’t written about werewolves since the Goosebumps 2000 series... We haven’t had a werewolf book from him since 1999...

Werewolf Skin is actually pretty unique in that it takes a slightly different approach to the whole werewolf myth, but not in a way that ruins it like certain other authors who will remain nameless have done when deviating from established tradition. The story is about Alex Hunter, a sixth grader who is really into photography. His parents get called out of the country on business, so they send him to stay with his Aunt Marta and Uncle Colin in the small town of Wolf Creek for a few weeks. His first week there happens to fall on the week of Halloween so the photography magazine Alex reads is holding a contest with a cash prize for whoever can take the scariest photo and Alex is pretty interested in winning that.

Now we get a bit of weirdness right away in this book, and I don’t mean intentional weirdness... I mean R.L. Stine has forgotten how reality works again kind of weirdness. Because even though Alex is only going to be staying with his aunt and uncle for a couple of weeks, they have arraigned for him to attend school there at the local middle school in Wolf Creek for the duration of his visit. And I’m instantly like... What? I’m pretty sure you can’t just trade schools for a couple of weeks like that... What kind of school lets a student enroll for three weeks? I know R.L. Stine doesn’t usually do much (or any) research when he’s writing these books, but come on... The guy used to be a middle school teacher. This is something I would expect him to know...

But okay... that aside... Once Alex gets there his aunt and uncle tell him there is a cute girl his age who lives across the street named Hannah and that he should make friends with her. And then we get another case of R.L. Stine not understanding how reality works because Alex is all like, “A cute girl...? Aren’t there any boys around?” Uhh... It was clearly established that this kid is in the sixth grade. I remember the sixth grade very well. Unless Alex is gay, no sixth grade boy is just going to turn his nose up at the idea of hanging out with a cute girl. Quit being such an old man Stine... I started dating in the sixth grade... And okay... If Alex is gay that’s perfectly fine, but nothing in the book ever indicates that’s the case.

This hesitation from Alex doesn’t seem to last very long though. The moment he meets Hannah his balls finally decide to drop. I’m not kidding. One moment he’s all upset he only has a girl to hang out with, and then the next moment he’s all infatuated with her and can’t stop describing her “husky, breathy voice” and how much he loves it. I’m not entirely such what a husky, breathy voice sounds like, especially on a sixth grade girl... but from how much Alex’s inner monologue focuses on it, it’s pretty clear that it’s doing it for him.

I should also point out that Alex’s uncle gives him two rules that he has to follow while he’s staying there. Rule number one, stay away from the run-down home next door. That’s where the Marlings live and they are a weird, mean old couple who don’t like anyone coming near their house. And rule number two, stay out of the forest surrounding the town at night. You know... Standard horror clichés that the characters will then refuse to elaborate on, thus driving the protagonist to only be even more interested in doing those things...

Although there’s some conflict between his aunt and uncle about the whole refusing to elaborate on things. When they are first driving him to their house his aunt asks him what he wants to be for Halloween and Alex answers that he wants to be a werewolf. This causes his uncle to freak out and almost lose control of the car. His aunt then asks his uncle if he was thinking about them? “When he said you wanted to be a werewolf you thought about them, didn’t you?” Which of course only makes Alex’s uncle get mad and tell her to stop talking about it. But this situation comes up a few times in the book. Alex’s aunt seems to think Alex should be told about them... we are assuming she means the Marlings... but his uncle is pretty against it and keeps telling her to stop talking about that in front of Alex.

Although his uncle isn’t the only one having that kind of reaction about the topic of werewolves. When some kids from school ask him what he wants to be for Halloween he tells them werewolf as well and they also have similar reactions... Until one kid finally tells him “We already have enough werewolves in Wolf Creek.” And I realize this review is getting pretty long winded but unlike most Goosebumps, this one actually has a lot of detail that builds up the story as apposed to the first half of the book just being filler like I normally see in these books.

But in an attempt to make a long story short, too late, I know... Alex is so dense about everything that Hannah finally just breaks down and tells him that the Marlings are werewolves. It seems to be something everyone in the town knows about but doesn’t seem to do anything about. And of course Alex’s reaction to this is the reasonable one of, Uhh... This is the twentieth century... There’s no such thing as werewolves... Which is why he was so dense about figuring it all out in the first place. He’s not going to jump to the conclusion of, Oh! The Marlings must be werewolves! when he doesn’t believe in werewolves.

