#and that's enough. that's insightful. that's all that you need.

[secriden]

There's something so wondrously momentous about Style only saying his "I love you" now, when he realises that all the secrets he was keeping from Fadel are already laid bare.

He says this a significant time after Fadel has said his (and, in the context of the wider narrative, after Kant and Bison) and for the character we have seen as prone to glibness, exaggeration and flippancy with his words, that feels incredibly intentional.

Because this confession was the only truth Style had left to give.

Fadel is finally done playing his (poorly thought out) game, done with his (already cracking at the seams) charade, done with giving Style more opportunities to pull at his heartstrings with his earnestness lies.

Fadel is demanding the truth, and tells Style exactly what truth he wants to hear.

And the thing is, there is truth in this: Style's motivations at the start were wrapped up in a deception specifically targeting Fadel.

I know we, as a fandom, harp on about Style "doing all that for a car", but something I would like us all to revisit is what Kant actually says to Style when he first asks Style to "hit on" Fadel:

Kant: You need to help me. You know I don't usually feel this way about someone. And then shortly later, after Style refuses: Kant: Hey, hold on. (Kant grabs Style's hand.) What do I have to do to for you to help me out? Should I pay you?

(Please forgive my inability to gif and watch Style's reaction to this.) Style is visibly surprised and intrigued. Kant seems to be serious about this request, and I think Style decides to test just how important it is to Kant by asking for the one thing he knows Kant will not give up.

Just look the expressions on Style's face. We didn't have the context of knowing Style back then as well as we do now, but this is the look Style gets when he's throwing out a challenge (to Fadel), when he's trying to ferret out some new insight (from Fadel), when he wants to see how someone (Fadel) will react to whatever outlandish (provocative) thing he's said or done.

And when Kant agrees, Style even checks again if Kant is serious about going through with it -- and it's this that convinces Style of the sincerity of Kant's request.

Yes, the car was a factor, and yes Style also wanted revenge and to humble Fadel, but at the centre of Style's motivation has always been a plea for help from a friend.

In episode 1: Kant: Under one condition. You have to make him head over heels in love with you. Style: I'll do it. Not just for the car, but someone like him needs to be humbled by someone like me.

But in agreeing to help Kant, Style really was damning Fadel to play the fool because Fadel's feelings (his heart) was a commodity that Style was fully willing to play with back then.

And there are aspects of truth here too. When Kant tells Style about Fadel (and Bison) being hitmen, Style decides he's done and wants out. Kant reasons that it's more dangerous for Style to break up with Fadel now, because it would look suspicious, but crucially this isn't enough to convince Style.

So Kant, once again, makes the plea to friendship and to his need for Style specifically, and it is this that causes Style to finally cave.

But in doing so, the things that Style agrees to are:

Kant: Work with me. Help me get more information about them. Once we get that, it's done. Captain puts them in jail, and we walk free.

So while Style may not be directly working with the police, he is working with Kant who he knows is working with the police. By proxy, Style is involved with the police, but in front of the empty pool, he makes it clear to Fadel just what that involvement actually entailed:

Style: Kant asked me to take you out so you could leave him alone and he could freely investigate. Fadel: What did he get out of it? Style: I don't know! That ain't my business! All I was asked of is to take you out.

And this, too, actually is true! Since finding out, Style has literally not discovered a single thing that could be remotely useful to the police investigation:

He's found out that Fadel likes to gym at night. He's found out that Fadel uses tenderloin in his burgers. That he runs in the morning before going to the market. That he attends a grief support group.

But these were all things Kant also already knew and could have given the police if it were in any way useful for the investigation.

Even his attempts to get Fadel to confess to his "other job" (something the police also already know) were clearly in service of wanting to save Fadel and/or convince him to give up the life of crime in the hopes that Fadel wouldn't have to be sent away from Style to prison.

But the truths are tangled up in misunderstandings and Fadel's own assumptions now; and also further tainted again by Bison's own hurt over Kant's betrayal. And Fadel literally cannot see -- because his eyes are filled with tears [see: @thisautistic's gifset + my tags] (good grief, Joong, the actor you are) -- the honesty Style is bleeding from the marrow of his bones.

Because the truth is that along the way Style has also found out that Fadel is a good older brother. That Fadel is still hurting and bleeding inside because his parents were murdered. That Fadel wears his favourite bands' make up in secret because he cannot bear the thought of other's judgement. He's found out that Fadel misses Style, wants Style, and hates himself for it. That Fadel is afraid to love. That Fadel is acutely aware of his own darkness and cannot comprehend an existence that would not involve someone (Style) rejecting it. That Fadel does not believe that 100% trust is possible, but that he will get himself drunk so that he can offer Style as much vulnerability as he can physically make himself give.

Because the things that Style did find out were all the ways Fadel's heart is soft and tender and precious and worthy worthy worthy of all the love Style has to give.

And Style will stand firm on this truth because this is the only thing he has left to give Fadel.

Because Fadel knows, now, all the ways Style was unworthy of his trust, but crucially has not figured out the most important truth:

Because in all the ways that Fadel has ever known he should want, Style actually IS worthy of his trust. Style knows the truth Fadel is hiding, knows what this man is capable of, knows the danger of being in his arms, knows the likely nonexistent future Fadel has to offer him -- and wants him anyway. -- Quoted from my meta post on the "One day, I'll be your 100%" line.

And as I alluded to in the tags on @yinwaring's insightful post: Style fully embodies the belief he espouses; because even in the face of a gun to his head and Fadel threatening to kill him if he will not admit that this, too, is a lie, Style refuses to give Fadel anymore dishonesty.

And this is because Style knows that the truth matters; now more than ever.

Because Style has had days to grapple with his worry after Fadel's disappearance. Style has had a week's worth of checking the diner only to face the regret he feels about not handling things differently. Style has had to recognise the terror of thinking he had lost something he never even knew he wanted in the first place.

And while Fadel had his realisation back in episode 4, Style never had to face this until Fadel vanished from his life and left a gaping hole in the shape of the absence of Fadel's smile.

So if this is what it takes, if this is the penance that Fadel demands of him, then it is a price Style is most happy to pay.

Because Fadel does not realise is that Style, too, now knows what it means to lose a love worth fighting for.

And in the war Fadel now feels compelled to wage against Style (because, yes, that's definitely still going on), the one damning thing Fadel has failed to recognised is that his only true weapon was leaving Style behind.

Which is why Style has already won. Not because Fadel's walls have crumpled again or because they don't still have a ton of things to talk through and work out (they really, really do), but because Style has already been stripped bare (and I mean this literally, like we all recognise THAT was the reason why Dunk is only in boxer shorts in that scene, right?? Like, I know we were joking about it, but seriously, that was so very intentional and a visual representation of Style being both stripped and, most importantly, freed from the lies he felt compelled to tell Fadel) and this means he has nothing holding him back.

And Fadel can wield his gun and his words and his anger and his hurt, but Style will die on the hill of the truth that he knew and understood and chose to love Fadel anyway, and saved this last confession for when he knew he could tell Fadel the truth without any lingering deception; and when the time is right, when Fadel is finally ready, Style will be there to welcome him back with open arms and, without any hesitation, an open heart.

[witherby]

Heyyyyy how are ya 😼 I have an idea for angst (Although this has already been done by many authors but I'm curious see how you approach this kind of like concept)

"Neglected... Batsis.... Reader..."

(this is totally not me just manifesting for more neglected batsia content)

-🌭

Hotdog. Dog that's hot. Oblong tube of meat that sits on a bun. As long as you're okay with it not being Yandere, I'll give almost anything a shot.

Lonely in a Crowded Room

Platonic!Batfamily x Daughter!Reader

Content warnings: emotional neglect, isolation, hyper-independence as a coping mechanism

Masterlist is Here!

Your family loves you.

Your family does not have time for you.

Both of these things are true at the same time.

Your mother had abandoned you at the gates of the Wayne manor when you were an infant, leaving nothing but a note telling Bruce your name, her name, and that you were his biological daughter. After taking another DNA test for himself to be sure, Bruce accepted his role as your father and took you in.

Sometimes you wonder how different your life would be if he'd just admitted he didn't have the time to raise you and left you at an orphanage, where another couple looking to care for a child could devote their energy to you instead. You wonder if you'd be better off than you are now.

The thing is, nothing is really wrong. You're clothed, fed, sheltered, and if there's an emergency you are swiftly taken care of. You just don't have any kind of connection to your family.

Bruce gave it his best effort when you were a baby, when you needed more attention. Batman patrolled less often in the night whenever you had a bad time staying asleep. He bottle fed you, he read you bedtime stories, and he would bring you to Wayne Tower with him sometimes and keep you busy with toys while he worked. As you grew older, however, and started developing a sense of independence, that easy attention got harder and harder to get. Suddenly he was needed for a case, or there was an event Bruce Wayne needed to make an appearance at, or one of your brothers needed his insight during investigations of their own.

And, well, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of one. You learned to share his attention, choosing to be the polite daughter that could learn to fix her own problems, and eventually that meant to Bruce that you didn't need attention at all. You couldn't ever find the courage to correct him, to ask him to make space for you. So, still seeking emotional fulfillment, you tried to turn to your brothers instead.

Dick was unfailingly kind. He'd even remarked once that he always wanted a little sister, which was nice. But he was an adult by the time you entered the picture. He had his own life outside of the Manor, living in Blüdhaven and patrolling as Nightwing and maintaining a day job for the BPD. His already limited free time was spent for himself, chasing downtime he often desperately needed, and you didn't want to make him give that up for you.

