#Captivating view

[rabinrestorationremodeling]

When it comes to enhancing your outdoor living space, the decision between a deck and a patio is pivotal. Each option offers distinct advantages, making it essential to consider your preferences, lifestyle, and the unique features of your home.

[charmac]

Genuine question. Do you like or dislike Rob? Your posts tend to imply both feelings hahaha

Do I like Rob?

[shalom-iamcominghome]

"We have six days to build the outside world, six days to make the world a better place. For one day, build up the wold inside of you."

-Rabbi on shabbos

[tinylilvalery]

obsessed w the fact that John picked this slutty little outfit out for him

[whumble-beeee]

You Can Check Out Any Time You Like, But You Can Never Leave

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 14

Content: kidnapping/captivity, noncon drugging, recreational drug use, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, past captivity references

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[It’s a tale as old as time. You see it so very often in movies, books, YA love stories; The phenomenon known as Stockholm Syndrome, where a captive starts to develop positive feelings for their captor. However, Stockholm Syndrome is not a thing to be feared! Humans are very social creatures, after all, and control over another’s emotions is one of the most powerful thing’s a person can possess, super or not!

This is why you, villain, need to beware it’s the lesser-known counterpart: Lima Syndrome, where the captor becomes sympathetic or develops feelings for their captive. These disorders often develop side-by-side, so be wary and be vigilant! Developing Lima Syndrome may lead you to make rash decisions about your captured hero, cloud your judgment, allow your hero to take advantage of you, or even allow them to escape! Do not let your captured hero control you like you control them. You are jailor and prisoner. Nothing more.]

* * * * * * * *

Declan gawked at the Villain Brand tattoo staining Stan's back. The one he could finally see unimpeded now that he'd literally pinned the guy down and stripped him. The one Stan had fought so hard to hide.

“Holy shit…”

The ID number. He knew that number from so long ago. And Level 4 super. Manipulator power type. Social Designation Black.

Supervillain: Incarcerated for power-related crimes.

… and blue.

Test subject.

He fucking knew it.

He knew it.

It was that girl. That one from the raid that happened, what… ten years ago now? Longer? The one he’d found hiding with the toddler. One he saved, one he couldn’t. Fuck, man, he’d risked everything for that toddler. A little sister. A moment of weakness, or what some would call a moment of strength.

Stan had a little sister. Chloe. That was her name. That was the toddler’s name too.

She was still safe. She was still alive.

Thank fuck. 

Declan hadn't even realized at first because, well, the guy was a dude now. And an adult. There were no records on him, period, so he couldn’t go back to look before now, and his superiors certainly never deigned to tell him anything. Thanks Lana, fuck you Vaughn.

Though he’d been suspicious for a while. It all just clicked into place with that last piece of the puzzle: why Stan had no records, why he didn’t legally exist, the way he fought back no matter how impossible the odds were, that nagging feeling that he knew this kid from somewhere, the similarities between his and the girl’s powers, not to mention those weird looks he kept catching out of the corner of his eye, the way Stan has said something about protecting ‘her’ in his fit earlier, the concealment of his transness, the recognition in Stan’s eyes since the start–...

Oh.

Declan smiled.

Oh, Stan already knew. 

He knew, and he kept it to himself.

On purpose.

That conniving little fucker.

 “What? What holy shit?” Stan squirmed weakly under Declan, demanding his attention back as always, stuttering like he did always did whenever he got scared or angry. He even tried briefly to twist around to look at the man seated on top of him, only before immediately giving up and laying his head back down on the floor.

Declan rolled his eyes and held back a chuckle at the poor little guy as he tossed out some half-assed excuse he didn't even bother remembering, then grabbed his phone to take a picture of the brand. He’d definitely have to bring the uh… dishonesty up. But later. Stan was much too high for any of that right now. 

Though it did feel a little bit gross to take a picture of Stan like this while he was drugged, especially with how much he’d fought Declan about the brand earlier and especially after Declan had forcefully stripped the guy. But Declan needed proof.

None of it even mattered in the long run, anyway. Declan still had a job to do.

“Yeah… maybe you should…” Stan retorted loosely into the floor. “Not… Aheh, uh, throw me… to–... walls anymore…” 

Declan nearly burst out laughing.