This changes when he starts hearing animal sounds coming from next door at night and he watches out his window as two werewolves come crawling out of the Marlings house. I have to give the book credit for actually getting to the werewolf stuff pretty early in the book. While I also loved The Werewolf of Fever Swamp, that one didn’t actually show us any real werewolves until the very end of the book. It was still a great book, but there wasn’t actually a lot of werewolf action in it. This book only give us one night of build up, with Alex forgetting his camera out in the woods and having to go out after it before it gets ruined in the rain, stumbling across some animals that have been ripped apart, and trying to find his way back home in the dark while hearing the sounds of something else out there... But then by night two we have werewolves right out in the open. That’s kind of refreshing.

And I’d like to take a moment to talk about how this book actually puts a different spin on the werewolf myth. Because remember how I said that the whole town more or less believes the Marlings are werewolves? Well this town believes in werewolves so much that they actually teach about them in school. During one of the classroom scenes in this book we get to learn the rules of how werewolves work in this setting. It turns out when you get bit by a werewolf you turn into one when the moonlight touches you. Not just the full moon... Any moonlight. But then when the sun comes up a werewolf actually sheds it’s skin. It then keeps its skin, or pelt I guess... like a fursuit. Then every night after that, when the moon comes out, the werewolf is compelled to put its fursuit back on which turns it back into an actual wolf monster. So werewolves are just furries who can’t stop fursuiting at night. Who knew...? And of course the only way to kill a werewolf is to find its skin while he isn’t wearing it and destroy it. If you destroy the skin you kill the werewolf.

Anyways, Alex gets tricked by some kids at school who tell him they know a place in the woods where the werewolves go to drink out of a pond every night and they want him to meet them there at midnight so he can see it. Now that he actually believes in werewolves, having seen them himself, Alex agrees, thinking that if he can get pictures of the werewolves he can win that photography contest, but when he tries to sneak out that night, he finds that his aunt and uncle have locked him in his room. There is no scene of the werewolves trying to break into his room at night like there was in the TV episode, but we do find out that when he goes back to school the next day the kids are making fun of him because it was all a lie and they didn’t go out into the woods that night, thinking they tricked him into tramping through the woods alone all night. Alex doesn’t tell them that he didn’t go either because he didn’t want to tell them that his aunt and uncle locked him in his room, so instead he tells them he did go and he took pictures of the werewolves. But of course that leaves him with the problem of now they want to see the pictures and he doesn’t have any...

So of course that means there’s only one thing to do. The next night he rigs the door lock with chewing gum and sneaks out to follow the werewolves through the woods to he can take pictures of them. He tries to get Hannah to come with him, but when he knocks on her bedroom window in the middle of the night she refuses to come out. So he tramps off into the woods on his own, follows there werewolves, gets a lot of pictures of them, and actually makes it back unharmed. Not to say it wasn’t a tense couple of chapters... But when daylight finally comes and he follows the werewolves back to the Marlings’ house and watches them take their fursuits off, we get the big reveal.

Oh look at that... Aunt Marta and Uncle Colin are actually the werewolves and the Marlings don’t even exist. It’s just an abandoned house they use to store there werewolf skins in... Although I will say the twist was handled pretty well. I didn’t actually see it coming. But that’s not the end of the book. Like I said, this book had a lot to it. Because now that Alex knows his aunt and uncle are werewolves, he has to decide what to do about it.

The next day is finally Halloween and after he tells Hannah what happened she has an idea to deal with it. They don’t want to kill his aunt and uncle, so they decide that once they leave to go trick-or-treating that night, they will sneak over to the house, steal the werewolf skins, and then wear them themselves. The idea is to go trick-or-treating in the aunt and uncle’s werewolf skins and when the aunt and uncle can’t find them, they will be forced to go the whole night without turning into werewolves. In other words, they are planning to cure the aunt and uncle by making them go cold turkey.

The aunt and uncle figure this out sooner than expected and Alex and Hannah don’t get very far away in the werewolf skins before they show up and start chasing them, demanding they give them back their skins. Alex and Hannah manage to stay away from them long enough that when the full moon reaches the highest point in the night sky the curse is broken and the aunt and uncle are no longer compelled to put the skins on anymore. And naturally at this point I’m wondering why the skins haven’t turned Alex and Hannah into actual werewolves instead. Does it just not work if it’s not their own skins? That seems like a bit of a shame. That would have been a perfect twist ending. They managed to cure the aunt and uncle but became werewolves themselves in the process. Then Alex could have a werewolf girlfriend! But no... It doesn’t seem to work that way...

