#therefore making it unable for him to unnaturally

[swallowtail-ageha]

Head empty thoughts full of the antigone incest essay

[rainbowchaox]

OKOKOKOKOK ANOTHER AU FOR ADOPTION:

Space Romance Au

Pretty much Earth sends out people on missions to research alien flora and fauna. They arrive on a distant planet and live in like a portable housing/research station. The station has good housing quarters and labs filled with the best equipment. Also each station has a food replicator. Usually these stations are only manned by one human. Mostly everything is automatic. And Missa is part of this project and is currently manned on the recently found planet coined Vita Viridis.

Vita Viridis is an oxygen rich planet whose natural flora experience gigantism. It’s heavily forested with flora reaching almost unnatural proportions. It tends to be a mild climate but does have typical seasons. It’s tends to rain often and it’s common for bodies of water to dot the surface. So often in fact that Missa usually goes around by boat.

The station Missa resides in is on an island in a middle of a swamp which the roots of the massive trees delve into. It’s the only dry land he saw when he landed so he had to make do. And also why he takes full advantage of the water to explore Vita Viridis.

But the fact is Missa soon realizes he is not alone. Introducing the humanoid insectoid species of Vita Viridis. (Thank you @changeling-ash for all of these)

Class: Suprainsecta (Above Insect)

Order: Sapenoptera (Wise Winged)

Family: Elytronidae (Covering [wing])

Genus: Sapien Vitari (Wise Vitari)

The common name is Vitari. Named after the planet as it’s the dominant species. And one Vitari is very attached to Missa. A Vitari named Phil. Missa saved him from a giant spider web and he now wants to court the pretty human. And does make himself known often to Missa. He is fully sentient but unable to speak human languages.

Vitari communicate by complicated vocalizations including clicks, chirps, trills, rattles and buzzing. Though they can eventually be taught human languages. Vitari also use wing vibrations to communicate as well.

Missa at first was terrified of Phil because he has common sense and healthy sense of what is dangerous. But it wasn’t long until he found out Phil was pretty harmless and mostly curious (Though it does take him a bit longer to realize that Phil wants to court him)

Vitari have elytra that can make them able to fly. Silver or black are the most common colorings. They also have a stinger of sorts that puts venom into whatever they are hunting. They have black sclera with strange pupils. Their elytra is very fast. Their skin is mostly cartilage but can be numerous shades. They tend to wear basic like robes made from spider silk though some Vitari tribes have ways to dye the silk. And some Vitari communities have made full blown cities deep in the forest. Though it’s more common for Vitari to live isolated lives from the rest of their species.

Anyways Phil is courting human missa. This includes serenades. Mainly flapping his wings to create vibrations (not like actually singing). Phil also does elaborate dances and show off with his flying. Also just in general fly close to him (For example in real life male flies would fly close to female flies for attention). Another big thing is the nuzzles. Phil loves to nuzzle into missa hair or shoulder. Also loves to bump foreheads together. Another thing common in real life is insects prepare a meal for females. So Phil keeps trying to feed Missa with strange creatures he hunted. He eventually learns Missa prefers alien fruits and therefore gathers that for him instead. (Yes Missa falls victim to puppy eyes on his alien love interest and goes against all his common sense and eats the fruit. It’s delicious)

Missa has to contact the crew on earth with new findings and just in general checking he is fine and healthy. And they make fun of him so much for going against basic scientific principles and eating foods he doesn’t know how it would affect his human body. Missa too enamored by sweet alien to not accept his gifts. If he gets poisoned he gets poisoned.

Vitari live in hidden treehouses in the canopy. It tends to use whatever is around them to make it though they make the floor soft with fur and moss to sleep on. And they tend to hoard materials for either expanding their nest of sorts or stock food items. They also make simple tools to help them with their day to day. Vitari are pretty smart.

I personally like to imagine during the period Missa didn’t realize Phil has a crush on him and is courting him the Vitari way is when he had to contact the base on earth about his findings and research and Phil just climbed into his lap for cuddles and nuzzles. As he buzzes and chirps happily. His higher ups are concerned at first that he somehow got the dominant species to want to court him. But he is still doing excellent work so it’s fine with them.

[ratatouillewastakendammit]

Love On The Brain

Pairing: Hawks x reader

Warnings: smut, sex pollen, dubcon?? (only cause of the sex pollen, but both parties are very willing), vaginal fingering, slight public sex, multiple orgasms, slight bondage, language

Word Count: 3.6k

"Behind!"

With a sharp glance over your shoulder, you were barely able to catch sight of a blade rushing towards your upper half. The warning gave you just enough time to lean back in an attempt to dodge a certain hospital trip.

The elongated knife almost cut off your lower arm, just scantily grazing the fabric of your hero outfit before retracting back into the villain's throat.

Gravity overpowered your body, creating the perfect opportunity for your own opponent.

She made a successful grab for your elbow, but you took advantage of your still wobbling form, using her weight to bolster yourself upward before ushering a swift kick to her temple.

Unable to dodge, the villain tumbled to the ground, allowing you to maneuver her limbs to an imprisoning position.

Panting, you pushed a foot into the back of your now grumbling adversary, using your free arm to re-tuck a sweaty strand of hair back into place.

"Sorry about that!"

You glanced up as red feathers descended from the sky, replacing your hands as temporary cuffs.

"Yeah, what happened to 'I'll take care of those three.'" You scoffed, dropping your voice a few octaves to imitate the winged pro.

"Still true." Hawks gestured behind him, where blade-spitter and two others sat captured in his crimson plumage. "I just wanted to make sure my favorite sidekick was on her A-game."

Releasing your grip on the woman, you offered your partner an over exaggerated eye roll. "And you couldn't have done that without the prospect of getting my face chopped in half?"

One of his feathers tickled your nose before being promptly swatted away. "Oh, come on. You know I love your face way too much to ever let that happen."

"Whatever." You muttered, trying to ignore the heat building up your neck at his words. Although meaningless, the flirtatious quips always managed to cruelly pull on your heartstrings. The relationship between the both of you would never surpass that of friends, a fact you had gradually come to accept, even though it didn't make it hurt any less. "Let's just hand these guys over. I don't wanna be stuck in a meeting with Endeavor past eight again."

The Flame Heroes gatherings were never very exciting, but you supposed they were necessary.

Crime rates were steadily increasing, along with the multitude of different, powerful quirks being registered. In light of this, the conferences had become a weekly occurrence.

They usually consisted of a rundown of recently imprisoned villains and their individual abilities.

And although it was pretty bleak, they were still a requirement for your job, which you took very seriously. Therefore, you forced yourself to focus when the time came.

Until today, that is.

"...of his quirk: knife tongue. Possible links to the League or other..."

The valuable information flowed through your brain, getting stuck in the webbing of your mind in little, most likely useless, tidbits.

"...physical contact to transfer, so make sure to..."

The rest had turned into muffled blabber under the veil of your detached train of thought.

You really should have been paying attention, especially for the part about the most recent villain you had apprehended. That way you could at least try to look professional if questioned about the take down.

Adrenaline still seemed to be coursing through your veins, an all natural performance enhancer that left you jumpy a few minutes after a fight.

It had never lasted this long, though.

In fact, there seemed to be a few physical abnormalities affecting you at the moment.

Trembles coursed through your usually steady limbs, translating into tiny shakes in your arms and legs.

Another was the heat.

The room seemed to be unnaturally hot. This ever increasing warmth had completely overtaken your attention span, even going as far as to hush the first few callings of your hero name.

Hawks nudged your shoulder with his, breaking your distracted stupor.

You looked up to see everyone glancing in your direction. Much to your dismay, this included the smoldering gaze of the current number one.

"Are you alright?" Endeavor's voice boomed.

"Yes!" The sound came out a little two shrill for your liking. "Yes, I just need to use the bathroom. Excuse me, please."

So with a small bow, and the absence of any sort of confirmation from your boss, you were out, rushing down the hallway on quivering legs that threatened to fail at any moment. It was a wonder they were able to carry you to the laboratories at all.

You nearly fell into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you before leaning on the wall for support.

"Breath." You whispered. "You're fine, you're fine, you're fine."

The individual affirmations did nothing to quell your problem dilemma.

On the contrary, the air around you seemed to be growing hotter by each passing moment. It's humidity filled your lungs in the most unsatisfying of ways.

Something sparked in your lower abdomen at its steamy infiltration, the tiny flicker glaring brighter with every breath.

You hastily shoved yourself off of the wall, grabbing onto the sink and placing the faucet to the coldest setting.

Cold water splashed up onto your face, but it only offered momentary relief. Soon, your skin had gone back to its prior simmer.

Fuck, why isn't this working?

Panic had your train of thought careening off the track. It had sent you into a frenzy of questions.

What was happening?

What should you do?

Where you going to die from this?

The only thing you knew for sure was that you couldn't stay here for much longer. Anywhere that wasn't public sounded acceptable at the moment.

But as you flung open the door, Hawks' fist, waiting midair and ready to knock, met your sight.

Bronze irises met your own as the previously flitting gleam in your core flared to the next power.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Yes, you may have possibly sustained a tiny crush on your superior over the last few weeks. And yes, you had possibly allowed the fantasy of his touch to flit through your mind every once and a while. Still, your one-sided attraction was in no way, shape, or form to this magnitude.

The mere sight of him had never segued into this level of intense lust. And it also most definitely never made you feel like your skin was about to melt off.

That wasn't normal.

However, as he gently grabbed your face and pulled it closer for inspection, you could just barely repress the whine bubbling up at the minor contact.

"Shit, what happened to your eyes? They're crazy dilated."

"What are you doing here?" You blurted, a feeble attempt to avoid his question.

"I offered to check on you." He replied, going back to his examination. "You're super warm too."

"Isn't it hot in here? I mean, do you feel hot out here?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "It's February."

Yep, definitely not normal.

"Hold on, did you..." When he leaned forward, you were almost sure it would be the last straw. His stare would be the thing that truly set your already molten form ablaze. "Did the villain get you with her quirk during your fight?"

Usually, you would've never admitted to inattentiveness during a meeting, much less in front of your boss, but you were getting increasingly desperate. "Could you, um, remind me of what it is, please?"

Amusement spread over his features as he leaned back, anticipating your reaction.

"Standard aphrodisiac."

As the words left his mouth, any hope of this being any sort of typical fever shattered.

Stimulant quirks were quiet rare in terms of documentation, but surprisingly severe when handled inappropriately.

In the best form of words, it was a very 'fuck or die' situation, whereas the 'die' part translated into a few weeks of bed rest. This also meant a few weeks out of hero work, making the situation very serious.

So one could imagine your irritation when you heard a quiet snort from the man in front of you.

You looked up, shooting him a glare that rivaled the simmer of your current physical state.

"Sorry, lovebird." Hawks chuckled, throwing up his hands in surrender. "Seriously, though, do you remember anything she did that might've looked like a transfer?"

You thought about it, trying to place your buzzing mind back to the fight. "I don't know. I mean, it was over pretty quick, but I didn't see her do anything unusual."

"Endeavor said that the quirk is passed through physical contact, but you're..." The words 'all covered up' fizzled away as his scanning gaze landed on your forearm, or more so, the tiny rip in your costume located there. "Well, that's not good."

"No, shit." You sighed, trying to focus your energy on keeping your breathing steady.

"So, are you super turned on too? Or just hot?"

"Hawks!"

"Okay! Okay, I'm sorry. Come on, we need to get you to a doctor." He pulled your wrist, but you planted your feet firmly on the ground, momentarily halting his movements.

"No! I don't- I mean, I can't-"

"Embarrassed?" The inquiry was seemingly sincere, but it didn't match with the mockingly innocent tilt of his head.

At any other point in time, you would've easily batted away his teasing, but the tantalizing tone sent warmth streaming to your thighs.

"Do you have anyone that you can call?" He lifted your arm, propping open the ripped cloth to look for any blemish

fuck, he has really nice fingers

or mark left behind by the quirk user. "Or do you need me to call a professional?"

You shook your head. "No, I..."

I want you.

Your line of sight unconsciously wandered down to his lips for a moment. Upon noticing, you averted your gaze, but he took notice of the minuscule gesture.

"Oh." His usually bright smile turned downcast and you weren't sure why. It was still present, though, probably for your benefit. "Look, I know you think you might want to, but that's probably because of-"

"The quirk? No, it's not..."

"But it could be." He sighed, running a hand through his curls. It was faint, but hurt was clearly lacing through his tone. "I just don't want you to hate me when this is over. You... I need you to call someone who you seriously want to help with this, yeah?"

Verbal nausea seemed to have been added to the list of influential physical aspects of the power. Its invisible fingers picked at your vocal chords, fueling your frustration until it almost began to overpower the heat. "I've liked you for weeks, okay? And I know there's no way you feel the same, but dammit, there's no one in this whole entire city that I would rather be with, so stop being dense!"

Silence, heavy and potent, filled the air in the wake of your confession. The relief of getting it off your chest lasted milliseconds before humiliation shot through you.

Salty tears were threatening to fall, conjured from frustration and embarrassment; it took the last of your mental prowess to push them back.

Your unintentional words had ruined a perfectly thought out career in less than seconds. Even if you weren't demoted, there was no way that your friendship with Hawks would ever be the same.

Screw figuring this out.

Maybe a few weeks in bed would actually be good.

But as you moved to turn around, the arm still wrapped around your wrist gave a tug, pulling you back to face his direction.

Golden eyes searched yours for any sort of dishonesty, any sort of hint as to if desire what affecting the accuracy of your words. And while your desperation was ever increasing, he found none.

And then you being hauled to his office.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Am I getting fired?

Hawks could be an asshole sometimes, sure, but it would be a massive dick move to terminate you right now.

You were dragged into his office before he released his hold on you, turning around to close and lock the door while you inspected your surroundings.

It was quite spacious, but with the amount of zeros on his paycheck, one wouldn't be surprised. With its white furniture and organized layout, the room was able to achieve a very modern style.

Floor length windows spanned across two of the walls, allowing the pinks and yellows of an early sunset to filter through.

They were mirrored on the other side. You knew because a few months ago, Hawks had flown straight into them, thinking one of the sliding glass doors had been left open. At his request, they had been altered less than a few days later.

Apparently, avian quirks could also translate into some other bird-like characteristics, a fact that you had eagerly pestered him for.

The fond memory was immediately followed by a grimace.

Was this really the end of your friendship?

Yes, it hurt to know that you wouldn't amount to anything more, but it would sure hurt a lot more to stop spending time with him completely.