Yeah. Maybe.

Maybe Stan should consider that next time he's being a little shit.

He pulled the white shirt back over Stan's head with some large amount of difficulty, and probably much more swearing than necessary since Stan may as well have been a floppy fish weakly squirming against the floor at this point. Then picked him up with one arm under the stomach, tugged the oversized white shirt down over his skinny little twink body, and then, with a sigh, let him drop unceremoniously back onto the floor and went to retrieve a plastic water bottle from his little plastic grocery bag, patting himself on the back for a job well done. He’d successfully de-bindered Stan without seeing the kid’s stupid man tits. Hooray! All that work to specifically pin him down on his stomach so they'd be hidden from Declan’s gaze, all because of Stan’s incessant fighting about it before. The things I do for my captures, he thought.

He was not looking forward to the indefinite amount of time he’d have to keep doing this.

“We don’t know how long, love,” Lana had said over the phone, “That fiancé of his doesn’t believe he’s dead, and you better believe he'll raise hell about it, the poor man. There’s probably going to be some extra ‘convincing’, paperwork, you know how it is. He can’t be here. Just hold onto the little guy until we get everything cleared up.”

So that was that. No argument. Just indefinite babysitting of a very unwilling baby.

Declan walked back over to hold the bottle out to Stan before he even fully agonized himself back up off his stomach, and yet somehow, miraculously, he still managed to do that skitter backward that he always did when Declan got even remotely close to him

He crouched down and shoved the bottle into Stan’s hands. “Drink,” he ordered. “Not too fast though.”

Stan looked in bewilderment at the bottle. Almost like he couldn't believe something so sacred could just be thrust within his grasp like that. Then his brow furrowed. He popped open the cap and sniffed it, then glared angrily at both the container of liquid and the person who’d given it to him. “Don’ want your stupid–”

“It’s not drugged. You haven’t drank water in almost three days, you’re gonna die. Drink it, NOT–!”

Half the water already disappeared, drained down Stan’s throat. Declan scrambled and snatched the water out of his grasp. “Not too fast! Christ, you’re gonna throw up!”

“But– But…” He smacked his lips, shook himself off like a dog from the water that spilled on him from Declan’s snatch, then gaped for a moment around the room as he once again seemed to remember the concrete and the chains that held him prisoner. “Fine. Who cares? Protein bar’sss-ssstupid anyway.”

Eh. Fair enough. To be honest, after the like, eight protein bars Declan’d had over the past few days, he was also pretty sick of them. He’d get them both some actual food later. 

With that task half-done, he stashed the half-empty bottle in his back pocket. “You can have the rest in a bit,” he told the wet cat of a human he was still inexplicably in charge of. Stan’s shoulders drooped. He just nodded, eyes affixed to one specific spot on the empty opposing wall.

Declan looked around at the mess of torture implements strewn about the room. Anything else he needed to do before they left?

Oh… 

Yeah, right.

“You need to go to the bathroom, runt?”

Stan's eyes shot up to his captor, then settled there for just a moment. Then drifted away into the middle distance for a longer moment. Narrowed his eyes slightly. Declan just about took that as a signal that he needed to save Stan from an apparant stroke when his head shook a slow and conspiratorial ‘no’. 

Declan rolled his eyes, already producing a hairpin out of his hair to click open Stan's ankle fetter, then pulled him to unsteady feet and guided him out the door to the dinky little bathroom at the end of the hallway. Stan didn't even struggle as Declan held him up, too busy ogling at the apparent novelty of being out in the hallway without running for his life.

“Five minutes,” he told Stan, depositing the vacant-stared man in the bathroom. Then he shut the door, started the count somewhere in the back of his mind, and went back to the torture room to clean up so they could finally head home.

God, he felt like shit.

Almost as bad as the kid looked, actually, which was saying something because little Stanny looked pretty fucked.

He was just tired. They both were, actually, that's why Stan had to be drugged. Sure, Declan enjoyed putting him in his place, but after the fifth time, after nearly three days of this, after almost two nights of no sleep, another prospective sleepless night of driving, double the usual amount of G to compensate for that, probably not enough food or water himself, and Stan still testing his patience at every turn… yeah, Stan needed to stop. For both their sakes. Mostly his own, if he valued still having at least one working knee.