With the curse broken, they all decide to go back to the aunt and uncle’s house to celebrate and Alex tells Hannah “Let’s go put these skins back in the old house where no one will find them.” Hannah starts getting nervous about that but before she can stop him he’s already gone inside, and once he is in there he finds another werewolf skin still in the house. When Hannah comes in he is confused, wanting to know how there is already a skin there when they are both wearing his aunt and uncle’s skins... to which Hannah tells him that she isn’t wearing his aunt’s skin. She’s wearing her own skin. And when Alex still doesn’t seem to get it, she tells him he’ll understand soon enough, before pouncing on him and biting him.

Werewolf girlfriend!

Honestly this is probably one of the longest Goosebumps reviews I’ve written and there was still a lot of stuff I didn’t even mention. The book just had a lot to it and for once, it didn’t feel like it was filler to pad out the page length. It wasn’t even full of fake-out scares like most Goosebumps are. There were a few I guess, but with actual werewolf stuff happening from very early on in the book, there just wasn’t any need for constant fake-outs. It was pretty nice. And I probably spent more time than I really should have just rambling on about what happened without actually critiquing things... but there just wasn’t a whole lot to critique. Other than a few weird things in the beginning, like enrolling in a different school for only three weeks... the book was more or less fine and I didn’t have anything to complain about.

Definitely one of my top ten Goosebumps books. I’m very happy to see Alex and Hannah get to become a cute werewolf couple. And I’m sure Goosebumps has long been responsible for so many kids discovering new fetishes, so I just have to wonder how many kids developed a suit transformation fetish because of this book?

[dothwrites]

i love your writing! i would love to see you write a Dean/Cas "getting together" fic with maybe... #15 *Don’t tempt me* :D :D

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google doth, always taking prompts!

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It’s been four days since the moving van appeared on the street like a mirage, and Dean has yet to see the poor sap who bought 401 Kripke Drive. 

The house is a damn eyesore and it’s been that way for years. Dean’s complained about it to the homeowner’s association, along with several others, but he never got any answer other than a vague The owner appreciates your concern and something will be done about the property soon. Meanwhile, the shutters were rotting and the grass in front of the property was tall enough to play a game of Jumangi in. Dean’s seen a few intrepid raccoons slithering around the property and he’d be willing to bet that there are snakes in that tall grass. Snakes. He shudders as he finishes the touches on his own (pristine) lawn. 

Not that he’s become a Stepford Smiler whose only concern is his lawn, but...Look, it’s good to have a nice lawn. It gives the right impression, plus it boosts property values. And what’s the point in having a house if you’re not getting equity out of it? 

Which is why Dean is so excited that finally someone’s bought the dilapidated two story at the end of the street. Finally, he can stop wincing whenever he invites Sam and Jess over. He waits, in eager anticipation, to catch sight of the person who Dean’s come to think of as his personal savior. Failing that, he waits to see the taming of the lawn or the painting and re-siding of the house or...anything. 

He waits. And he waits. 

After a week with no progress, he’s tired of waiting. He quickly whips up a non-offensive lemon cake (no pie; pie is for people who mow their lawns and don’t ruin his property values) and treks down the street to greet the new neighbor. 

“What do you have there?” his neighbor, Jody shouts. She’s being a good neighbor and planting her yearly marigolds in her front (landscaped) lawn. “You going to see the new guy?”

“Yeah. Why, have you seen him?” This is good. Up until just a few minutes ago, Dean didn’t know that it was even a guy who had moved in. 

Jody smiles. Everything about her screams I know something you don’t know. What’s worse is, from experience, Dean knows that she’s not going to share. “Sure have,” is all that she says. She smiles a Cheshire cat grin at him. 

“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” Dean mutters as he heads over to 401. 

The walk towards the front door is a perilous prospect. The sidewalk is pitted with holes and loose gravel decorates the surface. Grass and weeds tenaciously rip at the concrete, making the surface uneven. Dean has to watch his step in order to avoid tripping, which is probably a gift in the long run. It keeps him from noticing how the rotted shutters dangle from the windows, held on by a single, dedicated screw, or how the ugly grey paint is peeling away from the house, like it can’t bear to be there a second longer. The front steps creak alarmingly under his weight and Dean quickly makes his way up them and across the front porch. He tries to keep light on his feet, not wanting to crash through. 