"Hawks." You started, but the words never came. As it turned out, the only understandable statement that your sizzling brain could come up with was the one that would end up with you jobless.

You were just so unbelievably hot, not to mention way too turned on for a serious conversation right now, especially not with him.

At this point, you needed help. But even in your haste, you paused at his thoughtful expression.

And even though it was short lived, the hesitation gave him just enough time to deduce whether or not you were telling the truth and more so, what to do with that vital piece of information.

His lips met yours.

You gasped at the sudden gesture, but he quickly swallowed the sound, cupping your jaw in one of his hands while the other found its way around your waist. Already trembling limbs turned to putty in his arms as you returned the kiss.

The feeling of his mouth against yours was bewitchingly captivating. It possessed a siren-like allure that overpowered your corporeal need for oxygen.

It was all that much worse when he pulled away seconds later.

"How could you ever think I wouldn't feel anything for you?" He paused, seeming to ponder something for a few seconds before continuing. "Keigo."

"Keigo." The sound felt nice as you tested it out for the first time, a refreshing breath of air contrasting against your blistering atmosphere. You had never imagined hearing his real name, something that had been kept tirelessly out of the media.

"Mhm." He confirmed. "I figured it would be good information to have."

With gentle guidance, he led you over to his desk, propping your body up so his gaze was level with yours. Bronze eyes, once kind and playful, fervidly darkened.

"That way you'll know whose name to scream when I fuck you senseless."

The words barely had time to grace your comprehension before he was kissing you again, hands keeping a steady position on your waist.

His tongue grazed over your lower lip, a wordless request of access that you gladly granted.

With every passing second, every flick of his tongue against yours, you descended further and further into mindless bliss. Desire was beginning to completely fog over your senses as his hold became your only tether to this reality.

His kiss descended past your jaw, trailing across its edge before moving on to your exposed collarbone, sucking and biting like it would be the last time he would ever enjoy human contact.

The quirk had left you over responsive to his touch. Your breathing accelerated when his lips latched onto a sensitive area. With his impeccable hearing, and the way he smirked into your neck, it was pretty obvious he noticed too.

Dexterous fingers unbuttoned the top of your pants, toying with the waistline as he pulled away to meet your gaze.

At your fervent nod, his hand descended below your stomach, barely grazing your clit through your underwear. The minuscule bit of contact sent a shiver up your spine.

Ever attentive, he took notice, pressing down on the already stimulated area and forcing a moan from your throat. Instinctively, you raised a palm to muffle the embarrassing noise, but his feathery bindings got there first, hardening around your wrists and securing them to the table.

"Fuck, you're sensitive."

"Keigo!"

"Don't worry, sweetheart." He grinned wickedly, sneaking his hand beneath the fabric to nudge you slit. "Just curious what sound you'll make when I do this."

He effortlessly dipped a finger into you, pumping it at a steady pace before following with another, making sure to keep his thumb trained to your clit in a tortuously slow rotation. His efforts, much to his delight, were rewarded by a blatant whine.

"Good girl." He praised. "Do you know how infuriating it is to be around you all day and not wonder what your pretty little moans would sound like?"

Pleasure coursed through your body with each thrust, the chord growing tighter until it was just whispered stroke away from breaking.

"Kei-"

With a curl of his fingers, you were silenced, the final syllable of his name dissolving into a low groan.

It wasn't long before you were unraveling on his hand, already close from the quirk itself. The coil in your stomach snapped, offering a release that had your vision flickering.

Still, it wasn't enough.

The fire in your core had merely dimmed for the moment and was threatening to flare up to its previous roar again, especially when you saw him begin to undo the stop of his jeans.

His instantly caught onto your line of sight and he let out a short laugh, coming forward to tilt your chin upward and forcing your gaze to meet his.

"Aww." He chided, golden eyes wide in sinful delight. "So needy, huh?"

The tantalizing tone had your thighs clenching, the soft beat above them begging to be satisfied.

"Please." The sound itself was pathetic, a far cry from your usually unbothered persona. In another world, you would've minded, but your abdomen felt like it was about to burst into flame. The heat was still present, an ember-less wildfire that only his embrace could quell.

Thankfully, he seemed more than willing to help.

After eagerly discarding your own undergarments, he carefully aligned himself at your entrance, slowly entering you at a speed that had your mouth watering. It was utterly antagonizing, pleasurable relief just moments away.

Immediately, you found yourself unconsciously lifting your hips to meet his, desperate for any kind of friction. Keigo chuckled at motion, but took pity on your wordless plea, beginning to rock himself into you at a steady pace.

"Fuck, I thought you were pretty before." His thumb found your clit again, rotating around the nub in slow, gentle circles. "But you look so much better under me."

His free hand pushed under the top of your hero suit, exploring your skin like it was some foreign treasure before wandering upward. His fingers skimmed the top of your breast, pulling it out of your bra to need to supple flesh. The light pinch of your nipple spurred another aroused exhale.

His established rhythm began to quicken, fueled by pure desire. Every kiss to your cervix had you steadily growing closer, filling you to the brim with pleasure that you internally begged to spill over.

One final push had you tipping over, the cruel ecstasy finally hitting its peak.

Euphoria flooded over every crevice of your body. Your walls fluttered around him as your high was met, offering a soft convulsion that allowed him his own release.

In the midst of senseless bliss, you took notice of the way the atmosphere seemed to normalize. Your previously smoldering body soon regained its usual temperature, chilled by the winter climate.

Your heart was coming down from acceleration too. The only word that was adequate to describe the feeling was that of pure relief.

Physical relief from the heat; sexual and emotional relief from previously though to be unrequited emotions.

Still, as he slowly pulled out and helped you back into your suit, you realized that you didn't know what would happen next. Whatever had just happened was definitely not how you imagined your relationship starting.

"So, this doesn't have to go on record, yeah?" The statement, although partly serious, was more so a light quip of sarcasm, something you relied on to hide under your nerves.

Keigo had grown to recognize the mechanism, playing along into his own intentions. "I don't know. I mean, if you're gonna be my girlfriend, we'll have to bring it up with HR anyway."

You perked up at her words. "You really want me to-"

"Obviously." He smirked, picking you up and gently plopping you on his couch. "And don't think I forgot about the whole 'you having a crush on me for weeks' thing."

Warmth, the normal kind this time, bloomed up your neck as you averted your gaze. He laughed at the bashful gesture, a sound you had grown to love just as much as the individual himself.

"Aww, don't be embarrassed. I thought it was cute. Besides," he cupped your face, peppering your cheeks with kisses before leaning back and allowing you to glimpse the adoration brimming within his expression. "you've been on my mind just as long."

[iiwaijime]

track 01.

mlist.

cws. major character death, nightmares, blood, guns.

wc. ? 1k

tooru tightens his grip on the metal loops around his fingers; the once cool-to-the-touch surfaces of the dog tags now warmed up by his skin. he clutches them close to his heart and lets his eyes flutter shut. and suddenly, for a brief moment, iwaizumi is just in the other room, and the golden light behind his eyelids emanates from the antique lamp on his bedside table instead of the shitty fairy lights he'd salvaged from an abandoned garbage dump, and he can almost hear the smooth classical music that he'd listen to to relax — almost. but then the soothing scene he's conjured up in his head is shattered by a crazed thumping of fists on the doors of his bunker, and a gutteral scream splits the night in two. he is no longer in his room, and his hands are slick with blood — iwaizumi's blood — and he looks up, only for his eyes to meet a pair of green ones, ones that are glassed over unnaturally. he knows what this look means; he's good as dead already, and there's nothing that can be done. but still.

"oikawa," he croaks. "tooru, run."

he shakes his head vehemently. "no, i can't leave you, not like this—"

he doesn't register the fact that he's crying until much later. but right now, he can't run, he can't move, and he can't leave iwaizumi.

tooru is cut off by a bullet that whizzes past his cheek, and it's enough to shock him out of his stupor, and make him listen to his body, his brain, that's been screaming at him this whole time.

it's then he notices it, glittering around iwaizumi's neck. his eyes widen, and he's bending down again, getting on his knees before he can even think, head bent as he undoes the clasp and pulls the pair of dog tags away from his best friend.

"i'm sorry," he gasps, and the tags, glinting in the sunlight, seem to catch iwaizumi's attention. his mouth twists up into a pained half-smile; tooru's heart wrenches painfully in his chest, and iwaizumi mouths something like go. he's barely turned around, tags in hand when his world explodes in pain as a second bullet nicks his ear.

he stumbles away, unable to look back. heavy footsteps follow, and soon he's running faster than he can catch up with his thoughts. all the same, he prays. he's not sure to what, but he just does. please, get up. please? if not you, then who?

eventually, he manages to outrun them, but he keeps running still. now, it's hard to differentiate between his sweat and tears and his blood and iwaizumi's blood, and the tags are slipping out of his hands even as it coagulates. and then he's falling, and the dog tags go flying, and everything around him turns into an inky black.

this is definitely not the first time tooru has woken up sobbing from a nightmare, free hand fisting his cheap, wrinkled, plasticky sheets. he lets the tags fall to the bed slowly, examining the indents it left in his palm with a sort of disconnected wonder. various pinks and reds decorate his palm, but the tags are okay, and therefore so is he.

he swings his legs off the bed and quietly pads to the door, checking and rechecking the locks, even though he'd locked them himself a few hours ago. he's halfway under the blankets when he decides to check one more time, just in case. in these times, you never know.

he counts his sips as he drinks his water, counts the steps it takes for him to get to the "kitchen" from his bed and back. (forty-two steps, twenty-one each way.) he knows he could probably do it with much less, but tonight he's taking the tiniest steps, because while he has to sleep, he's also trying to put it off for as long as possible. he doesn't like sleeping, because sleeping means dreaming, and dreaming means that every emotion, every feeling, every though he's pushed down comes clawing out of his chest to infiltrate the secure fortress of his mind. it's not really secure anymore, though. it's really just falling apart.

he does not like telling people this, but tooru oikawa is a hopelessly sentimental person. he thinks and remembers and yearns and dreams, and tonight he dreams of The Fair. it's where they got the dog tags done, him and iwaizumi. tooru had begged and begged, and even paid for both of theirs instead of just his own. it'll be cool, he'd said. matching best friend shit, for the memories. yeah, for the memories, all right.

this time, though, he's trying to shoot down targets over a pool of water. and the thing is, he is winning. but every time he hits one, the spongy darts turn into real bullets, and the targets melt into iwaizumi's face, and the water is no longer water — it's blood.

he doesn't have the energy to panic after this one, and there's light streaming in through the skylight anyways, so it's time to get up. his body aches, complains every time he moves; he steadfastly ignores it as he goes through the all-too-familiar motions of his day. any other day, and he'd let himself laze around, but today just so happens to be the most important day of the fortnight — the day he restocks all his supplies (or tries to, anyways).

he gives up on working out halfway through, rolling onto his back with a groan. everything hurts. he still can't not go out, though, so instead of heading out later, he decides to do it now. more time to sleep later, then. he cleans up, changes into more protective gear. guns, check. knives, check. what's he missing— oh. tags, check.

the two pairs hang together on matching hooks. he remembers the day he'd fixed the hooks there, clear as day. he'd been sobbing as he worked, the... remnants of iwaizumi a neat little pile in a corner in the form of bloodstained clothes. the smell permeated the entire bunker, but he hadn't been ready to throw it away just yet.

the broken down convenience store on top of the hill sneers down at you mockingly; your joints ache from how far you've walked and you're not even sure if you'll be able to make it up. you drop your duffel bag with a sigh, before turning around to sit down beside it — only to be met with the muzzle of a gun.

"don't move," the masked person says sharply. the voice is vaguely familiar, but then again, being alone for so long has probably skewed your senses at least a little bit.

"huh?"

they step closer, gun still trained on you. "i'll take everything you got, thank you."

your own defiance surprises you, words rushing out before you can stop yourself — even though you don't really have anything worth taking with you. "no, the fuck you won't."

they hum appreciatively. "you've got fire, i'll give you that — but i'm no stranger to pulling the trigger, so don't try anything."

"what do you want?" you ask, guarded, cautious. "i'm not giving you my bag."

"guess i'll just have to take it myself, then," they say, an amused lilt to their tone, and suddenly everything's a blur as you rush towards them, arms outstretched. the power of the shove catches them off guard — they hadn't even been expecting it, so they stumble back, but only for a second. it's still enough for the hood to fall back, and the mask to tumble to the ground, and then you're staring into familiar brown eyes. he shakes dark hair out of his eyes, glaring at you.

"the f—"

"tooru?" you gasp. "tooru oikawa?"

he blinks.

"i'm y/n! we were friends, remember?"

"no fuckin' way," he breathes, and you're tugging your own mask off, watching his face clear while he lowers the gun. "shit, you're alive?"

you nod, relief flooding through your veins before your heart drops again. the gun is aimed back at you once more; tooru stares at you, face a blank slate. "i'm glad you're alive, really. you know i'm not a bad guy, right? i just—" he shrugs, smiling wryly. "this entire situation's fucked, and my life is a higher priority to me than yours."

"what—"

"what's in the bag?" his voice is amiable, but his expression and the way his hands are unwavering as he holds you at gunpoint tell a completely different story.

"i don't have food," you tell him coldly. he says nothing, inching closer ever so slightly.

"really?" his voice taunts you, light and sing-songy, completely out of place in this situation.

"goddamnit, tooru!" you snap. "i haven't eaten in two fucking days, are you happy now?"

"oh," he says. "that's not good."

it's annoying, how he's switching from caring to not, in literal seconds; how he seems to be happy that you're alive, but threatens your life a moment later. "what's it matter to you?"

his jaw hardens. it looks like he's fighting some sort of internal battle, before he sighs and starts walking towards you. you back away instinctively, intensely aware of the gun still trained on you, until he stops abruptly and glances to the side. you follow his eyes, taking in a sharp breath when you realise he's successfully separated you from your precious duffel bag. "do you have any weapons on you?"

"why, do you plan to take those too?"

he sighs exasperatedly. "no. in fact, i have a proposition."

after losing his best friend, tooru oikawa promised himself to never get attached to anyone again. so what exactly is he doing right now, taking you back to his bunker like a lost puppy to feed and take care of?