Declan meandered over to Stan’s shredded former grey button-down and swooped it up off the ground, inspecting the damage Vaughn caused with those shiny steel surgical scissors of his. The shirt couldn’t even be recognised as a shirt anymore. Just a mess of crumpled fabric lying miserably on the floor, kinda like Stan had done for most of time he’d been here.

Vaughn was gonna rip that poor kid apart.

It wouldn’t be neat and clean like the persona that creep worked so hard to maintain, either. He usually waited until at least the drop-off before shining his true colors as a giant fucking creep in the safety of his creep-ass torture lab. Never directly in front of Declan, and certainly not outside of his jurisdiction like this. Sure, Declan was a piece of shit, but that man’s shittiness truly defied all modern interpretations of physics.

Although…

Declan pulled out his phone to stare at the picture of the hero brand again. Proof of his suspicions. Proof of identity. Proof of both their past misfortunes. Proof that also happened to contain evidence of the brand new abuse Declan had caused over any old scars that had long since faded. With Stan’s now bare back sporting a very mottled score of blacks and dark, painful blues and tender purples and even some fading greens and yellows and reds of all kinds: dark, smeared, and caked burgundy blood, or the bright, raised welts. Definitely a couple of broken ribs in there too. Not to mention all the distress peeking out from under that damn collar, the probably several concussions, the emotional turmoil, the mental distress that danced across his face every time Declan so much as stepped in his direction.

All of that was his doing, huh? Not Vaughn’s, save the missing shirt and the single clean slash running along his jawline. 

Declan.

He twirled his gun around his middle finger, relishing the way it fell so cleanly back into his grasp, the thump of the wooden grip against his hand and the shining, perfectly balanced metal.

Oh well.

Those were just their roles;

Hero and villain. 

Predator and prey.

Bounty hunter and captive.

Stan knew the rules of the game. He'd been given a choice to comply every time. Every time. And every time, he chose to fight. 

So Declan didn’t feel all that bad about it.

Four minutes gone by.

He needed to get back.

He did one last check over of the room, put the chain away, placed the chair back, got all the rope and weapons and even Stan’s crapped-up shirt, and put it all in his plastic bag. Then he went ahead and put on his hat and bandana again, because he’d be damned if he broke any more of the rules that kept him alive in this business for ten years and counting. Then headed back down the hall to the bathroom.

And to a not-at-all-surprising Stan who was agonizingly slowly and painfully and single-mindedly mading his way down the hall. Step by wall-assisted, unstable, limping step.

Did he even go to the bathroom?

Declan wasn’t going to check that. Stan could suffer if he didn’t.

“Stan! Really, runt?” he called out, tromping over to the captive. Stan jolted violently and loosely spun around with a loud squeak, except his feet forgot to move along with the rest of him and sent him crashing and clawing into the wall for any semblance of support. A look of pure unadulterated fear cascaded down his features. No defiance. No anger. Just wide-eyed, breath-taking, heart-pounding, fist-clenching fear.

Declan didn't even say anything. Stan stumbled backward as Declan got closer and landed wrong on his bad leg, enough to cause a cry of pain that almost unbelievably slowly turned into a battle with gravity that ended with Stan crumpled on the floor. Stan groaned and yelled in frustration. Then slapped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide, shaking. For a moment, Declan could only see the lurching of his body as he curled in on himself, then the shaking turned more into heaving, shallow, impossibly quick breaths, and as Declan got closer, it became very clear that it wasn’t just crying or whatever, but laughing, quietly cackling while clutching at his bad knee, whispering “ow, ow” to himself in between giggling heaves.

Declan took a deep breath. He didn’t have the heart to punish him about the escape attempt, if you could even call it that. Or the energy. Pick one.

Stan’s gaze shot up to him, straining against the stupid collar that rendered the admittedly very powerful super helpless. Tears shone in his red and dilated eyes, sparkling in the fluorescent light, a smile stretched and cracking across his face like a long-rotted jack-o-lantern still left out three weeks after Halloween.

Then dropped completely.

“Please don't hurt me,” he whispered, shuddering.

No.

No, he begged.

Like something out of a horror movie.