No doorbell. There’s just an ominous, lion’s head door knocker. Dean takes it in hand and lets it fall several times. The sound echoes. 

After a few minutes, Dean’s ready to give up. It’s possible that the mysterious neighbor isn’t here. There’s no car in the driveway. Maybe he came all this way for nothing. 

The door (wood chipped in several places, paint coming off of it in long, jagged stripes) creaks open. 

Wow, that’s some pretty strong hash, is Dean’s first thought followed by Oh shit, because those are some seriously blue eyes looking back at him. 

Then Dean gets a look at the whole package and Oh shit starts to war with Of fucking course. Blue Eyes’ owner is just as unkempt as his house, in a loose linen shirt that hangs off of his frame just enough to tease at the existence of rock hard muscles without ever revealing any. His pants look similarly like they’re a size too big, clinging to his hips by nothing more than sheer willpower. Dark hair hangs loose over the man’s forehead and the whites surrounding those arresting blues have a fine spiderweb of red running through them. Dark stubble scruffs up a jawline that, given the right circumstances, looks sharp enough to cut glass. Everything about the man is rumpled, like he went one too many times through the wash and no one bothered to hang him up to dry afterward before shoving him in a forgotten drawer. 

“Can I help you?” The voice that rasps from the body takes Dean aback--It’s deep, hoarse, like he...Well, maybe like he smokes a fuckton of weed every day. 

“Dean. Hi. I’m Dean. I’m your neighbor. I live down the lane at 416? I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” The cake is cumbersome in Dean’s arms. Having seen the derelict who bought this house, he’s not sure whether he wants to take himself and his cake screaming back to his house or to drop to his knees right here on the man’s front porch. Welcome to the neighborhood indeed. 

The man blinks, like he’s taking the time to parse every word for hidden meaning. It could just be that’s stoned out of his mind, but Dean doesn’t think so. Behind the haze of the weed, there’s a sharpness in his eyes that Dean doesn’t often see. The man taps his chin, his eyes flicking up and down Dean’s body. Dean doesn’t think that he’s imagining it when they linger on his lips. “I see. Hello Dean.” 

Something warm and pleased curls in Dean’s belly at hearing his name spoken by that voice. He does his best to push it aside, concentrating on the reason why he came. (Weeds, jungle lawn, peeling paint, wonder how he tastes, wonder how he sounds) “Yeah, anyway, friendly advice? I just wanted to let you know that our Homeowner’s Association are a bunch of hardasses (lies), and they’re going to get on you for the way that your lawn looks (more lies). If you want, I could pop over one Saturday morning and help you take care of it (where the hell is this generosity coming from?).” 

The man looks at his lawn and then back at Dean. A vague sort of smile creeps across his face. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think that he was being laughed at. “Well, I thank you for the offer, but I have no interest in mowing my lawn. Uninhibited growth encourages local bee populations, as do many of what you would call weeds. So thanks, but no thanks.” 

The rejection is delivered so pleasantly that it takes Dean a while to realize that he’s been shot down. When he finally makes that connection, he sputters. “You can’t...” He points one finger at Blue Eyes (asshole didn’t even tell him his name, and now Dean is forced to use one of his best physical attributes to describe him?) and spits, “You need to mow your damn lawn!” 

On that rejoinder, he stalks down the stairs, jumping when one creaks underneath his weight. Asshole (Dean refuses to think of him with any sort of admiration) calls after him, “Don’t I get my cake?” 

Dean whirls around, narrowly avoiding falling flat on his ass. “Cake is for people who aren’t dicks!” he shouts, before he stalks towards home, through grass so thick that it clings to his ankles. 

---

The lawn at 401 Kripke Drive remains uncut. The house remains unpainted. The shutters continue on their slow journey towards the earth. Asshole (Castiel, Dean discovers, through the truly formidable stalking talents of one Becky Rosen) continues to allow his property to languish in a state of neglect, as he...Dean’s not sure what he does exactly. Keeps to himself and doesn’t spend a second thinking about the rest of these poor bastards who have to live with the sight of his ungodly property. 

When the grass becomes a height that Dean would estimate as ‘mid-calf’, he acts. 