Jason didn't come around the Manor as a rule. He had bad blood with your dad, and while he didn't explicitly take it out on you, unfortunately you live with Bruce, and so he just wasn't around enough for you to form any solid attachment. Plus, he's clearly got his own stuff going on, and likely doesn't have the time nor will to get to know you. You haven't tried to reach out and neither has he, which is enough of an answer about how he feels in regards to having a little sister.

Tim was kind of like Bruce. He had far too many prior engagements and duties to fulfill, from acting as current CEO of both Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries, to moonlighting as Red Robin, to attending college and working on his degree. He'd give you a sweet smile and gently ruffle your hair if he caught you in passing, but then he had to focus on the rest of his daily goings on. Trying to catch Tim to talk was like trying to hold water in a cracked cup. He just slips right by you.

And Damian... Damian did not particularly like you. At least, not at first. He came into the picture a couple years after you were dropped off at the Manor. You suspect he felt threatened about there being another blood-relative in the house, and made every attempt to communicate to you that he wasn't happy with your presence. But, as you grew older, when the topic of secret identities and their nighttime work came up, you surprised everyone by showing no interest in taking up the mantle. You did not want to be Robin, or a bat of any kind for that matter, and that seemed to really mellow your brother out. His perceived competition wasn't even competing, and his hostility was for naught.

Now, he doesn't really give you the time of day. It took a while for you to understand that it wasn't malicious anymore. You know now that he's ashamed of his prior actions and doesn't know how to make amends. You've tried to bridge that gap for him, make it easier by showing that you hold no ill will, but either his pride or his stubbornness refuse to take the olive branch you're practically dropping in his lap.

So, you can't get emotional fulfillment from your dad or any of your older brothers. If you can't go to them, maybe you can turn to Alfred. He was a patriarchal figure, always tending to one thing or another and looking after Bruce and his sons after patrol. He didn't patrol himself, so maybe he'd have the time to spend with you.

And he did! He sure did. It just...wasn't quite what you wanted. Alfred was a former British Intelligence operative, and raised Bruce under the complicated duality of both a guardian and a commanding officer. He obviously knew how to talk to you like a normal civilian, because that's what you are, but it was overly formal. He was holding you at arm's length because he didn't know how to relate to you. You were familiar strangers, at best, and you felt that's all you'd ever be despite your best efforts.

So. No one is cruel to you. They are kind, they smile, they ask you how you're doing and genuinely seem to care about the answer. That's not the problem.

You know your family loves you.

You know your family does not have time for you.

Both of these things are true.

You just wish you weren't so terribly lonely.

[wisteriasymphony]

Adrien Agreste and Alya Cesaire had been neck-and-neck in grades ever since he'd spawned out of nowhere that first day of lycée. Given she was always trying to balance her excessive livejournal usage and expensive comics collecting with equal amount of parent-pleasing displays of "applying herself", Alya always had something to prove with her grades: Adrien, conversely, seemed like he only had something to maintain.

He was perfect, suspiciously perfect—Always raised his hand first, never spoke unless spoken to, and spent every lunch reading alone no matter who invited him to what table. It was that air of well-kept, polite mysteriousness (and a jawline that could cut glass) that apparently swept Alya's good friend Marinette head over heels. But Alya had never been someone to take a person at their word. Good journalism means more than just believing, it means proving.

And there was no proof in the world so far that Adrien's teflon shell was more than skin deep. Quite the contrary, actually.

It had been in their last French Literature class, on a dreary Tuesday morning still shaking off the rain from the night before. Nothing good ever happens on Tuesdays: They either surprise you on Monday to make up for the week beginning, or they show up on Wednesday to push you through the rest of it. The point was, Alya wasn't expecting to get much joy out of recent test results to begin with.

She studied the paper. Sixteen, Trés bien. One of the best possible marks in the class, which was standard fare. Seventeens and eighteens and even nineteens were ludicrous, and, as many teachers were pleased to put it, "a twenty is perfection, and none of you are God". Sixteen was great. Alya tapped the back of her pen on the paper, right beside the red ink sixteen, and looked over to where Marinette and Nino sat. They were talking with the others, Nathaniel and Juleka and such—Fourteens, Fifteens, Fourteen-point-twos and so on. Not as good as Alya, but still good enough. Her friends didn't need to chase after grades the way she did, so their platitudes about the numbers being trivial was refreshing.

Of course, then Adrien walked past. He had been sat in the back of the class for the entire year as if lording over the other students with a watchful eye. Every time he made his way up or down the steps, students would turn their head as if his mere presence was some grand procession. It wasn't just that he had gotten sixteen-point-three that angered Alya. (But sixteen point three was bad enough. Sixteen point three! Apparently there was some magically insightful commentary that Mme. Bustier thought was worth him beating Alya out by three points. Unbelievable.)

In a split second, Alya could swear Adrien glanced at Alya's paper and then to her, and—though nobody would ever believe her on it, not even for a second—she had heard the quietest, most imperceptible scoff.

"He's an asshole!' Alya had proclaimed to Marinette later that week, in between shoving Dupain-Cheng cookies in her mouth. "I swear it's all an act. I know what I heard."

"Alya," Marinette pouted. "This is Adrien we're talking about. The guy who can't even bring himself to squash spiders?" "Him bringing spiders outside doesn't necessarily mean anything," Alya retorted. "Assholes can still like spiders." "Well... Maybe it wasn't him that day. Maybe he has a secret evil twin or something, and it wasn't him there after all." Alya plucked another cookie from the plate Mme. Cheng had given them, taking a furious bite of it. "Now that's just unrealistic."

Marinette only shrugged. Alya continued to simmer while chewing on her cookie. She could practically imagine Adrien's words to his father now: "Alya got sixteen because that's all she could get. I got sixteen-point-three because that's all there was to get." Point three, point three, point three. He didn't need that extra point three. For what it was worth, he didn't need good grades at all! Adrien could just as easily continue modeling for the rest of his life.

"I need to catch him slipping up somehow," Alya muttered. "Show him I'm not falling for this 'Immaculate Mr. Perfect' charade of his."

"Well, if that's what you want to do." Marinette grabbed a cookie of her own, adding "But I don't know if you're going to get anywhere. He really is that perfect."

[tinytinyblogs]

Hey can you do yandere skz punishments

Punishment time darling

They give you everything you could ever want, but crossing them is a mistake you’ll never want to make.

Hyung line, Maknae line (coming soon)

Stray Kids Masterlist 1.0 & 2.0

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Chan

Bang Chan isn’t one to act impulsively, not when it comes to you. He’s always calculating, always planning. When you disobey him, he doesn’t explode in anger like someone else might. No, Chan prefers something quieter, something more effective. He believes punishment should teach a lesson, not waste energy. And when it comes to you, he wants you to feel the weight of your guilt, to truly understand why you were wrong. Isolation is his preferred method. It’s clean, controlled, and, most importantly, it works. The first time he catches you breaking one of his unspoken rules—talking to someone he doesn’t approve of, going somewhere without telling him—he doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he gives you a long, measured look, the kind that sends a chill down your spine. His usual warmth is gone, replaced by something colder, sharper. Later, when it’s just the two of you, he sits you down. The air feels heavy, suffocating. His voice is low and calm, almost tender. “Think about it, darling. I’m doing this for your own good,” he says, his expression carefully crafted to appear apologetic, though his eyes betray something darker. “If I’m not protecting you, who will? This world is too dangerous for someone like you. Without me… you’re nothing.” The words sting, but they also confuse you.

He delivers them with such conviction, such unwavering certainty, that a part of you begins to question yourself. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you were careless, ungrateful even. He leans closer, his hand brushing against yours as if to comfort you. “You’ll understand soon enough,” he murmurs. And then it begins. Subtly, at first. Your phone mysteriously stops working, and when you ask about it, Chan is quick to offer an excuse. “It’s better this way. You don’t need all those distractions.” Your friends start to drift away—he makes sure of it, carefully orchestrating misunderstandings and missed calls until you have no one left to turn to. Your schedule becomes eerily predictable, revolving entirely around him. He insists it’s for your benefit, that it’s safer this way. The isolation creeps in slowly, but it’s relentless. The world you once knew shrinks until it consists of only him. And every time you try to protest, he’s ready with the same disarming smile and soothing words. “I know this feels harsh, but it’s because I love you. You’ll thank me someday.” Yet, no matter how gentle his tone, there’s no mistaking the steel beneath it. Bang Chan doesn’t give second chances. By the time you realize the full extent of his control, it’s too late. You’re trapped, and he knows it. And to him, that’s exactly as it should be.

Minho

If Minho grows quiet and his sharp gaze locks onto you, it’s never a good sign. When you talk back to him or let your emotions run wild, and he remains silent, it’s far worse than anger—it’s dangerous. His silence is not passivity; it’s a storm waiting to unfold. Minho doesn’t like wasting energy, and why should he? When he acts, it’s always calculated, deliberate, and impactful, ensuring you won’t dare to repeat your mistakes. The last time you pushed him, your words came tumbling out in frustration, escalating into a full-blown argument. He listened without interruption, his expression unreadable, the stillness of his body unnerving. Once your words ran dry, he finally spoke. “Are you done?” he asked, his voice eerily calm, laced with a sharp edge. “You’ve been crossing the line lately. You know that, don’t you?” The weight of his words sat heavy in your chest long after he left the room. Sleep felt impossible that night as anxiety churned in your mind. You couldn’t ignore the suffocating feeling that something was coming. And you were right. Just as the clock struck midnight, the sound of your door creaking open made you sit up in bed.