"tooru, you asshole," you seethe as the two of you walk in. you're mad at him — rightfully so, with all the mixed signals he's sent you between the murder threats and the concern — but still grateful to have food and a place to stay, even if it's only for a little while. not that he's specified how long, of course, but you don't expect him to want you to stay forever.

you're wary, always on guard, a feral animal who never lets down. tooru thinks you might actually hate him.

chapter notes!!

buildups? we don't know her!!

tooru is really good at this apocalypse game. you're alive by sheer luck.

yeah tooru's acting freaky rn but we'll get a him pov next chapter

i hope.

they're not exactly friends rn,, ur MAD mad cs he threatened to murder u??? basically???? so drama next ch

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[mirabai0821]

Just thinking about Tavalstarion and how Astarion agrees to the whole ordeal thinking "There is no way this is gonna work. There is no way I'm going to fit in with this, the idea is too good to be true." And then...it works?? And he doesn't know what to do with these emotions becuase he is so happy and it is so foreign so he goes to Halsin and just emotionally vomits on him.

"I love that stupid, little creature more than I feel my heart is capable of bearing and I don’t know what to do with that. Do I even make sense?" Halsin nods like "Love'll do that to ya."

But Astarion doesn't understand how the older elf isn't also burning alive right now with fury and love. Like "No you do not understand?!"

“I can hardly look at her and not feel a great painful wrenching agony,” He thumps his chest where a heart should beat. “I didn’t think all this was going to work you know.” He waves a hand in the air formlessly. “This grand experiment of hers. Looking at her with you, seeing her smile with you, I expected to feel an insurmountable jealousy. ‘I want that smile, give it to me.’ But I can only think, ‘Is that what she looks like when she looks at me too? How have I, wretched creature, been so blessed?’” Halsin just nods sagely, doing his best to remember that this elven thing died when he was thirty-fucking-nine, an INFANT. This poor arrested-ass developed ass fucking CHILD. He'd dig up Cazador to kill him again if they didn't throw his body in the Chionthar to wander unrotting until the end of time. (Halsin, having taken a moment to himself, is high as shit and is therefore unprepared to deal with this properly.) "How do you deal with this? Death from pleasure, I can understand. Death from pain, also an intimate feeling but death from love? What in the absolute unnatural fuck?" Halsin offers him his pipe, unable to really do much else.

"Here, sit down, and smoke this."

[slutshamethesquirrels]

Behind The Cover - Chapter 1

Previous

Suguru's POV

Nothing is supposed to live forever.

This is a principle that Suguru held tight to his chest, tucked somewhere deep where he once had a bounty of morals and goals, wants and wishes. There was a time he could remember being a young man, working the mines for minimum wage with maximum risk, all with the hope that one day he would escape the company town he’d been born to die in. At the time he wanted love, peace, and just enough money to foster a legacy for himself before his time came. He thought he was doing good for the world, breaking himself and desecrating the earth for a precious resource that would allow humanity to spring forward in innovation. With every chunk of coal successfully loaded into a cart and out of a man-made cavern, he was providing a new method of production, which would allow his fellow person a job to secure wages, therefore access to the means of such production.

He had been naive. As the days had passed and the earth had spun, his view on the revolution had soured. There was no escape for the bottom line, the system was designed to keep you firmly planted right where you stood; yards away from daylight where the world could (and frequently did) collapse on top of you, or fight it’s way back by means of festering in your lungs, unable to be treated once it had made it’s silent entrance. Almost as if the hills themselves agreed with the fat cats that ordered it's wounding. Dead men don't blast away at million year old rock. Dead men don't strike. Dead men don’t take what was never theirs to begin with. Dead men don’t ask for raises. Dead men don’t assume that what can't speak must be free for the claiming. Dead men don’t take their stories to news publications-

It was all pointless, in the end. Suguru often pondered if maybe he had died when he awoke as a fledgling vampire, with the recovered ability to breathe, but no need for such an action. What was success if you had no time constraints on becoming so? What was power if there was no end game? What was love if you had to consign your partner to the same fate, or bury them before the next societal rise and collapse?

That's not to say that there were things Suguru didn't appreciate, but simply that the way he perceived them had become different. The members of his clan, his home, his artwork. He wouldn't be foolish enough to say he loved them, but he valued them enough to maintain them. The pages of his sketchbooks would be coated in protective lacquer once finished, the house would remain polished and shined, he would make sure that Satoru kept in line with the rules; that Yuugi ate despite his kind nature; that Megumi did something other than waste away in his room until it was once again time to feed.

Perhaps it was selfish, his desire for longevity, but he already grieved the day that any of his most precious appreciations may come to pass.

“Mornin’ princess,” Satoru’s voice infiltrated the space as he pushed through the hidden entryway between their home and the book shop. Suguru was used to his teasing nature, but today the tone of his voice didn't match his words. He sounded raspy, froggish, starving. Suguru’s suspicions were confirmed as his long time associate rounded the corner of the back row of shelving.

Satoru Gojo typically presented himself as celestial, often wearing clothing that accentuated his body and wealth, not afraid to flash that dangerous smile and ethereal blue gaze at any human that lusted after him. The white of his hair often caught against the moonlight, giving him a sort of unnatural glow. He was eye-catching, the type of danger that presented itself as desirable, like over indulgence in money or sex. He was Suguru's foil, truly.

Tonight, however, his outer armor had begun to crack. His hair was disheveled, pupils blown beyond his irises, dark circles plaguing the soft under eyes of his porcelain skin. He’d put on nothing more than a simple set of joggers and a black crew neck. None of his typical jewelry, none of his carefully curated sense of style. They all got like this around the second week mark of not feeding, and it never got any easier.

“Goodmorning.” The velvet of Suguru’s cadence is in stark contrast to Gojo’s own. After all, he’d just fed the night before.

Satoru stops by the front desk where Getou is lazily reclined in an office chair with his laptop open in front of him, scrolling through the headlines of the day. Most were unimportant. Elections, taxes, new plans for public transportation. That wasn't really what he had been searching for. In the present moment, he was scrolling through an article about the body of a 23 year old college student found outside of her dorm. She’d been bludgeoned, dismembered, several body parts were missing-

“Was that us?” Satoru unashamedly leans his tall frame over the mahogany of the front desk, dipping his head over the computer and scanning the text upside down.

Suguru narrows his eyes and flicks him in the forehead, irritated he’d even ask such a stupid question. Satoru takes the hint and straightens himself out of the way, sighing as Suguru laments:

“Of course not. I’m sure it's Sukuna and his goons. We're gonna have to have a friendly conversation if this doesn't stop.”

Gojo’s lip curls in a mild annoyance, but Suguru isn't phased. He knows he's right, and he also knows Satoru will be much easier to talk to after his hunt.

“Why? Not everyone should be expected to follow your morality clause, Suguru. They eat people, so do we. Get off your high horse-”

“It's not about that,” Suguru lifts amethyst eyes to meet Satoru's gaze “It's about housekeeping. They don't clean up after themselves, and they're not picky with how they choose their next meal. A college age socialite left in pieces for the public to see-”

“-Is different how? ” Satoru interjects, near spitting.

“Is different because it draws eyes. I can't pretend that I love the idea of a young innocent getting executed, but it's not really enough to write home about. What I care about is the general public being in an uproar. They start to catch wind of us and we'll have no choice but to skip town to keep clientele, and I just remodeled the kitchen-”

At this, Satoru snickers and rolls his eyes. He knows Getou does care about the morality, if only just a bit.

“Fine. We’ll discuss when I get back, yeah?”

With Satoru gone, Suguru busies himself with a variety of odd jobs. Sweeping, dusting, replying to E-Mail requests for “orders”. Funnily enough, most of the requests they got these days were on the behalf of the state, or at least, individuals who had access to the state's funding. There seemed to be some sort of selection process, a vast majority of hits being criminals who got off easy, or got off free. Nanami Kento was the name of the prospect they dealt with most frequently. He was quiet, stoic, not willing to give more information than necessary. Satoru found him boring, Suguru liked his brevity.

He's combing over an encrypted file when it happens, all thoughts of the societal reprobate in front of him disappearing almost immediately as a smell floods his senses and triggers something carnal within him.

The door had opened, just briefly, to reveal a girl who looked wildly out of place in the academic setting. If he'd been human, the thing that would’ve drawn his attention would've been the pink silk slip dress that clung to your frame like it wanted to deny you air, the way your breasts seemed to fight for their right to escape said fabric. Maybe he’d notice the on purpose messy way your curls seemed to topple out of your bun, or envy the gold chain that laid along your clavicle, or imagine the feel of the exposed flesh of your thighs between his fingers, since you’d chosen to leave nothing to the imagination.

But Suguru wasn't human, he was a monster. And you…

It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. As if he hadn't tasted blood in a century, you smelled like things he hadn't craved in decades. Melted chocolate, cinnamon, fresh strawberries in the heat of summer all come to mind. Things that would turn his stomach if he consumed them now. But he remembered what it was like to crave them. The same emptiness overtook him now, saliva pooling in his mouth. His breathing went into autopilot. It wasn't a normal thing for his kind to do. You only needed to breathe when you needed a scent. He can feel his fangs slowly pushing from their hidden place in his gums, something that typically didn't happen against his own will. It hurt. He felt like someone had taken a metal sword from the fire and shoved in directly down his throat without letting it cool enough to even stop glowing-

He catches himself on the thick mahogany of the counter, his grip hard enough to form a crack in the wood. When had he stood up?

The sound causes your head to jerk upwards towards him, doe eyes staring down the maw of a mountain lion.

“Hi there, I’m looking for some information on herpetology and entomology.”

Fuck whatever it was you were saying. He was honed in on the rise and fall of your chest, envisioning what it’d be like to put his hands through it. If he was quick enough, your heart would still be beating when he took his first bite.

“Uhm, like insects? Reptiles?”

He could pin you against the door so easily, so quickly. That initial squirt from your jugular would solve all his life's troubles, everything he’d ever experienced would wash away with the taste.

“Snakes and …stuff?”

But then if Satoru returned, if Megumi rose from his room willingly for the first time in an eon- he’d have to kill them. He couldn't share this. You.

“Dude…you good?”

He blinks. Willing all the air from his lungs, missing the flavor already as he slowly meets your gaze. A pout crosses your lips, your eyebrows dipping in concern. That wasn't the face of someone who knew what kind of danger they were in, but one that was considering calling a crisis hotline for the very thing that wanted to murder them. You were stupid, surely.

You take a step forward, your fingertips outstretched in front of you like you were gonna brush against him in an attempt to ground him from whatever was troubling him, like an absolute moron-

Getou gathers the two tiny shards of self control he had left and straightens, backing away from the desk and clenching his hands tight enough to shatter bone at his sides.

“Scientific nonfiction is on row four.” He never breaks eye contact, and you take the hint, your face transitioning from concern to confusion before you turn and trail in the direction he was verbally pointing you, deeper into the lion's den.

He couldn't, not here or now, but he would find you, morality be damned. Perhaps he’d feel sorry about it later, perhaps he’d be chastised by Gojo for his hypocritical nature. Perhaps it would be the straw that broke the camel's back and drove them out of town; you looked like someone who had ample connections with the world around you. But it would all be worth it. He’d take his time with you, savor every puncture, every drop. He’d leave not a trace behind. If you played nice, he might even knock you out first, though it would have to be blunt force. He didn't want any sedatives tainting your taste.

He crosses his arms across his chest, as if to shield himself from his own desires, and leans against the back wall, daring not to move or breathe. His plum shaded gaze remains fixated on the large clock hung on the opposite wall, and he forces himself to count every second, keep himself occupied.

Around the fifteen second mark, your sneakers stop clicking against the hard wood, followed by a shuffling.

At one hundred and thirty three, you sniffle.

Two hundred thirteen, Three hundred sixty eight, and four hundred forty seven each mark three thuds. Suguru assumes you're stacking books for purchase.

Six hundred eighty two comes to pass, and there's a distinct sound. You’d stacked your books on the floor. If Getou wasn't actively trying not to slaughter you he would've appreciated how gentle it sounded, like you’d gently set one side down before the other and not just dropped them from a few inches high.

At right around seven hundred eighty five, you make sounds that signal your return to the front desk. A grunt as you lift your pile of choices from the floor, something Suguru almost regrets he finds less erotic and more appetizing. A slight stumble in your approaching steps. Pretty, ignorant little repast can't even handle the weight of some printed works, poor thing.

You round the corner with a stack of titles that encases a vast majority of your body, from your manicured nails cupped at your waist all the way to the warm underside of your chin that you use for balance. A small baby blue wristlet clutch dangles from your left hand. Some ancient modicum of chivalry and traditional values tells Suguru he should offer his help, but he was no longer aligned with such traditionalism. Plus, watching you struggle was heavenly . The way your knees wobbled and your arms vibrated against the weight, the way you fought to keep your breathing even… it was easy to imagine what you'd look like when he was approaching you in a dark alley, as you grappled with the ego-shattering realization that he was about to take everything from you. He knows he shouldn't feel such a way, but something in your blood has any amount of humanity he had left within him drying up by the second, all that was left was the hunger. The power. The game. He wanted it all, and then some.

You struggle to place the stack on the counter and he lets you, not moving to ring you up until you’d already taken a deep breath and a step back, your face a little flushed from the effort. He tries and fails to not think about the tender flesh just below the surface.

Finally, it seemed that you had picked up on the idea that he was not keen on speaking to you, fiddling awkwardly with your fingers and finding solace in the patterned wood on the floor as Suguru rang you up robotically. He gives you your total through clenched teeth and you pass him your card without making eye contact.

Minutes later he's peeling the blackout curtain away from the window like a certified creep to watch you load your bags into a red Celica, somewhere around a 2002 model year, with an embarrassing amount of dings and dents. Could you be anymore of a stereotype? Hot bimbo who drives a cherry red death machine.

If he's honest, he's looking for a reason you deserve the hell he's about to put you through, and if he's doubly honest, “slut” doesn't justify anything, but he’ll take it if it helps him sleep through the day. He jots down your license plate number on the palm of his hand as he watches you drive away.

Next

[schnee-gheist]

I’m asking this for totally no reason at all- so you said natural portals come up as static, so one that is unnatural such as the Fenton portal or other built portals are simply of the ghost zone. So any sort of ‘controlled portal’ in a way would be a normal ghost zone portal, or a noise portal?