Saturday morning, he putters down the street with his mower and pretends like he doesn’t see several curtains flicking back to watch him. Let them stare. Cowards. He, Dean Winchester, is personally going to save the property values and curb appeal of Kripke Drive. 

His mower isn’t quiet, nor does Dean make any attempt to lessen his noise, so it’s really remarkable that it takes Cas a good forty-five minutes to stumble out of his house. By that point, Dean’s already finished up with the front and side yards and is happily working his way through the back yard. 

“What...What the hell?” 

Dean glances over to see the source of the complaints. When he does, his step stutters and falters. It’s almost enough to knock him off of his stride, which is impressive, seeing that he was fairly single-minded in his mission. 

Castiel is clad in nothing more than boxers and a threadbare robe, which flutters open whenever he moves, revealing miles of tanned skin. His hair sticks up at odd angles and his stubble could best be described as aggressive. His eyes look clear, but they also look angry. 

Swallowing hard, Dean settles for giving Castiel a cheeky wave, as he turns around to make another pass of his lawn. 

This does not have the desired effect (Castiel thanks Dean for performing a necessary function of homeownership and goes inside to make a heaping breakfast, which they will consume together while discussing their plans for wedded bliss). Instead Castiel marches across the lawn in his bare feet and stands in front of Dean. Dean, not so focused on yard work that he can’t appreciate when he’s about to take off a man’s toe, releases the kill switch on the mower. 

Castiel takes the opportunity to advance on Dean (it is not hot the way that he does that, or the way that he pushes himself up on the balls of his feet to erase the scant inch or so difference in their height, not hot at all). His finger pokes into Dean’s chest. This close, Dean can smell him. He still smells like weed, but instead of being eye-wateringly overpowering, it’s just a comfortable, earthy scent, mixed with something sweeter and brighter--his shampoo maybe? 

“I said, what the hell are you doing?” 

Dean looks at the lawn and then back at Castiel. He makes a valiant effort not to look at Castiel’s chest, specifically where the robe has opened to reveal the edges of one, dusky nipple. He fails, but he thinks that he should be commended for making the effort to begin with. 

“I’m doing you a favor,” Dean says, wincing when Castiel digs his finger into his chest further. He was right--there are a lot of muscles in that frame. 

Castiel goes still with rage. “A favor?” he finally asks, voice soft and dangerous. “I specifically said that I wasn’t interested in having my lawn mowed. The bee populations--”

“Oh what the hell Cas,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Look, if you care that much, we can go to Home Depot later this afternoon and pick out some bee friendly flowers. Hell, I’ll even help you plant them.” 

Castiel doesn’t say anything to this, though his eyebrow does quirk up in what appears to be interest. Dean takes this as his opportunity. “If you want, I can even help you build a place where you could keep a hive. If you want.” (He’s never built an apiary in his goddamn life, but surely there are videos on youtube that tell you how to do that?) 

“You mowed my lawn,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t sound angry about it. More...considering? He tilts his head to the side. “Were you planning on painting the house as well?” 

“Don’t tempt me,” Dean answers. The shudder that shakes through his body is only halfway exaggerated. “It’s a whole fucking disaster Cas.” 

Castiel hums. This time, when his eyes land on Dean’s lips, he lets them linger. 

Dean doesn’t do anything to stop him. 

(After Dean finishes mowing the lawn, Castiel greets him with a mug of coffee. He’s still dressed in his robe. Dean brings the coffee mug inside. It takes him a while to find his way out of the house. They don’t make it to Home Depot that day, but they do manage to make it to a dinner the next morning for breakfast. Dean does eventually help Castiel plant his flowers, though zoning regulations prohibit apiaries.

Painting the house takes a little longer because Castiel persists in looking so damn good in a pair of jeans that Dean gets distracted. A lot. After blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids are shed, the house gets painted, but by then, it’s time to fix the front steps. After that, the whole damn porch needs to be replaced. Dean keeps on finding chores to do around the house, so many in fact, that he eventually just moves in.

Was this your plan all along? he asks, lying on the floor with Cas as he stares up at the (newly finished) ceiling. 

Cas lets a plume of smoke escape from his nose and smiles. Yes, it was always my plan to seduce you with unsolicited yard work. I always knew that a madman would come mow my lawn and I just wanted it to be you.  

Don’t fucking tempt me, Dean says, and then there’s not a lot of talking for quite some time.)

