#transgressive border crossing

[godjo]

✮ — altar girl.

hasn’t it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire?

tags — true form!sukuna x concubine/f!reader. 3k wc. explicit smut. dubcon at first (trust me in this one pls). exhibitionism. thigh riding. doggy style. manhandling. rough sex. womb fucking. humongous cock!sukuna (hello???). multiple orgasms. mindbreak. drool. cunnilingus bordering on tongue-fucking. orgasm denial once. he carries you. creampie. lots of cum. fuckton of religious symbolism. physical violence against the reader but not from sukuna. sukuna calls you brat like one time. minors, ageless, and blank blogs dni.

from hunter — not to be dramatic or whatever but i do feel like this fic took a huge chunk off of my sanity … the things i do for sukuna omg … if this flops i will officially retire from tumblr /j + also it's 3 am for me so i didn't proofread the last bits and i prolly got lazy ... ha ha ... ✮

gods exist. 

the annals of history tell us so.

they exist in a way that no mortal can comprehend, for a god is more than a face. they leave their imprints not with their feet but with the rise and fall of dynasties, the ruination of empires, and the death of kings. they materialize as the birth of a deluge and they rise as the reason for war. it is not the body that proves their existence but the carnage they leave behind. 

they have manifested before human eyes through myriad guises, and once again incarnated in the flesh of ryomen sukuna. 

many have met their untimely demise at his hands; he walks the earth with their tormented souls at his feet. from village to village, their numbers increased until a procession of weeping thickened behind him. hundreds of graves mark the land since his advent, and yet the heavens remain deaf to the hysterical prayers for justice. only he can hear the prayers; only he laughs at them. 

they say he is a devil. you say he is a god. because only a god can saturate the earth with blood and emerge unpunished from such transgression. hasn’t it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire? 

ryomen sukuna, in a form of some twisted mockery, decides to act the part. and so like every famished god, he demands a sacrifice to satisfy his voracious appetite. you would think that a house of gold would placate his hunger for blood, but riches mean nothing to him. his appetite needs flesh and it is flesh he got. 

“have i been too lenient that you’d dare fight amongst yourselves when i’m not around?” his voice reverberates inside the room. low, guttural, and pregnant with malice. it is enough to scorch everyone’s lungs with tension. 

you want to run away from this nightmare. go back to the peaceful bliss of mundanity when sukuna is only a piece of horrifying tale used to frighten children and not an absolute being seated cross-legged mere inches away. you try transporting your mind back to the days before his pillaging, before your village succumbed to his authority. yet his pervasive presence obstructs all your pathetic attempts at nostalgia. 

“look at what you did to the poor girl.” two of his four hands sweep you from your position to his lap, parading you to the rest of tearful eyes looking at him with entreaty. 

and it stings— their eyes. you’re in the claw of a savage hound from hell, ready to be devoured, with only your hadajuban as protection. even in this pitiful state, they offer no sympathy. their tears are for themselves alone despite their cruelty being the reason for your shared plight.

selfish bitches. 

“was it jealousy that caused this infighting? have i not divided my attention to all of you equally?” sukuna continuously taunts, lacing his voice with poisonous prudence. he fools no one and that’s what urges him forward. everyone knows that his seemingly laidback attitude is plain derision. nonetheless, he tastes the lingering hope in each of your faces before dragging his teeth along such pathetic daydreams.

“y… you have, my lord,” one of the women answers, her voice betraying a noticeable stutter. “if you would permit me to speak, i can offer his lordship an explanation for what transpired in the courtyard.”

sukuna emits a languid sigh as he rests his cheek upon his fist. he runs a rough hand down your arm, triggering vibration in the pit of your stomach. his hand is as huge as your face, his fingers long enough to snap your neck with ease. despite the surge of terror, you fight the urge to retch.

after a moment of battling your dread, it’s repulsion that filled you afterwards. repulsion rising from the woman’s explanation for your wretched state. the rest of the women nod their heads along with her account of how you tripped on a slippery stone multiple times, causing your current injuries, as if you’re a toddler who cannot orient her legs properly. 

they will save themselves with falsehood. 

sukuna yawns after the woman’s narration. his set of eyes seeking you after in the silence. 

“this matter is of your stupidity, then? you’ve wasted my time, brat.” he dips his cadence in amusement and disgust. 

anger flares within you, filling your nose and ears with the bitter scent of hatred, yet its heat descended down your throat, dampening your ability to defend yourself. what is one against many? there are twenty concubines in this room and nineteen of them just sold you to your demise for unintentionally raising this trifle to the lord of the land.

all of this— all of this merely because they have immersed themselves in playing a game in which you’ve been excluded since your arrival. after all, you’re just another competition for sukuna’s attention. 

“have mercy, my lord,” you whisper, on the verge of losing your sentience. “i… i mean no disrespect. it’s… it’s stupid of me—”

sukuna drawls, “speak no more of your nonsense. i have heard enough.” 

distressed apologies race past your mouth, along with entreaties that he spares your life. but you should’ve known that a god won’t turn his back on the sacrifice of blood. 

thus, when his enormous body finally moves to encase your fragility, you close your eyes and with jittering teeth have accepted your fate. you wait for the final release of death, a snap or his fist through your heart, but none came. instead, at your feet lay your torn garments, casting your nakedness before the other concubines in a humiliating display. the crisp air blows against your nipples, causing them to pucker tight. the same air turns your blood gelid, your bones immovable. 

“now, let’s see what all the fuss is about.” from behind, sukuna gropes your breasts, swirling the tips of your nipples with his fingers. “i’ll kill anyone who looks away.” the warning is vehement, ripe with threat, that even mere insects won’t dare defy it. 

is this the ultimate act of worship? to be stripped of all your layers? to be eaten?

his lips latch onto the bareness of your neck, sharp teeth dragging across the skin. the silence is thick, saved for the sound of your uneven breathing and the rustling of fabric as the concubines shift uncomfortably on their seats. sukuna’s wet and unusually long tongue starts licking the base of your shoulder to the back of your ear, before placing his thick and robust thigh between your quivering legs. 

your exposed cunt sticks to his skin, pussy folds flapping open. with practiced ease, as if manipulating the strings of a marionette, he subtly guided your movements. he has your pulsing clit riding the ridges of his thigh as if gushing all over will save you from inevitable demise. 

“m… mhm!” no longer entirely in control of your own form, you turn and sway in a helpless dance to his hands’ command. a gasp tinged with surprise and undeniable pleasure, escapes your lips and echoes softly in the confines of the room. you feel the searing heat of the concubines’ gazes drilling into you, a tangible weight of disapproval and something more primal — a flicker of envious fascination.

“for a condemned woman, aren’t you loving this too much?” sukuna takes the reins to your body. with speed that has your heavy tits bouncing, he secures your waist and drags your slick pussy faster and more recklessly. 

pleasure, sharp and electric at first, surges through your core, blossoming outwards like a firework. your cunt clenches and unclenches involuntarily, a delicious tremor wracking your body. the world narrows, sound and sight fading at the edges as every nerve ending sings with a single, glorious purpose. slowly, the intensity ebbs to leave a pleasant afterglow that paints your limbs with a newfound weight.

you’re but a tiny speck compared to sukuna’s imposing body; a feeble creature under the jurisdiction of a god. 

possessive hands have found you in your fleeting refuge, scooping your lower body up like you weigh nothing. with the tip of his finger he traces the curve of your spine, pressing enough weight to flatten your stomach against the tatami mat. 

“even your back is filled with lacerations,” he points out brusquely.

sukuna’s hefty cock drops to the base of your spine, its puffed up cocktip lazily pulsing to leak his thick liquids of pre-ejaculate. it must’ve been a whole arm laying heavy against your spine, warm with a gluttonous desire to ram itself through the sloppy confines of your pussy. 

and you lay there, waiting for his teeth and his claws and his animalistic hunger to devour. he presses his chest to your back, filling your ears with promises that he’s going to feed on you, eat you down to the marrow of your bones— and you’ll love it. 

“look at them,” sukuna hisses as he tugs at your forehead, “i want you to look at them while i fuck you.”

with your flesh you’ve received him like some kind of communion from root to tip. he hammers your cunt with his cock, until the heat of his savage lust reaches the pit of your belly. you feel his warmth soiling your cervix and uterus with every vigorous thrust. 

“oh! m… mhm!”  completely overtaken by sukuna, your thighs can only twitch as he destroys your insides. 

“you’re soaking wet,” he groans in your ear, deliberately adjusting his pace so he can coat his thick girth all over with your creamy hole, “and so fucking tight.” 

sukuna grunts like a wounded animal each time his cocktip kisses the smooth spot of your womb. a sheen of sweat glazes his body, tattoos aglow in the lanterns, from manically fucking your cunt. he bares his fangs whenever you tighten around his shaft enfolded with prominent and proud veins. 

the once vibrant forms of the concubines, their faces alight with prurient interest, dissolve into a sea of indistinct shapes as fog descends upon your sight. you’ve been reduced to a babbling and drooling mess, unable to grasp the reality that you’re being mounted and fucked to madness before several witnesses.

sukuna extends his hand, searching for your abandoned clit during his primal need to turn your pussy to pulp. 

“there it is,” he breathes against your clammy cheek, satisfied at his discovery. 

“n… no! not there…!” you pant as the last thread of reason frays and snaps. 

a tempestuous force of pleasure sweeps through you, leaving behind a tremor that has shaken you to the core. around you, a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations spins until a guttural moan runs from your lips, delivered by the exquisite torment of rapture. your nails scrape desperately across the tatami mat, clinging at the remnants of spilled sanity. 

sukuna cackles at your desperation to find a moment’s reprieve. the roughened end of his fingers dip into your yielding flesh as he forcefully slams your pussy back to his cock.  

“you’re not going anywhere,” he pronounces frenziedly, his eyes blowing wide. sukuna’s desperation for release intensifies to the point where he’s blatantly manhandling you, brutalizing your cunt and his cock during the process of reaching zenith. flesh meets flesh, fervid thrusts after fervid thrusts, until he feels that familiar coil in his own stomach. 

sukuna plugs your abused cunt with inconceivable amounts of cum. his cock pulses wildly, shooting globules straight to your womb it’s almost physically possible to feel his viscous cum filling every crevice of your uterus. when he’s finally pulled out, ropy cum still links his raw cocktip to your pulsing pussy hole. despite such a mind-numbing culmination, sukuna’s cock refuses to yield. it springs up proudly, aching for another taste.  

“what a sight,” sukuna issues with cavernous and demonic utterance, pertaining to your body lying inert upon the tatami mat. he sweeps the sodden hair from his brow with a lordly air, his pride evident in the contemptuous curve of his lips. 

look at the state he’s reduced you to. his thick ejaculation pools around your lower body because your little pussy can’t hold all of him. with an indifferent shrug, sukuna lowers his formidable body to your level. and only when the malevolent glint in his eyes becomes apparent does the gravity of the situation dawn upon you.

he starts fucking your cunt with his tongue.

you grit your teeth in response as sukuna places your knees upon his shoulders, burying the slimy width of his tongue in your heated pussy. it’s no mere licking— he’s practically shoved his tongue up your gummy walls, toying with the warmth of his cum pooled in your poor cunt while simultaneously licking your puffed up clit. 

“o… oh! c… can’t— please, please!” drool seeps between your gritted cuspids after your hysterical plea.

pearlescent tears warm the corner of your eyes. your sensitivity from his rigorous fucking has not yet abated, but another swell of release approaches at a hand’s reach. down to your heart, the bundles of nerves and veins constrict painfully because it’s too much. you have nowhere else to put the pleasure— the imminent pinnacle will utterly ruin you.