Some weird sense of subdued panic and revulsion wove through Declan’s chest, a feeling he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. Then just a sense of overwhelming weariness at the pitiful sight.

They both needed a break, didn't they?

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he conceded softly, pulling the half-empty water bottle back out of his pocket and placing it into Stan’s shaking hands. “Not now, anyway. Drink the rest of this, yeah?”

Stan simply clutched it, never once moving his unfocused and bloodshot gaze from his jailor. Declan sighed, grabbed the bottle and carefully twisted the cap off, and even more carefully lifted Stan’s death grip up to his lips so he could drink. The whole ordeal reminded him of taking care of a drunk friend, way back when. Except they weren’t friends. 

After a tentative pause and an immensely encouraging and monotone “it’s not poisoned, don’t drink too fast,” from Declan, he swallowed the first tentative sip. 

His entire body untensed, practically melting into the wall. He drank until the entire bottle disappeared in his shaking hands, head lolling all the way back to let gravity gift him those last few drops as it crushed to practically nothing

“Ya done?” Declan asked languidly. 

Stan nodded.

“Good. I’m gonna tie your hands behind your back now, and then we’re goin’ out to my car, and we're leaving.” He explained slowly. “If you can behave yourself, you can sit in the passenger seat. Otherwise, you’re goin’ in the trunk. Agreed?”

“B-but-but–”

“Agreed, chiquito?”

Stan looked around the room as if desperately searching for the answer. Then nodded.

“Great. Also, that's what she said,” he chuckled

Oh, he was definitely delirious.

Stan didn’t even fight him this time as he yanked the man up and turned him around to cuff him. He barely even stood, practically limp, swaying on his feet, with the only thing keeping him standing being his single locked knee and Declan’s occasional shoves that kept him from leaning too far in any one direction.

Declan didn’t like drugged Stan. Even if it was funnier, easier. He'd rather Stan fight him, because that'd at least show he's able.

Though the real Stan would be back in another 12 hours or so, and by then he’d probably be missing drugged Stan just as much.

He pressed the captive into his side for support without even checking if he could walk on his own, because he obviously couldn’t, then made a mental note to get Stan a temporary cane later. He felt so small, so… nonconcrete, pressed into Declan’s side, forced to rely him to do something as simple as walking. 

So squishy. Fragile. Breakable. He almost couldn’t believe that the person giggling and drooling into his precious leather jacket was the very same as the one he’d spent night and day staking out to find the perfect way to capture, making sure he accounted for every detail, everything that could possibly go wrong, because in every scenario if things didn’t go exactly according to plan, Stan would absolutely crush Declan into a fine paste before he let him get anywhere near him.

He couldn’t dwell on those differences now. He couldn’t mourn the fates of all the people he captured. It broke the rules, the rules that kept Declan alive, and it wouldn’t be fair to all the supers that came before Stan; Those who never had anyone to mourn them, and those forced to continue living in a special type of hell even as their loved ones mourned their deaths, accepted it, and moved on. Even as their own selves died, and yet their bodies kept on living anyway.

He couldnt dwell on it unless he wanted to become one of them himself. Metaphorically. Literally. Who even cared anymore? He was too tired for this. Not thinking sounded like a great idea right about now.

Declan shoved Stan into the passenger seat of his truck, practically threw him, actually, then rummaged through the glovebox until he found the little baggie filled with those special little white pills and popped one in his mouth

Wonderful. Great.

He buckled Stan’s seatbelt for him after a brief confusion when Declan told him to, but he realized he couldn’t and got very upset and scared and started shaking again before Declan just went ahead and did it for him.

Declan slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, relishing the rumbling sound of the motor reverberating through his chest as it roared to life. His head already felt clearer. The world a little brighter, despite the bright crisp orange of the setting sun dyeing the sky an ever-darkening, gorgeous mixture of hot pinks and burnt oranges and burning reds, spanning unimpeded except by whisping grey clouds breaking the harmony of the dusk-washed light. Then the stars, near invisible speckles, sparse at first, teasing even, until they slowly and inevitably beckoned forth the darker violets and deep indigos and what looked to be the purest of blacks broken up by the sprinkling of the purest white stars, soon to be a cavalcade too numerous to ever count.

So big, all-encompassing. 