[incarnateirony]

The Crucified Occultum

Actually it’s the Brazen Serpent. Actually it’s--

Okay, so to start, @jenngeek​ -- hope you don’t mind me tagging you but I’d rather credit on something like this since it’s only half-question, and more ones of your own to expand on (which I will welcome after I talk a bit) and a lot of great ideas-- but you got my ticker-box thinking on an angle I haven’t *really* broken down yet.

I’m throwing this out there because I am LATE to the party and want to see if I’m retreading ground, but— it’s pretty easy to map the progress of seasons 14/15 to Qabalistic tree of Life, @Minerva has written extensively on it. But that is the SHOW’s progress up the tree to Kether(back to the godhead)— the characters within the story are actually trapped in the boxed Universe as created by Chuck. The characters cannot progress up, languishing forever in a perfect cell in heaven or becoming corrupted in Hell and, eventually, shipped off to the Nothing. (Also Purgatory is it’s own thing.)  Which brings me to this image I saw earlier today from Atomic Monsters. 

And it hit me, what if THAT is where this is leading? The creation of a system, a branching tree, that allows for souls to pass between the worlds, eventually beyond the Empty into true Nothingness? And what do we know grows when an Angel casts out their Grace?

Has anyone written anything along these lines?

So again, while I welcome discussion from you (or anyone else) on this front let me pitch some corresponding ideas on this matter since you’re also somewhat versed in gnostic thoughtbox and they may rattle a few ideas around.

First, I reference (not just you, but readers) to my “Heaven meta”, which is really more of an Axis Mundi meta (x) but people are more likely to mentally lock on Heaven and the association can’t be minimized or overlooked. Once people’s brains have been putrefied to a gooshy smooshy new reduced beginning to roll forward from that, and assuming they’ve read any of my Tree of Life angled posts (like this one x) to understand what you’re talking about, and how mappable our story progression IS, I’m going to sort of ask everyone to slam this collective learning together while focusing on Jack and the Snake (x)

While I have already heavily referenced the overlap of the dialogue with this Corpus Hermeticum (x) which will continue to impact our story moving forward, eg, Death and Deathlessness among other issues, I’m going to point to a great deal of collective issues and one I actually briefly referenced back in S14 (such as the ep 300 cover and Aesclepius x, or Jack’s general orphic imagery x ), there’s a bit of a new highlighter to take to this now that we have the literal serpent, the literal tree, and this Atomic Monsters shot.

So again, take all that above stuff, put it in a shake and bake bag and let your newly molten brains attach to it in a new shape.

In its most simple form, the Serpent is a HUGE alchemical symbol. There is the Ouroboros stuck in its cycle, swallowing its own tail. There is the crucified serpent nailed to the tree which has christ-figure resonance. And, ultimately, there is the Brazen Serpent, that climbs the tree that a wrathful god would have hung it ON. The Brazen Serpent also even has a “derogatory” name of Nehushtan you can find a bunch of history on that basically, YHVH commanded destroyed as an idol, etc etc, you know the dogma game.

But the thing is, the tree of life and the tree of knowledge have a great deal of systemic overlap, so you WILL find images like this:

Notice some familiar names even from early in the season? Barring Lilith clonking you on the fucking head, like me yelling on about Belphegor and Thagirion (x)(x)? Other stuff ringing some dingalings? Maybe? Either way, this tree shows both the Sephiroth and their Qlipoth in inversion, but notice something coyly climbed around it?

Remember all of my talk of the serpent as the reflection of the shadow in the waking world, who revealed the soul to man as formerly empty vessels, and thus gave them the right of Good vs Evil? (Or Good vs the Absence of Good, with Good = Soul; the only true good, and Good is All and God, /ignore the demiurge.)

Cool, so we’re getting there mostly, but now I point to my stuff about the Occultum.

Weird jump, right?

In order to be in the occultum, the occultum must be in you; visit the interior parts of the earth so as to find the hidden stone/soul.

The Axis Mundi--the Anima Mundi--the world soul, the axis or crossroads of man and divinity--The Garden. (*flashbacks in 3 years of posts about Shadow, Animus and Anima*)

For some, it’s god’s throne room, for others, it’s Eden. People see what they want to see here.

This is the garden, man’s beginning.

God may have made the first box, but what is the tree from which the serpent hung? What is this perfect core world that was hidden away? What grows up and descends away from it?