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind—

when ecstasy is but a heartbeat away, sukuna withdraws, denying you the finality your body craves. as if saved from drowning, you suck in and grace your lungs with air only to be propelled back to the brink of delirium when he lifts you up from the floor like a breeze. 

with carnal ferocity, he seizes the meaty flesh of your haunches with two of his limbs, while the others secure your torso. there and there, sukuna slots his insatiable cock in your dribbling cunt; an act that he’s accomplished without effort because you’re so wet, he’s slid right in. 

everyone has witnessed sukuna’s cock abusing your tingling pussy; all can see how he bounces your tingling cunt along his stiff length without strain. 

“yes… squeeze my cock like the obedient girl you are,” he sibilates on your face, followed by a harsh chuckle. “you can’t hear me now, can you?”

the voice is a distant echo, barely perceptible to your waning senses. your body, devoid of strength, limps completely in sukuna’s embrace. he buries his face in the crooks of your damped neck, groaning and babbling as he ruts into your swollen pussy. 

“how come you’re still so fucking tight?”

hasn’t he prepared you for his sheer girth? hasn’t he stimulated your pussy enough to hug his cock smoothly and effortlessly? you’ve already coated his balls shiny with all the slick your cunt has produced, but sukuna’s chest tightens because you’re milking him with a viselike grip. 

yes, it is human that he’s even affected by this carnal desire. what more can he do? he feels faint with exultation merely by fucking you. 

sukuna pumps your pussy to the hilt with slow yet profound thrusts. he bares his teeth down the blade of your shoulder as the maelstrom of release engulfs him completely. battered by waves of ecstasy, he grunts with your flesh between his teeth, the rough sound reverberating deep from his belly.

you must’ve reached the peak with him— you absolutely cannot tell. the only thing that your puddled mind can grasp is the swirl of his potent cum in the pit of your womb and the endless pulse of your cunt as you struggle to accommodate his release. 

petrified and silent, the remaining concubines are as fixed in place as if struck by an immobilizing spell. yet they watch— they watch intently while sukuna’s cock throbs with white strings of cum dripping from your cunt hole down to his balls and thighs. a hefty amount pools beneath him, oozing from where the both of you are connected. 

the envy that consumed them is a silent, suffocating thing, a palpable presence thick enough to choke. this envy deepens as they witness the delicacy with which sukuna has placed your dormant body on his own tatami mat. they grit their teeth secretly, throwing every known curse your way. may your womb not bear the fruits of sukuna’s seed, they vehemently pray. 

for ryomen sukuna, it’s nothing but a moment’s weakness, a foreign string of unknown emotion that you’ve managed to evoke from him. and even though he’s beyond human grace, he’s wasted your body to his own satisfaction, it’s only right to touch you with his claws retracted.

“performance is over, my dearests,” sukuna announces while a smirk tugs at his lips. facing his concubines, he dons his fundoshi haphazardly that it barely covers what it means to hide. 

“w… what will become of her, my lord?” one dares to ask. 

a fleeting, imperious gaze from sukuna sweeps over you before ushering the women from the opulent chamber. “you shouldn’t worry yourselves about such trivial matters. she will meet her own reckoning by my hands.”

a wave of malicious satisfaction ripples through the group as they exchange covert nods. you’re already a dead woman. with poisonous glee, they bow before ryomen sukuna with their faces shaped in unbridled mirth. 

“make sure that my wives are accompanied home safely,” sukuna orders the nearest guards. he tastes their fear hanging heavy in the air just by being in his presence. oh, humans. 

as the group began to retreat, they cast over their shoulders a flurry of flirtatious farewells to the imposing sukuna. however, before they could vanish entirely from sight, his deep voice cut through their progress.

“guards, before i forgot…” sukuna displays a grotesque smile filled with malice. “kill them all. i want nineteen heads on my feet tomorrow.”

they say he is a devil. 

you say he is a god. 

and despite all the names, sukuna has found himself a place of worship, with you as his altar. 

[chamerionwrites]

Like it's not especially mysterious or hard to fathom why (aside from run-of-the-mill puritanism) folks have Really Big Feelings about kink as a concept. We live in a (sexist racist homophobic transphobic etc) society. Quite a lot of people have had their sexual boundaries poked at and/or transgressed by someone (and "someone" is sometimes not even some specific individual but "society at large") claiming that [Sex Act XYZ] is normal/reasonable/no big deal, and therefore (explicitly or implicitly) obligatory. And when you have repeatedly received the message that your body does not fully belong to you, that your yes and no are valid only insofar as they align with others' reasonable expectations - well then it becomes EXTREMELY important to police the borders of what can be considered a reasonable expectation. Spoken or unspoken, the fear that people are giving voice to when they get pearl-clutchy about kink is often "You're saying all of this is normal - and therefore that I have to accommodate it if and when someone asks me for it."

That's not an unsympathetic fear! We live in a society that is not great with the concept of consent! If you're hearing "don't kinkshame" as "your no is invalid" (or if you've encountered someone who framed it that way, because those people do exist), then of course you're going to be anxious and angry about it!

Unfortunately you are also doing that very human thing of getting so deep in your feelings that you're arguing at cross-purposes. Because the ethic of safe sane & consensual kink is not "everything is normal" - it's that normal is a completely irrelevant metric. You want to get tied up? Cool, make sure everyone involved knows how to do restraints safely. You want to have sex without penetration, ever? Also cool. You like playing around with X sensation but not Y sensation? Cool. You get pantsfeelings (or for that matter completely nonsexual satisfaction feelings) out of shining someone's shoes? Cool. You enjoyed XYZ yesterday but you're not feeling it today? Cool. You get to choose. Your body belongs to you.

[perseidlion]

There's a lot that has been made of the Cat King and whether he's "bad" or "problematic." Putting aside that's a silly conversation to have about a fictional character (who is there to add conflict and drive the story forward) it also misunderstands Cat's Whole Deal (TM.) Think of him like one of the fae. He's very decidedly not human, and although he isn't called a fae canonically (and I don't think he actually is) he is called a spirit. And there are some things he does that are decidedly fae-like.

He strikes bargains.

He protects his domain.

He punishes those who transgress his domain.

His punishment is a curse combined with a task.

He has aspects of a trickster figure which is common in fae mythology.

He has his own unspoken rules, but if you break them, you still need to be punished.

Edwin slights Cat by forcing his will on one of his subjects. In Cat's world, that is a crime that needs to be answered for. He offers sexual favours, which Edwin refuses, so he gives him another option. It isn't an impossible task, but it is an inconvenient one. In Cat's world, letting Edwin off with no punishment is simply not something he would do. So all the questions about whether he's problematic or that he violates consent are silly in this context. Of course if he was a real human man and he forced Edwin to stay somewhere against his will, that would be bad. But that's not what's happening here. He's a spirit with a domain and Edwin misstepped and had to pay the price as a result.

It is also important to keep in mind that he is an ANIMAL spirit who just happens to be able to take human form. That also explains some of his behaviour (including the horniness and the cowardice to some degree.)

This also makes the age gap discourse moot, too. It's the same kind of dynamic as a teenager and an ancient vampire. Except in this case, Edwin is not really a teenager and has existed for over 100 years.

I love Dead Boy Detectives but man, those characters are not teenagers. They don't act like teens, they don't look like teens and they run around, cross international borders and live on their own. They are at the very least out of high school, if not in their early twenties. It actually feels silly that the show keeps calling them kids when the story doesn't treat them that way.

BUT that is really neither here nor there and is a topic for another day! My point is just that it is silly to apply human morality to Cat and condemn him based on that.

If you just don't like him, and/or don't like him and Edwin, that's totally fine. But there's no need to condemn him/that dynamic based on how his behaviour would be interpreted in real life. That's frankly, pretty silly.

[shattersstar]

bound

pairing: vampire x reader

summary: He supposed this was his true home, not the house he had kept himself locked in, but the wooden box with your picture in it. Dutifully kept under his pillow, bringing you to the land of dreams with him—if he could dream. It was a bitter punishment for the life he lived, the transgression—sin—he supposed would be held against the two of you. For how he wanted you more than anything, how he would tear whole cities to shreds at your behest and let the hunters who lurked in your town meet his fangs if you so desired. It was gluttony, to take eternal life and still want more.

warning: horror-ish elements, blood mention., religious undertones (aka general vampire themes/concepts)

a/n: i have so much to say about this lil piece of writing omg okay, i wrote this back in May i believe around the time i was reading we have always lived in the castle and it Shows. its lowkey fantasy which is not like anything i write but the horror-ish vibes r pretty consistent with my original stuff. it is heavily inspired by a lot of the vampire media ive consumed too though even if its not based on one particular character. i have been thinking about it since i wrote it and while im a bit ehhh about posting something original i quite literally have nothing else to share and as i said before y’all keeping i’d still eat the fruit in my notifs is so :)))) so this is a thank you to y’all and a Step back into writing for me hopefully. ramble aside enjoy ! feedback and comments r always appreciated

—

It had rained, no—poured, stormed, hailed, cried, screamed. It had swept in during the day, white noise to him as he slept, while it greeted you during breakfast. The clouds wept over the lands in what felt like divine punishment. It was as if nature or something higher than that was against him, accosting or trying to stop him. As he stood at the edge of the great forest, rain pelting the top of his head he assumed there was nothing greater than nature. Not even him. There was nothing higher nor more humbling. God could spite someone, but nature enacted it. It flooded your sleepy town and even sleepier forest and he was on the other side. Confined to his home until the storm cleared and the sun rose.

He would not be graced with your presence yet again and he tried to ignore the call to change you, to have his fangs pierce your skin and his blood run across your tongue. He gritted his teeth, reminding himself of the hurt it brought and he would never cause that for his love. His dearest who lived on the other side of the forest he was unable to cross. His icy glare moved along the border, not even noticing the rain drenching his billowing black cloak anymore. Somewhere in the forest a branch snapped and animals chattered.

He would live for eternity, he could wait for you. It was his resolution before heading back to his home in the woods and trying not to be angry, to let fury run through his long dead veins and restart his stilled heart. If anything—anyone—could, he knew it was you.

He followed the path compacted over the years of those travelling to stare at his home, humans daring each other to go near it, but never following through when the windows shuddered and a figure moved past one of them like a ghost. Times had changed, but people were as superstitious as ever. They saw his decayed and rotted home and prescribed evil to it. It was overrun with vines, leaves would not grow on them. Even in spring. They stayed black, and gnarled, tightening their hold in his house each season. Thorns protruding from some of the thicker vines, protecting him it seemed. You had noted that, staring at his wondrous home with bright eyes.

It was in a clearing in the forest, grey stone withered away and swallowed by nature. It still stood strong, the outside a grotesque picture that did not reflect the inside. Oil lamps and lighting fixtures alike lit the space from the inside out. It warmed the walls, revealing the deep brown wood panelling that made up the older parts of the house. The stairs were still the original wood, a grand staircase that greeted no one, but him and you these days.

Many of the rooms upstairs had been closed off, sheets gently placed over the old furniture and doors closed forever. He had no need for such space, other vampires stopped visiting when hunters started lingering in your town. You had told him of your many encounters, most were smart enough to stay out the forest, but they still killed many of his kind. Finding them in their carriages amongst the cars rolling down the freshly paved roads. Horses killed along with whoever dwelled inside. They saw themselves as vigilantes, but you had told him most of your town considered them a nuisance. Urban men thinking they can save the more rural lands that bordered their great cities. Cities that forgot the magic that once thrived in places like the forest.

���Their thinking of building a highway through it, connecting us to other towns or one of the bigger cities.” You had explained one day, sitting in his lap and letting him hold you. He hummed, long fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. You placed your warm hand over his and leaned further into his chest. He asked you to let him hold you and you had obliged like always.