I’m… totally not asking for surprise reasons. For example like, if someone were to open a portal but not in the sense of a Fenton portal that’s permanently sort of there. I’m just wondering how far the term ‘natural’ goes like if someone who can make portals would be able to make a normal ghost zone portal or if all of their portals would come out as static/noise

OKAY I thought of clarifying this in the ask before but already projectile-lore-vomited too much so I got this already. As said in the original post (Talkin' bout static) Static itself is a dimension inbetween the Living and the Dead. Think of the Living as air and the Dead as the metal in the bottom of a sink. Originally, Static-the faucet- was just a little leaky. This meant that Portals -the space- inbetween the metal and the air happened occasionally, and wouldn't go to the other side when a drop would splash and temporarily covered both sides of them. The drain to this sink still existed, so these small collections of water would go away and would therefore rarely block the dimensions. It wouldn't block the space to get to the other side though, just redirect it into the water, turning it into a static portal. (Static covers the space between dimensions, NOT replace them. That's why the Ghost Zone is still intact, along with Earth.) Halfas being created introduced the idea of a drain plug. They never (to their knowledge >:))) interacted with the water itself though, and therefore wouldn't be able to block it from draining. Atlas interacted, and plugged the drain. The information I'm still withholding also gave him access to the faucets handle, and he unknowingly pushed it all the way on. This caused the sink to rapidly fill (over a span of 3 days), and be unable to drain. (This is an infinite sink btw, don't worry about it overflowing. For now.) This meant that all air could never touch the bottom of the sink. The FentonWorks portal takes place on a different sink. That one is still leaky, but they happened to have their air touch metal when no water was dropping. Anyone with the ability to create portals don't have any space to touch the other side, so that would just touch water and create a static portal. Since Atlas (unaware to him) has access to the handle and drain, he can (with ALOT of effort) turn it fully off, not leaky whatsoever, and easily have all metal touch air. This requires him to constantly hold the handle fully down and drain unplugged, which he is unable to do for long periods of time. This does make the ENTIRE sink drain of water, however. That does mean that if anyone were to try to make a portal while he was holding it back, they would succeed. If they were to enter that portal as Atlas let go, however...It wouldn't end well.

For how each touching space is organized between sinks, however, is off of how they created it. Imagine the blockage in the sinks is some plates, this natural blockage not allowing the space of metal and air to always be touching. Ghosts and Ghost-adjacent beings who create portals would lightly place them to the side, and place them back once they touched the other side. The FentonWorks portal, however? They ram through the cutlery and materials, and forcefully place their spot touching air and metal. The debris of exploding materials should've landed on their space and blocked the path between, but they got lucky. Same with Vlad's portal. (This is what ghosts think happened. Truth is, they weren't lucky. The portals just keep exploding plates and shocking individuals inside until it works. Vlad was lucky with the proto portal. Danny was not). The shock of one sink filling from Atlases creation effected the other sinks, ended up disturbing the debris, and finally blocking both Vlad's and the Fenton's portals. Atlas just reactivated the portal again in the seperate sink, simple as that.

Hope this clears up confusion! Please say otherwise if not, I get these are pretty illegible and can try to summarize better if needed.

[lothiriel84]

Winter Kept Us Warm

It was a good thing, he mused somewhat grimly, that he was so very much in love with Miss Hale; otherwise, he might have been put off marrying her altogether – though he knew he could never own to such a thing, on pains of being laughed out of Milton proper.

A North and South ficlet. Sex-repulsed asexual!John Thornton.

It was the night before his wedding, and John Thornton was lying wide awake, wishing like never before he could rely on his father’s guidance on this most delicate venture. He was thirty-two years of age, and while not entirely ignorant of the mechanics of marital congress, his knowledge up to this point had been purely theoretical – save perhaps for a handful of instances in which he had been unfortunate enough to stumble upon a couple of illicit lovers in a darkened alleyway in Princeton, and he had been most desperate to purge the unpleasant memories of it at the time.  

Even as a young lad, he could never understand what all the fuss was about; while all other boys at school spoke of nothing but lusting after this or that girl, and the most daring ones boasted of their conquests, real or otherwise, his eye had never been caught by the female form in so unbecoming a manner. Even as a grown man, he still retained the impulse to excuse himself from any room in which the particulars of bedding a woman were being discussed, as frequently happened in the company of his fellow mill masters; some of them appeared to take a sort of perverse pleasure in discussing the intimate details of their latest encounter with some female of lower standing – and quite possibly in desperate need of coin, he reflected bitterly, not quite bothering to hide his contempt for those so-called gentlemen who saw fit to conduct themselves in so unbecoming a manner.  

Tomorrow, he would wed the only woman he had ever – and would ever – love. To his utter mortification, his mother had thought it her responsibility to warn him against the roughness of his supposed desires; his new bride, she had told him, would be shy of him, and it was his duty to be gentle with her and do his utmost to ensure her comfort. The act, she had then proceeded to inform him, came with a certain amount of discomfort for a woman, even more so the first few times; he ought not impose upon his wife too often, and there would be several days each month in which she would be indisposed and therefore unable to allow him into her bed.  

It was a good thing, he mused somewhat grimly, that he was so very much in love with Miss Hale; otherwise, he might have been put off marrying her altogether – though he knew he could never own to such a thing, on pains of being laughed out of Milton proper as not at all a man, as a disappointed widow of dubious morals had once accused him of being, after he had rebuffed her offers of a very specific kind of comfort without so much as a second thought.  

He would take Margaret as his wedded wife, and he would do his duty by her, as was expected; no one needed ever know about his own deficiencies on this account, and besides, he was most eager for any children that might come out of this marriage. It had been painful enough to give up any hope of a family of his own, in the aftermath of Miss Hale’s first refusal; he would not allow any unnatural inclination – or disinclination, as it happened – on his part to prevent this most cherished wish from coming true.  

.

Suffice to say, it did not go well. Oh, his intentions had been everything that was good and proper as he knocked on the door that led into his wife’s chamber; Margaret had welcomed him with such bashful tenderness as to make his heart soar, and for a fleeting moment, he had nearly convinced himself all his previous reservations were nothing but unfounded.  

Then they began in earnest, and it became too much for him almost immediately. When she winced in pain, as he had been told to expect, he found he could not go on, and hastily withdrew from her despite her earnest protestations that she was well, and they should proceed like before.  

He was a beast, he was all too painfully aware, for abandoning his new bride in so unconscionable a manner; even now, as he approached the washbasin on shaking legs and attempted to clean himself with pitifully trembling fingers, he could hear her sobs through the connecting door, which he had locked and bolted in his blind rush to put as much distance as could be contrived between himself and the proceedings.  

If he were any sort of gentleman at all, he would go to her this instant, humbly throw himself at her mercy for the terrible slight he had inflicted upon her, regardless of how unwittingly done on his part. Instead, he merely stood there, struggling with his every breath to gain some shred of composure, and loathing his own cowardice with every fibre of his being.  

.

“Is it because of me, John? You need not lie for my sake – indeed, I would rather have the full truth, no matter how hard to take in.” 

He laughed – a hollow, somewhat pained sound. “It’s not that, Margaret, not even close. God knows I have never met another woman worth putting myself through all that. With you, I thought it might be different; that I’d be able to overcome my inadequacies, and be with you as a man with his wife.” 

She regarded him pensively, yet there was such unbidden kindness in her countenance he knew himself most undeserving of. “My Aunt Shaw told me that all men desire it above all things – that they take great comfort in the marriage bed, and they wish for it, constantly.” 

“There you have it, then. Not only I’m no gentleman, as you correctly assumed at the beginning of our acquaintance – I'm no proper man, either. Heaven knows what I am – except a liar and a cad of the worst kind, for proposing marriage to you under false pretences.” 

He turned to look out of the window then, facing away from the only woman he had ever envisioned his future with, and whom he was now honour bound to set free as soon as an annulment could be petitioned for. There had been no consummation to speak of, and it was no great stretch of the truth to attest to his inability to perform his husbandly duties; at that moment, he did not even care that such a thing would inevitably make him the laughing stock of the town, as he could think of no worse fate than being made to renounce all prospects of happiness he had dared to believe himself secure of.  

“Of course you are a man, John,” his wife promptly dismissed his doubts, and with a few decisive steps joined him near the window. “And you know very well I was quite mistaken in dismissing you as anything less than a gentleman.” 

“Any gentleman worth the name would do his duty by his bride,” he pointed out, feeling every bit as bitter as he sounded. “And as a magistrate, I am perfectly aware no marriage is valid in the eye of the law that remains unconsummated.” 

Margaret smiled, unaccountably, and went to place her hand upon his arm. “It is a good thing, then, that it was Jane who came in to change my linens this morning – I daresay the entire household has been informed by now, and is under no doubt that I have become your wife in every respect.” 

“And how would you like it, Mrs Thornton, to be a wife in name only?” he pressed then, his sense of duty urging him on against every dictation of his heart. “To find yourself tied to a husband unwilling to share your bed, precluding any possibility of children from your future?” 

He saw her determination waver, but it was only for a moment. “I was resolved never to marry, when I thought your regard irrevocably lost to me, so you see, it would be no great inconvenience to carry on as before. If you do not wish for children, then we shall have none – think only of the Boucher children, and there are so many more – we could do so much good, you and I.” 

“I do wish for us to have children, Margaret,” he interrupted in his desperation. “Can you not see how impossible it is? The one thing that is clear to me is that I should never have placed you in this position, and I am sorry.” 

“Have faith, John,” his wife murmured in so affectionate tones he was powerless to do anything but to gather her to himself. “God will see us through, one way or another.” 

Her body was warm and pliant in his arms, but it did not cause him any revulsion now, with their shared love a living, pulsing thing surrounding them like an embrace. He tucked her head under his chin and closed his eyes in a silent prayer.  

.

It took John many a week – and several failed attempts at completing the act in a manner conductive to the creation of children – to swallow his pride and consult Doctor Donaldson on so personal and delicate an issue. Unfortunately, the physician was at a loss to identify the root of his problem, and therefore unable to prescribe a remedy for it; everything appeared to be in working order, so to speak, and surely there could be no other obstacle preventing him from bedding his wife as he wished? Of course, as a medical man, he knew that some men’s proclivities went in a rather different direction, but surely Mr Thornton’s did not – ? 

Mr Thornton assured him, most vehemently, that they did not, and took his leave with a great deal of mutual embarrassment on either side. He was by this time resolved to fix whatever it was that was wrong with him, and was debating the merits of taking himself to London to see one of those Harley Street doctors – the only thing preventing him from jumping on the next train southward being the sheer horror at the possibility, however remote, that word of his difficulties might somehow reach Margaret’s London relations, revealing the whole extent of his unsuitability as a husband way in excess of their previous objections. 

It was close on two whole months after the wedding when John quite accidentally discovered that things went along considerably more smoothly if he could take his mind off the immediate proceedings and focus on something else entirely for the duration. This unexpected disclosure, coupled with Margaret’s growing confidence in all matters pertaining her wifely duties – which he strongly suspected to be the result of a timely intervention on his mother’s part, though he most definitely did not wish to know about it – ultimately produced the desired outcome, much to the relief of Mr and Mrs Thornton alike.  

It would still take several months for Margaret to conceive, but the worst of it was behind them, and John’s strong distaste for the activity began to fade to a more manageable level of discomfort with familiarity and time. By early April, Doctor Donaldson was called in to confirm that Mrs Thornton was indeed with child, and Mr Thornton was at last granted a much-needed reprieve from his marital duties for the time being.  

.

“Come back to bed, John. He will need feeding soon enough – we ought to get some rest while we can.” 

He shook his head somewhat ruefully, his gaze still trained on the arresting sight that was his tiny son fast asleep in his crib. George was much smaller than his cousin had been at the time of her birth, but he was growing fast, and it had not taken long for his proud grandmother to declare that the boy would undoubtedly grow as tall and handsome as his father.  

In the months leading up to Margaret’s confinement he had discovered that, once freed from any expectations of bedding her, he gained much comfort from sleeping with Margaret at his side; he was still in the habit of doing so, and although that meant he was often awakened by his son, he was still reluctant to quit this peculiar intimacy with his new family. He knew he would have to, once Margaret was recovered from her confinement and the time came for them to resume their efforts towards providing Master George with a younger brother or sister; for the time being, he was content to enjoy every opportunity of admiring the wonderful miracle that was the child he had worked so hard to bring into existence. 

With that, he did in no way intend to make light of all the hardships his Margaret had had to face to bring their son into the world; she had carried the child within herself for several months, nurturing and protecting him, until the time had come to be delivered of him with considerable pain and suffering on her part, let alone the very real risks that came with childbirth for women and babes alike.  

He owed the joys of fatherhood in great part to her courage and strength, and he was deeply grateful for that. With one final glance to his beautiful, beloved son, he finally retired to the bed, resuming his rightful place in his wife’s waiting arms.  

[jesuisgourde]

more richey rambling, just kind of getting thoughts out of my brain as i read this campbell book

okay i’m probably being extra pedantic here but the authors of wt keep talking about rock n roll mythology -- and i do know what they mean when they say that. but they invoke joseph campbell and say that richey’s life matches the structure of campbell’s hero’s journey.

but it doesn’t? even looking at the general major points of the hero’s journey it doesn’t fit, and definitely not when you get into more details.

because what wt talks about when they talk about rock myth is almost exclusively famous musicians who died young, at the top of their fame, and usually in an “unnatural” manner (suicide/od/murder rather than physical illness) and therefore remain there, unable to fade away into obscurity or whatever.

but then they talk about the hero’s journey and joseph campbell, and first of all the hero’s journey is a storytelling mechanic meant to inform people how the world is made or how to answer questions about life/overcome hardships. these individuals don’t exactly fit the story and there’s not really a good way to apply that to real people, especially real people who died tragically.

second, campbell’s structure specifically follows a certain path. and unless richey suddenly returns (which he won’t because he’s dead but even if he were alive it’s been 30 years so like i doubt it) his life doesn’t follow that path.

not to mention the components of mythology are meant to be ‘universal’ so like if you really wanted to make richey’s life fit, you could i guess pick certain things to interpret as each of the segments of the hero’s journey structure and all of its universal symbols and details but i think a number of them would take some stretching.

i don’t know what i’d call what the wt authors actually mean when they say myth. i think if they didn’t specifically use campbell i wouldn’t at all mind, but i also think what campbell means by myth and what they mean by myth are different.

it’s also interesting because i found an article from 1997 where james talks about how richey was super aware of rock n roll mythology and other kinds of mythology, but he talks about how he thinks richey was so in love with the idea of mythology to realize he was himself becoming a mythic figure.

i mean i think nietzsche’s apollonian and dionysian are really similarto campbell’s ideas except that in campbell’s structure the hero returns to teach a lesson whereas in nietzsche’s tragedy the protagonist dies having failed to change anything. richey seems to fit that second one much better. it’s been a long time since i last read the birth of tragedy and idk maybe there will be something in campbell that will be more similar to nietzsche than just the order and chaos characteristics.

like this is definitely more pendantic than it needs to be but also now i’ve fallen down a rabbit hole of thought because like what then would be the word for what the authors of wt are talking about when they say “rock mythology” when it doesn’t really fit the campbellian myth structure? i think maybe “legend” is closer? since myths are there to tell humanity how to something came to be or how to behave and are usually about gods or higher beings, whereas legends are more like fantastical stories about humans?

idk i think it’s just weird to try and fit richey’s life into this structure campbell sets forth, when it’s a structure meant for larger than life, inhuman entities and metaphorical beings to explain creation or life lessons, which is not at all what richey’s story is. idk i’m struggling to figure out how to put into words why i feel uncomfortable about the comparison or the placement of him specifically in the role of campbellian hero. it just feels exploitative and wrong and totally dehumanizing.

which actually reminds me of richey talking about feeling like a prostitute in terms of how the band was treated and how he was treated by the press and the industry. if he was becoming a so-called mythic figure and his life being a rock myth even as he was alive then commenting on how he felt like he prostituted himself would be a pretty good acknowledgement of the dehumanisation of being seen as some sort of myth figure. but then there’s the question of what’s the difference between being seen as a myth figure a la campbell and being a victim of mass culture a la adorno? is that it? is it that what the authors are trying to express by saying “myth” is the appropriation of “amateur” or the “original” by the culture industry? is that the same thing?

i’m not too far into the hero with a thousand faces so maybe i’ll have more thoughts later idk.