What is the mundi, if it changes on what we see it? If man all has their own right to a throne, and many have even asked if they could visualize it as a tree with branches, perhaps this will actually *help* some people.

Who here has heard of Yggdrasil, for example? Honestly, Big Same Energy. In this case, Jormungand just got a bad PR rep because then the gods didn’t want you finding out what’s outside of the branches you’re clinging onto. Make sense? STAY IN UR BRANCH LANE, HYOOMINS. It’s BIG AND SCARY OUT HERE. That’s why angels are totally here to “protect” you and don’t like souls wandering free.

While returning to the Empty is a possible nihilistic point of view depending on if they take the more dark gnostic road, a hermetic avenue more has freeing the Garden, the Occultum, and the Throne from the demiurge’s hands and leaving it to man himself, so he can traverse the tree and garden freely once he is done with the training wheels of his physical life and is ready to Move On.

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Anyway thoughts on that, Jenn, if you please. Or anyone else, but that’s... where my brain keeps landing on. Right down to Chuck wanting them boxed into the dark terrestrial level alone with all that white mundi space outside of them and Cas locked beyond it and the tree hanging in the background, outside of their reach.

I think there's extra interesting note of the angel feathers in front of the tree still being inevitably accurate, but more shortsighted. Chuck's ending vs when Deanbobble picks up that pencil as his own, Sam too I'm sure but it's closer to Dean.

To know Cas is reborn before the Garden in the Mundi would require leaving the box.

---

I’ll also say there are forms of thought where Shadow-Return are less nihilistic, such as uh, well there’s a Thing in the Good Place for example, but that’s literally after thousands of jeremy-bearimy time loops of eternity over-upon itself where people have explored doing every possible thing they could ever dream of and imagine and decide to return to the Universe that way.

But I don’t think SPN is going to yield that kind of framework, as much as the possibility OF those infinite Jeremy-Bearimies with loved ones. Those Jeremy Bearimies will be the evergreen story afterward to figure out their adventures in and their mishaps and everything else figuring out what it really means to be an eternal mangod. And some characters still have a life to finish on earth. Realistically, they’re still in their first Jeremy-Bearimy. So even if the proverbial Door is there, I don’t think anyone’s taking it for a very... very long time.

[thornescratch]

🖊🌙 😐📝

What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

Late at night, more out of necessity than preference. It’s when I have the least amount of interruptions. Also, it’s a proven fact that the words flow best and hardest when you need to be sleeping or getting ready for bed. It’s just how it works in the universal scheme of things.

What embarrasses you most about your own writing?

When I realize that I’m projecting too much on a character or situation and making it obvious. Like, there are some tropes I don’t mind revisiting over and over, but I get twitchy when I realize, Oops, that’s my issue, not Character X’s, and it’s less realistic they’d feel that way. Or when I catch myself reusing a description or phrase too often. I need to stop limning people in gold; I do it way too often. Or focusing on sweat in weird places during sex scenes. Though, it’s my experience that you do always notice the sweat during sexytimes.

Sometimes it embarrasses me how appealing I find some really OOC or over the top trashy stuff, but everyone’s got their favorite woobie and tropes, so I’ve stopped feeling bad about that.

What is one growth area you have for your writing?

Pacing. I do outline, but for a couple of my stories that were written for exchanges, you can tell where I hit deadline and had to just get it done instead of having a few more scenes or length that might have improved it. (Or, conversely, I should have been more brutal and cut shit that I liked but which ultimately wasn’t necessary. But then again, it’s fanfic.)

Also, uh, just finishing shit. And feeling less silly about it. I don’t like posting WIPs because I like to finish them first, but then I get interested in something else or I think it’s not good enough to post, and it languishes on my hard drive for years.

Post a snippet from a current WIP.

Again, not sure what fandom you're from, so let's go back to hockey since I have it open right now.

"Hey, hi, so like, O and Backy turned into chickens, it's not my fault," Willy said, standing on his front step with a large cardboard box in his arms.

"It's his fault," Burky said from somewhere behind Willy.

"Totally Whip fault," someone else—Kuzy? said, also from behind Willy, who took up a lot of space on a normal basis and even more so when he was apparently hauling boxes around. One arm poked out from behind him and waved wildly, and then there was an unmistakable giggle, so it was definitely Kuzy. "Batya, let us in."