There he was, standing in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the dim hallway light. His eyes, dark and piercing, met yours, and an unsettling smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Waiting for me, lovely?” he asked softly, stepping into the room with a predator’s grace. Before you could respond, he tossed something onto the bed. The clatter was jarring, and your breath hitched when you realized what it was: your phone, shattered into pieces. “Phone? No more,” he said with an icy smirk. “I wonder what else I should make into pieces. Those stupid plushies you’re so attached to? Or maybe… someone precious?” A soft, humorless laugh escaped him as he leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours. “Remember this, love. No crossing the line. Consider this your warning,” he murmured, his voice dangerously low. “Don’t make me dirty my hands, alright?” His words cut deeper than any shout ever could. Straightening, he glanced at you one last time before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. With Minho, silence was never just silence. It was a threat, a promise, and a lesson. And when he acted, it was always with a precision that left no room for misunderstanding.

Changbin

Explode—that’s the only way to describe him when he’s angry. It’s not subtle or restrained; it’s raw, chaotic, and terrifying. When his temper snaps, it’s like a storm that tears through everything in its path. He throws things against the wall, his voice rising into a roar that makes your chest tighten with fear. The sweet, soft side he usually shows you is gone, replaced by someone you can barely recognize. “You think I’m joking right now?” he shouts, his eyes blazing with fury, so red it’s like all he can see is rage. He plants himself in front of the door, his body a solid barrier ensuring there’s no escape. The once tidy room is unrecognizable—vases lie shattered on the floor, shards glinting in the dim light, papers scattered everywhere. Each crash feels like a knife twisting in your gut, and all you can do is collapse onto the floor, your knees too weak to hold you up. His breathing is heavy, his chest heaving like he’s barely holding back from completely losing control. “Ignore me like that again,” he growls, his voice low and dripping with menace, “answer me without thinking, and next time, I’ll throw you against the wall just like I did those vases.”

The venom in his words makes your heart race, and for a split second, you can’t tell if it’s an empty threat or a promise. Either way, the weight of his fury presses down on you, leaving you frozen in place. And then, just as suddenly as it started, the storm begins to subside. He straightens, his eyes still fixed on you, but the blazing anger in them softens into something almost tender. He takes a step forward, then another, crouching down to meet you on the floor. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant, as if trying to erase the memory of the chaos he just unleashed. You flinch as he reaches for you, but he doesn’t stop. His hands find your face, cupping it gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have spilled down your cheeks. “I’m sorry, love. You need to understand how much I love you,” he whispers, his tone pleading. It’s disorienting, the way he shifts from monster to lover, his gentleness so at odds with the destruction around you. “So don’t make me lose my temper again, got it?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. The warning is clear, and you can only nod.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin has a way of making you doubt yourself, twisting your thoughts until you’re unsure of what’s real. He doesn’t raise his voice or resort to anger—instead, he makes you feel like you’re the one who’s wrong, like you’re the villain and he’s the victim. His charm is intoxicating, but beneath it lies something dangerous, something that leaves you questioning everything about yourself and your relationship. When you upset him, he doesn’t comfort you or address it directly. Instead, he turns it into his own game, one where the rules are stacked entirely in his favor. He knows exactly how to manipulate the situation, how to make you feel like the guilt is entirely yours. His voice is soft, trembling just enough to tug at your heartstrings as he asks, “Do you even love me?” Somehow, he manages to conjure tears—perfect, convincing tears that make your chest tighten with guilt. You know he’s playing a part, that the sadness in his eyes is an act, yet it still works. His vulnerability feels so real, so raw, that you can’t help but question if maybe you truly are the problem. He always knows what to say to make you doubt your actions, and soon enough, you’re scrambling to fix something you aren’t even sure you broke. He doesn’t stop there.

His words cut deeper than any raised voice or angry outburst ever could. “I feel like I’m nothing to you,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping as though he can’t bear to look at you. “Do you even care? Am I just wasting my time here?” The weight of his accusations settles heavily on your shoulders, making you feel like the worst person in the world. And that’s exactly what he wants. For Hyunjin, this isn’t just a moment of hurt—it’s a game, a calculated strategy to make you prove yourself over and over again. You find yourself apologizing, explaining, and convincing him of your love, even when you don’t fully understand what you’re apologizing for. By the time he leans in, brushing a tear from your cheek, you’re already falling into his trap. “Tell me,” he whispers, his voice barely audible but laced with desperation. “Tell me how much you love me. Please… I can’t live without you.” His words are a plea, but they carry a weight that crushes you. It’s not just about proving your love—it’s about erasing the guilt he’s so carefully placed on you. And when you finally stammer out your assurances, he smiles faintly, knowing he’s won. For Hyunjin, victory isn’t loud or violent. It’s quiet, devastating, and entirely unforgettable.

[hekateinhell]

Behind the Scenes of Blood Communion — Armand & The Kidnappings:

I’ve yapped about Armand in Blood Communion often enough over the years (it does feature one of my all-time favorite Armand moments), and I was always curious as to what was going on in Anne’s mind when she was busy plotting what would become the final book in The Vampire Chronicles—specifically re: the kidnappings and the explosive Lestat/Armand scene in the later half of the book.

Well, her diaries do give us the slightest insight into one of those things at least…

September 2, 2017

Anne has already mentioned Rose being Rhosh’s first victim and Viktor the second. Here is where she continues immediately after Viktor:

Then he [Rhoshamandes] takes Armand —

No casket comes — But they’ve intensified their hunt — on water —

Then he takes Louis — the most spectacular of all — burning novels of the Chateau — almost destroying Chrysanthe — 

Lestat wants to give himself up.

Think about the order of abductions —

He [Rhoshamandes] + Lestat bargain —

But near dawn —

Maybe only Louis + Armand.

His first vengeance is on the Replimoid buildings — in London —

So… so far it’s tentatively Rose, Viktor, Armand, and Louis that are kidnapped. Gabrielle and Marius haven’t been mentioned as of yet.

However, skipping ahead from page 135 to page 137 where she circles back to this that same day, Marius now enters the chat (briefly):

Louis + Armand are likely enough - I need to think about what he [Rhoshamandes] does - Maybe he should attempt to steal Marius + fail. And then burns the village - the sprinklers save much but the chaos is awful. Then he burns Armand’s house in St. Germain de Pres —

September 3, 2017

Anne remembers Gabrielle exists:

I forgot Gabrielle. Louis, Armand, Gabrielle — the braid in the ashes.

Lestat bargains — 15 minutes of talk to bargain for his life.

It’s Louis, Armand, and Gabrielle for the time being. No Rose, Viktor, or Marius.

September 15, 2017

Anne ‘appears’ to have decided on her group of three:

Rhosh has abducted Gabrielle + Louis + Armand.

Lestat has decided to give himself up. —

I always thought at first glance that Louis, Armand, and Gabrielle would make the most sense here tbh. There’s a fandom joke that Lestat would fall in love a McDonald’s apple pie if it was warm out of the microwave and that’s so fucking true! He loves a lot and easily, that’s always been one of my favorite aspects of his personality. I love that he loves love. 🥹 But there are three people that Lestat tends to group together one after the other over and over…

“Whatever happens, it will be worth it,” I said. “That is, if you and I, and Gabrielle, and Armand . . . and Marius are together even for a short while, it will be worth it.” ~ Lestat to Louis, TVL

She [Akasha] stared at me in silence; it seemed she would strike out at me; her face became that of a statue again; and I thought, Well, the moment is now. I will die the way I saw Azim die. I can't save Gabrielle or Louis. I can't save Armand. ~ Lestat, QotD

At the door, I turned and kissed Gabrielle again. I felt her body collapse against me for an instant; then her attention locked on Akasha. I felt the faint tremor in her hands as she touched my face. I looked at Louis, my seemingly fragile Louis with his seemingly invincible composure; and at Armand, the urchin with the angel's face. Finally those you love are simply . . . those you love. ~ Lestat, QotD

While there are accessible drafts of her earlier works, if any hardcopy drafts of the VC books exist beyond Blood Canticle, they’re not presently listed at Tulane last I checked. I don’t think she documented in her diaries when she made the decisions for what would become the final canon events here (as far as I can find yet, anyway, there’s a lot I still have to go through). So who knows when, where, and why her original vision evolved, as most novels do before they make it into our hands.

Ultimately as a fan of both Armand and Lestat and their relationship, I’m glad Anne went in the direction that she did! It’s my favorite scene in the book for a lot of reasons—so dramatic and raw and angsty all-around. 🥰 And they end the series on such a sweet and tender note, I have no complaints (especially since I came into the fandom when Blood Canticle was the final word on Lestat and we never heard about Armand post-Blood & Gold). I think it was necessary for them to go through that ordeal together and to finally have their shared baggage and history laid out in the open! Perhaps Anne thought the same? So while I hands-down prefer the canon version, I also do enjoy the alternate possibilities for fic fodder… you know, what if? ;) 

SHOUT OUTS: @somevagrantchild for the photographs taken during our Tulane trip and for letting me use them! ♥️ And of course @apoptoses for digging through hundreds of images to help me find what I was looking for, and for helping me decipher Anne’s handwriting. 🥸

[bullet-prooflove]

Lifetime: Eddie Diaz x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @gatefleet @mckinleysbones @totalstitchlover19 @angelofthetrenchcoat

Companion piece to:

Box Breathing - Eddie's been struggling since Christopher left.