[spiritismo-italiano]

SPIRITUAL CONTACT THROUGH A MEDIUM OR CHANNELING

What do you think that is?

How is it established?

What conditions should the alleged departed have?

What should the alleged departed have?

It often happens that people are not able to communicate among themselves in a comprehensive way, but they want to communicate with the departed.

In general mankind (deceased included) is located at the 2nd or 3rd evolution level, with some rare exceptions, of course. Being located at this evolution level, the departed can probably teach us quite little. Those being at a level below the 5th evolution level do not even know that reincarnation exists, and they are firmly convinced of being right when they stubbornly deny reincarnation because they are unable to observe and apprehend it.

Hence, the absolute truth exists only at much higher evolution levels.

But how can we contact the higher evolution levels?

What personal conditions have to be created?

How must a medium prepare him/herself for such a séance?

Is one individual person able to attract, support and survive such high vibrations of a spirit?

Or is it like in a common apartment, where there is a tension of 220 volts in the electric wires?

What happens to the same electric wires if suddenly high voltage current passes through them?

Isn’t it the same with our nervous system which is also gauged to a certain electric vibration?

How big will the astonishment be when the wires scorch and the fuses blow?

Is our nervous system prepared to let pass high-voltage current without health consequences?

How must we prepare psycho-physically for mediumship and will the message be truthfully reproduced?

Or will the message be filtered by our psyche and interpreted, thus falsified?

What about these alleged mediums who are in an alleged contact with departed artists who died an unnatural death?

Are they credible?

Is this possible?

Or are these departed artists unable to talk through an alleged medium?

Certainly not – it also depends on how they died – however in most cases the departed must first overcome the shock of death and get familiar with the new environment.

Therefore, it’s impossible to contact at any time we want such a spirit of the higher evolution levels “just like this”, making him come to a certain place and help, whenever a certain person in need asks for, because the electromagnetic conditions or the conditions of the room don’t allow that a spirit of the higher vibration levels passes through, especially as there’s no personal vibration contact to the actual spirit on behalf of the person in need.

In this field, as it so often happens, there is a fertile soil for charlatanry , as this “service” , despite its impossibility, is often offered for reward.

In case of premature death, spirits are first connected to matter until their natural death would have occurred.

This constitutes also a big problem for mankind, because in our age so many people die of traffic and other fatal, unnatural accidents.

Mankind is strongly influenced by these wandering departed.

Suicide is the most awful way of dying. Most of the people who decide to commit suicide are too cowardly to face life and responsibility for themselves and others, hence, they flee from reality and life.

Suicides remain connected to their body for 7 days, they are mostly in a coma like state, and suffer immeasurable moral pain which is more difficult to master than continuing to live.

Natural Laws do not foresee suicide, the electromagnetic field is being completely blocked. That’s why we logically do not observe suicidal behavior with animals.

It’s impossible to establish a contact through mediums with suicide cases, unless by permission and with the help of the higher world of spirits, but for study purposes only.

Suicide cases remain attached to matter. All other departed need as well a certain time in order to “charge their batteries”, which is done at their evolution level where the departed first must go to. Consequently, the way of dying is decisive on how much time this phase takes, i.e. until the spirit’s regression to his respective evolution level is completed.

Suicide cases might also miss their own reincarnation cycle because suicide is considered an absolutely unnatural action.

The reincarnation cycle of mankind comes up to 500 years, with rare exceptions.

Anyway, we should distance from the idea to call departed (relatives, acquaintances, celebrities) because of curiosity or in order to overcome sorrow or the loss of a person. When one of these next of kin is no longer among us and we clinch to him that way, instead of releasing him/her, he/she will be even more bound to matter. Hence, we make it more difficult for him/her to reach his/her evolution level and reincarnation cycle.

And is this a kind human behavior???

Recommended books, OF AllAN KARDEC :

“The Mediums’ Book”

“The Spirits’ Book”

“Heaven and Hell”

© Copyright by Witold Wieslster

[psychical-researchs]

SPIRITUAL CONTACT THROUGH A MEDIUM OR CHANNELING

What do you think that is?

How is it established?

What conditions should the alleged departed have?

What should the alleged departed have?

It often happens that people are not able to communicate among themselves in a comprehensive way, but they want to communicate with the departed.

In general mankind (deceased included) is located at the 2nd or 3rd evolution level, with some rare exceptions, of course. Being located at this evolution level, the departed can probably teach us quite little. Those being at a level below the 5th evolution level do not even know that reincarnation exists, and they are firmly convinced of being right when they stubbornly deny reincarnation because they are unable to observe and apprehend it.

Hence, the absolute truth exists only at much higher evolution levels.

But how can we contact the higher evolution levels?

What personal conditions have to be created?

How must a medium prepare him/herself for such a séance?

Is one individual person able to attract, support and survive such high vibrations of a spirit?

Or is it like in a common apartment, where there is a tension of 220 volts in the electric wires?

What happens to the same electric wires if suddenly high voltage current passes through them?

Isn’t it the same with our nervous system which is also gauged to a certain electric vibration?

How big will the astonishment be when the wires scorch and the fuses blow?

Is our nervous system prepared to let pass high-voltage current without health consequences?

How must we prepare psycho-physically for mediumship and will the message be truthfully reproduced?

Or will the message be filtered by our psyche and interpreted, thus falsified?

What about these alleged mediums who are in an alleged contact with departed artists who died an unnatural death?

Are they credible?

Is this possible?

Or are these departed artists unable to talk through an alleged medium?

Certainly not – it also depends on how they died – however in most cases the departed must first overcome the shock of death and get familiar with the new environment.

Therefore, it’s impossible to contact at any time we want such a spirit of the higher evolution levels “just like this”, making him come to a certain place and help, whenever a certain person in need asks for, because the electromagnetic conditions or the conditions of the room don’t allow that a spirit of the higher vibration levels passes through, especially as there’s no personal vibration contact to the actual spirit on behalf of the person in need.

In this field, as it so often happens, there is a fertile soil for charlatanry , as this “service” , despite its impossibility, is often offered for reward.

In case of premature death, spirits are first connected to matter until their natural death would have occurred.

This constitutes also a big problem for mankind, because in our age so many people die of traffic and other fatal, unnatural accidents.

Mankind is strongly influenced by these wandering departed.

Suicide is the most awful way of dying. Most of the people who decide to commit suicide are too cowardly to face life and responsibility for themselves and others, hence, they flee from reality and life.

Suicides remain connected to their body for 7 days, they are mostly in a coma like state, and suffer immeasurable moral pain which is more difficult to master than continuing to live.

Natural Laws do not foresee suicide, the electromagnetic field is being completely blocked. That’s why we logically do not observe suicidal behavior with animals.

It’s impossible to establish a contact through mediums with suicide cases, unless by permission and with the help of the higher world of spirits, but for study purposes only.

Suicide cases remain attached to matter. All other departed need as well a certain time in order to “charge their batteries”, which is done at their evolution level where the departed first must go to. Consequently, the way of dying is decisive on how much time this phase takes, i.e. until the spirit’s regression to his respective evolution level is completed.

Suicide cases might also miss their own reincarnation cycle because suicide is considered an absolutely unnatural action.

The reincarnation cycle of mankind comes up to 500 years, with rare exceptions.

Anyway, we should distance from the idea to call departed (relatives, acquaintances, celebrities) because of curiosity or in order to overcome sorrow or the loss of a person. When one of these next of kin is no longer among us and we clinch to him that way, instead of releasing him/her, he/she will be even more bound to matter. Hence, we make it more difficult for him/her to reach his/her evolution level and reincarnation cycle.

And is this a kind human behavior???

Recommended books, OF AllAN KARDEC :

“The Mediums’ Book”

“The Spirits’ Book”

“Heaven and Hell”

© Copyright by Witold Wieslster

[witoldwieslster]

SPIRITUAL CONTACT THROUGH A MEDIUM OR CHANNELING

What do you think that is?

How is it established?

What conditions should the alleged departed have?

What should the alleged departed have?

It often happens that people are not able to communicate among themselves in a comprehensive way, but they want to communicate with the departed.

In general mankind (deceased included) is located at the 2nd or 3rd evolution level, with some rare exceptions, of course. Being located at this evolution level, the departed can probably teach us quite little. Those being at a level below the 5th evolution level do not even know that reincarnation exists, and they are firmly convinced of being right when they stubbornly deny reincarnation because they are unable to observe and apprehend it.

Hence, the absolute truth exists only at much higher evolution levels.

But how can we contact the higher evolution levels?

What personal conditions have to be created?

How must a medium prepare him/herself for such a séance?

Is one individual person able to attract, support and survive such high vibrations of a spirit?

Or is it like in a common apartment, where there is a tension of 220 volts in the electric wires?

What happens to the same electric wires if suddenly high voltage current passes through them?

Isn’t it the same with our nervous system which is also gauged to a certain electric vibration?

How big will the astonishment be when the wires scorch and the fuses blow?

Is our nervous system prepared to let pass high-voltage current without health consequences?

How must we prepare psycho-physically for mediumship and will the message be truthfully reproduced?

Or will the message be filtered by our psyche and interpreted, thus falsified?

What about these alleged mediums who are in an alleged contact with departed artists who died an unnatural death?

Are they credible?

Is this possible?

Or are these departed artists unable to talk through an alleged medium?

Certainly not – it also depends on how they died – however in most cases the departed must first overcome the shock of death and get familiar with the new environment.

Therefore, it’s impossible to contact at any time we want such a spirit of the higher evolution levels “just like this”, making him come to a certain place and help, whenever a certain person in need asks for, because the electromagnetic conditions or the conditions of the room don’t allow that a spirit of the higher vibration levels passes through, especially as there’s no personal vibration contact to the actual spirit on behalf of the person in need.

In this field, as it so often happens, there is a fertile soil for charlatanry , as this “service” , despite its impossibility, is often offered for reward.

In case of premature death, spirits are first connected to matter until their natural death would have occurred.

This constitutes also a big problem for mankind, because in our age so many people die of traffic and other fatal, unnatural accidents.

Mankind is strongly influenced by these wandering departed.

Suicide is the most awful way of dying. Most of the people who decide to commit suicide are too cowardly to face life and responsibility for themselves and others, hence, they flee from reality and life.

Suicides remain connected to their body for 7 days, they are mostly in a coma like state, and suffer immeasurable moral pain which is more difficult to master than continuing to live.

Natural Laws do not foresee suicide, the electromagnetic field is being completely blocked. That’s why we logically do not observe suicidal behavior with animals.

It’s impossible to establish a contact through mediums with suicide cases, unless by permission and with the help of the higher world of spirits, but for study purposes only.

Suicide cases remain attached to matter. All other departed need as well a certain time in order to “charge their batteries”, which is done at their evolution level where the departed first must go to. Consequently, the way of dying is decisive on how much time this phase takes, i.e. until the spirit’s regression to his respective evolution level is completed.

Suicide cases might also miss their own reincarnation cycle because suicide is considered an absolutely unnatural action.

The reincarnation cycle of mankind comes up to 500 years, with rare exceptions.

Anyway, we should distance from the idea to call departed (relatives, acquaintances, celebrities) because of curiosity or in order to overcome sorrow or the loss of a person. When one of these next of kin is no longer among us and we clinch to him that way, instead of releasing him/her, he/she will be even more bound to matter. Hence, we make it more difficult for him/her to reach his/her evolution level and reincarnation cycle.

And is this a kind human behavior???

Recommended books, OF AllAN KARDEC :

“The Mediums’ Book”

“The Spirits’ Book”

“Heaven and Hell”

© Copyright by Witold Wieslster

[blue-mood-blue]

No one asked about the eye.

It wasn't something Peter Nureyev even noticed that he'd noticed, just another unnecessary piece of information filed away in the back of his mind for use later if he needed it. He was doing his best to stay out of Juno Steel's way, after all, ensuring that they weren't stuck in a room together alone and forced to make stilted, polite conversation; he rarely had reason to spare extra energy in observing the way the rest of their strange band interacted with Juno.

When he caught a glance at Juno rubbing his eye one morning under the patch, shuffling past where Peter was seated at the table and nodding along to whatever tangent Rita was prattling away about behind him while obviously retaining nothing, the thought occurred to Peter again: no one ever asked Juno about his eye. It went mostly unremarked upon entirely, even when "family dinner" devolved into "taking cheap shots at each other."

Like as not it was just good manners, Peter decided as he shifted his attention back to the tablet in his hand. It would be in poor taste to pepper someone with questions about a serious, visible injury, and if Juno didn't bring it up it hardly fell to any of the rest of them to bring it up for him. And Juno had been without an eye for some time - if he wanted a cybernetic alternative, he could have gotten one long before now. He could have listed it with his other requirements for working with Buddy's crew, even. That was his own business.

No one said anything about the eye - asked any questions, voiced any concerns, made any offers - and Peter put it out of his head. Peter put it out of his head when Juno forgot his patch and still seemed surprised to find an empty socket, when Juno’s depth perception still suffered despite the time he'd had to get used to it, when Juno took emptied cans from a meal and lined them up outside whenever they were somewhere with enough gravity to make it worth his while and practiced his shooting.

Juno went wide every time. And every time, Peter remembered his precise shooting from before, and felt a pang in his chest.