"Fuck you, it's not!" Willy said, and then hoisted the cardboard box up slightly. The box peeped at Brooks loudly, and he jerked back in surprise. "Here, let us in, lemme just explain," Willy added, and then Brooks had three—no, four, no, five, Djoos and Orlov were apparently quietly lurking at the back of the pack as well—teammates stampeding into his house like they were trying to outrun the cloud of youthful indiscretion that Brooks could just fucking see hanging over them.

"Curse my slow door-slamming skills," he said to his now-empty front step, and then closed the door and took a deep breath in order to prepare for whatever the hell was going on.

Most of them were all in his kitchen. Willy had put the box down on the kitchen table and he and Burky were in his pantry; Kuzy was looking in his fridge; he didn't see Djoos; and Snarls, bless his heart, was the only one being polite and standing near one of the chairs, clearly waiting for permission to sit down. Brooks made a mental note to tell Ovi about it, since Ovi believed in positive reinforcement when it came to nurturing the kids, and would probably buy Dima a new car or something.

The box on the table was still peeping. Before Brooks could deal with that, it was drowned out by an even louder noise, which was apparently directly related to Kuzy pawing through his vegetable crisper drawer.

"Batya! It's terrible!" Kuzy said, leaning out of the fridge and brandishing an eggplant at him.

"All of his crackers are wholegrain stuff," Burky called out from the pantry, muffled. "He doesn't have any chips."

"He's got two bags of Skinny Pop, though," Willy added. "Original and White Cheddar."

"Everything so healthy," Kuzy said, making a face. "It's terrible but I guess also good. I know we make best choice to come here."

Brooks took the eggplant away from Kuzy and slapped it against his palm once with a pleasantly solid noise. It had some good heft. "The last person who isn't sitting down at the table quietly in the next fifteen seconds gets to explain to Barry why they have to go on LTIR because someone beat them senseless with an eggplant."

"Like, a real eggplant, or is this a dick joke," Willy said, leaning out of the pantry before his eyes went wide. "Oh."

Kuzy was already opening his mouth with that glint in his eye again, so Brooks pointed the eggplant at him. "Sit. Down. Where's Juicer?"

"I was using the bathroom, please don't hit me," Djoos said meekly, slipping back into the kitchen and sitting down immediately, hands folded on top of the table neatly like a good little d-man. Brooks made another mental note to let Nicky know. Nicky had his own nurturing system for the kids, though that usually ran along the lines of a series of slightly less murderous than usual glares that he used for those currently in his favor.

"Can we bring some Skinny Pop?" Burky asked. "Actually, can we bring both bags?"

"I mean, actually you wouldn't really need to explain so much—" Willy said, and then Burky wiggled past him out of the narrow pantry doors with a bag stowed under each arm, and dove for the table, yelling out, "Hit him, Batya, hit him!"

"Hey!" Willy said indignantly, rushing after him and almost knocking Kuzy over in the process.

There was a briefly chaotic interval like a particularly violent game of musical chairs, but it ended with everyone sitting down in a chair, even if Burky and Djoos were sharing one. Less sharing, maybe, than Burky getting physically dumped out of two chairs in quick succession by Willy and Dima, and then Burky climbing into Djoos's lap, planting himself there, and winding his arms around Djoos's neck despite Djoos's wide-eyed expression of panic, but Brooks decided he couldn't afford to be too particular about it, and Djoos was just going to have to learn to desensitize himself to Burky-induced boners and personal space issues.

The box was still peeping.

Brooks eyed all of them, trying to decide who he had the best chance of getting the story out of the quickest, and then decided that he might as well give up on that and picked Willy, since he had a distinctly guilty expression that was only slightly marred by how he was currently shoving a double handful of Brooks's Skinny Pop into his mouth. "Willy. Explain. And no one else talk until I say they can."

Willy swallowed and licked his lips. "Okay, so. Magic."

After a minute when nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, Brooks cleared his throat. "That's it? That's all you got?"

Willy glanced around the table where all of his teammates were successfully avoiding his gaze (Kuzy and Dima were both pretending to read the nutritional info on the back of the popcorn bag; Burky was actually hiding his face against Djoos's neck; accordingly, Djoos's panic looked like it had ratcheted up by several degrees, and he was staring off into the middle distance with a muscle twitching in his cheek) and when it seemed obvious that no help was forthcoming, he shrugged. "Kinda?"