Always - You make a promise to Eddie.

Real - Eddie tells you he wants something real.

A Future With You - Eddie makes a realisation during a one on one game of basketball.

Cash - Eddie discovers your secret Instagram profile.

Snake - You receieve a surprise gift from your ex at Halloween.

Midnight - Eddie makes you a promise.

Cherry Lipstick - Eddie gets better insight into you during a social event.

Bang - Eddie's new year starts with a bang.

You don’t make it to your place, you end up at Eddie’s instead, his hands running through your hair as he kisses like he needs you to goddamn breathe. You’re not even sure how he gets the door open, only that he’s kicking off his boots in the hallway, helping you shrug out of your jacket. It tumbles to the hardwood floor in a heap, followed by his shirt and your socks.

The press of your skin on his, it stokes the fire inside of him as he guides you into the bedroom, his arm locked around your waist because he can’t stand to be apart for a single second.

It becomes a frenzy of rustling fabric, roaming hands and low growls until he has you right where he wants you in his bed, his naked body covering yours. Still that’s not enough, he needs to claim you, to erase any trace of the men that came before him.

His lips ghost over your skin, teasing and heated as he begins an in depth exploration of your body, mapping out all the places that make your breath hitch, his tongue sweeping over them.

By the time he gets to his destination you’re soaked, he can see you glistening in the light, pretty, pink, perfect. He can’t wait to delve in and he does, he fucking devours you because you deserve to be treated like a goddess and Eddie will spend the rest of the night making sure that you are.

You taste like the finest whiskey when he licks into you, his large palms holding your thighs open so he can feast on your pussy. Your fingers thread through his hair, gripping hard and he knows he has you right there on the cusp of oblivion as you start to rock against his face. You whine when he pulls away, your skin flush, your eyes bright as he kisses a trail of molten heat up along your torso until his hips slot perfectly against yours.

“The first time you come it’s going to be with me Selina.” He tells you, his hand clasping your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his.

He rubs his cock against you, your lips parting, coating him in your honey as he notches himself at your entrance.

“Look at me.” He whispers, his dark eyes burning like coals as he stares into the depths of your soul. He enters you then and you make such a sweet fucking sound as he buries himself all the way to the hilt. “Do you see what you’re doing to me? What you’ve been doing to me since we met?”

You try to respond but then he’s starts to move and every single synapse inside of you lights up like a star. There’s nothing but him in that moment, that hard, relentless body fucking into you as he pins you with his gaze, watching as you combust underneath him. You take him with you, your thighs tightening around his hips urging him deeper. That perfect cunt grips his dick turning the fire inside of him into an inferno, searing through his nerve endings, burning him alive from the inside out.

His mouth covers yours, stifling his moan as his hips jerk, spilling his release inside you. When he tries to pull away, you draw him back, keeping him seated right where he is because you can’t bare to be apart from him.  

He loses track of time after that, how long he spends tangled up in you, kissing you. It isn’t until the sun starts to rise that he eventually draws away and when he does, he realises this is life he wants, the one right here with you in his bed.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[impossiblesublimelight]

So, I’ve been rewatching some of my favorite Helluva Boss episodes lately (as you do, the cope is real). And to add some variety to each rewatch, I’ve started to focus on watching reactors and seeing their takes on those episodes. It’s been a blast! Seeing the different reactions and perspectives that they bring to my favorite episodes. Some of them have even pointed out things I never even noticed while watching the episode on my own. It really adds a freshness to each rewatch, as if I’m seeing the episode for the first time all over again.

Hower, it’s not always a matter of new insights and enjoyable new perspectives. Which is understandable, and expected honestly. It’s the internet, afterall.

What I don’t understand is how every reactor has had almost the exact same response to the scene from “Mammon’s Magnificent Mid-Season Special” regarding Fizz’s stalker “fan”.

Every reactor’s initial response is excitement at Blitz’s timely arrival in intercepting Creepzo, eagerly anticipating Blitz doing what he does best and assassinate the creep. But then Blitz decides not to shoot, opting instead to just smack Creepzo with his gun and leaving him to slink off. Every reactor I’ve watched was flabbergasted by this, not understanding why Blitz didn’t just kill the creep. But then, the whole event is put to the back-burner and ultimately forgotten due to the drama that immediately follows afterwards.

Heck, if I’m being honest, I had the exact same response when I first watched the episode myself. But I’ve been obsessively rewatching my favorite episodes back to back ever since “Sinsmas” aired, so of course I noticed something I didn’t pick up on that first viewing.

Blitz’s reaction to Fizzarolli’s panic says it all. He knew that Fizz wouldn’t be able to handle it if Creepzo got shot. Heck, he was there when Fizzarolli himself admitted that he does’t handle dangerous situations.

Blitz was listening. And he handled the situation in a way that he thought wouldn’t agitate Fizzarolli any more than he already was.

And it doesn’t end there! Here’s another interesting little detail that I don’t see people mentioning.

Asmodeus arrives just in the nick of time to support Fizz and help talk him down from his panic attack. But here’s the thing. How is he there? It was stated multiple times that Asodeus wasn’t supposed to be at the event in Greed. And the whole fiasco that took place in “Oops” shows that he doesn’t keep tabs on Fizzarolli when he’s outside of Lust. So, how did he know?

Simple, Blitz told him.

Blitz was working with Asmodeus to convince Fizz to quit the clown pageant in the first place. But, when everything Blitz said went completely ignored or was outright rebuffed, he simply stood by his friend to act as support. Until he realized it wasn’t enough. Blitz actually assessed the situation and determined that Fizz needed Asmodeus more than anyone else in that moment. And he took a step back and left it to Asmodeus.

Showing yet another instance of Blitz caring about his found family, and showing his love by being considerate in such subtle ways that people don’t notice.

[bichianti]

this is a kinda fucked up confession as its a bit personal but w/e

i (24M) had this decade long childhood best friend (25M) who was in love with me forever, but it was unreciprocated, so the older we got the more he would put me down 'jokingly' and act like he hated the fuck out of me and he probably did... but i was still his like only good friend.

There was a few times i not so subtlety got the hint he was still into me as adults. One time even 'jokingly' trying to get me to moan by pulling my hair, drunk as hell. He was pretty lonely, and i guess it boiled to a point where he wanted to let out those frustrations as it seemed everyone was experiencing life faster than him. He assaulted / harassed several people before leaving the town to 'chase a sudden dream'. Obviously thats what ended the friendship when i found out the reality of the sudden move, but my confession is a lot of the jimmy / curly art reminds me of it all.

It sickens me that i want to forgive him all the time, in fact i wish i let him do that to me instead. I couldve beared it and enjoyed it is the awful idea in my head i guess. I was coming around to liking the idea of me and him before he cracked, and i already was woefully entrapped in the way he treated me for years. Theres something that feels special about the way someone takes the time and energy to mistreat and manipulate you, because they need to so bad. I truly dont wish what he did on anybody though, just myself.

Its been long enough where even though these desires sicken me im fine that im like this, not trying to vent. I enjoy your art a lot and just trying to say it evokes my need for a horribly sleazy guy to force his way over me again... if youre still looking for inspo i think it would be incredibly hot to see jimmy try to get a quick fuck in behind a bar before he gets caught. Thanks again for the amazing artwork from a awful fag 💖✌️(and if u want me to come off anon i can)

I found this very interesting to read, especially because of the obvious parallels here.

"Theres something that feels special about the way someone takes the time and energy to mistreat and manipulate you, because they need to so bad. I truly dont wish what he did on anybody though, just myself."

Very insightful, this feels very personal, so I don't want to take anything away from that. But maybe Curly also felt similar to this, I can see it! Thank you for sharing~. (And hot idea.... oh)

(I hope it's okay I publish this, since it's on anon. If not just send me an ask again)

[zepskies]

Awww that makes me so happy, friend! 🥰 There's definitely MORE coming soon. 💜💜💜

i’m usually a bit squeamish when it comes to anything that involves hunting, but the opening scene was written so nicely, it was the perfect amount of descriptive without being like, graphic? if that makes sense :) and although I feel sad for the lion (major cat person, lol) i’m glad dean was able to prove himself, even without the child’s bow :p💘

Ooh I totally get that, but thank you so much for that compliment. 😊 I tried not to make it too graphic (I love cats too! 😭). Dean will have the chance to master the bow soon enough though! 🏹

i’m also glad mila’s words got through to šóta and he showed dean some grace and kindness 😭🤍 it’s what my boy deserves <33

He needed that proverbial kick in the pants, didn't he?! And Dean finally gets someone on his side besides Mila, poor guy lol.

meanwhile otaktay youuu trifling miserable conniving bitter bitchhhh :| pardon my language lol i’m so glad he got the whoopin he deserved! the absolute audacity of that dude. 🤦🏽‍♀️ — got ahead of myself cause I like to review in order of events lol but he really grinded my gearss [insert arthur fist meme]