He kept those memories in mind, the soft questions he would extend your way and how you listened so dutifully. May I hold you? Will you lay with me? Come walk through the cellar? Can I drink your—

His fist slammed against his dinning room table, nearly snapping it in two as a crack ran jagged through the centre of the chestnut coloured wood. His fangs were out, nails morphed into claws dug into his skin and blood dripped into the crack. He stared at it, muscles in his face twitching as he waited for it to end. Waited for the creature in him to return to laying dormant and his own clear, sound mind to return. Though he supposed it was never very clear or sound anymore, not when you had burrowed inside of him and promised to never leave. And as if his thoughts beckoned you themselves, the old telephone in his study rang. It’s shrill scream echoed through the quiet house, though the ring was discordant, snapping in two halfway through its loop and screeching a pitch higher. The noise made his pointed ears twitch and with a swoop of his cloak he was in his study. He answered it on the normal ring, cutting it off right before it went off tone.

He held the phone to his ear, but waited to speak. “Hello?” You asked, your voice soft and worried. You’d never called him before—truthfully he had no idea this phone even worked.

“Hello my love.” He returned, and you breathed out a happy sigh.

“Oh my god, hi! I found this number in some old directory—phone book thing,” You explained with an airy giddiness that he wished to share, “I wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but…” You trailed off and he was smiling fondly into the receiver.

“I have missed you.”

“I miss you too, I hate this weather I can never get through the forest when its so rainy.”

“I know.”

“Maybe they should build a highway through it, I could hitchhike my way to see you.” You laughed, but he turned somber. Industrialization finally touching the sacred land of the forest didn’t sit right within him. It may be the great divider that kept him away from you, but it was his home. A highway felt like you were asking to be swept away, to a new town or bigger city that he could not adventure too. He could ask you to stay—he knew you’d oblige—but it was not his place to keep you here. “Is your phone one of those spin, dial ones?” You asked suddenly, breaking through the tension he hadn’t meant to create.

“A rotary phone?” He corrected with a ghost of a grin, “Yes it is.”

“I want to see it when I come over again.”

“And so you will.” It was quiet again and he hadn’t noticed the tears running down his face. He didn’t know he was able to cry anymore.

“I love you.” You whispered, holding your cellphone close, likely curled up in bed and staring out your window at the rain and the forest beyond it.

“I love you dearest.” His voice did not betray the sadness building in him. “Sleep beloved, I will see you soon.”

“Yes, I’m gonna come see you and your rotary phone.” You laughed, forced and watery.

“Soon.”

“Soon.” You repeated, and hung up. He kept the black phone, laced with intricate gold details, to his ear for a moment longer. He had heard your voice at least and could sleep. He moved through his home, snuffing out candles and flicking off switches before finding the one room without windows. A coffin laid on the floor, dark brown and glistening with the finish that had been applied centuries ago.

He supposed this was his true home, not the house he had kept himself locked in, but the wooden box with your picture in it. Dutifully kept under his pillow, bringing you to the land of dreams with him—if he could dream. It was a bitter punishment for the life he lived, the transgression—sin—he supposed would be held against the two of you. For how he wanted you more than anything, how he would tear whole cities to shreds at your behest and let the hunters who lurked in your town meet his fangs if you so desired.

It was gluttony, to take eternal life and still want more.

Though it was hard to think of such evil things when looking at your face, he had taken the photo while you were on the roof. Wind had wiped your clothes into a frenzy and you laughed as the night sky twinkled behind you. He had taken it and was surprised when you’d given it to him only a few days later. He had kept up with modern technology as well as he could, but there was always something so magical about photographs to him. He collected hundreds over his life time, faces he knew and others he didn’t. Organized neatly into a collection of books, which he’d let you look through on occasion. He showed you photos from the many lives he’s lived, something about them bringing warmth rushing to your face.

He was always so devastatingly beautiful, regal and hypnotic across all eras. Yet, he couldn’t focus on the kind words that bubbled from your lips as the rushing of the blood under your skin nearly shattered something inside of him. His fangs threatened to meet your skin, but with calculated focus he reigned in his hunger. It was hard at first—you were the only human he had been around in decades—but he did it for love.

Everything he did was for love, it was his reason for existence it seemed. You had other reasons for your claim to life, but to him? You were all he had, the only reason to not let the sun engulf him or let a hunter kill him. He could not break your heart until you broke his. He let that thought dwell in his mind as sleep overtook him just as the sun rose and the rain ended. Its incessant pitter patter had ceased and he somehow dreamt of you standing golden in the forest and beckoning him closer.

He woke up to your face—maybe it wasn’t a dream—as you crouched next to his coffin. Maybe he had finally died and you were welcoming him to where God decided to send him. If you were there it couldn’t be hell. Could it be?

“My love—“ Your hand pressed to his chest, keeping him still. “It’s still daytime, sleep okay?” You whispered, hand moving to his jaw and cradling his face in your palm for a moment. “I’ll be back in a sec okay, I just need to change.” He nodded against you, kissing your hand before you let him reside in darkness. He had caught a glimpse of your pants caked in mud and could smell the blood from your skinned palms. Despite the slick terrain it seemed you ventured through the forest to see him. It made his chest shudder and for a moment he thought you had actually restarted his heart.

It was only a few minutes later when you were carefully opening his coffin again, now dawning a loose fitting silk shirt that made his red eyes alight with something wild. You had cleaned your scrapes and mud off your skin, smelling faintly of rain water and the lavender soap you gifted him. You stepped over him, nestling against his side and letting him enclose the two of you. One of his arms wrapped around your shoulders as your head rested on his chest, knuckles grazing over your hair while you stretched an arm across his torso. Your legs intertwined with his long ones and you let out a breathy sigh.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, and while you likely couldn’t see as thing, he could see you perfectly. You shook your head no against his chest, yawning into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just wanted to see you.” You murmured, chin resting in his chest as you made hit best attempt at eye contact in the blackness. “I saw the dining room table, are you okay?” You asked, somehow staring through him in the darkness. He offered his hand instead of finding the words in his throat, slowly unravelling his fist to reveal a mark free palm. He wasn’t sure you understand what he meant or if your eyes adjusted enough yet, until you carefully closed it once again, kissing his knuckles and placed your hand over his. You both were silent for a moment, until you looked up at him again and breathed, “You’re all I want.”

“And you’re all I have.” He held you closer, watching a grin pull at the corner of your lips. He was sure it was that devotion, obsession even, with you that would bring about his downfall. Centuries old and all powerful, but reduced to nothing without you. His strength and knowledge meant nothing if he didn’t have you to share it with.

And you could not stand your stagnant life in a town full of people who wished his kind dead. You chose a trek through the forest during the twilight hours of the morning to see him, bringing him soft kisses and silk under his hands as you let your mouth meet his. You kissed him with all the exhaustion and lethargy wrapped up in the two of you, molasses slow kisses that were just as sweet. It was how you fell asleep, lips to his neck and head tucked under his chin before your warm breathed puffed across his pale skin. He fell asleep not long after, engulfing you in his embrace, his cloak draping over your frame as he decided home was where you asked him to be.

[yourreddancer]

Trump Won. Now What?

The United States is about to become a different kind of country.By David Frum

Donald Trump has won, and will become president for the second time. Those who voted for him will now celebrate their victory. The rest of us need to prepare to live in a different America: a country where millions of our fellow citizens voted for a president who knowingly promotes hatred and division; who lies—blatantly, shamelessly—every time he appears in public; who plotted to overturn an election in 2020 and, had he not won, was planning to try again in 2024.

Above all, we must learn to live in an America where an overwhelming number of our fellow citizens have chosen a president who holds the most fundamental values and traditions of our democracy, our Constitution, even our military in contempt. Over the past decade, opinion polls have showed Americans’ faith in their institutions waning. But no opinion poll could make this shift in values any clearer than this vote. As a result of this election, the United States will become a different kind of country.

When he was last in the White House, the president-elect ignored ethics and security guidelines, fired inspectors general and other watchdogs, leaked classified information, and used the Department of Homeland Security in the summer of 2020 as if it were the interior ministry of an authoritarian state, deploying U.S. Customs and Border Protection and Coast Guard “troops” in American cities. Trump actively encouraged the January 6, 2021, insurrection at our Capitol. When he left the White House, he stole classified documents and hid them from the FBI.

Because a critical mass of Americans aren’t bothered by that list of transgressions, any one of which would have tanked the career of another politician, Trump and his vice president–elect, J. D. Vance, will now try to transform the federal government into a loyalty machine that serves the interests of himself and his cronies.

This was the essence of the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025, and its architects, all Trump fans, will now endeavor to make it become reality. Trump will surely try again to dismantle America’s civil service, replacing qualified scientists and regulators with partisan operatives. His allies will help him build a Department of Justice that does not serve the Constitution, but instead focuses on harassing and punishing Trump’s enemies. Trump has spoken, in the past, of using the Federal Communications Commission and the Internal Revenue Service to punish media organizations and anyone else who crosses him, and now he will have the chance to try again.

Perhaps the greater and more insidious danger is not political repression or harassment, but corruption. Autocratic populists around the world—in Hungary, Turkey, Venezuela—have assaulted institutions designed to provide accountability and transparency in order to shift money and influence to their friends and families, and this may happen in America too. This is not just a theoretical threat. As loyalists take over regulatory agencies, filling not only political but also former civil-service jobs, American skies will become more polluted, American food more dangerous. As a result of this massive shift in the country’s bureaucratic culture, Trump-connected companies will prosper, even as America becomes less safe for consumers, for workers, for children, for all of us.

American foreign policy will also reflect this shift toward kleptocracy. In his first term, Trump abused the powers of his office, corrupting American foreign policy for his personal gain. He pressured the Ukrainian president to launch a fake investigation of his political opponent; altered policy toward Turkey, Qatar, and other nations in ways that suited his business interests; even used the Secret Service to funnel government money to his private properties. In a second term, he and the people around him will have every incentive to go much further. Expect them to use American foreign policy and military power to advance their personal and political goals.

There are many things a reelected President Trump cannot do. But there are some things he can do. One is to cut off aid to Ukraine. The Biden administration has three months to drop all half measures and rush supplies to Ukraine before Trump forces a Ukrainian surrender to Russia. If there’s anything in the American arsenal that Ukraine might successfully use—other than nuclear weapons—send it now, before it’s too late.

Another thing Trump can do is to impose further tariffs—and intensify a global trade war not only against China but also against former friends, partners, and allies. America First will be America Alone, no longer Ronald Reagan’s “city on a hill,” but now just another great power animated by predatory nationalism.

Around the world, illiberal politicians who seek to subvert their own democracies will follow America’s lead. With no fear of American criticism or reaction, expect harassment of press and political opponents in countries such as Mexico and Turkey to grow. Expect the Russian-backed electoral cheating recently on display in Georgia and Moldova to spread. Expect violent rhetoric in every democracy: If the American president can get away with it, others will conclude that they can too. The autocratic world, meanwhile, will celebrate the victory of someone whose disdain for the rule of law echoes and matches their own. They can assume that Trump and Vance will not promote human rights, will not care about international law, and will not reinforce our democratic alliances in Europe and Asia.

But the most difficult, most agonizing changes are the ones that will now take place deep inside our society. Radicalization of a part of the anti-Trump camp is inevitable, as people begin to understand that existential issues, such as climate change and gun violence, will not be tackled.

A parallel process will take place on the other side of the political spectrum, as right-wing militias, white supremacists, and QAnon cultists are reenergized by the election of the man whose behavior they have, over eight years, learned to imitate. The deep gaps within America will grow deeper. Politics will become even angrier. Trump won by creating division and hatred, and he will continue to do so throughout what is sure to be a stormy second term.