"He isn't getting any better." Peter wasn't sure why he spoke up, and to Jet, who seemed absorbed with whatever he was doing to the Carte Blanche while Peter idly watched Juno practice. He hadn’t meant to say anything, it was the kind of pointless sentiment that was best left in Peter’s head if it had to be anywhere at all, and it was a small mercy that he’d said so softly enough that Jet had plenty of room to pretend he hadn’t heard.

"He is not," Jet replied.

Should have kept his mouth shut, Peter thought, while continuing to not keep his mouth shut. "It's concerning that he hasn't improved by now, considering when he lost the eye. He might never get that sharpshooting back."

"He might not," Jet agreed.

"He could consider getting it replaced - the technology exists." Just because it would make their work easier, Peter justified to himself. The only reason he cared about Juno Steel's sharpshooting was because it might be necessary to save their lives at some point. Otherwise, he would leave well enough alone.

There was no reply from Jet, and Peter assumed the man had finally decided that the conversation wasn't worth continuing. He was surprised, then, when he looked up and found Jet regarding him seriously, that steady gaze unwavering.

"I do not think Juno would want such a thing. I would advise you not to mention it to him." Before Peter had the chance to ask what he meant, to figure out how Jet could have come to that leap of a conclusion when he barely knew Juno and certainly hadn't been there when he'd lost the eye, Jet stood up, collected his tools, and went back inside.

Peter watched another wide shot, lost in thoughts that didn't get him anywhere.

~~~

It was late, and the Carte Blanche was quiet, and Peter didn't know why he was awake.

It might have been that the bed felt too empty; a startlingly vulnerable conclusion, since Juno didn't spend every night there even after their conversation, but there was no point denying the possibility. More likely that he'd heard something, and the ability to wake quickly had saved him too many times for him to easily put aside the habit now. When he didn't hear it again, he rolled to the far side of the bed and resolutely tried to fall back asleep.

Five minutes later, with a put-upon sigh, Peter dragged himself to his feet. The idea of the empty bed had wormed its way into his head and he couldn’t stop thinking about the cold, extra space. It was ridiculous and mortifying that he was actually considering knocking on Juno's door in the early hours of the morning to ask for a space in his bed; worse that he knew he wouldn’t, and that he would never get back to sleep now that he’d allowed himself to consider it. Might as well find a distraction, since he was up anyway.

He'd already passed the living area on his way to the kitchen when he stopped, a delayed reaction to something sending a chill down his spine, and slowly walked back in. It was dark - the faint lights of the hallway filtered in and mixed with the ambient light from the windows, giving only just enough illumination for Peter to find what unsettled him. There was someone in there, on the couch, sitting straight as a mannequin who’d been positioned that way and whispering something in a low, unnaturally steady thrum.

Peter froze in the doorway. It was Juno.

He didn't seem right; it was a vague conclusion that didn't do the pit in Peter's stomach justice, but it was a hard thing to define besides a sense of wrong. The muttering and the blank stare told him that Juno was probably sleepwalking, or something like it; the rigid way he was sitting and his sharp focus on nothing implied something else. He hadn't reacted at all to Peter passing through the room, to Peter walking right in front of him and right past that focused, unfocused stare, and he didn't react as Peter quietly walked closer.

"Juno?" Nothing. Not a twitch to indicate he'd heard, not so much as a pause between the stream of muttered, whispered words. Peter crept closer, sat slowly down next to him on the couch, and as he was reaching up to touch his shoulder he heard what Juno was saying.

“Goodness-is-the-only-purpose-I-have-little-potential-for-Good-therefore-I-am-worth-little-the-Tower-has-great-potential-therefore-it-is-great-"

It all felt deeply, deeply unsettling. It was Juno's voice but not his words; the cadence was even and emotionless and mechanic, as if something else were speaking through him with no concept of how to be Juno. Peter's hand stopped because suddenly, foolishly, he was afraid to attract the attention of whoever it was sitting next to him. And just as foolishly, he was afraid to leave Juno alone and lost.

"It's a dream, Nureyev," he muttered to himself, disgusted that a simple act of comfort was beyond him, even momentarily. Juno was trying, and what was Peter doing? Sitting next to him, unable to touch him, useless to him. Ridiculous. "Just wake him up and maybe you can both get some sleep."

"Boss?" Peter nearly jumped out of his skin, and he jostled Juno next to him; in his focus on listening to what Juno was saying, he hadn't heard Rita walk in. She was rubbing sleep from her eyes, looking between Peter and Juno. "Boss, you feelin’ okay?"

"-systems-are-beginning-to-fail-Emotional-Danger-Avoidance-Protocol-has-been-deactivated-request-received-diverting-remaining-processing-power-from-pain-numbing-functions-"

"Oh." Rita didn't seem confused. Concerned, though, in a quiet way that was so unlike her it made Peter wonder what happened to people on this ship at night to change them so thoroughly. Or perhaps, not on this ship at all. “You better leave this to me, Mista Ransom. I mean, you could try, but he probably wouldn’t remember you and it’d get pretty confusing.”

The pit of unease at the bottom of Peter’s stomach was widening, quickly. He stared at Juno. “He wouldn’t… remember?”

“He gets a little scrambled when he gets like this - it’s not really surprising after spending all that time with someone talking at him in his head all the time, you know, he told me about what it was like and I don’t think I’d like it myself, someone tryin’ to tell me what to do -“

“What… what are you...” Peter shook his head. Not important. It wasn’t important for him to understand right now, while his questions would only leave Juno stuck in his own mind longer. “Can you help him?”

Rita smiled at him reassuringly, as if the situation had not left her terrifyingly out of her depth. All the better, Peter thought faintly, as he continued to sit by and be useless. “Oh yeah, I got him. You can go to bed if you want.”

Peter shook his head. He would not be sleeping tonight, not until Juno was well. He could think about what his inability to leave meant later.

"Must've been a bad day if you're dealing with this again, huh?" She was talking to Juno and he wasn't hearing her, so she sat on his other side and tapped him on the shoulder. He didn't react. "Mista Steel, it's Rita. You remember me, right? Rita's gonna get you outta there, don't you worry, boss."

"Ri-ta." He pronounced it like the sound was something strange and foreign, like he was making a first attempt to say something he'd never tried before. “Rita. Rita. Rita Rita Rita Rita...”

Suddenly, Juno's head snapped to look at her. It was unsettling; someone who was asleep should have been slower to react, but the movement was unnaturally swift. He looked right at Rita, and this time when he spoke, he almost, horribly, sounded like himself. He was smiling. "The net Good of: save the Tower and bring peace to every human in the Galaxy. Outweighs the net evil of: killing every person in this room, one by one, until you reveal yourself."

Rita just took one of his hands and patted the back of it. "Okay boss, that's real nice and all, but I'm sitting right here. You don't gotta lure me out, and besides we're not even there right now and we haven't been for a long time now. If you really wanna get back at me the only thing you can do is fire me, and we both know you’d never actually do that because then where would you be?"

The silence was so much bigger after her chatter; there was a tension in her shoulders that she wasn’t letting show on her face. And then the tension in Juno collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, and Peter heard a beautiful sound. "Rita?" He sounded exhausted, but that was unmistakably and mercifully Juno’s voice. "What am I... doing on the couch?"

Rita's smile was big enough to light up the room - big and genuine and relieved. Peter wondered if she would ever explain what he'd just seen, and somehow he doubted it. "You promised to watch a movie with me and Mista Ransom, boss! And since you're awake now anyway and you always say you're too busy to watch a movie in the middle of the day I just thought we might as well watch something in the middle of the night instead, since all you're ever doing then is sleeping anyway -"

It didn't seem like he was keeping up very well with what Rita was telling him, but the mention of "Ransom" must have caught his attention because he turned around to confirm that Peter was there. Snapped out of whatever trap of his own mind he'd been caught in a moment earlier, Juno just looked tired; Peter reached for his other hand and gave it a squeeze, smiling in a way that he hoped masked his uncertainty. "Might as well watch something until we all fall asleep, hm?"

Peter wasn't sure if Juno was too tired to comprehend what either of them were talking about, or if he was just comfortable enough in their combined presence that it didn't matter that he didn't understand; whatever the reason, instead of answering either of them or asking any more questions he lay his head on Peter's shoulder and was almost asleep already by the time Rita got back with her tablet.

~~~

It was only a voice, robotic and designed to be soothing. The message calmly explained the steps of the security procedure before the event during the elevator ride, and Juno reached for Peter's hand.

His grip was tight and desperate, like a vice, but he wouldn't look over to Peter. He wouldn't explain if he could, wasn't allowed to explain here even if Peter was allowed to ask and they weren't already in their characters for the latest job. Juno wasn't ready to talk about it.