Oh Otaktay IS a trifling ass bitch. 😤 Even his own people are looking at him sideways for what he's done (or what he tried to do). Lolll totally understandable. Otaktay grinded my gears just writing him. 🤣

i loved all the little insights into how dean is with mila :’)🩵 they are so sweet to each other 😭 love them <3 it’s also nice that various people (minus one ofc) were seeing how well he treats his wife and how respectful he is 🙂‍↕️

Aww honestly I loved trying to figure out their dynamic as a married couple. I also feel like this was a time where a man like Dean would've been raised to respect the women in his life, especially his wife. 💜💜

checking in with her beforeeee getting down to business 🫠 [he’s a good man savannah 😔💖]

Damn right. 😏 Dean is gonna handle his business, but first, needs to check in with his girl.

aaand this is when I knew otaktay was in dangerrr lol

oh 100%. Guy's marked now. 😅

ohhhhhhh 😭😂 when I read this i thought to myself, dang maybe the fight wasn’t so bad in comparison to what’s coming to him 🤣 mama is nottttt gonna be happy

lmaooooo you know what, you're probably right! A little reveal there that Eyota is Otaktay's mother--and he's about to get another whoopin'. 😂

I adoreee this ♥️ and he’s worthyyyy🥺🤍 I loved the respect everyone finally showed him <3 the circumstances were not the greatest of course, but he has more than earned that respect by now :’) also when he was called honorable I thought of THC which i’m not sure if it was intentional or not, but either way, so cute!🧡

Aw thank you, my lovely. 🥹 Dean IS worthy, and finally getting the respect he deserves from everyone involved. 💗

Omg I hoped readers would notice that connection to THC! It was very intentional. 😘

i’m also glad they had that talk! it was so important, i’m glad it was reassuring for them🫶🏽

Oh yeah, Otaktay didn't put the thoughts in Mila's head about her and Dean's long-term struggles, and their future kids, but it sure did fan the flames. It was an important convo for her and Dean to have and get through together. 🫶🏽

meltinggg this was the sweetest thing🥺💗 home is where the heart is indeed<3 overall another amazing chapter lovely!💞

Aww thank you, my lovely. 🥹 That was probably my favorite line for this mini series, let alone this chapter. I'm so glad you enjoyed that part, and this chapter overall!! 💕

p.s. not entirely sure who’s in the teaser buuut i’m holding out hope for a certain someonee🤠 the anticipation buildss

Ooh you know what, I'm sure you've already figured it out. 😏 But until then...

Outlander - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won? 

AN: Here we go! Diving deeper into Dean's (mis)adventures, plus a big Protective Dean moment...

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Mentions of attempted sexual assault (not graphic). Protective Dean, survival situations, derogatory name-calling, hunting (in the traditional sense), angst, blood and violence, hurt/comfort, and romantic fluff and spice.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: What is Home

No matter how Dean tries, somehow he never makes his mark with the arrow. His boot even slips on the tree branch he was perched on, and he falls straight into the mud from this morning’s rain shower.

The other six men wait for him on the ground, and they laugh at him. 

Otaktay is the ringleader today, as he is whenever Šóta isn’t here.

“Get up, wašíču. Watch close,” Otaktay says, in his limited English. He and Takoda smoke their long pipes leisurely and blow smoke rings up in the air.

Wašíču.

Fat taker. Greedy White. By now, Dean knows what that means, and it’s worse than Outlander. It makes his jaw clench and his temper spike.

Otaktay gives Takoda his pipe to hold, then reaches behind his back for his bow and an arrow from his quiver. Dean has noticed that the other men’s bows look a bit bigger than his, but Otaktay called it a “training bow.”

He notches his arrow, pulls it back and lets it fly. It hits up into the tree and spears an apple, pinning it to the trunk.

It’s an impressive move, but Dean just picks himself up and cleans most of the mud from his hands. He knows Mila will have something to say about making a mess of the clothes she made for him.

“All right, fine. I am what I am,” Dean says. He meets Otaktay’s gaze head-on. “But I’ve still been hunting all my life.”

Dean used to keep his knife on his belt, but now he wears the pants and tunics the other men wear, and they either strap their weapons in a leather holster around their thigh or to their ankles. Dean unsheathes the knife he keeps strapped to his thigh. 

And he throws it hard. It cuts straight through a branch and brings an entire bunch of apples to the ground by Takoda’s feet; he even has to jump to avoid them landing on his head. The others murmur to each other, begrudgingly impressed. 

Except for Otaktay. His face remains stoic. 

A whistle breaks the tension in the forest clearing. It’s Šóta, who joins them, coming through on his horse. 

“How is the hunt going?” he asks in English, raising a brow over at the wild boar that lies in the grass. Otaktay and the others killed it this morning, so he’s the one who speaks first. 

“The Outsider will bring a whole bunch of apples to feed his wife. How satisfying,” Otaktay says, with a dry edge of mocking. Dean’s jaw clenches, but he tries not to rise to the bait. 

“Maybe he satisfies her in other ways, brother,” Šóta says. “Maybe that’s why he has a wife, and you don’t.” 

His tone is teasing, but is there a reproaching edge there too? Dean’s lips tug upwards, slightly; he sees that Otaktay simmers at the dig, but he doesn’t dare say anything against Šóta.

“Hey!” Takoda calls out. He points at the boar they mean to take back to the village. A mountain lion slips closer down from a tree. He sinks his teeth into the boar’s thigh and begins to drag it away, farther into the forest.

The sight of the wild cat spooks the men’s horses grazing nearby. Even Baby scatters along with them, braying in distress. But the men hustle into action. Even with mud still clinging to his clothes and his skin, Dean grabs up his bow and arrow and runs to grab his fallen knife. He whistles to Baby and calms her down enough to climb up onto her back. 

The others have already done the same with their horses and are chasing the mountain lion into the woods. It zips up a tree, and Šóta, Otaktay, and the others aim their arrows high. They wait and listen. 

Otaktay releases his arrow first. The cat’s angry shriek fills the clearing from above.

“You got him,” Šóta says.

“Winged him. He’s not dead,” Otaktay says. His brows furrow as he listens closer. 

The cat jumps from the tree and takes Dean to the ground. Baby brays and stamps around, and Dean has to both avoid her hooves and try to keep the mountain lion from sinking his claws or his teeth into his neck. 

Šóta’s eyes widen, but he springs into action by whistling to the men and raising his bow. Before he can shoot, he has to stop short at what he sees. 

A moment later, Dean rolls over and heaves the lion’s dead body off of him. His knife comes out of the animal’s chest, slick and crimson with blood. It runs down his muddy shirt as he pants and heaves for breath.

Šóta gets down from his horse, running his disbelieving eyes over the scene.

Dean looks up and finds a hand offered to him. His gaze travels up further and meets Šóta’s. His eyes are an even darker brown than Mila’s. Dean takes his hand and accepts the help to his feet.

The other men hesitate, stunned into silence, but they get down from their horses and help Dean and Šóta heft the dead animal onto the latter’s horse. They will take it, along with the boar they retrieve from up in the tree, back to camp.

Mila returns to camp not long before the men. She meant to start prepping for supper, but she becomes sidetracked while playing Chase with the children. As one of the few young women still without children of her own, she tries her best to give the mothers a break in the afternoon, so they can finish washing, mending, cooking, or even just having a rest for themselves. 

Watching their joy, and even helping them up when they fall and cry, makes her wonder when she will finally be blessed with a child. She hopes they will have Dean’s eyes, so pretty and green.

When the men return, she raises her head breathlessly and smiles. It soon dims, however, as she catches sight of Dean. She gets to her feet and ushers the children back to their mothers before she goes to meet him. 

He gives her a sheepish look when he gets off his horse. Her mouth drops open at seeing him covered in mud and sweat and blood. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, trying to placate her with raised hands. She ignores that and touches his chest, her palms splaying down his stomach as she tries to find a wound. She finds more tears and scratches through his soiled clothes, but no real wounds. Still, she’s not satisfied yet.

“What happened?” she asks. 

“Just a little trial by fire, sweetheart,” Dean says. He grasps her arms to placate her. “Everything’s okay.”

Otaktay pointedly looks away from the scene and moves on along with the other men. Šóta notices, but he goes to his cousin.

“We encountered a thief,” he says, gesturing to the body of the mountain lion they brought back for tonight’s meal. “Dean Winchester not only caught the thief, but made an example of him.”

Mila raises her brows and looks to Dean, as if to say, Is this true? He offers a smile and a shrug. She smiles back.

Šóta rides on, but he glances back and sees how Mila dotes on her husband, touching a gentle hand to his cheek.

In return, Dean holds her by the waist and talks to her with a warmth in his eyes that he only has for her. Or at least, that’s what Šóta finally sees.  

Mila and Dean head back to their tipi, where she grabs a fresh change of clothing for him. 

“I could’ve gotten it,” he says. 

“You’ll track mud inside,” she points out wryly. She holds the bundle of clothes for him on their way to the river. “All you do is give me mending to do. You can’t keep clean, can’t keep from hurting yourself, can you?”

Dean knows her well enough now to realize her griping isn’t all that serious. She was just worried.

“I guess not,” he says, trying to hide his amusement.

She gives him a stern look, but with that cheeky look of his, she can’t stay upset for long. Her face softens into an exasperated smile, and she gestures towards the river. “Go. Wash yourself up. I will have supper ready soon.”

Dean grabs her hand and makes her drop the change of clothes in the grass. 

“Only if you come with me,” he says. He grabs her and aims to toss her over his shoulder, but she squeals in protest. 