My generation was raised on the belief that America could always be counted upon to do the right thing, even if belatedly: reject the isolationism of America First and join the fight against Nazism; fund the Marshall Plan to stop communism; extend the promise of democracy to all people, without regard to race or sex. But maybe that belief was true only for a specific period, a unique moment. There were many chapters of history in which America did the wrong thing for years or decades. Maybe we are living through such a period now.

Or maybe the truth is that democracy is always a close-run thing, always in contention. If so, then we too must—as people in other failing democracies have learned to do—find new ways to champion wobbling institutions and threatened ideas. For supporters of the American experiment in liberal democracy, our only hope is education, organization, and the creation of a coalition of people dedicated to defending the spirit of the Constitution, the ideals of the Founders, the dream of freedom. More concretely: public civic-education campaigns to replace the lessons no longer taught in schools; teams of lawyers who can fight for the rule of law in courts; grassroots organizing, especially in rural and small-town America; citizens and journalists working to expose and fight the enormous wave of kleptocracy and corruption that will now engulf our political system.

Many of those shattered by this result will be tempted to withdraw into passivity—or recoil into performative radicalism. Reject both. We should focus, instead, on how to win back to the cause of liberal democracy a sufficient number of those Americans who voted for a candidate who denigrated this nation’s institutions and ideals.

[m--bloop]

"I think the real reason [I crossed over from literature to filmmaking] is this: I said that films are a language - a language that crosses borders, a transgressive language. A black man from Ghana, or an American, or an Italian, all use the language of film in the same way. It's a system to signs valid for any country in the world. What is the main characteristic of this system of signs? It is to represent reality, not through symbols, like words, but through reality itself. For example, if I wanted to portray you, I portray you through you. Or at least through another person of flesh and bone who is like you. I always represent reality using reality itself. This is how I'm able, using the artistic medium of film, to always live at the level and at the heart of reality."

Pier Paolo Pasolini dir. Ivo Barnabò Micheli (1995)

[probablyasocialecologist]

Capitalist elites are driving the rationalities of overproduction while overconsuming and disproportionately intensifying extraction, commodification and usage of various resources, thereby threatening planetary systems and justice. Through media, advertising, influencer culture and control over means of production, they exacerbate not only inequities but perpetuate destructive growth models and logics of overproduction, overconsumption, disposal/wastage and disregard that crosses boundaries and borders. These global elites participate in accumulation by dispossession with disproportionate capitalist benefits from resource control and the promotion of neocolonialist policies via outsized policy influence. As a result, they contribute directly to ecological harms, biodiversity crises, water pollution, air pollution and climate breakdown that they themselves rarely experience firsthand, but which undermine wellbeing and safety of the majority, particularly BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and people of colour) communities everywhere. More insidiously still, socioecologically destructive and unfettered economic growth models and institutional policies shape the responses to the problems they create, influencing what desirable outcomes and solutions should be and what individuals should aspire to behave like to be modern. Instead of tackling the root causes of climate breakdown, the implication is that ideal global subjects should participate in particular notions of economic progress and consumption, even across the Majority World. As a result, the imperial modes of living of the globally-rich are promoted as global aspirations for all. The capitalist model of hyperconsumption, extractivism, commodification and a discard culture of increasing waste production are presented as signifiers of progress, while discounting their environmental consequences. This is affluence, but unsustainable affluence. The externalities are often overlooked, borne by the global poor who are simultaneously blamed for their poverty while being told they should support unsustainable capitalist models of progress. Rarely, by contrast, does the fact that the ever-expanding global billionaire class have carbon footprints thousands of times larger than average citizens feature in the models designed to curb the impacts of their behaviour. Yet this inequality is fundamental to climate breakdown. Ecological and planetary boundaries are being transgressed predominantly by capitalist elites in the Global North (or the high-energy industrialised economies), causing disproportionate social and ecological harms to large numbers of marginalised communities elsewhere. Extraction and discard culture are embedded in the economic models and processes which govern not just natural resources exploitation and commodification, but also the destruction of human lives and potentials, resulting in a disregard for the care economy and resilience of ecosystems. It also often involves lip service to basic welfare of billions caught in exploitative and neocolonial labour relations with global capital and extractive resource-based trade that causes irreversible harms, usually locally more profoundly.

[dcbbw]

Red Pill: Perspective

Fair warning, this is not fanfic. It’s original content that came to me in the middle of the night after a day spent online perusing TikToks and reddit subs on red pillers and divestment groups.  

To provide some context, the term “red piller” is derived from a scene in the 1999 film The Matrix, in which Laurence Fishburne offers Keanu Reeves a choice: “You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

In a nutshell, it’s comprised of the most misogynistic men on the planet, including incels, who gather in online forums and groups to basically see who hates women more.

Divestment refers to the removal of oneself from people, places, and things that are toxic, stifling, and/or a detriment to one’s health (mental, emotional, physical). It is a prominent movement amongst black women.

I’m nervous about posting this, but my skin is thick, and my mind is open. I can take compliments, constructive suggestions, and criticism with equal aplomb. To everyone who read this over and encouraged me to post, THANK YOU! Your feedback was, as always, invaluable.

To those who will read this, THANK YOU! Your reads, likes, commentary, and/or reblogs are appreciated more than you know.

Please excuse any and all typos, extraneous/missing words, and grammatical errors. MS Editor rates this piece as 99% error free.

Song Inspo: Rose Lineage (Yoga Remix), Marya Stark/DJ Taz Rashid, + others

Word Count: 796

I am a black woman, plump lips and full hips

My hues are a rainbow, ranging from the thickest cream to the darkest onyx

Pigmentation a reminder of transgressions against me from enslavement to rape

I make more with less, expected to settle for anything, and apologizing to everyone for not diluting who I am

Who I have had to become

I am held up for public shame and ridicule

Teased for my crown of kinks and coils

Seen as housing projects and food stamps

Smelling of hamhocks and collard greens

Called dumb and ratchet despite being in the most highly educated population

Despised for being strong and independent

Blamed for your cowardice and weakness when you abandon me and your children

Because I do not let you lead

I’ve seen where you go: jail, passport bros, your mama’s house

And still, my back supports you, your seed, my family, the church

And the foot on my neck that unsuccessfully tries to hold me down

*****

I am a brown woman, born of colonization

Speaking languages broken, in an accented voice that somehow makes me a stereotype

You eat at my table, your eyes feasting on my bosom and curves. You celebrate my holidays and try to take what culture I have managed to piece together, but I can’t call it appropriation

 No, it’s cultural appreciation while you call me and my people third-world country names

You try to dim my brightly colored clothing, deny me freedom, and steal my joy

You call my people slumdog millionaires who cross borders to take your jobs

Jobs you neither have nor want

I am considered only a slight step up from my black sisters because my skin is lighter, but not by much

My hair is silkier which is considered a win in your world

But who knows what it would be if the beginning bloodlines had remained undiluted, untouched by interlopers

My anger isn’t off-putting because it is seen as a reflex of sorts, born of my primitive ways

You take it as a challenge to make me submissive

To you

To trust your America: your ways, your English, your culture.

None of which belong to you

*****

I am an asian woman, what you call the model minority because I study hard, and I work even harder

You consider my acts of service to others submissiveness, which makes me both fantasy and fetish

My quietude is mistakenly deemed as obedience

I labor hard in all workforces to make a better life for me and those who depend upon me to not be a disappointment

Yet you not being able to see me beyond the niche you have placed me in makes you the biggest disappointment of all

It makes no difference

I am seen as a doll, malleable and easily manipulated into sexual parts

Here only to serve you, to listen to you, to cater to your every whim and perversion

I powder my face to adhere to standards of beauty you hold dear, close

It makes up for my dark nipples that you conveniently ignore as you go in and out of throes

*****

I am a biracial woman, born of rape or love … sometimes both

I am no one, belonging nowhere

I am not homogenous, which you view as a flaw I refuse to correct

Hated by at least two races, I create my own ethnicity that no one acknowledges

Culture clash at its finest

You say my blood is sullied, my color a mixture that doesn’t blend well

I am an anomaly: different, exotic; fodder for disdain, envy, mistrust

Wondering when you look at me is it love, lust, curiosity

While you’re probably hoping I’m a “pick me”

All I seek is inclusion

In a world of black and white, brown and yellow

Where is the gray?

*****

I am a white woman, worthy of protection but not privilege

I am the standard of beauty … in your eyes

Thin hair, thin lips, skin that burns beneath the sun

It is I you parade publicly on your arm, it is I to whom you will make a commitment

A trophy of sorts

It is I who you want to bear your children

It is I who will never see the workforce unless you want me to

Barefoot and pregnant

Cooking meals, feeding children, leading the Harper Valley PTA bake sale

As long as I remain a size 8

I can’t be tall, that would emasculate your ego

The house must be clean, that accentuates my femininity

Aprons and pearls hide blackened eyes, bruised arms, empty bottles

Social media promotes my smile when you praise my meatloaf

You make others believe they want to be me

That my white skin elevates me somehow

But does it really?

Tagging: @jared2612 @marietrinmimi @indiacater​​​ @kingliam2019​ @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie​​​ @liamrhysstalker2020​​​ @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman​​​ @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam​​​ @beezm @gardeningourmet​​​ @lovingchoices14 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles​​​ @lady-calypso @emkay512 @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @alj4890​ @motorcitymademadame @queenmiarys

[funny-upset-clown]

A professor from two years ago told me to write everyday, I am the middle child of my life and I have no idols, in their absence I latch onto ghosts and make the meekest attempts at diagnosing the essence of my hope, I have no idols. He told me to write everyday and your products will be mediocre, he told me to write everyday and it will hurt. He told me with a twisted arrow in his eyes, learn to love that pain, learn to desire it the way you have learnt to desire other kinds of pain. I don't know if even he believes this is possible.

From experience- desiring pain is never sophisticated or stable enough to know anything, not your cunt from your throat, not your tears from your droll, yes it is in my experience that desiring pain is never about executing your sentience, or developing your production. It is simply a state akin to a deadly trance, a phantasmagoria of tension permeating both the idle spirit and inflamed bod. However it isn't that such masochism is without the consequence of sentience and production especially since they are overlapped by their opposites, unconsciousness and destruction the beauts of transgressive germination.

I have no idols, I do not know the border line. The definitions of words like production bloom violently away from bodies toward unmade ethers, to tug at their limbs and beg that they lay by you is not quite to desire pain, it is to desire despite pain. For me to write is to need, and need despite the ache.

TO state again, I have no idols. Something in me has designated that my inherent necessity to write should be contingent on a frenzy, an almost unadmirable vampirism upon my inspiration. Now in this moment I see the relationship between the jelly ache of active inspiration and the thrusting totem of the idol. In both we see devotion, mimicry, strife, however it is the symbol of the idol that remains still, unmoved and unphased- untouched; the state of inspiration comes upon you like a sudden rain, in different forms, touching you, wetting you, lulling you into the slumber of your life to dream of heavenly others- or a fitting perfection. I unchangingly admire inspiration, it is an idol of mine.

I write about fruit today.

I write about sundown.

I write about knuckledragging, cobblestone, and the flash you get day to day when you become aware you will probably never be blind enough to kill yourself.

I write sundown and blood worms and telephone calls and telephone calls and telephone calls and a life made tall by telephone calls.

Only use the knife with the white and gray handle, only that one. I cut at the fruit because it is not me. I cut at the flesh, the trillion bulbs of juice, haphazardly around the blushing pit. I cut because the skin is too cold on teeth.

It becomes dark blue.