Peter squeezed his hand and took a step closer, disguised behind a subtle shift in his stance. "Just hold onto me, love," he muttered under his breath, hoping Juno could hear. "We'll make it through."

~~~

It was garbage television, what Peter finally settled on while he worked his way through an enormous bowl of ice cream in the preciously rare, quiet evening on the Carte Blanche. He'd probably have joined the festivities planetside if not for the badly-sprained ankle and cracked ribs, and he'd probably have been more upset about the whole thing had Juno not volunteered to stay with him. As it was, he allowed himself to enjoy the evening for exactly what it was - quiet and calm that he usually didn't get, and alone time with Juno with blissfully few expectations for either of them.

Juno had settled him in, placed the bowl and the remote in his hands, and kissed the top of Peter's head before promising that he'd be back in a minute. Peter took advantage of his absence to find something really awful to watch, fully planning to use his injuries as emotional manipulation if Juno started to complain. Remote privileges were rare in their strange little group.

He'd settled on a conspiracy program before Juno got back, a recent special set in Hyperion City - ought to be good for a laugh for Juno, too, who'd probably spend the entire time arguing with the host about everything she didn't know about the city he'd grown up in. Peter had seen the odd article about it circulating the tabloids - New Town, home of experimental brainwashing that no one could prove. As unlikely as it was interesting, far-fetched as it was entertaining.

Juno walked in as the theme started to play, already groaning. "I have no idea why you like this show. It's such a crock of shit and you know it." The criticism was tempered by good-natured laughter.

"Some of us like a good story well-told, Detective, even if it's not quite true." He smiled as he looked above him, where Juno was leaning over the couch... and stopped when he saw his expression. "Juno?"

Juno was staring at the tv, looking for all the world like he'd just seen a ghost. The program opened on a scene of former Mayor O'Flaherty, giving a speech about good to an awed and eagar public, specifically about creating a better home; Juno stared, so still and yet hanging on every word.

"Juno, dear? Are you... alright?"

He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Uh, what exactly are you watching?"

"That 'New Town' conspiracy, the one with the brainwashing." Juno didn't say anything, didn't seem to react in any way Peter could see. "Juno. Tell me what's wrong, please."

Juno rubbed at his eye, first over the patch and then under it, still watching the tv. The footage had changed from the speech to a dramatic shot of New Town's grand opening, played in slow motion with tense, swelling music to make the moment appropriately dramatic. "It's... nothing's wrong." He glanced down at Peter, and cracked an uneasy smile when he saw exactly how much Peter believed that. "Okay, nothing's wrong right now. It's just..."

"Just...?"

"A bad memory. A few bad memories."

Peter wasn't sure if he should ask, wasn't sure if he was allowed. Juno had put so much work into being open; wasn't it his part to respect the boundaries where they were, and to trust that Juno would talk to him when he was ready? They'd invested so much time and effort in building something that wouldn't collapse and hurt them both. So instead of pushing, he asks: "Sit with me?"

And when he does, Juno asks him: "Did I ever tell you how I met Buddy?"

When Juno starts his story, honest and well-told, Peter turns off the television to listen to him.

[elliemarchetti]

Wretches and Kings

This is my fill for @steverogersbingo for the square Beta Steve 

Plot: Captain Steve Rogers is part of an elite group of werewolves tasked with capturing as many witches as possible, but when he meets Dania, some doubts begin to work their way into his beliefs.

TW: mentions of rape, slavery and murder; strong language

Words: 3069

Dania slipped through the heavy front door as quietly as possible, careful to not alert the innkeeper, who was muttering to someone in the kitchens. She knew it had been a long time since she last paid rent, but being a spy didn’t allow for constant remuneration, and the little magic she casted to entertain travellers at the port barely covered the cost of a hot meal for dinner, therefore she had to climb the steep wooden stairs quite quickly, careful not to make them creak, and once in her dusty room, get at least a couple hours of sleep, the bare minimum to have the energy needed to repeat that same routine the following day. In less than a week, Heimdall would reach her with new orders, and once she reported her discoveries, he would give her two, very useful things: enough money to pay off her debt and a new task, hopefully far away from the misty town of Bonduar. Born and raised in the small and sunny Republic of Witches, where winters were mild and summers perfect for swimming in the crystalline sea, Dania struggled to adapt to the dull climate of the Mortal Kingdom, but she used the thought of being able to return to her usual attire as a reward, a finish line that would help her endure what she had to undergo in order to mingle with the locals and not attract the Hounds. Every witch knew the story of the first werewolf: when a handsome and charming man was rejected by the woman he loved, he took her by force in a field; looking at the full moon through the tears, the sorceress cursed him to an endless torture, transforming him into a monster in disguise, unable to distinguish friend from foe, blinded by an insatiable hunger for human flesh and scourged by the thought of corrupting everything his teeth touched. The man paid no heed to those words, until the following month something horrible happened to his mind and body: on the next full moon, his nails became claws, and his eyes blood shot with pain; his teeth turned into fangs, while bones and ligaments broke and lengthened, only to find a new and unnatural shape. This soulless beast yelped and howled in the night, as it ran desperately away from the city, the witch watching from the very hill she was raped on how the once beloved man massacred and poisoned all his fellow villagers. Taking refuge beyond the Vanbalt Mountains, the first werewolf made his curse a blessing, as he was now the perfect predator, able to build the strongest army in the continent, endless battalions made up of his best subjects, poor wretches whom he and his followers met during the wrong night. In that sea of murderers, some excelled for their skills as hunters, so the Hounds were born, and specialized in finding witches powerful enough to be the one who casted the spell and who, in the blink of an eye, could’ve taken away all the Alpha’s power. Those who were captured were transported in the Land of the Alpha, an impervious and perpetually snow-covered region, where they were interrogated and summarily tried. Few returned from those frozen holdings, but none unchanged, and they were all considered traitors anyway, for only important information led to an effective release. The other option, the one many preferred, was death, even if it involved ending up at the stake with hands tied and eyes and mouth sewn up, for greater safety. If only the werewolves knew the witch they sought was able to perform magic only by thinking about her target, they might’ve stopped those cruel shows, but sometimes the journey was the only hope for the captured, and if they had know, Dania was sure they would begin to exterminate her race without rules nor mercy, reducing their already small population to the point of no return. Sure, they still had their protected borders, but how long would it take for the enemy to knock on their doors? And what would happen when a bunch of powerful being would start doubting the safety of their gilded cage? Anarchy, something the Council couldn’t afford. So there were people like her, who did dangerous jobs, even as baits sometimes, and perpetuated a century old cold war. The mortals decided not to take sides, dependent on both the great power of the witches and the metals werewolves extracted from their mountains, which made them untrustworthy, so unreliable when someone was in debt that Dania recognized the harsh and cruel language of the enemy even from the hall. One of them was shouting, but there was a group climbing the stairs, and she had little to no time before they smashed the door, which landed on the floor with a thud. Four men entered the dark room, all dressed in bare and rudimentary heavy clothes. Their faces were dirty from the long journey, but they didn’t look tired, their unnaturally golden eyes gleaming eagerly at the sight of the witch. Despite their physical strength, they were all armed and didn’t care to hide it, long daggers and throwing axes hanging from the thick belts they sported over the black coats. Before she could speak, two rushed to catch her, but she quickly dodged, knocking one upside down with a spell and hitting the other with her elbow square in the face. The third, a bald, long-bearded mastodon, punched her in the stomach, hard enough to throw her onto the bed. At her command, the window exploded into a thousand fragments, and although she heard a couple of pained moans, she didn’t have the time to check what damage she caused, too busy fighting against one of the first attackers, equipped with a pair of rowan handcuffs, able to at least partially suppress a witch’s powers.

“Shut her mouth,” said the older one, when they finally managed to subdue her. Although she was proud of the fight she put up, Dania would’ve liked to be that dangerous, to be able to cast the Grimoire’s spells without using her hands as catalysts, but it was an advanced level of study, time and effort they would never waste on a spy and, given the situation, something she would probably never learn. Those were the only gloomy thoughts flooding her mind as they dragged her toward the harbour and finally onto one of their ugly ships, dark and big boats made to last and endure even the coldest winter, and the mood didn’t change when she saw the damp hold smelling of mould, dry blood and old excrement. Other than the logs, hung from rusty chains set to the ceiling, there was no furniture, only the wooden walls, soaked wet and populated with lichens creating disturbing abstract designs. One of the Hounds was now waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his handsome shaved face illuminated by the depressed flame of a lantern. He had short blond hair, and a few strands fell over his pale forehead, crossed by a single wrinkle, caused by his slightly furrowed brows. He watched her with his human eyes, the same blue as the spring sky, but didn’t move when his companion pushed her down the stairs, letting her land with her face on the worn wood, Although she was never happy to tumble like a sack of potatoes, the fall freed her of the rudimentary gag, and she decided to immediately take advantage of the opportunity to speak. Looking around, she saw two other prisoners, hanging by their arms like lifeless puppets waiting for the master to pull their strings. One couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and Dania’s heart squeezed in her chest.

“Maybe you’re not the infamous Hounds,” she growled, trying to get on her knees. She tasted blood in her mouth, and she was sure she had at least a chipped tooth, but she would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her suffer, to the point she held back a sob even when he yanked her to her feet.

“Maybe you’re just slavers selling women. Do you choose them young because you hope to meet them at the next port where you will dock?” she asked, even though she knew it was a lie, just a provocation to get a reaction, whatever it was.

“I’m not a slaver,” he merely replied sardonically, while making sure the handcuffs were properly attached to the chains. 

“And it should make me think better or worse of you?” she hissed, never looking away. She noticed her jailer was avoiding her gaze, she saw that in hearing her speak, something was stirring inside him, but after all, that was why most witches were silenced, not in fear of their power, but to minimize the personification of the prisoner. Dania, however, didn’t intended to be just a number, a notch on the belt of those assholes, she had fought, and she would’ve continued to do so, even if at the moment the most she could do was throw a few kicks. If her ribs hadn’t hurt so much, she might’ve even hit him in the face, but for now she had to be content with aiming for his shins, and dirtying his shiny black boots as much as possible. Let him bring Bonduar’s mud home.

“You’ll face a regular trial, as the law requires,” he replied, walking away to check on his work.

“How many of us are found innocent in your alleged trials?” she continued, even though she knew her time was running out. The Hound did a good job, she tested it herself, so soon he would be off to celebrate with his companions, leaving her to wonder if the other two girls were strong enough to try to free themselves as she intended to, although she still didn’t have a plan.

“Your laws are a farce,” she yelled after him, as he turned his back on her, “just like you and your friends. Big, bad Hounds, four grown men against a young women! How honourable, so noble! I thought you respected your women!”

“But you’re not a woman,” he replied, already on the stairs. She couldn’t see his face, but his tone was as cold as the ice of his land, therefore she could imagine what disgust bore his piercing blue eyes. “You’re just a witch.”

In all honesty, the one you can only have with yourself, he hadn't said it because he really believed it. If it had been a catch like any other, it would’ve been true, but she resisted not only with her powers, she even fought like a mere mortal, and continued to do so even when she had evidently lost. She hadn’t given up even as he tied her to the chains, and she hadn’t complained, she hadn’t shown pain for even a second. She must’ve possessed considerable fortitude, but it was her courage that stuck him, the fact that despite he could’ve made her suffer the worst pains, she insulted his pride anyway. Besides, she was beautiful, all over the Rift, the region he came from, he didn’t think he’d ever seen such a gorgeous woman. It was probably something in her eyes, dark, observant, in such stark contrast to the vital, rosy skin of her bruised cheeks. Little did he know of lively things in the Land of the Alpha, with everything covered in snow and moss. Sure, there were the forests, with their ancient evergreens so high they could touch the sky, but it too was always gray, cloudy, and the sunlight rarely reached the mining villages unfiltered. However, it was evident he was the only one with thoughts of that kind, his companions content in their noisy drunkenness.

“Always serious, Captain Rogers,” teased the Sergeant Major, a huge man several years older than him and too empty-headed to step up through the ranks. In fact, Steve already considered it a miracle that he made it this far, but given his fondness for violence, he had no doubt he might’ve killed his superior to get there. The thought of being his next target didn’t bother him, as he knew his fighting style by heart and it was full of flaws both on the defensive and offensive side. Being a malnourished kid who barely survived the bite taught him a lot, and analyzing what and especially who was around him was perhaps the most useful skill.

“Were you hoping to fill the hold again in just one week?” asked a Private, the latest addition of the team, with widened eyes. If he considered him valuable, Steve would’ve learned his name as well, but from how the witch hit him first, he had no doubt his stay would be too short to be worth it.

“Undoubtedly,” he lied, but no one noticed, and not just because of the amount of dark beer ingested. He honed that sardonic tone for years, starting when he was just a tall, thin kid getting ready to go through training as a Hound, and now that he was high ranked and as big as the others, it was even easier to use it. Surprisingly, the Alpha appreciated it too, but after all, under his control, there wasn’t much room for feelings and free will: his every word was an order, and those who didn’t respect it had no option but to walk away, become an Omega, destined to die alone, one way or another. Some whispered rumours of minor packs, who lived on the edge between the Land of the Alpha and the Mortal Kingdom, but Steve could hardly believe them, given the attention their master put into tracking witches and deserters alike.

“Do you think one of those we caught is the right witch?” the boy pressed him, and for a brief moment Steve wondered if he shouldn’t have growl to make him stop talking. It would’ve been obvious even to a blind man that none of the young women in the hold were the sorceress they were looking for, but each of those damn bitches could have useful information, something that would bring them closer to breaking the spell, so it was those same words he said to the Private, and without further explanation, he disappeared into the dark room, where the prisoners dangled like sausages waiting to be smoked. For some reason, the youngest looked ill, while the other, the first they captured, was dozing with her head resting on her right arm, stretched beyond belief, just the tips of her toes touching the floor. He didn't care about their comfort, and no one would’ve worried much if they all died on the journey, but he really wanted to do a good job, and armed with a crust of bread and a flask full of water, he walked over the only one awake, who looked at him with eyes full of terror, even if she tried to dissimulate it. As useful as it would’ve been, Dania never spoke to anyone who survived the trip or the captivity under the werewolves, so she just didn’t know what to expect when the young man came close enough to feel his breath on her face, but she would never, ever dreamed of hearing him say he brought her something to eat. Her stomach had been rumbling for a while now, and although she was much more concerned about her dry throat, she certainly wouldn’t say no to the shadow of a meal, poisoned or not. Of course, a kindness from one’s oppressor was never just a kindness, which she didn’t fail to point out,  but to her utter amazement, her jailer told her it was just good manners, though probably a creature accustomed to deceit like her couldn’t know what they were.

"Strange to hear of good manners from someone who kidnapped three girls, chained them to the ceiling and left them for who knows how long without water,” she snapped, and for a moment she wondered if she hadn’t gone too far, if her sharp tongue didn’t sign her own death sentence, but seeing the food wasn’t removed from her reach, she relaxed and listened to her tormentor’s questions without saying a word or give any sign of understanding. The men wanted answers, but different ones from what she expected from an interrogation.

“What exactly do they teach you, apart from the fact we’re evil and should burn at the stake?” she finally asked, suspicious. Over the years, she developed a theory, but she would’ve never thought she was so close to the truth: the Alpha didn’t instruct its subjects, he kept them completely in the dark, feeding them sip of propaganda that vaguely tasted of reality. He wasn’t the leader the witches believed they were fighting, but a dictator, and while she couldn’t be sure that all Hounds were so naive, civilians certainly were.

“That you kill us whenever you have the chance,” he replied, coldly.

“Because you persecuted us for almost a century!” she exclaimed, exhausted. If he wanted to give her food she was more than eager to accept, but she had no intention of arguing much longer, knowing nothing she could say would change his mind. He didn’t care specifically about her, he was just doing his awful job, but then why did he have that wrinkle crossing his forehead again? Why didn’t he leave, or hit her, as any other Hound would’ve done? Maybe he was just curious, or maybe their interrogations weren't as cruel as the witches', but it surely was strange to bite into the bread he held between his fingers, her dry lips lightly brushing his fingertips. She chewed for a long time, slowly, trying to savour the taste of rye as much as possible. Though she doubted there might be anything better awaiting her north, she prayed this wasn't her last meal.

“Give some to the other too,” she whispered, her tone pleading. She didn’t think either of the young witches was capable of practicing the same magic she hadn’t been taught, but maybe if they’d been a little stronger they’d be able to come up with a plan.

“I can’t risk it, I’m sorry,” he murmured, but before he disappeared on the deck again, Dania swore she saw a hint of regret in his blue eyes.

[cienie-isengardu]

What's with the Black Dragon in MK, they confuse me?

I know they are a branch off of the Red Dragon, who they left because they thought the Red Dragon was too moral.

And they are lead by Kano, who has no morals and as an absolute piece of shit.

Kano doesn't confuse me.

Kabal "I used to be B.D. but decided to be a good guy cop, and even Raiden wanted on his team" and Erron Black "I might be a feminist/sexist man, because I never throw the first punch with women, and also seem soft of kids, unless they pay me a lot to shot them"