“Dean Winchester! I’ll have nothing to wear if you drop me in the water!” 

Dean pauses, his lips tugging at a smirk. “You make a decent point, but I’m just wondering, do I really care if you’ve gotta walk back naked?” 

“Dean!” she giggles, hitting his shoulder. 

He chuckles and sets her down, but he still doesn’t let her leave. By now, she doesn’t want to. He starts helping her undress, followed by him peeling off his disgusting clothes. He hooks an arm around her waist and hauls her with him into the water. She laughs and tries to escape him by splashing water in his face, but he just spits it out. He chuckles and wipes the excess droplets.

He slips his arms around her waist, holds her tight and floats with her for a bit. He takes in a deep breath and finds peace here with her here in the sun-warmed water. She’s become his peace.

Mila takes his face in her hands and kisses him slowly. When she pulls away and their eyes meet again, she smiles.

“I am proud of you,” she says. “Not just for today, but for every day that you stand strong.”

Dean’s lips quirk with a reluctant smile. He doesn’t take praise very well, but her words make the weight on his shoulders feel a little bit lighter. Holding her flush against his chest, every soft, familiar curve is pressed against him. He leans in and captures her lips again.

That evening, the tribe gathers for a feast prepared by the Chief’s wives, Mila, and her mother Weaya to celebrate the warriors’ highly successful hunt.

Šóta watches his cousin with her Outlander husband. Dean follows her lead in divvying out portions of the meal, but still at times with a supportive hand on the small of her back. He even takes the large, hot bowl out of her hand to help serve her and her family—including Chatan, who accepts the offered bowl without a word.

Dean Winchester doesn’t sit until Mila does. They talk together with her mother and the others, though Dean mostly keeps to himself while the women chat. He occasionally responds to a direct question or comment, but overall, he seems content to listen. He’s starting to follow more bits of conversation in their language.

At the end of the meal, he stands with Mila and helps her collect bowls that will be washed. The man is confident, but not prideful. He’s hardworking, self-reliant, and has the makings of a warrior. 

However, Šóta is not the only one who watches his cousin and the Outlander.  

Šóta pulls Dean aside after breakfast the next morning. He takes Dean back to the forest, beyond where the horses are kept in their pen, and puts his own hunting bow in Dean’s hands.  

“Feel the weight of it,” Šóta says. “Does it seem like yours?”

Dean considers it, testing out the strength of the bowstring. “No. It feels heavier.”

“Because it is. We gave you a training bow for children,” Šóta says. He takes the bow from Dean and brings him the one he had tied to a satchel on his horse. “I will give you this one. It belonged to my half-brother, Takoda, before he made his own. I made it for him, and now I give it to you.”

Dean takes the bow. Šóta’s right, it’s taller and heavier than the first one they gave him. Of course they tried to trick him by giving him a kid’s bow. He tries not to be too annoyed about it, because it looks like Šóta’s warming up to him, at least enough to actually train him.

“Thanks,” Dean nods. He runs a hand over the bow and admires the craftsmanship of the wood, smooth and chestnut colored. He already has a quiver full of arrows he’s made himself, but first, Šóta corrects his stance and his posture.

“Your body knows the movements of hold, aim, and shoot, but you think too much,” he says. “How you shoot an arrow is not so different from a gun.”

Dean raises a brow. He begs to fucking differ.

Reading the skeptical look on his face, Šóta smiles.

“My father once told me, ‘A weapon is a weapon is a weapon,’” Šóta continues. “The way you use it might be different, but your mind is the same. Think like the river. Calm and free, yes?”

He throws Dean a thumbs up—something Dean taught him a week ago. Šóta just hasn’t gotten it quite right yet. 

“A river ain’t always calm,” Dean points out. He should know. He almost died on the river in his journey here.

Šóta thinks for a second, tilting his head. “That is fair. Here, let me think of something better—”

“It’s okay, I think I get it. I just gotta relax a bit, is that it?”

“Yes, but stay focused.”

“I can focus. I just need you to back up a little.”

Šóta raises his hands in surrender. He takes a couple of steps back and gestures at a tree to use for target practice. Dean centers himself.

“Remember to breathe,” Šóta says.

Dean shoots him a glance. Again, Šóta holds up his hands, then crosses his arms, pressing his lips together. Dean shifts his gaze back to the target, and he lets out a deep breath. Then he lets the arrow fly. 

It hits just shy of the tree’s center. 

Šóta smiles, giving him another “thumbs up.” 

“Good. Now, again,” he says.

The morning slowly dips behind the clouds into a golden afternoon. Šóta helps Dean catch and roast a couple of fish by the river, which cuts through the forest. Its waters are choppy and shimmering with the light.

This forest used to run almost all the way to the Black Hills, before the U.S. government began its work on the railroad. The tribe has had to move their village more than once out of self-preservation, like they did when Dean came to them. 

He felt bad for it at the time, but he’s also grateful they made that precaution. The last thing he needs is to run into his old unit, let alone for the army to find out he’s still alive. And the last thing he wants is to endanger these people, especially his wife and her family.

He finishes off his second fish and glances over at Šóta.

“Look, I appreciate your help, but…I’ve gotta wonder why,” Dean says. “You don’t like that I’m here either.”

Šóta pauses in his chewing. He swallows before he answers, looking over at Dean in the eyes.

“It doesn’t matter if I like you,” he says. “You are the man who brought Kimmímila home alive. So, I help you.”

Dean nods. He can respect that. He looks down at the half-eaten meal, then at his hands, calloused and worn. They hold the weight of his past, his choices, and also the man he’s trying to be.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says.

The simple truth is that he’d give his life for hers. No hesitation.

“I know that, Dean Winchester. That is the other reason you are still alive,” Šóta says, with a slight smile. “You are brave. I will give you that.”

Dean smiles. “I guess there’s no winning over the others, is there?” 

At that, Šóta pauses. “You are doing better than you think. The others see you aren’t afraid. They see you work hard, and you try to respect our ways. You just don’t know them. They don’t know you.”

“I get it,” Dean says, nodding. “Like, uh, Otaktay. Right?”

“Ah,” Šóta rubs his clean-shaven chin. “You will have a harder time with him.”

Dean quirks a rueful smile. “What’s his deal?”

“His deal?” Šóta questions.

“His problem,” Dean elaborates, “with me.” 

Šóta sighs sharply. “Our men are warriors bred. Otaktay. His name means, ‘kills many.’”

Dean raises his brows. He slowly inclines his head.

“Riiiight. Of course.” 

“Names have power, Dean Winchester. Otaktay takes his name like a challenge he will win, but he does it to protect our tribe above all else,” Šóta says.

If that weren’t enough, the man levels Dean with a more serious look.

“But there is something else you should know.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s going to like whatever’s coming next. He nods, wordlessly urging Šóta to continue.

“Otaktay has always watched my cousin, admired her spirit and her beauty,” he says. “Mila has known this, and maybe she would have accepted him, had she known…but he planned to ask Chatan, my uncle, for Mila’s hand.”

Dean’s chest tightens, as does his frown. “What happened?”

“She disappeared,” Šóta replies. “When Mato was taken, she couldn’t accept it. She left the village to find him against my uncle’s command. Then she found you.” 

Dean isn’t exactly surprised by that. His wife is many things, defiant chief among them. Also, it makes a lot of things make even more sense. It explains her father’s tough outer shell, and clearly, it means he’ll have to keep a sharper eye on Otaktay.

She had been successfully avoiding him, until now.

Mila had just left the horses after helping Takoda feed and brush them, and she was planning to wash up before helping her mother and some of the other women cook for the entire tribe again this evening. Today is the last moon of the summer months, and so they’ve been preparing the wild game that the men had hunted for the past two days. Tonight, they will have an even greater feast.

She feels a shadow at her feet as she ventures through the village. They’re getting bigger as a tribe, harder to move when they need to, and it’s more mouths to feed, but it’s also a good thing. Despite all the challenges the past few decades have brought, their people are enduring. 

However, Mila pushes these thoughts to the back of her mind when she feels a prickling down the back of her neck. It’s followed shortly by the strong hand that closes on her wrist, and the man that calls her name. 

She gasps and whips around. He’s there, gently shushing her. She glares at him and tries to pull her hand out of his grip. 

“Ota,” she snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I just want to talk to you,” Otaktay says. His brown eyes are earnest, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. “You have been avoiding me.”

“I can’t be any more honest than I have been,” Mila says, and finally she manages to free herself from his grasp with a sharper tug. “Enough of this.”

She begins to walk away from him. The distance between the horses’ corral and the village is short, just over the gentle slope of a grassy hill and down below…but her cousin isn’t here. Her husband isn’t here. Otaktay believes this is his only chance—his chance to make her see reason. He stops her again, this time with his words.

“Do you think it will be that easy?” he says. “The Outlander will bring death upon us all.”

Mila stops short. She turns on her heel to meet him with a glare. 

“His people think he’s dead,” she says.

Otaktay approaches her with slow, measured steps. “And what if they find him here? Every day their iron caravans invade our lands. Every day their patrols come to take from us, to destroy us. How many of his own do you think he will kill for you?”

He raises a pointed finger. “And your children. Your children with that man will be cursed. Forever in the shadow of two worlds, forced into one, and hated by the other.”

His words pin Mila to the ground by her toes. Her body stills, because she’s shaken deep within. She doesn’t want to believe him, but she also won’t admit that these are the thoughts she’s tried to push from her mind. What she wants most of all is a family of her own. She wants it with her husband. 