Light years away, unencumbered by the existence of humanity.

Even Stan couldn’t help but stare in the silence.

Deeby let out a deep breath.

“Alright, bud. Let’s head home.”

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid | @painsandconfusion | @books-are-everything

@paperprinxe | @tippytappytyping | @chaotic-orphan | @notactuallyluska | @lumpofsand

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees | @whumpwhittler | @thelazywitchphotographer

(A special thank you and welcome to all the new people who joined the taglist! Y'all are genuinely so wonderful :D If you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist, don't be afraid to ask!)

[johnnyslittleanimalblog]

Caturday by Shelly Lynn Hachey O Via Flickr: Amur Tiger at the Calgary Zoo

[cherryys]

i judge you based on your takes on yuuji and megumi

[ninicaise]

modern au damen has a gaming youtube channel and forces his boyfriend laurent to play horror games exclusively on said channel bc laurent is categorically terrible at them but at the same time he never even flinches at the typical jumpscare moments so it's all cold seething from laurent during the entire playthrough

[catchildren]

Whumpee who genuinely views their encounters with Whumper as consensual. They're not under any illusion that Whumper is a good person, the contrary. But they "agreed" to having sex – for more comfortable living conditions, less restrictive access to Whumper's home, anything to make the horrific ordeal they went through more bearable. It wasn't Whumper's idea to have sex, it was theirs. And they're insulted by anyone who tries to say they were a victim.

[thedeafprophet]

Yea Jamie you should probbbbbbably run....

The Captivating Princess won my 'who's worse for Jamie' poll so i needed to do somethin to honour that ;)

[ashintheairlikesnow]

how might finn be doing on this fine evening?

CW: Unreliable narrator, memory issues as a result of trauma, emotional manipulation, gaslighting (or is it?) referenced captivity (or implied captivity of a different kind, depending on how you read it)...

Death Valley

-

North Carolina, Present Day

Wind blew with a knife edge around the rest area, and Finn hunched his shoulders against its bite as he sat, watching Little Mother stalking with single minded precision across the grass. What she was hunting, he had no idea, but she was intent on its capture.

"Take care, Mütterchen," He called out. "Do not go too far."

One of her rabbit-soft ears flicked, the only sign she heard him. Her tail shifted sinuous through the grass, back and forth, back and forth, as she moved with her belly nearly to the ground. Her kittens gamboled around beside him, staying where Finn's body and the bulk of his truck hid them from the worst of the cold. Little Mother trusted him to keep them safe for her while she wandered, and Finn did his best to be worthy of that trust. He dragged a little string along the ground, coaxing the kittens into stalking it, batting at it with paws that had more enthusiasm than aim.

Overhead, heavy gray clouds threatened to finally unleash the sleet the radio had been promising was coming. They hung so low the wisps of them seemed to hover just above the ancient rounded mountains that stretched all around him. If he stood, he could reach up and nearly touch them, feel wisps of damp chill around his fingertips. The rest stop was perched on the top of a mountain itself, the highest point in the state supposedly. There'd been a plaque over by the building.

Finn remembered, in a vague and foggy way, that he had hiked up younger mountains once, with jagged peaks that seemed sharp enough to slice apart the stars at night. He'd gone with friends of his, and a girl he sometimes fooled around with.

Then he'd left for his American holiday, just after, promising he'd show her photos when he got back.

He never came back.

His mother had gotten the film from his little disposable cameras, developed the photos. He'd seen his own smiling face in a photo another tourist had taken of him standing, framed by the Badwater Basin salt flats. Schneider's last photo on the camera found in the wreckage of his vehicle.

Even if he hadn't made it back home to show her, he supposed Anja would have seen all the photos that were released to the public by now. Had she married? Had Anja found herself a husband, had children, built herself the normal life she'd dreamed of? Had she forgotten all about some silly, enthusiastic boy in her class who had once kissed her breathless in a tent with their noses both frozen from the outside chill?

He put his fingers to his lips, but he couldn't remember how kissing her had felt, not anymore. Robert had painted over it all with this slime-slick touch, the smell of decay and lemon-scented cleaner fighting for dominance.

Any passing attraction Finn felt for anyone anymore was only a brief flash of something warm before the memory of Robert froze over him, shattered him all over again.