Both of these guys, who are the only other B.D. members I know of, are morally gray at best, which is what the what the Black Dragon left the Red Dragon because of?! So why aren't they just Red Dragon, and why does the Black Dragon even exist (other than to pad Kanos crotch)?!

To be honest, I’m not sure myself what is the deal between Black and Red Dragons (not the fraction / era of games I’m familiar or interested in) but I suspect it is something similar to the situation of Lin Kuei and Shirai Ryu. At some point some rogue element decided to leave and created his/her/their own organisation and since then both groups hate each other’s guts. And somehow along the line Kano took over Black Dragons and extended its operation to Outworld. I’m unable to comment on the “moral code” of Red Dragons because really, what is an honor in a crime organisation anyway, but sadly, alternative timeline doesn’t focus much on this conflict so Kano has (on screen) monopoly on dealing with weapons and other black market deals.

Whatever the excuse was to split, it was most likely about power and control or revenge than any morality whatsoever.

As for the members alone, I think it is less a matter of their morality and more why they joined or worked with Black Dragons in the first place. People join criminal organizations for money, for the thrill of danger, for protection or because they lack better options. Not sure how it was before Outworld Invasion and Netherrealm War, but the game does not show us the actual state of modern (alternative timeline) Earthrealm, or at least modern USA society. I mean, in a short period of time, out of nowhere came armies of monsters twice, murdering people right and left, destroying cities. The rebuilding for sure took time but beside the lasting psychological trauma, I’m sure the survivors demanded answers as to what the hell happened and did the governments know about other realms. It is not stated how much common people know now about Mortal Kombat and Outworld or general history of conflict, but the last invasion and the Netherrealm War changed the world in an irreversible way. We don’t have an idea about the situation of average citizens nor how countries managed to stave off political, cultural or economic post-war crises. We have a clue about show business like movie making and military operating inside and outside Earthrealm and cooperation between fractions representing different countries and/or continents. Our main heroes seem to do well, money-wise at least, but they all are in this or another way related to the military thus working for the government (or United Nations / NATO / whatever political-economic union happened post-war). That however does not rule out the possibility there are people who were abandoned or forgotten by their government, who were marginalised for whatever big or small reason. With what happened it is easy for me to imagine how humanity was militarized in case of another attack, and in result, how societies were controlled more tightly by their governments. In theory all for the security means but it easily could escalate into social inequalities increasing with each passing year.

There is a lot of worldbuilding the games did not tell us about but would help greatly to understand the relationship between characters, fractions and countries. Are there arenas that are now closed off due to some magic contamination or became the lawless zones but people live there because they are too poor to move into safer places? Are there more young people with special powers due to raping or magic means, as the remnant of the war? How religions work now, when humanity saw an army of demons? Are religious wars escalated, especially if faith in Elder Gods get renewed? Did religious fanatics start cultural crusades against certain social groups (like LGBT+, atheists, anyone tied to Outworld or at least looking unnatural, like orphaned Frost?).

And the more society is tightly controlled, divided into poor, unwanted and written off against the privileged ones (military), the more people rebel against authority. Which is how Black Dragons may fit into the new times, as a niche for desperate, angry people with little to none perspective on life. Under Kano’s guard, they can be as violent and uncaring as they want. They can hurt a government (military), get good money and fun and until they are caught, there is only Black Dragon’s laws (or lack of therefor) to worry about.

(Looking how extremely violent the Special Forces were during the raid on Black Dragon’s hideout, how Cassie went straight for killing instead of just injuring to arrest the criminals and put them before justice, I wouldn’t be surprised if the army was not popular anymore. And yeah, Cassie wanted to save her parents but as a soldier, she is bound to respect law… that may be much different than we known from our reality)

We, as gamers (viewers) know what scumbag Kano is because we see his crimes and how he interacts with other characters. To what awful level he managed terrifying strong heroes like Sonya. But most of Black Dragon members may know him just as the charismatic leader that time after time outsmart the Special Forces and always get a good-paying job for them, whatever it is a deal in the country or a totally different realm.

And those named characters that left are those who actually experienced on their own skin what a nasty bastard Kano was. Like in Mortal Kombat X Comics Series, Erron joined forces with Black Dragons out of desperation to help Kotal which ended badly for him because Kano left him to die, thus Erron’s personal hate for Kano and his buddies. Similar thing seems to happen with Tremor, sent on a suicidal mission and then also left behind without any care or remorse. Frankly, only MK9!Kabal seems to have left Black Dragons for moral reasons and actually made proper life changing decisions like joining the police and help citizens instead of serving criminals.

Because of that, I can see why Kano, despite his true nature, is actually admired or followed by a bunch of angry, rebellious, sociopathic people and why Black Dragons are doing well despite Special Forces (and Red Dragons) hunting them for decades.

[thefanficmonster]

Best Friend’s Brother

Conrad (The Dark Pictures Anthology: Man of Medan) x Reader (Male)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst

Summary: Having been invited to the boat trip by his best friend Julia, Y/N can’t help but wish he never accepted the invitation because now he has to deal with being stuck on a boat with the boy he’s had a crush on for years with no real way to avoid him.

Requested by @dark-pictures-until-dawn  Hi hun! Thank you so much for your request, sorry to have kept you waiting for so long but here it finally is and I really hope you enjoy the read! (I used he/him pronouns but if you want them changed feel free to let me know!) Love, Vy ❤

I have no idea what I was thinking when I agreed to go on this trip. I don’t know what on God’s green Earth I was thinking but here we are now sitting on a boat, at open water with no land for miles. And I’m sitting here, face to face with him, but I’m completely frozen. Unable to say a single damn thing. Maybe that’s a good thing though, I’d probably embarrass myself if I did say something.

Let me give you a bit of backstory to how I found myself in this situation.

My parents are very close to Julia and Conrad’s family, given that our mothers used to go to high school together and have remained best friends ever since. That’s how I met the two siblings and was quick to grow a friendship with them both. Despite being Julia’s age, I found myself always gravitating towards Conrad but the girl is still my best friend - she’d probably kill me if I let her brother take that title from her. Truth be told, he could never take her title - I could never see Conrad as a best friend.

Not when my feelings towards him are anything but platonic.

No, I did not tell Julia about said feelings and no I don’t plan on telling her either. I’d never hear the end of it if I did tell her about it. She’d chew me up about it, making my romantic interest for her brother the main topic of discussion (read: teasing and mocking). Don’t get me wrong, I love Julia to death and there are never any secrets between us.

Well, there weren’t any until a few years ago when I realized my fondness for the dumbass she calls brother goes beyond just friendship and similarity. That it had more of a romantic nature that I was not prepared to have to deal with. And, in all honesty, I don’t think I’ve dealt with at all even now. I mean, it’s probably obvious thanks to the silence that’s taken over the deck of the boat where I’m currently sitting with Conrad, monitoring Alex and Julia’s dive while Fliss is tending to a seasick Brad downstairs.

“Hey Y/N, want a beer?“ When the comfortable but odd silence is broken, no one would be shocked to find it out it was done so by Conrad. I’m surprised he even managed to stay silent for so long.

“No thanks, I’ll keep the alcohol at bay until tonight when everyone’s onboard.“ It’s not a complete lie, that’s what I like about it.

You see, I’ve never got drunk with Conrad in the vicinity and I don’t wanna risk my drunk ass outing me and my silly and have neither him nor I remember it the next morning. So, to avoid getting carried with the drinking, I won’t be starting now and I’ll make sure to limit myself even tonight to three beers tops. I’m no lightweight but I’m no daredevil either.

“You’re oddly quiet.“ Conrad says when he returns with a beer in his hand, the glass bottle stained with droplets, suggesting he’s just taken it out of one of the coolers we brought. He presses the bottle to the side of his neck where he got a sunburn yesterday, some droplets trickling down his skin. He doesn’t seem to mind it as he keeps his focused gaze on me, a mildly concerned frown upon his face as he studies my expression, “Something wrong? You know you can tell me anything. That’s what best friends are for, after all.“ He smirks, putting extra emphasis on the word ‘best‘.

I laugh but I cringe inwardly. Something about calling him ‘best friend’ feels so unnatural and odd and out-of-place I can’t even describe it. I know it may sound ridiculous but if you’ve ever had a crush there’s a high chance that you can relate. “Don’t worry, if it were worth mentioning, I’d tell you.“ I blow off his concerns, using his own method against him.

He’s known to do that - sweep all his troubles under the rug and stand atop it to make sure they don’t try to escape and resurface while he’s keeping his bright smile on his face, avoiding showing any other expression. I’m no fool and neither is no one around him, at least the ones who know him well and are close to him. Us who he considers friends know that it’s not all smiles and sunshine in his life either.

Wish I could pull that rug from under him and see what’s really going on with him but not even Julia is allowed to do so, let alone me.

Thankfully though, before things could get any more awkward, Julia and Alex resurface with some rather exciting news - they went in as boyfriend and girlfriend and came back as an engaged couple.

And just like that, all thoughts surrounding Conrad were thrown out of my head. Ok, maybe not completely, but they were suppressed into some dark corner of my brain.

                                                              *  *  *

“You’ve got Connie worried.“ I yelp when my best friend plops her ass down next to me on the deck, her second bottle of beer half empty by now while I’m still nursing my first as though I’m trying to save more beers for the rest of the people on board.  We already have plenty of beers in stock but even if we didn’t, considering the sickness he had to endure earlier, Brad isn’t drinking, leaving his share at our disposal. Therefore, Jules is quick to catch onto my slow drinking.

I tilt my bottle in her direction, “I want to avoid getting sick like Brad did, thank you very much. The last thing I’m looking forward to is kneeling by the edge of the boat, puking my guts out.“

Julia laughs, clinking her bottle against mine before taking a swig. I take one too, hoping it fuels my courage at least a tiny bit to try and lead this conversation properly, “Nah, that’s not what he meant - although, I doubt Brad’s sickness was an alcohol issue.” She shakes her head, pushing aside a few blond locks to be able to look at me better. That’s when I feel like her gaze is piercing into my soul and I wish I knew how to shield myself from that. There’s a big issue with having your crush’s sister be your best friend, especially when she has a sixth sense for when there’s something off with me. “But you have been avoiding him, don’t deny it.” My eyes widen against my will and my mouth falls open as I try to defend myself and deflect her argument, but she raises a finger to signal me to keep my thoughts to myself while she’s talking. “Did he say something inappropriate while we were gone? Just tell me, I’ll end him!”

“Relax, Jules, Conrad would never do such a thing. Especially not with someone he cares about.“ Alex interferes - God bless his soul - and takes a seat next to Julia, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I’ve known Connie for as long as I’ve known you, J. You should know by now that, even at the odd chance he does say something inappropriate, I have a reply ready at all times.“ I shoot her a wink in an attempt to wipe away the concerned expression on her face.

Alex contributes, “See? Nothing to worry about. Now let Y/N enjoy his beer and you enjoy yours.”

I shoot Alex a grateful smile over behind Julia’s back, subtly tilting my bottle towards him - a gesture he understands perfectly and does so in return. However, his fiancée refuses to give up the argument.

“No, no, no. There is definitely something to worry about and I’ll get it out of him if it’s the last thing I ever do.“ She narrows her eyes at me, forcing me to instinctively back away as if that’s gonna help me at all. Then, this woman pulls a 180 on me, going from an angry detective to a disappointed and betrayed friend, “Damn it, Y/N! I always tell you everything and you are just a closed book! How is that fair?!“

It may or may not be a tactic but she’s got a point - I rarely tell her things. I’m the listener of the duo and she’s the talker: she shares, I absorb the info; she’s upset, I listen and comfort her accordingly; she has something troubling her, I’m the one she shares it with. It’s rarely ever the other way around. And I can see why it bothers her.

What’s a little truth to pay her back for all the ones she’s told me? Well, the problem is that this particular truth is far from little and it would be the equivalent of descending into my own grave willingly.

It could also help you, you know? 

Yeah, sure it can. Sure it can....

“Ok fine!“ I cut her off because this woman can never run out of words to use against me when she wants to.

Her fiancée is quick to give me a sympathizing look, “No, Y/N, you don’t have to...”

“No, it’s ok, Alex. I owe her this much...“ I sigh, looking at the doorway leading to the lower level of the boat where Conrad went a while ago and doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry to return, much to my relief. I sigh, succumbing to the inevitable, “Jules, I’m only gonna say this once and no, I won’t elaborate but I need you to promise me you won’t freak the hell out. Got it?“

The blond girl rolls her eyes, “Come on Y/N, are we in middle school or something?”

Oh she’s so not ready to hear this...

“Fine, then I bet you won’t be bothered by my crush on your brother at all.“ I huff out before I can rethink the words I’d use or how I’d phrase the sentence. It just left my body as though it has been waiting to do so for a while no. That wouldn’t surprise me though, it’s been one heavy weight to carry around.

There’s a long moment of silence. Alex and I both gaze at Julia who is pulling off the most impressive poker face I’ve ever seen but I have no time to dwell on that considering I’m too busy keeping my stomach from turning completely and forcing me to throw up the small amount of food I’ve eaten and the beer I’ve had to drink. When Julia opens her mouth to talk, I raise the bottle to my lips to shut myself up and calm myself down. “The only thing that bothers me is the fact you didn’t tell me sooner.“

To say I’m flabbergasted would be an understatement. I’ve seen Julia freak out over smaller things but she’s calm about this?! I’m impressed. But then again, I shouldn’t speak too soon - this might just be the calm before the storm.

“If I knew you’d be this chill about it I wouldn’t have waited so long.“ I admit sheepishly, fidgeting with my hands now that I’ve put the bottle aside. “It’s unlike you to be this calm about something....like this.“ I cannot find the right words to describe ‘this‘ but I know she gets me and that’s a relief.

“I’m a drama queen when I wanna be and a strategic player when I have to be, Y/N, how come you don’t know that?“ She smirks at me, all self-assured and whatnot. Wish I had at least a fragment of her self-esteem. “Speaking of strategic, leave it all to me. The two of you will be together in no time.“ She nudges me in the ribs with her elbow, giving me a wink that makes my blood run cold, my eyes opening wide as plates.

“No way, J! No fucking way.“ I feverously shake my head, the idea itself making me feel so terrified and unsure like I’ve never felt before. “You won’t do anything just like I won’t do anything. He doesn’t see me that way and that’s that, no room for negotiating.“

She scoffs, “Oh please. Have you known him all his life? Have you seen him through every darn moment of his life - from being a pathetic loser in middle school to the playboy in high school? No you haven’t. Well, I have and I can say with all the certainty within me that the way he looks at you is a dead giveaway of how he feels for you. He’s had many romantic partners, and I’ve never once seen him look at them the way he looks at you, Y/N.”

I narrow my eyes at her, “You do realize you’re contradicting your own point here - he’s never looked at me the way he looks at his romantic partners means he’s never seen me as a romantic partner!”

Julia shakes her head, “Goddammit, Y/N, you’re really trying to explain my brother to me? I’m telling you, the look he gives you is a lot more meaningful, a lot more special, unlike any look he’s ever given anyone.” The girl scans my face, looking for something I’m not sure she’ll find. “He adores you, Y/N. Perhaps even more than you.”

The words have no time to sink in an be processed by my spasming brain when I hear a familiar voice come from my right, “Wait, what?! What did I miss?”

If Conrad doesn’t have the best timing ever, I don’t know who does...

“Oh dear brother, we’ve been missing out on A LOT.“ Julia says, using every bit of insinuation she can to get me on-edge.

Conrad’s confused gaze darts between the three of us: Alex, who’s still in the processing phase, Julia who’s smiling widely and me who’s downright terrified. I now wish I had another beer bottle handy. It’d keep me occupied if nothing else.

Suddenly, the engaged couple arise from their seats and begin walking away - not without Julia flashing Conrad and I a big grin that says ‘Have fun, you two!’ as though she doesn’t know how much I’m sweating right now.

Conrad however doesn’t seem to notice the teasing undertones as he takes the seat opposite me, tightly holding onto his beer bottle when his gaze meets mine. There’s a smirk on his face but I don’t see even a trace of it in his eyes, leading me to believe it’s ingenuine and forced which is something I never thought I’d see on Connie’s face - a fake smile. It’s almost disturbing to witness.

“Well, well, well, has our boy scout found himself a significant other? Sorry if I’m far from the mark, I’m just shooting in the dark here. I didn’t get to hear much so I might be really inaccurate.“

I shake my head, “No, no, you’re pretty close actually.“ I was prepared to deny it to my grave but here I am confessing like a fool, “It’s a potential significant other. To be fair, there’s no potential whatsoever but a boy can dream.“

He quirks up a curious brow, “Why’d you be so sure?”

Well fuck, I didn’t think it that far through.

I attempt to play it off cool, shrugging my shoulder nonchalantly, “I’m not his type at all. I just know he doesn’t see me the way I see him. Hell, I’m not even sure he’s into guys and even....“

Conrad doesn’t let me finish though, shutting my up with his lips pressed against mine. I can’t recall when he closed the distance between us, I can’t even remember seeing him get up from his spot on the bench. Were my eyes closed? I have no clue, all I know is that they’re shut now and I’m afraid that this will all turn out to be a dream if I open them.

Therefore, I keep them shut even after we pull away, our faces still remaining inches away from one another.

“You still think he doesn’t like guys?“ The cocky fucker asks in a mumble, chuckling slightly.

I should probably feel timid, embarrassed or nervous or anything else that would fit well in this situation but all I feel is relief and all I can do is tilt my head back and laugh my heart out at the one thought that pops into my head:

I may have been the last person to know I had a crush on Conrad

Connie doesn’t allow me to spiral any further. He instead takes a gentle hold of the back of my neck, bringing me in for another kiss.

Man, is our story a cliché though - the story of how a dumbass (me) fell in love with his best friend’s brother.