But is it fair?

To them.

To him.

To her people.

She doesn’t know, and for that, her lips tremble. Her eyes burn with tears and she raises a trembling hand to her mouth. 

Otaktay draws closer and attempts to hold her hands, but her brows crunch in anger. You!

She pushes him in the dead center of his chest, so hard that it unbalances him. He’s surprised by her ire, and that satisfies her. She shoves him again, more forcefully this time, but he manages to hold his ground. 

“Kimmímila—”

She doesn’t give him the chance to try and placate her. With a cry of effort and frustration, she slaps at his face with all of her strength. It whips the man’s face to the side and even makes him stumble. He raises a hand to his cheek in disbelief. Already his tan skin is reddening, both from the mark of her anger, and from his own.

When she goes to shove him again, he grabs her by the arms to try and subdue her. Her tears are beginning to blind her, but she doesn’t care. The way he holds her tightly makes a flash of dread coil in her stomach.

In her distant mind, she knows Otaktay wouldn’t willingly hurt her. But his grip reminds her of Roman, the officer at Fort Laramie, who took advantage of the way she was tied to a post in their camp. She remembers his rough hands, the wood pressing into her spine. She remembers his hot breath and his chapped lips trying to claim her, his knee pressing between her legs.

Her own breaths come out in shallow gasps as that well of dread grows in her chest, rising into her throat to choke her. Mila punches wildly at Otaktay’s chest and rakes him with her nails. He finally grits his teeth and grabs her tightly by the hair. 

“Enough!” he shouts in her face. 

She matches him, her voice echoing in the clearing. “Let me go!” 

“Not until you calm down!”

He takes her face in his hands. Looking down into her tear-filled eyes, wild and devastated, he begins to feel remorse; but there too is desire and jealousy, deep and twisted together in the oily dark of his soul. Otaktay believes he’s only been selfish once in his life. Kimmímila is that one.

“Let go!” she shakily demands. She struggles against his hold and tries to run away from him, even though she used to run with him, ride with him through the forest on horseback and across the grassy plains instead of doing their chores. He tries to remind her of it now when he bows his head to kiss her. 

He finds himself ripped away—shoved hard enough to land stumbling into the sun-hot grass. 

“Dean!” Mila gasps. She reaches for her husband, even though the clenched set of his jaw and the tightness in his broad shoulders make her wary. She’s not afraid of him though. She just has a terrible feeling that she knows what’s coming next. 

Dean turns his attention to her first, a firm, but gentle grasp of her shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks gruffly. 

She nods, brushing away tears from her cheek. She holds onto his hand. “Yes.”

“Okay, stay back,” he says, releasing her.

She tries to stop him from advancing on Otaktay, but Šóta holds her shoulders with a grim look on his face. He guides her back and at his side. He and Dean have come on horseback. They jumped down to help her. She doesn’t know that they heard her and Otaktay shouting from several yards away, their voices carried on the wind.

Dean hadn’t been able to understand the words, but Šóta’s sense of urgency and the shrill, angry panic in Mila’s voice spurred him on, urging Baby to a full gallop down the hill. Seeing her tears was one thing, but while he saw Otaktay, in his mind, Dean also saw the night that Roman tried to force himself on her.

The rage that compels Dean now is different from the anger he had then. Back at the camp, he was just doing what he felt was right. Today, this is a protective call for blood. 

Otaktay had barely gotten back to his feet, but the upward swing of Dean’s fist cracks across his chin and sends him back down to the ground. He seethes, with blood in his teeth, but he angrily swipes Dean’s legs from underneath him. It becomes a grapple for leverage as the men tussle in the grass, trading swift punches. Otaktay kicks Dean hard in the stomach to gain some distance, rocking back onto his feet. Dean stumbles slightly, but he does the same.

“Stop!” Mila shouts in protest. Šóta holds her back. Despite her wildness before, she doesn’t want either of them dead. She fears more for her husband, but not because she doesn’t believe in him. She’s afraid of what will happen if Otaktay is killed. 

He plays dirty, spitting in Dean’s face. Dean matches by throwing an elbow into the other man’s throat, grabs his arm, then pivots and heaves him over his shoulder onto the ground. For a moment, Otaktay lies there winded on his back. Dean pins him there with his heavier weight bearing down on him. 

Otaktay sneaks a hand from the sheath strapped to his thigh and twists a knife into his hand. Šóta and Mila both see it, him with a tight frown and her with widening eyes.

She calls out in alarm, but Dean reacts fast. He strikes at Otaktay’s wrist and grabs his arm. A swift elbow and Otaktay’s knee in Dean’s gut forces him to the side, heaving a grunt. Otaktay gains the better position as he presses a knee right over Dean’s chest. He grunts at the impact; it threatens to break a rib. The knife becomes poised over Dean’s face in the struggle, nearing his neck. 

“Otaktay!” Mila calls out sharply, a warning and a plea all at once. 

He hears her. For just a second, he allows himself to glance up at her and see what lies in her eyes. He knows her fear is not for him. 

Still, anger overcomes his heart. He calls out a battle cry and puts his entire strength into bringing the knife down. Dean allows it with gritted teeth, but he positions his hands in just the right way to guide the man’s arm just to the right of his neck, slicing shallowly into his skin. The knife sinks into the earth.

Dean throws a punch that lands across the Lakota’s cheek, then another, and it allows him to kick the man in his ribs, sending him backwards with a heavy grunt. Dean grabs the knife out of the ground, and when he rolls onto his feet, he slashes at the other man’s chest. It isn’t deep enough to be fatal, but it’s enough to make him bleed red rivulets. 

Otaktay works harder than ever, trading blows and kicks that Dean can’t always dodge. But eventually, Dean hooks a boot behind the other man’s ankle and unbalances him enough to drive him to the ground. He shifts the position of the knife and brings it flush to Otaktay’s throat. 

His eyes widen; he never expected to be bested by the Outlander. The sharp edge of the blade bites into his skin, cutting a thin line of blood dripping down to his collarbone.

They’re both heaving for breath, sweaty, bloody, and bruised. It’s then that Dean realizes that they’ve attracted a small crowd. At the center of it is Chief Tahatan. He’s watching closely, his face unreadable, along with one of his wives. A few men stand beside him, namely Mila’s father, Chatan, Takoda, and some of the women too. Šóta whispers to them, explaining why the men are fighting.

Even Dean knows that by the customs of their tribe, he’s well within his rights to end this the way his hand in itching to—by sinking the blade into Otaktay’s jugular. Maybe it will finally earn him respect. Maybe it won’t. 

He glances up and finds Mila’s eyes. She stands frozen with her heart in her throat. All she sees is him. And she’s the only one Dean means to answer to. 

He raises the knife—and he brings it down into the earth beside Otaktay’s head.

The warrior inhales sharply, his brows furrowing in shock and confusion. He stares up at Dean, who looks down at him with the remnants of jaw-clenching anger. In that moment, they come to an understanding. 

Dean pulls back and straightens up, with just a small shake in his bowed legs. His gait steadies as he makes his way back to his wife. 

Šóta lets go of Mila so she can go to meet Dean. She runs her hands over his chest and arms, trying to find injuries she may not have seen before. Her fingers trace around places that are already becoming bruises, but Dean just holds her, taking pains to soften himself. His arms around her are secure, but not too strong. She’s just grateful that he isn’t hurt too badly.

“You okay?” he makes sure. 

Mila nods, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “Yes.”

Her parents watch them closely, even though the couple doesn’t realize it.

Behind them, Takoda shakes his head at his friend, but he dutifully helps Otaktay to his feet. Šóta crosses his arms and levels him with a cold look. 

“Take him to Eyota,” he says. 

“Yes,” Tahatan agrees, his voice deep and grave. “Tell her what her son has done here.”

The rest of Otaktay’s anger drains when he looks up at his chief. He says nothing, and can’t hold the older man’s gaze for long. He reluctantly leans on his friend to help him up and over the grassy hill, down to the village. The others gathered there wait to see what Tahatan will do next. He approaches Mila and Dean. 

“A good man protects his family above his own life. A warrior protects his tribe, even at the cost of blood,” Tahatan says. He looks directly at Dean. “But an honorable man knows when to show mercy.”

Dean’s heart begins to beat fast again. He hadn’t known that his choice was the right one, until now. He’s able to keep his head high without being arrogant. He just isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. 

“Dean Winchester, you will be called Ikíphi,” Tahatan declares.

Dean blinks in surprise, and also confusion when he notices the way Mila begins to weep silent tears. He tightens his arm around her waist in a wordless question, but she just smiles at him.

“Uh, what does that mean?” he whispers the question to her.

She opens her mouth to respond, but her father is the one who answers. Chatan rests a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Worthy,” he says. 

He meets Dean’s gaze and holds it, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. Dean gives the gesture back to him in kind, and to Tahatan as well. Then Chatan takes his leave, walking back to camp with Weaya, Šóta, and the Chief. The others whisper Ikíphi, offering their nods of respect to Dean before they follow suit, until it’s only Mila and Dean left in the clearing.

She pulls out of his hold just to take his hand. She looks ahead rather than at him.

“Come,” she says. 

Something’s wrong. Dean knows it in his gut.

He and Mila bathe together in the river again, but even though she helps him by washing his back, she’s quiet and distracted. He asks her if she was hurt. She tells him she wasn’t. That’s the only time she looks him in the eyes. 