Children giggled somewhere nearby, a family ushering distracted little ones with too much energy for their tiny size into the building. Would those children know who to run from, if they needed to? Would they know not to trust the friendly smile of a stranger, not to take their own water bottle if he had touched it?

Would they-

"You didn't tell me you got a cat," Noah said from off to the side, and Finn dropped his hand, muscles tensing. He stopped pulling the string, and the kittens set up a chorus of meows, angry that their game had come to such a sudden end. One of them hissed in Noah's direction, tiny fangs bared. "Or...multiple cats."

"Mütterchen," Finn answered, gruffly, gesturing to where Little Mother had gone a few feet away. "She came to stay with me and had the kittens." He didn't look up, even as his heart began to beat faster, heavy inside his chest. "It is nice to have company, driving."

"No doubt." Noah, without asking, dropped to sit right next to him, nearly brushing Finn's left arm with his right. Finn tensed, shifting just enough to put a little space between them again. "Mütterchen, that's cute. What's it mean? Mother-... mother-hen?"

"Little Mother." Finn hated that Noah knew it now, that it felt like simply explaining it to him ruined the fragile love he had for her name. "Why are you here?"

"You turned your phone back on." Noah was looking at him - Finn could feel the weight of his eyes, even though he refused to give him anything in return. His voice was low, outwardly worried. "I told you to stay here, and I came to you. Do you... not remember that conversation?"

Sometimes Finn forgot things. Whole days, entire conversations, events... his memory came and went as it pleased, and only his time with Robert remained clearly etched into his mind, as much as the scars were carved eternally into his skin. Noah sounded concerned for him, but... Finn bristled, anyway. Something felt false in the tone, like he was acting.

Of course he was acting.

He was just upset the Mouse had been hiding in the walls, on the road, where he couldn't find him.

Finn cleared his throat. "No, this I know. I know we spoke, Noah, I did not forget, but. Why did you want to meet me?"

"Why? Finn-" Noah groaned, exasperated. "Come on. You up and vanished, man. Why was your phone off for a week, huh? Your phone, laptop... everything. The GPS in your truck, even. You could have been hurt, or dead, or in a cage somewhere again-"

Finn had to swallow the rising spike of panic at the idea. He could have been, couldn't he? And no one would know, once again no one would know. Just like before.

Noah leaned forward, his voice soft and sweet and sad. "What happened to you? What have you been doing?"

Finn had spent days bundled in the tent, watching the kittens and feeling warm down to his bones even with the icy chill outside. Inside the tent, they kept warm, he, Little Mother, and her kittens. He cooked ready-to-eat meals on a campfire in a pot that he washed using water from a stream. He'd felt entirely, perfectly alone. It had been wonderful.

Had Noah been worried that he was dead?

Guilt gnawed, even as half of him was sure it hadn't been worry but anger that Finn wasn't under his thumb, if he couldn't reach him and follow him and track him and-

And keep him-

"I wanted some time to myself," He muttered, hardly able to get the volume up to be heard. "That is all."

"Right." Noah sighed. "Yeah, no, take whatever time off you want, you know you're helping me out with transporting the, uh, the cargo to be sure, but... Finn." Noah paused. Finally, Finn cut a glance to the side, barely meeting those falsely warm, kind, soft eyes and that slight smile with his own solid closed-off nothingness. "Finn, look at me."

When his gaze didn't stick, Noah reached out and took him by the chin with his gloved hands, forcing him to make eye contact. Finn's muscles locked in a sudden burst of fear but he didn't move. He didn't dare move.

He always froze, for Robert.

"You can't turn that shit off," Noah said, voice low and soft. Poison underneath the velvet, Finn knew all about it. Fury under the false worry. Robert could speak so sweet and kind like that, and then beat him until he broke a rib and feel nothing. "I get worried when I don't know where you've gone off to. You get lost, Finn, and you and I both know it. You get lost in your head, you forget where you are or what you've been doing. You forget how to call for help. You forget everything."