For the first time in three weeks I slept as I am meant, I slept with no intent to wake. For days I had stayed awake until my eyes crossed in conversation, had woken with the desperation of someone pulling all the weight of their body up with splitting yarn.

I imagine decapitating telephone lines with baby-safe scissors and the wire exploding with words and flames. It is because the telephone is where lovers quarrel.

[angelasscribbles]

The Dark Kingdom Chapter 3: Reprieve

Series: The Dark Kingdom

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Liam x Riley (so far)

Word Count: 1,324

Rating: MA

Warnings for this chapter: none

Translations:

Stăpâni = master

Mareșal = marshal/ general (leader of military)

Soldat= soldier

Soldati= soldiers

My other stuff: Master List.

Liam Rys, the vampire king, known both inside and outside of the Dark Kingdom as the Dark Lord stood in his sanctum considering his options.

He needed to understand why she was here, and he needed to know if the humans knew where she had gone. She said they didn’t, but he needed verification of that.  

Liam lifted his eyes to his Mareșal, “You’re sure none of them followed her across the partition?”

“No, Stăpâni, she’s the only one that set off the alarms.”

Her head snapped up, “Alarms?” Panic swept through her at the thought of the King’s Guard knowing where she had gone, “I didn’t know that crossing the perimeter set off alarms! I didn’t hear anything!”

“Not those kinds of alarms sweetheart,” Drake scoffed.

“Nevertheless, we need to shore up our defenses just in case,” Liam started giving orders, “Have the packs double their patrols of the border. Send the dragons to scout from the sky. Tell Leo to take a few of the soldati and sneak over the perimeter to spy on the humans, and see what they can learn.”

“And the girl?”

“I need to understand why she’s here before I pass judgment on her transgression. Go. Deliver the orders then return.”

Drake inclined his head slightly in deference then was gone so quickly Riley didn’t see him move. One moment he was there then he just….wasn’t.

Her attention was drawn back to the Dark Lord as he spoke, “I apologize for my associate’s behavior. Drake made a blood oath to me centuries ago. He’s my protector and closest companion. He takes the job very seriously.”

“Oh,” shock ran through her at the conciliatory tone in his voice. Hope that there was some slim chance she was going to survive this encounter threaded its way through her, “You don’t have to apologize, I’m the one that broke the rules and crossed the partition.”

“Indeed…” he gestured toward the settee, “Where are my manners? Please, sit, you’ve been through an ordeal tonight it would seem.”

She was again pleasantly surprised by the tone of his voice. The more he spoke to her, the more human and less frightening he seemed. “Thank you.”

He sat down next to her, “Why would you risk certain death by coming here? What did your family do to you? Did someone…hurt you?”

She turned her head away from her as her face flamed red, “I…don’t want to talk about that.”

“I don’t understand you….most people would be on their knees begging for their life. I’m giving you the opportunity to plead your case and you don’t want to talk about it?”

She drew in a deep breath and lifted her head with that defiant tilt of her chin again as she told him, “I knew what I was risking by coming here. I’d rather face death than stay where I was!”

The Dark Lord of the Black Spire mountains was struck speechless for the first time in centuries. When he finally regained his voice, he asked, “You would rather face death than tell me why you fled from your home?”

“I….” her expression changed from defiant to shattered so quickly that he felt like a knife was twisting in his own heart.

He suddenly found himself less concerned with treaties and trespasses and more concerned with what had happened to her. The more they spoke, the more he was certain she wasn’t fleeing any wrongdoing on her part, but some wrongdoing that had been inflicted upon her.

Of course, she didn’t want to tell him anything. Someone had hurt her and since arriving in his kingdom, her safety and her very life had been threatened at every turn by everyone, including him.

It had been centuries since he had cared to earn anyone’s trust but he found himself wanting hers. “What’s your name?”

“Riley.”

“Riley,” he nodded, “That’s very pretty. You can call me Liam.”

“Really?” She stifled what she was terrified was a very inappropriate giggle.

He raised an eyebrow, “That’s amusing?”

“No! I mean sort of…. Liam just seems like such a nice, normal name not….” She glanced away, worried about offending him or saying the wrong thing and getting herself killed.

“Not the name of a dark lord that everyone is terrified of?”

Her eyes flicked back to his face with a half-smile, “Yeah.”

“Yes, well, it’s just the modern version of my original name.”

He smiled at her, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Which was ridiculous, right? She was basically his prisoner and he had literally said he was going to pass judgment on her.

He scooted closer to her and gestured to her hands again, “May I?”

Once again, she extended them to him, unable to repress the tremor that spiraled through her body at his touch.

He gave her a reassuring smile, “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to bite myself and use the blood to heal you. You don’t have to look. You can close your eyes if you wish.”

“I’m not afraid,” her eyes locked on his, refusing to turn away.

She watched with fascination as his incisors elongated into fangs. He brought his wrist to his mouth and used them to slice into his own flesh. When the blood was dripping freely from the wound, he lifted his wrist to her mouth, “Drink.”

Her eyes locked on his as she leaned forward and tentatively licked a thin trickle of blood. She was startled by the taste. It wasn’t coppery, it was salty and sweet with a hint of bourbon lacing it.

“Drink,” He pushed his arm closer to her.

She sealed her lips over the gash and sucked greedily as the flavor exploded across her taste buds; rich and thick and delicious.

Liam sucked in a hiss and his pupils dilated as pleasure rushed through his veins with each suck and audible swallow.

When she pulled away, she licked her lips and then drew a hand shakily across her mouth to wipe any lingering blood from her face. 

When she withdrew her hand, her perfectly unblemished skin caught her eye, and she brought the other one up to inspect as well.

All the cuts, scrapes, and abrasions were gone. Her skin was whole and healthy.

Her head snapped downward as she pulled the hem of her dress up. Lifting one leg then the other she inspected them. They were healed as well. Nothing hurt anymore.

Not physically anyway.

Her eyes were full of gratitude and wonder as they lifted to meet his again, “Thank you.”

For the second time that night, unexpected emotions spilled through the dark lord. Things he hadn’t felt in millennia pushed their way through the thick layers of his heart, leaving him confounded and slightly bemused.

He stood abruptly and stalked away from her. Feeling anything at all for this woman was a mistake.

“Liam?”

He was saved from answering her questions as Drake returned, “All of your orders have been delivered. The patrols have already set out for the borderlands.”

“Excellent! Show the girl to one of our best guest rooms, ensure she has hot water for a bath, have the kitchen send up something for her to eat, and find her some clean clothing.”

“Oh!” Riley felt several emotions slide through her. Relief that she was going to survive this night at least, curiosity about what was going to happen, and disappointment that she was leaving Liam’s presence.

Drake’s eyes tracked from Liam to Riley then back again, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Liam answered before turning to Riley and offering her his hand. He pulled her off the settee then leaned down and kissed the back of her hand, “Perhaps tomorrow after a good night’s rest and some food, we can talk again?”

Riley blushed as she dipped her head, “I think I would like that.”

He squeezed then dropped her hand, “Until tomorrow then.”

[good-old-gossip]

Gaza: After ICJ order to halt attacks on Rafah, Israel launches over 60 air raids on the city in 48 hours

Palestinian Territory - Israel continues to ignore orders from the International Court of Justice (ICJ), including the Court’s most recent ruling. This ruling requires Israel to halt its military assault on the Rafah Governorate in the southern Gaza Strip and reopen the Rafah border crossing to facilitate the movement of people and humanitarian aid. In the 48 hours that followed the ICJ’s ruling on Friday 24 May, however, Israel conducted more than 60 air raids on Rafah.

Furthermore, dozens of artillery shells and constant gunfire were fired in areas of Rafah where the Israeli military was encroaching. Israel’s ground incursion began at dawn on 7 May and has since spread to the west and central parts of the city, mostly along the border strip. It has already impacted a significant portion of the city.

Thirteen Palestinians were killed in the 48 hours following the Court’s ruling, including six members of the Qishta family, an elderly mother and three of her children—two girls and one boy —and an adult son and his two children. The victims were killed when Israeli planes bombed their home on Saturday 25 May in Khirbet Al-Adas, north of Rafah, an area not included in the Israeli evacuation orders.

Three distinct air raids were also carried out on the same day (25 May) targeting the city’s Al-Shaboura Camp and Awni Dhair Street, resulting in the killing of five civilians.

A Palestinian was also killed and others were injured on Sunday afternoon when Israeli aircraft bombed the Rasras family’s house in the centre of Rafah city, while another Palestinian was killed and others were injured on the day of the Court session.

During the Court session to decide on South Africa’s request, the Israeli army increased its intense bombing of central Rafah, including the Shaboura camp. It destroyed numerous homes and streets, and later claimed that the incident was connected to an unsuccessful attempt to assassinate a leader in a Palestinian faction. As a result, civilians continue pay a heavy price for Israeli military attacks that flagrantly transgress international humanitarian law, particularly the principles of distinction, proportionality, and military necessity, i.e. taking appropriate precautions to avoid civilian deaths. It is important to note that these attacks are classified as war crimes under the Rome Statute.

Israel did not hold back in publicly rejecting the Court’s ruling. The bombing, killing, and destruction intensified immediately after the session ended. The Israeli government, led by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, swiftly denounced the Court’s decision and attacked it, citing religious statements that denigrate non-Jews. Minister of National Security Itamar Ben-Gvir responded, “Our future does not depend on what the gentiles say, but rather on what we Jews do.”

According to Israeli Channel 12, Netanyahu stated that “occupying Rafah and increasing military pressure on Hamas” is the proper response to the Court’s decision, which he called “antisemitic”.

The victims of the Israeli army’s bombing are still lying in the streets and under the debris of destroyed homes, particularly in the eastern and central parts of the city, as rescue workers and medical teams are unable to remove them from those areas, according to the Euro-Med Monitor field team.

In addition to the hundreds of housing units destroyed since the beginning of the most recent attack on Rafah, during which entire neighbourhoods were destroyed and reduced to rubble, the Euro-Med Monitor team had also previously received information about the destruction of approximately 170 housing units.

Meanwhile, the World Food Programme warehouse and the UNRWA distribution centre in Rafah remain inaccessible due to the ongoing Israeli military attack.

Since taking control of the Rafah border crossing on 7 May, Israeli forces have prevented the entry of humanitarian aid through it (beginning the day before, on 6 May) and have continued to keep it closed to sick and injured people seeking to receive medical treatment abroad.

Discussions about reaching a deal to allow aid trucks to pass through the Kerem Shalom crossing, which Israel closed on 5 May, do not address the root causes of the issue, nor do they provide for the 2.3 million people living in the Strip. These individuals are victims of ethnic cleansing and genocide and once more face the threat of starvation, as eight months have passed since the start of the Israeli aggression.

According to UNRWA, the current Israeli military operation in Rafah is directly impacting the ability of aid agencies to bring critical humanitarian supplies into the Strip, as well as the ability to rotate critical humanitarian staff. From 1–20 May, according to OCHA, 14 missions which were heading to Kerem Shalom to collect aid supplies encountered delays due to traffic congestions blocking the road and delayed clearance by Israeli authorities, resulting in six missions being aborted. During this reporting period (20–22 May), the border crossings were only opened for one day, and only 39 trucks entered the Strip via the Kerem Shalom and Rafah land crossings. Only 143 trucks have entered the Gaza strip via the Karem Abu Salem crossing since 6–20 May.

Israel is continuing its crimes in defiance of the highest international justice body, which issued precautionary measures to prevent genocide on 26 January 2024 and additional precautionary measures on 28 March 2024, plus its latest precautionary measures, issued last Friday. Israel has been carrying out the crime of genocide against the Palestinian people in the Gaza Strip continuously since 7 October 2023, with no real accountability for its crimes, amid the ongoing failure of the international community to protect the Palestinian people from this blatant genocide.

Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor reiterates its call on all nations to fulfil their international obligations and halt all military, political, and financial support for Israel’s military assault on the Gaza Strip. In particular, all arms transfers to Israel, including export permits and military assistance, must end immediately; otherwise, these nations will be considered complicit in Israeli crimes committed in the Strip, including genocide.

Furthermore, Euro-Med Monitor urges the International Criminal Court (ICC) to acknowledge and handle Israel’s crimes in the Gaza Strip as international crimes, as they fall under the Court’s jurisdiction. Additionally, Euro-Med Monitor asks the Court to expand its lists of arrest warrants to include more Israeli officials.

The United Nations must send fact-finding and investigative committees to the Gaza Strip, defy Israel’s decision to forbid such committees from entering the Strip, and make clear, public declarations whenever Israel denies these committees entry or refuses to work with them in any manner.

International investigations must be conducted into the widespread violations that have been documented since Israel started its military attacks on the Gaza Strip, all evidence must be preserved, and all international institutions must unite in their efforts to end Israel’s impunity. Those who have committed crimes in the Strip, whether by issuing orders or carrying them out, must be held accountable and brought to justice.

Euro-Med Monitor warns that, should the Security Council be approached to pass a resolution requiring Israel to cease operations in the Rafah Governorate in the event that Israel does not abide by the recent ruling of the International Court of Justice, any use of the veto to prevent this resolution from being passed and enforced would mean that the objecting state—which has previously been the United States in multiple similar situations—will be complicit in the genocide committed by Israel throughout the Gaza Strip. This complicity in Israeli crimes includes crimes in Rafah Governorate, where the Court confirmed that Israel’s US-backed military operation poses a serious and additional threat to the Palestinian people’s right to be protected from the crime of genocide.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for almost shooting god??? Help??

Hi hello hi. Oh goodness I need to calm down. The Divine One (1000+ NB) awoke from their thousand year slumber recently!! It's a big deal!! And they've been going around helping people, recovering legendary artefacts, fighting the forces of the fell dragon, the like. How heroic! How expected of the Divine One!

And my country sent ME (17M) to greet them at our border??? I was honored, of course, how can someone as lowly and pathetic as me even be permitted to speak to divinity incarnate? So my retainers and I (18 & 17, both F) camped at the border, awaiting their arrival.

And we waited. And we waited. As we waited, bandits kept trying to cross the border! And.. and monsters! Needless to say, all three of us ended up a little... tense.

So when two more people try to cross, I shot at them with my bow to intimidate them. Better to scare bandits off if I show them I could kill them at a distance, right? except it wasn't bandits!!! It was the Divine One and the crown prince of the neighbouring country!! And i shot at BOTH of them!!

Oh my god!! Except god is right there!!

Obviously, I knelt on the ground and begged for forgiveness right then and there. Nothing could ever make up for this transgression! I could've caused a war! I could've made my country enemies of the Divine One! Good thing I'm only the secone prince... my brother is so much better at. everything.

The Divine One says they forgive me, said I was just antsy, it's understandable. But. is it?? I should believe the Divine One, of course, but... this is me we're talking about. Obviously I shouldn't be forgiven.

[mangle-my-mind]

Todd Haynes on Velvet Goldmine and Fandom (and Gender, and Yaoi, and Slash Fic)

Source: "Something that is Dangerous and Arousing and Transgressive: An Interview with Todd Haynes," Julia Leyda.

Edits and emphases my own :) The whole interview is fascinating, and while I kept most of the Velvet Goldmine stuff in this post, there are more bits to read about it, as well as conversation around Todd Haynes' other films. This is gonna be a really long post, with screencaps throughout, so find it below the cut!

JL: You've done several movies that are very clearly woman's films, but the movie that I am most fascinated with in terms of gender is Velvet Goldmine, which is not usually interpreted in that context.

TH: No, except it's probably gotten the strongest female fan base of any of my films. And what's wonderful for me is to see new generations of young women, even as we think we progress as a society and there are new options available to each new generation that seem to be catering to that market more acutely, still Velvet Goldmine offers that market something that they’re not getting elsewhere. I always love it when girls come up to me at festivals and that’s the one, that’s the movie that really turned them around.

JL: I’m interested in how you use the trope of playing with dolls in Superstar and Velvet Goldmine as a way to figure gender, embodiment, desire, identification. You said in an interview that playing with dolls is what you’re doing in Velvet Goldmine, using it as a metaphor for the filmmaking process, to play with the characters of the idols more than making an actual biopic about bisexual pop stars. So what about the female characters in Velvet Goldmine? Fans, rock and roll girls like Mandy — talk a bit about them.

TH: Interesting question... I don’t know if [the role of the rock-n-roll girl and the role of Angela Bowie in glam] relates directly to doll-playing except that it really might be the last time that you see an active female figure freely utilizing artificial terms of self-expression and persona in an unembarrassed, unabashed, almost radical way. That was in a way the fascinating counterpart to the more aloof, silent, objectified figure that Bowie assumed as Ziggy Stardust. Of course, there was also that hardcore influence from the American music that he loved — the Stooges, the MC5, and the Velvet Underground and Lou Reed — as the final ingredient to give it that kind of duality, the cross between English musical traditions and this American hardcore, a direct assault. He needed both of those, but there was still a kind of passivity and object-ness of that figure that seemed more quiet, and more comfortable being an image, an idealized beautiful façade that people could project onto; whereas Angela Bowie was active, pulling the strings and moving the levers — in that way, I think, making him up so that he was the doll that she was playing with. So a lot of that energy and that fire and fearlessness I think could be attributed to her.

JL: In the doll-playing scene in Velvet Goldmine, the girls are like Mandy, manipulating them and fantasizing about them. So that trope of little girls playing with dolls scene really gets at the way the movie is about bisexuality and a kind of less bordered sexual identity, that is based in play, in fantasy —

TH: — is fluid, is mutable, is conducive to all kinds of voices and all kinds of players pulling the strings. But one thing that Velvet Goldmine kind of misses is how strongly and passionately young women were the driving desiring consumers of this very unique moment in popular culture history. That has continued, too: the androgynous male object is something that still attracts a really passionate, active female spectatorship. That’s so fascinating to me, and you can see it played out in so many different ways: the tradition of the Japanese comics of the ’70s, what’s it called again?

JL: The subgenre of manga with the boy lovers and its girl fans, yaoi.

TH: Exactly. The boy lovers and the girl fans, really directed at girl consumers, and it’s this androgynous, starry-eyed princes and pretty boys who have sparkly eyes for each other.

JL: I wondered if you were aware of yaoi or not. When I was working on a conference paper about the girl fans in Velvet Goldmine some of my colleagues said, Hey that’s just like yaoi! And I said, Wow, it really is, but I have no idea if that’s part of what he was thinking or if it’s just a coincidental, cross-cultural parallel.

TH: It was a tangent that I learned about in the process of research, but I don’t remember when exactly. I was certainly aware of how there was a particular Japanese following with a passionate attachment to the Bowie phenomenon, glam rock, T. Rex; Japan made up a major part of their market. But I think it’s an interesting counter-argument to the classic Laura Mulvey idea of a limited female spectatorship and if anything it only further underscores — although I think this is all embedded in that, and though I haven’t read those articles in some years — that marginalized subjects, such as gay subjects and women, have to find a more dexterous and nuanced way of reading culture and finding their way into all kinds of content that is not designed for them. I think there’s this ability to transform and to enter into all kinds of different subject positions of which this is one amazing and fascinating example: the glam rock thing with young girls’ driving interest in it.

JL: When I was a teenager I was a huge Bowie fan, and my mother was confused because I was always trying to look like Bowie; she would say, “You’re attracted to him, you have a crush on him, why do you want to look like him? When I was younger I loved Jean-Paul Belmondo, but I didn’t want to look like him.” But in the ’70s, and in my case the ’80s, and still today I think, girls of all sexual orientations experience that overlapping between desire and identification — it’s there in the Arthur character, too, but I’m thinking of in the opening sequence with the glam girls rampaging.

TH: Right, they’re absolutely rampaging, terrorizing the town in utter desire. And we all know that the passion that we see displayed there, the intensely sexual display of female spectatorship probably started with Valentino, Sinatra, the Beatles, and Elvis.

JL: It’s almost hysterical.

TH: Yes. There was in these cases an androgynous, feminine element to the actual performance; in a way, just for the star to be up on stage, just to be objectified, is to arguably be feminized. These artists in their unique and shaded ways capitalized on that, and the result among female spectators is something that society is still startled by: that radical emotional response that it engenders... Each generation has its own variant on that. It does call into question all sorts of assumptions about opposites attracting, the whole simplistic reductive ideas of what drives desire —

JL: — and the borders of identity.

TH: Yes, and the female subjects, spectators, consumers, maybe because they’ve had to learn how to occupy different subject positions in dominant patriarchal culture, have revealed the ways that desiring has narcissistic or self-reflexive aspects. On the other hand, maybe male spectatorship has just been so much more catered to and delineated in solid terms, and thus hasn’t been able to explore the margins as thoroughly, but women and gay people and African Americans, for example, all have to find different ways of entering mainstream cultural production.

JL: I love that the girls with the dolls in Velvet Goldmine are storytellers, they are controlling the narrative, in a sense, and that you say that that’s what you were doing as a director.

TH: I think that’s how we all begin to externalize our desires: through storytelling. Dolls are a tool that lends itself to that; they are supposedly made for little girls, and I loved dolls when I was a kid. The Barbie doll became a multiply useful subject in the Karen Carpenter film, and that was the internal nod that I was making in Velvet Goldmine, but it was so relevant it didn’t feel like a detour or a private joke — it felt like it was getting to the core of the intense effect that is felt by these kinds of characters in popular culture. That free-floating desire in the little boy-romance that the little girls are constructing is about as sweet and tender as anything in the film.

JL: That kind of storytelling, the freedom in play, helps the characters, but also the rest of us, decide who we are and how we want to tell our own stories.

TH: It’s the story and the engine of the film. It is really the fan’s point of view — the Arthur character, obviously — but it’s really the theme and the whole motor of it. I always knew I wasn’t really interested in getting inside the closed doors of these famous subjects and that’s why a fictionalization of this unique period made sense. We all already fictionalize and fill in and fantasize. And we see it too in the whole slash fiction phenomenon, which I didn’t even know about until Velvet Goldmine, and in which Velvet Goldmine has itself become a category.

JL: That’s the cool thing about Velvet Goldmine — it is itself a sort of slash fiction, and there’s this ongoing spin-off slash fiction community carrying the stories forward — it’s a perfect loop.

TH: Yes. To ignite that little flame that makes people want to respond actively and creatively and participate. It reminds me of a girl… I was scared of Bowie when I was in junior high school, and I remember I was aware of him, but it was all just too freaky. There was a girl in a lip sync show in seventh grade who picked his song “Changes.” She was this beautiful girl and she imitated him, as many girls did, right, because he was so pretty... [S]he just did the perfect lightning bolt like Aladdin Sane, and she got her hair just right — I forgot if she wore a wig. But she performed “Changes,” and I remember hearing and thinking, “Oh, this isn’t so scary . . .” because I expected it to be really hardcore music and I would be put off by it. But it was so pretty.

JL: So she turned you on to Bowie.

TH: She really helped...

JL: I’m trying not to let my brain explode with that idea! I remember that scene in Velvet Goldmine where they’re reporting on the news, saying something like, “Girls everywhere are wearing glitter makeup,” and that conveyed the society’s sense of fear, of what are all those girls up to? The idea that they’re going to need to be controlled again somehow because they’re getting a little too weird or too powerful.