Later, they return home thoroughly exhausted. Dean starts up a small fire for the coals to help dry them off the rest of the way. 

“There is a feast tonight,” Mila reminds him while she sits on the bedding, brushing through her long, damp hair. Dean sits near the fireplace and uses his knife to shave. He glances her way and lets out a deep breath. 

“I don’t know if I’m up for a party,” he admits. 

She surprises him by agreeing. “I’m tired too. I think Tahatan will understand if we stay in.”

Dean quirks a brow. She loves it when the tribe comes together for mealtimes. For days, she’s been telling him about moon feasts—the music, the games, the antics her cousins get up to, performing stories for the children and whoever else indulges them. 

So Dean gets up and goes over to her. He swipes her hair aside and lays a kiss on her shoulder. She keeps brushing her hair, so he keeps up his path of kisses along her neck, nibbling her ear. She laughs a little and flinches at the ticklish feeling, making him smile. He wraps his arms around her from behind, and she sighs, succumbing to the feeling of him warm at her back. She settles against his chest. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks. 

Her smile fades, though he can’t see it. “I should ask you that.”

“I’m fine, baby,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Well, maybe you should not be fine,” she says in a smaller voice. 

Dean pauses, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

Mila gently pushes his arms away from her. She stands up and creates distance between them. She crosses her arms to hold herself, not even daring to look back at him. 

“I mean that…maybe you should go home, back to your people,” she says. She manages to keep her voice steady, even though she’s breaking her own heart.  

Dean gets up to his feet, alarm and unease coiling in his stomach. He grasps her elbow and comes around to see her face, and when he does, he sees the truth. Tears shine in her eyes, slipping down with every blink. His furrowed brows ease somewhat, but he still needs answers. He holds her by her arms and stares into her soulful brown eyes.

“Mila, what’s going on? Your family, the Chief, even your dad—they’re all starting to accept me now. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks. “What happened today, it’s a one-off, okay? For damn sure, Otaktay’s not touching you again—”

“It’s not that,” Mila says with a sniffle. She holds herself tighter, trying not to let Dean’s concern, his touch, or the intensity of his green eyes affect her so much. 

“Today we have peace, but how long will that last?” she says. “And…and our children. Will they be accepted too? Or will they never find their place, caught between two worlds, but never belonging to either one.”

Mila succumbs to quiet, shuddering sobs. Her trembling hands try to cover her face from him.

Dean’s face gentles. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest (again). He gathers her to his chest and holds her closely. In the entire month he’s been living here, he hasn’t thought too much about kids. Not in any real way…

Well, okay. Maybe he has, whenever he sees Mila caring for the children of the village for their mothers. Or when they run past him, laughing, playing imaginary games. He would smile, remembering how he and Sam used to drive their mom crazy tearing around the farm when they were little. 

In fact, the thought warms him now. Dean cradles the back of Mila’s head and runs his fingers through her hair. He imagines her holding a little boy who has her dark hair and eyes, and maybe Dean’s chin. He thinks she’d be a good mom.

I wish Mom could meet her, he thinks.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says. He pulls away so he can see Mila’s eyes again, honey-brown and shiny with tears. “I can’t go home. I’m already here.”

Mila can’t help but soften, her lower lip trembling. He caresses her cheek; a gentle thumb brushes away stray tears. 

“So it might get harder,” he says. “Maybe we are doomed to fail. Or just maybe, our kids are the ones who are gonna make the peace stick.” 

Mila’s fingers curl into his shirt. She holds onto him, and he can see that her reservations are finally breaking down. He squeezes her waist and earns her gaze on him. 

“All I know is, you’re my wife ‘til the day I die,” he says, more firmly. “I’m not going anywhere without you. You understand me?” 

Another watery path finds its way down Mila’s cheek, but she wipes it away. Her sweeter smile peaks through, along with the amused gleam in her eyes. 

“I understand,” she replies. Her voice is mostly steady; the small quake is no longer uncertainty, just heartfelt emotion. “You take your vows seriously.”

“That’s right,” Dean nods, his lips hinting at a smile. “And you promised me something too last night, remember?”

Her brows furrow as she considers the question. But then, it dawns on her. 

You will never be alone.

Her small smile returns, and she nods.

“Yes. I’m sorry…I should not let fear blind me to the truth.” She takes his hand from where it lies on her waist, and she guides it to rest over her heart. “You live here now, in my spirit.”

Dean has never heard the words I love you said quite like that before. It warms places inside him that he didn’t know were all that cold and dark. For her, he could try to put into words what that means to him, but words aren’t his strong suit. He’s never been that good at letter writing or giving speeches. That, he always left to Sam, or Benny. 

Above all, Dean is a man of action. 

He takes her face gently in his calloused hands, and he kisses her. He gives her everything in that all-consuming kiss, and he hopes she understands what he’s trying to say. 

I’m home.

AN: This might feel like the end, but we have two more parts left! As you can see, Dean's doing his best lol. Do you think he made the right choice with Otaktay? There might be more drama ahead, plus, a special guest finally joins the cast...

Next Time:

Her smile drops with a sharp inhale of breath. 

She hears hoof falls on the earth. A horse treads nearby. 

Slowly, she lowers the wet clothing back into the basin. She sees two reflections growing on the water: a horse and a man. The man gets down from his horse first. 

“Hey there, miss—”

Mila swiftly turns and unsheathes the knife she keeps strapped to her ankle. 

Pronunciation Guide:

Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew") Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

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[kaurwreck]

Hello! I know a few people have said this already but I think you're a really cool blogger and I love reading your posts on classic lit and bsd (or even better when the two combined).

You have a really cohesive and wonderful way of speaking which drew me to your blog and has me feel more confident in writing more analytical posts myself- Please keep being yourself and enjoy your hobbies and interests.

If anyone starts being awful to you again for things you can't control remember that you don't owe them anything and that you are allowed to block people and look after yourself.

Thank you for being yourself and take care!

Thank you 🥺 It helps to hear, and I've been floored by the affirmation and sweet messages. I'm used to occasionally throwing little kitten hissy fits about the tension I have with fandom to close friends and moving on; this has been a very kind and compassionate change of pace.

Also, there is nothing I want more from my posts than to encourage others to write their own, explore the material, and feel confident in doing so. I started sharing my bsd thoughts outside of DMs because I wanted to see what others thought of the same things. But, mostly, I wanted to add to the wider fandom conversation about bsd's metatext after searching for conversations and finding fewer than I thought made sense for a work this expansive.

This isn't to say everyone has to or should do the same, or that I'm right about the metatext, or that anyone else is wrong. It's just to say that the playground Asagiri, Harukawa, et al. has built for us is so much wider than it seems, and I think so much of the space is underutilized or artificially homogenous.

In other words, I don't care nearly as much about whether you like the sandcastle I'm building, as I care that you know that it's your sandbox too, and neither me nor God nor the other kids on the playground can stop you from doing what you want with that.

[iphigeniacomplex]

breaking my silence on chess the musical to say that i would literally not give a fuck about this show if i thought it was good or fully successful at what it is saying. SORRY! i love how messy she is. i love how since 1984 and continuing to this very day people with entirely different perceptions of and opinions on the musical have attempted in their own ways to "make it good" by creating all these different versions with like notably different plots, characterization, and song order, and i love how fucking bad the vast majority of these are despite it all. i hope people keep trying to fix chess the musical forever and until the end of time. i hope no one ever figures it out. i want every currently living theatre director in existence to make their own version and for all these versions to come out on broadway at the same time, making that year's musical season entirely comprised of various different versions of the cold war chess musical by tim rice and half of abba. i want not only our greatest minds but also our middlest-of-the-road and worst minds to come up with their own conclusions as to why chess does not entirely work in its original form or any subsequent forms like to really think about it and yes i do want someone to dedicate their entire life to perfecting chess by releasing version after version after version until they die peacefully but still, as always, in the grips of obsession. i want marriages to be broken up. i want mental states to be shattered. i dream of this world

[itwoodbeprefect]

happy 1 year anniversary to the election results that were so fucked they had me trying to take my mind off of things by watching what seemed like a toxic chinese queerbait show only to find something far more thoughtful and genuinely queer and interesting than expected and end up watching a bunch more unrelated things that are talked about in vaguely the same realms of the internet and then watch bad buddy twice in a row and fall into an endless bingewatch of thai media (some of which is mediocre, some of which is bad, much of which is simply pretty good, and some of which is genuinely incredible) and go, well, it would be a waste of all this language input i'm accidentally giving myself right now if i didn't at least learn a few words. thus accidentally locking myself into watching even more thai media because now i gain serotonin from hearing a sentence i know i could write

[hanzajesthanza]

Bez krwi nie ma wampira. Jest to substancja, która decyduje o jego istnieniu, podobnie jak o istnieniu człowieka. Without blood there is no vampire. It is this substance which determines his existence, just as it does the existence of a human.

Maria Janion. "6. Krew i ciało," in Wampir: Biografia symboliczna. ("6. Blood and body," in Vampire: A Symbolic Biography.)

[moe-broey]

Why did I start like three other projects when I was already working on a big project when I just got hit with the autism exhaustion beam (requires. At least One Full Day just dead in bed, and then some more Taking It Easy time after)

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

My roommate and I had a conversation last night and I keep rotating it in my brain and I Don’t Like It

[13eyond13]

.