Finn found himself trembling, fighting to stay still. The kittens pushed against his fingers and he pet them with numb hands, a little too roughly, staring at Noah because the other man hadn't yet let go and he didn't dare pull away. "I, I don't-... so much anymore-"

"You do." Noah's voice dipped, became firmer. "You still do. Don't lie to me." He let go, patting Finn's face briefly, and then looked down at one little kitten who had pushed against his leg, letting his fingers dangle so the little one could bat at them. "Remember when the, uh-" He glanced sidelong to see if anyone was paying attention to them, but no one was. "Remember when the runaways had to call me because you forgot how to use a phone? Just sat in the truck's cab talking to yourself for hours? When you kept trying to dial German phone numbers?"

Finn kept his eyes on the ground, feeling a blush heat his face even as he hunched his shoulders to hide it. "... I remember that they took the phone away and called you."

"And you spent months in the little house I rented for you barely able to even remember to brush your own teeth-"

"That was many years ago, Noah, when I first was sold to you-"

"Ssshhh! Even aside from that, what about just a few months ago, when you kept watching crime docs on Netflix and had nightmares for weeks on end and stopped answering to anything but Mouse?"

Finn stiffened, and his hands went up to hold his head as he dropped it, fingers digging into his short hair, eyes closed against heat he refused to acknowledge was tears. His head began to ache, a low pounding throb behind his temples. "Stop," He whispered, but Noah wasn't done.

Noah never stopped.

No one ever stopped because Finn asked them to, or begged, or pleaded...

"If you don't want to work, then stop working," Noah continued, putting a hand up to rub at Noah's back, circling and circling his palm, sending shudders of discomfort down Finn's spine. "Do whatever you want. I don't care, it's fine, you can even keep using the truck. But I'm not drowning in money, and I can't keep giving you cash if you're not doing your job, if you just stop contacting me and I can't even see where you are. I'm not rich, Finn. This isn't a lucrative business, saving people. You're a huge help to me, and I'm grateful for that. But... you can't keep making me worry about you and then acting like I don't have the right, after everything I've done for you. It's cruel, don't you think? You're like a brother to me, and when you just go off the grid for a week, I get so worried, and I don't deserve that. Not after the years I've taken care of you."

Finn watched Little Mother pounce, but she must not have caught her prey. Her tail twitched in dismayed annoyance, and she turned to look at him. He watched her eyes go to Noah. Back to him. Finn swallowed, barely daring to breathe, to move, not even daring to speak. His heart hammered inside of him, sweat stuck his sweater to his back beneath his coat.

"I don't have any identification that's real here," Finn muttered, voice weak. "I can't get a job that is not cash under tables. I-I have no passport, even-... Robert-"

"He took your passport, I know. And if you keep working for me, that's not a problem, I'll take care of you," Noah said, shifting to soothing. He patted Finn on the back and then dropped his hand, leaving crawling goosebumps like ripples in a pond, rolling out disgust over Finn's body. "If you don't want to do this anymore, that's fine. Strike out on your own, go with God, have my blessings, whatever. But I can't just... pay for you for everything forever. Everyone has to earn their keep, around here."

Robert used to say that all the time. Earn your keep. Finn earned his keep, as Robert's Mouse, on his knees or his back or his stomach or listening to the screams from the basement with the muzzle locking his jaw tightly closed, he couldn't even scream with them-

He shivered, shaking his head. "I do not want to stop," He whispered, lips barely moving. "I-I have nowhere to go, no one... I took a week off, Noah, that is all. Just a week-"

"You can take a week off whenever you want." Noah stood, brushing his hands down his thighs as if getting rid of some invisible dust. "Let me know first, and I'll make sure you have no work to do. But if you turn off your phone and your GPS again, I'm going to assume that means you quit, and I'll cancel your phone line and your debit card. So make sure I know where you are. Got it?"

Finn didn't look up. He held Little Mother's gaze as she moved closer to him, her tail a question mark, rubbing her face against his leg and giving a soft, curious meow.

"Hey." Noah nudged his other leg with his boot, and Finn flinched as if he'd been struck. "Oh, man. Hey, don't be like that." Noah softened once more - or his voice did. Finn didn't look up to see his expression. "I just want to know you hear me. I can't spend all my time worrying about you. Make sure I know where you are, from here on out. No exceptions. None. Understood?"

Finn swallowed. His throat felt like it had closed, like his heart had filled it with too much fear to speak. But he managed to whisper, "I understand, Noah."