TH: The glitter girls, as they were sometimes called, especially the LA version of the glitter girls, that’s another thing I really remember from junior high. As I read later when I studied this period, they were a force to be reckoned with — extremely precocious, among some of the youngest, most adventurous and not violent, but persevering, fearless, active fans. They peopled the Rodney Bingenheimer English Club on Sunset Boulevard —

JL: Like the Runaways.

TH: Yes, they gave birth to the Runaways. I think it was one of those girls who ended up in Roman Polanski’s house, who was fifteen or however old she was, but that’s why it’s very hard to examine that infringement outside of its cultural context and what was happening at the time in Los Angeles. Glitter girls scared the shit out of me when I was a kid — they were tough, and girls were already ahead of boys at that age, but they were miles ahead. It was intense. I can absolutely picture those kinds of girls, and they were intense, in their platform shoes and glitter makeup.

JL: With Arthur, I thought you did such a great job developing that character as a kind of giddy, exuberant, awkward young guy. You’ve said that Velvet Goldmine was your most affirmative film, even though the ’80s scenes are so dark, it provides the character of Arthur with this memory to cherish even in the middle of the awful ’80s.

TH: Totally. I don’t know if there’s a more joyful moment in any of my movies than that little passage that I’ve been showing as a clip in a couple of festivals and retrospectives of Arthur getting the record, and making his brother agree to lend him the money taking it home, opening it up, and that cherished —

JL: Fetishized!

TH: — fetishized record. And then he leaves the house, stashing his coat and just prancing proudly with his badges down the street with the song playing, and yet still being met with this higher echelon of socially superior kids who look down on him, and the pretty boy who scowls at him for his presumption to even be in their company. But still I think every kid has some version of that: his awkwardness, his passion, his vulnerability, and his strength, too, are all embodied in that ability to fall in love.

That beautiful sequence ends with him turning the page one more time to the page with the image of Curt and Brian kissing. And I remember feeling that, a kind of recoiling, confusion — like it’s tapping something exact, absolutely precise, but just too many membranes down to be able to be freed up, able to be voiced or affirmed. But it’s something you’re bookmarking for the future, that feeling you’re going to return to when you have a little more strength, a little more perspective. It’s touching something that you know you’re going to have to get back to because it’s something that is dangerous and arousing and transgressive. Christian's performance is so amazing because that sequence starts with him in the classroom, where he really looks all of a sudden like he’s fourteen years old, with his ruddy cheeks —

JL: — and his really bad bangs. I identified with him utterly and painfully in that scene. And his flailing dancing scene. My God, that character is so beautiful.

TH: He did such a beautiful job. He really was so committed and so profoundly inside that guy. I remember when we wrapped and he put away the Arthur clothes and he came back and said, “I just put away the Arthur clothes and cried a little bit.” And I don’t know if I cried but I sure felt like I could’ve. I think despite all the beautiful, fancy guys in that movie, I think my heart belonged to Arthur.

JL: Of course, because Arthur’s us.

TH: He is.

JL: When he takes that coat off and starts walking down the street it’s just: yes! We were all there. I like the way that film gives a few different positions over to that kind of fandom: audience member, fan, young person who’s still working things out, still trying to figure out who they are, and who they want, and who they want to be. The girls as well as Arthur.

TH: It’s also why the whole package of bisexuality, a kind of performative, made-up, dressed-up sense of identity and self, and coupled with this sense of being extraterrestrial, speaks so directly to adolescent instability and to that moment of uncertainty. It couldn’t have been a more total package for the mutability of that time, touching all the nerves and also the freedoms that dressing up allows you, and imagining different kinds of love objects that aren’t necessarily the ones you’re supposed to have. But even that is blurry, unfixed.

JL: Tommy Stone’s star image shows the other side of that dressing-up, right? If you can change yourself that radically, you can also change yourself into a horrible, plastic thing.

TH: Right, and a kind of converse example. The female fan who comes up to Arthur in that final scene at the bar who is so ecstatic about Tommy Stone because that’s all that generation has. That’s what they got — it’s not their fault that the same desire, the same need for something special is expressed, but it’s just not radical, or progressive, or culture-changing. But it’s what they’ve got, and I didn’t want to blame them because they are part of a culture that had to clamp down around categories once again, resume control of those categories that were seeping into each other so surprisingly for a brief time.

JL: Exactly. That limited world that she inhabits and Arthur’s wistful smile as he gives her the press pass, seeing her giddiness.

TH: Just as the emerald pin is the ultimate token of passing on heritages and opportunities or insights or ways of radically inverting a person’s destined experience. That’s how that scene is framed with him passing on the press pass to her and Curt passing on the pin to Arthur. There’s a nice sense of camaraderie among generations and different stations.

[yarnclan]

Heres things i head cannon have changed culturally for the clans since the new prophecy/moving to the lake territories:

- General openness around borders, and awarness of the other clans. I know they have to hold onto this as a source of stupid conflict, but I like to think that the clans were even more agro about borders before. That yes, war over a squirrel was not only common, but expected. I also seem to remember that like... the location of the clan's various camps were secret in the first few books? Idk if i made that up, but it sure isn't the case at the lake. Its fascinating to me to think about how some of this is also due to the layout of the clans at the lake vs the old forest. At the lake they have to cross each others territory area every moon, where at the old forest they were all in separate little pizza slices. I also think Firestar being an outsider, and the kind of cat he is, gave a semi-skewed perspective of life in the forest in the first series, that he was more open and willing to transgress on borders than most other cats.

- Willingness to travel far beyond the territory. The journey that fireheart and greystipe take to find WindClan again is treated as a fairly big deal. But i dont think it takes them all that long? Implying WindClan hadn't gotten too far. Its just interesting in light of the many post new prophecy trips to the mountains and skyclan adjacent teritories and beyond. My personal headcannon is that everyone picked up better navigation skills of the journey and those skills have been peacmeal passed to newer generations. I miss the "traveling to mothermouth" requirment of the 1st series, and think it could have been cool if they had replaced it with like... a once a season journey/gathering at a midpoint with the tribe, where young cats get to learn different skills from traveling and from each other.

Greater contact with kittypets and twolegs. This ties into my headcannon that the lake being a campground/more integrated into twoleg activities means the clans just have more day to day contact with twolegs and twoleg related stuff than they did in the forest, though its a more managable ammount of twolegs than the high concentration of the town next to the old forest.

This is more of a geography headcannon but... it makes sense to think that the lake territories are bigger and more abundant with prey. It would explain why there are more cats, and also add a little bit to the slightly more relaxed aditude they take towards borders and prey. Though the geography/ size of the lake territories is hilariously inconsistent depending on the needs of what ever plot.

This is a bit more out there, but i also like to think that because the StarClan connection point is a pool that feeds into the lake they all live around, rather than a distant rock, its caused more cats to have a clear connection to StarClan/the after life. StarClan felt way more distant and vauge in the first series, and while i know its probably more of a stylistic change, it could also be because they are now all drinking magic water and eating prey that drinks magic water.

[the-shattering]

Chapter 7: Into the Smoke

“M’lord,” the messenger attempted to bow deeply and ended up falling to his hands and knees, “Thank you for meeting me at this late hour ... I’ve ridden all day and all night.”

Caleste, Edrahn, her sons, and her advisors all stood in the great hall to hear the messenger that, according to the guards, had demanded an audience. The guards had apparently been sufficiently moved to let him in and Caleste could see why. Caleste looked at him closer: he was young, perhaps about Graden’s age, and caked in soot in dirt. His face was streaked in tears and covered in scratches. One of his hands shook terribly, the arm wrapped so tight in bandages she feared he had cut off circulation to it.

“Get the healer,” she muttered to one of her servants who bowed and hurried off through the side door.

“What is it?” Caleste asked.

“I hail from Odrum. We’ve been raided, m’lady. We need your help,” he said it as if he had recited these lines a thousand times on his journey. Graden stepped down from his place next to his mother and made his way to the boy. He helped him into a kneeling position but the boy, obviously exhausted by his travels, ended up falling backwards. He at least remained relatively upright though he now sat crosslegged on the floor. Graden kept a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“By whom?” Caleste asked.

“I- I don’t know,” the boy admitted, “It was dark and we couldn’t see very well - it was really foggy. My dad put me on a horse and told me to ride to here and not stop.”

Caleste was quiet for a long moment. Her mind raced, Odrum was a small town to the southeast, not far from Caleston. It sat along the southern border and was practically in the Barrens. Who could it have been? Bandits? A group from the Barrens? Would they even be that brazen?

She mused it could have been from the south, the winter hadn’t been hard on just her territory, and a desperate lord could have resorted to a cross border raid. If it was from the south, she could use this to her advantage. Venera couldn’t fault her for defending her borders, she mused. Taking a few towns over in the process would just be a perk to also increasing an important city’s distance from potential invasion.

“Get this boy some food and drink,” she ordered another servant, “Once he has the healer look over his wounds I want him to be put up in the guest quarters.”

The servant nodded and Graden helped the boy stand before the servants escorted him from the room. After they left all eyes turned to Caleste.

“What will we do?” Sigrus, Caleste’s closest advisor, asked.

Caleste thought for a moment, though she had already pretty much made up her mind as to her next actions. They’d have to respond and in force. She would not let this transgression against her people, against her, slide. She turned to Commander Emmon, “How soon can you get your men ready?”

“It depends on what we’re planning on doing,” Emmon said, “Is this going to be a quick mission?”

“I’m prioritizing speed,” Caleste said, “We need to be at Odrum as soon as we can.”

Emmon stroked his beard, “We can be ready by late morning if we prepare tonight.”

“Good,” Caleste said, “Then be ready. I don’t intend on gathering a large force, you and your best men should suffice.”

The countess turned to Sigrus, “I trust you can keep my city from falling apart for the few days I’ll be gone?”

“I think I can manage,” Sigrus answered flatly, “You intend to go with Emmon and his men then?”

“Yes,” Caleste said, “I want to see the town for myself.”

Idan spoke up, “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Caleste retorted sharply, “You will stay here with your brother and help Sigrus.”

He was not nearly ready for battle if it came to that. She needed a force that could handle whatever had attacked the town and Idan was going to be a hindrance to that. He needed to stay home, perhaps learn a thing or two from Sigrus in the process. She’d have given the responsibility of handling Caleston to him if she wasn’t so unsure of his competence.

Idan at least schooled his expression enough to hide his pout, if only barely.

Edrahn spoke up, “You’ll need healers if you intend on aiding the town — I can summon our best mages to help.”

“Good,” Caleste said, “I take it you’re coming with me then?”

“I’d never leave your side, dear,” Edrahn replied, “Someone has to keep you from doing something foolish.”

Of course, Caleste knew that Edrahn was spoiling for a fight as much as she was. While Edrahn was a bit more levelheaded and thoughtful than Caleste — Edrahn was by no means passive. She shared Caleste’s ambition for glory, and Caleste was very happy to have her on her side.

Caleste turned to one of her other advisors, “Anida - I need you to get messages out to all the lords in the surrounding towns to gather their forces.”

Sigrus gave Caleste a sharp glance, “You intend to raise an army, m’lord?”

“I want one at the ready,” Caleste said, “In case this turns out to be something bigger than an isolated raid… Odrum is on our borders and the winter wasn’t just harsh on us but on our neighbors to the south as well.”

“You think that one of the lords of the Southern Kingdom attacked us?”

“If they were desperate enough? Yes,” Caleste replied, “And if that were the case I’d like to have an army ready to defend not only my territory, but Venera’s queendom.”