"Good. I have a job to do here, a couple people to pick up and take to Vermont. You take a couple days to think about our conversation. I expect a call at 8 pm on Thursday, no later than that. If you don't call, I'll assume you quit and act accordingly. Stay safe."

He walked away, and Finn let him go, sitting in the smallest ball he could make of himself, listening to the happy people laughing and chatting around him as they took in the mountain views on every side.

Noah had Finn's passport.

He was sure of it - he was sure he remembered Robert handed it over when he sold Finn to him, when Robert's little Mouse was handed from one man's care to the next, silent and shivering through the experience.

But by the time he'd found the courage to ask, Noah had said there hadn't been any passport, just the title to the truck changing hands.

But Finn remembered it.

Then again, Finn remembered things that hadn't happened all the time, now. He forgot things that had happened, or that would happen. Noah was right, he barely remembered anything, really. Maybe that was something that hadn't happened, too.

Maybe...

But he was so sure, and the memory was so clear...

"Komme, Mütterchen," He said, pushing himself to his feet on wobbling legs. Little Mother and her kittens reluctantly allowed him to put them back into the truck, one by one. He made sure his phone was on and charging, his laptop, checked the GPS that was installed. Just as Noah told him to.

Good little Mouse, closing the door to his own cage.

At least, Finn thought, Noah's cage was so much larger than Robert's had been.

Even if it still wasn't freedom.

[yourqueenb]

I know this has already been discussed a bit, but the pacing in Blades is still kind of fucked imo. And before anyone accuses me of purposely looking for things to criticize 🙄 I do think the last two chapters picked up and were a lot of fun. The book overall is definitely improving gradually, with today’s chapter arguably being the best we’ve gotten. But while we had kind of a slow start to the action, I feel like they’re still flying through all of the emotional moments, friend interactions, and developmental opportunities at breakneck speed.

Like Mal taking a blade for us? That’s a huge thing and could’ve been a very poignant moment even though we were in the middle of a battle, and especially for those of us who are romancing him. And having the opportunity to check in with all of our friends after making it through the portal? Imtura apologizes for giving up on us, Mal says he was running/doing things out of guilt instead of living in one breath then brushes it off in the next, Nia and Tyril still barely acknowledge what was really going on with them throughout the year we were gone…. yet we don’t get more than 2 seconds to respond to any of that?

They’re not even giving MC the chance to react to what happened to her internally. Like it’s one thing for us not to be able to outwardly express how we’re feeling to our friends. But it’s another when even the narration doesn’t portray any sort of introspection on MC’s part. For example in the elite skill scene with Tyril, I purposely had my MC focus on being trapped and restrained in Valax’s lair because I expected to get at least a little insight on how that’s affecting her presently. And yes, we did get a couple of sentences saying we were thinking about fear, helplessness, and confusion. But it would’ve been so much better if they described MC actually reliving that moment and those emotions.

Basically, all I’m trying to say is that they really already have everything they need to make certain scenes more impactful. They just need to set them up and let them breathe, so we, the readers, can feel and appreciate them as well instead of having to fill in the blanks for everything

[a1sart]

I made marble sky ocs <3

they're like toxic doomed yuri I love them

also I did not intend for their color palettes to literally just be the lesbian flag but y'know what I think it works

[chiimeramanticore]

i gotta stop drawing my courier in silly situations I'm selling the idea that they're a goofy goober when they're basically this

[hotsugarbyglassanimals]

even though i feel like i can confidently tell when a piece of art is generative A/I, i really don't feel inclined or really even justified calling someone out for it due to the precedent it sets - especially when artists who DO make their own pieces get caught in the crossfire for being inexperienced or making the choice to be more free-form when it comes to character design / consistency...

[wonder-worker]

"We therefore need to separate out the 'facets' of [Anne de Pisseleu's] life, the way she was perceived by different groups and individuals. According to these, she could be viewed as an ornament to the court, a grasping favorite, a desired patroness, an able businesswoman, later on as a pillar of the reformed church and cantankerous old woman. At different times and over a long life, Anne de Pisseleu played all these roles."

David Potter, "The Life and After-Life of a Royal Mistress: Anne de Pisseleu, Duchess of Étampes"