Sigrus narrowed his eyes at that — he saw right through Caleste’s reasoning, but she knew that even he had to admit that this was a sound decision. If there were to be more raids along their border or even an invasion, it would be good to have an army ready to respond. The council broke up, knowing they had work to do if they were to leave in the morning. There was no time to waste.

As Caleste strode back to her quarters, driven by the urgency the situation demanded, Edrahn followed closely behind her.

Edrahn finally asked, “So were those the actions of a count who’s truly concerned about the security of her realm or were those the actions of someone interested in expanding their territory?”

“… Why can’t it be both?”

***

The party that gathered at the gate late that next morning wasn’t the most organized or best prepared, but Caleste knew time was of the essence. Caleste, clad in chainmail and a plate cuirass, mounted her fastest horse. Her halberd was strapped upright to the side of the saddle. She thought back to her time fighting for Venera — she knew Torvola would have never put together a slapdash force like this. Of course she’d spend the next season fretting over logistics and planning … who to send, what to bring, and what route to take.

Gods she was glad to be out of that woman’s shadow.

She spurred her horse on and her and her men thundered out of the gates of her castle, through the streets of her city, and out into fields beyond. They made good time that morning on the relatively flat terrain of the valley Caleston was nestled in. They rode along muddied paths, flanked by fields that farmers were only just beginning to sow. Caleste would have loved to pause and meet some of the farmers and see how they were faring. They didn’t have the time though.

Odrum was a little over a day’s ride away under normal circumstances. Caleste wondered who had attacked the town, it would largely dictate her response. If it were an unusually organized and brutal band of bandits — they may already be back in the Barrens or whatever dark hole they had crawled out from. If it were the Southern Kingdom then their forces might be on the move already. There may be more towns at risk.

She vowed to ride through the night if she had to.

Her and her force thundered around the large merchant caravans that had finally made it over the mountain passes and into the valley. The traders looked on in surprise as they quickly moved to make room on the road for Caleste to ride by. The terrain rose sharply as they reached the edge of the mountains, the shrubby landscape they had rode through gave way to an open forest of towering evergreens. The world around them cooled as the sun that had been beating down on them all morning was eclipsed by the thick canopy of boughs. The light breeze that traveled up the slopes carried a faint scent of vanilla.

Odrum was in the next valley over, which meant they’d have to make their way through the mountains to get to it. While the mountain range wasn’t as formidable as the ones that made up the Barrens and there was a pass that made the terrain navigable — it was still a tough ride for anyone. The horses slowed as the ascent got rougher and Caleste allowed the group to slow to a walk. She didn’t like the delay but it would be better than having to deal with a horse suffering a broken leg.

She may be criticized for being rash and impatient but she wasn’t a complete idiot.

They smelled the fire before they saw it, as they neared the pass the trees thinned out slightly and allowed Caleste to look up at the sky above. The skies were no longer blue, and the sun shone bright red through the orange haze that now drifted overhead. Finally, they crested the pass and got their first good look at the valley below. Columns of dark smoke billowed up from Odrum and the thick forest that surrounded it, it looked like the town and some of the surrounding settlements were burning. The fire hadn’t seemed to have spread to the surrounding forests. The wet winter had been a boon after all. Well … At least in this one case.

They paused at the pass to let the horses rest and drink from the small mountain stream that trickled out of the rock nearby. Caleste stood on an outcropping of rock that gave her the best view of the valley below. Odrum was the only place that was burning, she saw no other signs of whatever force had attacked the town.

Emmon joined her at the overlook, “We can be down there by nightfall,” he said, “Though I’m not sure that will be the wisest decision. We don’t know what’s down there, m’lord.”

“If we stay up here then we’ll be exposed and visible to anyone still in the valley,” Caleste replied, “At least the forest will offer some cover and shelter.”

She did have to admit — Emmon had a point. If Odrum and the other settlements in the valley were destroyed then they’d have nowhere safe to stay for the night if they descended. It would be better to wait for morning.

“We can stop below the tree line for the night,” Caleste said, “Get everyone back up - we’ve a few hours yet before nightfall.”

They descended through the hazy air, the air in the valley was cooling as the sun began to disappear behind the western mountains and the smoke began to settle into the lower elevations with the cooler air. Caleste had to admit that listening to Emmon’s council was the right move, and not only because they would be in a potentially indefensible position if they were caught in the valley. Being halfway up the mountain slope, just below the tree line, meant that they were mostly above the air in the valley that was now choked in thick smoke.

She couldn’t imagine how unbearable it would be to spend a night in that suffocating murk. As they dismounted and prepared a crude encampment for the night, Caleste couldn’t help but notice how deathly silent their surroundings were. She paused and strained to hear even a bird chirp or the buzz of an insect. She was met by heavy silence.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed the unnatural stillness in the air. The horses were restless, stamping at the ground and snorting as the knights tried to tie them up for the night. She swore, whenever the light breeze picked up, that she could smell a hint of sulfur.

It had to be nothing. It was her mind playing tricks on her, surely.

“I want two people on watch at all times tonight,” Caleste said to Emmon, “No fires.”

The sun slipped behind the mountains and Caleste and her men settled in for a long, cold night. Caleste kept her chainmail on, despite how uncomfortable it was to sleep in, just in case. She sat up against a log and held Edrahn close to her that night, both women’s eyes trying to peer through the hazy darkness for any sign of danger. Neither of them got much sleep.

It felt like an eternity before dawn broke and it became bright enough for them to move safely. Everyone was quiet as they packed up camp and prepared to set out for the day, Caleste and Edrahn were not the only ones who didn’t get any sleep.

Caleste went to her horse to mount it, and a thrill went down her spine as she looked over the valley below. A thick shroud of smoke obscured everything below her, making it impossible to see what lay ahead of her. Edrahn stopped her wife before she got onto the horse and handed her a dark green cloth, “It’s not much but it may help with the smoke,” she said.

Caleste nodded and took the damp cloth and tied it around her nose and mouth. She looked around at the rest of her party, all now donning the same crude mask that she wore. She hoisted herself up onto her horse, and patted it lightly to reassure him as he shook its head with a snort and stomped his feet. Emmon brought his horse next to her and Caleste gave him a nod.

Caleste gave her horse a slight nudge with her foot and it reluctantly walked forward. The same thrill went down her spine and she tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the sense of danger she felt, the sense of fear. She could be anxious, apprehensive even … but she couldn’t be afraid.

She breathed slowly and deeply through the thick cloth mask and blinked against the smoke that was growing thicker as they descended. One by one, she and her men disappeared into the murk.

Chapter 6 | Chapter 8

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lviii. Beauty and Her Beast

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After the spectacular victory at sea, Tanbarun had commenced a systematic purging of the Claw’s associates.

This had proved difficult.

Headless, the limbs scattered — vanishing into hideaways and boltholes, melting back into the anonymity of the underworld.

For every pirate the soldiers captured, two more evaded them.

...

The smugglers’ elusiveness frustrated justice, but it posed at worst a tepid threat. The sea witch had masterminded the vilest of their evils; she alone sported the fangs of the operation.

Umihebi had carved blood and misery across the seas.

She had built an empire, trading in flesh. She had defied the might of the royal navy and the merchant marine, digging her nest so deeply that its tendrils extended all throughout the land before she was rooted out at last.

By trapping her, the joint forces of Prince Raj and Prince Zen had lifted a scourge from the kingdom, freed it from a menace that stalked its borders and devoured its children.

They had laid to rest a malignant enemy.

Without her venom, the thugs at her command might snap at the heels of Tanbarunian society, but they would not imperil civil order or the health of the body politic.

Now Umihebi walked free again.

...

Word of the danger spread quickly.

News, rumors, began circulating. The countryside felt the shivers of realignment as people followed.

The more unsavory characters wound towards the source of disturbance, drawn like buzzards by the promise of blood. Whispers followed in their wake, warning of a force gathering — a hatred building.

Safety was west.

Obi went east.

...

He had left something behind him in that bedroom with Torou. He no longer sought distraction.

No more would he search for a way to forget or suppress the memories, as if he could find a cure for his regrets. This was no malady plaguing him, no medical condition. He was not ill — he was guilty of a crime.

He stopped visiting towns and taverns after that — stopped looking for ways to drown or stifle thoughts of her.

...

His mind roamed more wildly than his feet, vacillating confusedly from remorse to accusation. Where had he gone wrong — leaving? Staying? Asking her to be him? Discarding her and the home they had built together?

Every decision seemed suspect; entirely contrary choices struck him as equally wrong-headed, equally inimical to everything good.

How had he dared to presume he could care for her — how had he dared to abandon her?

...

Obi knew no rest, in soul or body.

He had always been a light and fitful sleeper, prone to snatching cat naps on window sills, sofas, beds that belonged to someone else — but now he knew not when he slept. 

He would come to himself in a wood somewhere, unconscious of whether he had dreamed or only sunk into a reverie. 

Other travelers passed him by, perhaps unaware of his presence, perhaps drawing back as instinctively as animals shied from the dangerous of their kind — scenting death in the walking wounded.

...

He felt marked, a  wanderer like Cain, cursed by his own transgressions — but he had lived on the wrong side of the law for many years.

This time a chasm had opened, between himself and the rest of humanity, such as he had never known in all his years in the underworld.

It would be easy enough to let the world grind him to nothing, as it had always tried in any case, but there was something to do first — one thing he had left to take care of.

...

Obi followed that undefined sense of incompleteness to a rough town near the border — “town” being a generous term.

It was one of those the places of buying and selling sprung up in conjunction with the crossing patrolled by their neighbors to the east.

Here, one might change money, change papers, change your identity even — and buy a drink, of course.

...

No such shadow town would be complete without a place for men to wet their throats, but this hub in particular did a brisk business in reallocating confiscated liquor.

The eastern empire did not smile on spirits, as many an ill-informed merchant discovered to his chagrin.

Sometimes a  finely aged brew would find its way to the dusty tables.

Other times, Obi thought, as he watched the bartender fill his glass, it might as well have been ditchwater.

...

He sat back and surveyed the room, his mind assessing, appraising each party.

Many drank alone, but a band was gathering against one wall.

They drifted in by ones and twos, ostensibly occupied with a game of darts, but Obi noted few heads turned in direction of the play and little interest in its progress.

The men were more occupied with consulting, murmuring to each other in low voices while their eyes flitted from face to face.

...

He downed his glass.

It tasted worse than it looked, but this mattered nothing to Obi.

Perhaps his body had reached its limits at last — perhaps there was a point beyond which a man could feel no more.

Obi rose. 

He was about to find out.

...

He strolled up to the dart game like a blind, deaf dog robbed of its scent faculties — oblivious, in short, to every sign thrown out to signal his unwelcome.

The men glowered, shifted together, closed ranks against him.

A fellow with an eye patch, stationed at the group’s periphery to head off interlopers, gave him a look that was downright mean.

Obi sauntered past, headed straight for the thick of their band.

All their low murmuring ceased.

...

A few watched him coldly; others fingered the weapons at their belts.

One lifted a short, heavy-handled knife. With a grunt, he sent it spinning through the air to bury itself in the black ring surrounding the dart board’s bullseye.

A moment later, Obi’s leaf blade joined it — dead center.

Now he had their attention.

...

'Do you know how it is when they punish a thief?' His knife blade dances between his fingers. 'It is different in every country. 

‘In the south, they charge a fine. In the north, they lock you up. 

‘Go east, and they cut off a hand.' 

The blade spins through the air; he catches it with his fingertips. 'But no one has invented a punishment for my crime.'

...

“Listen, you miserable whelp,” growled a hook-nosed man, eyes burning beneath the low brim of his hat. “Do you have any idea who you’re jabbering at?”

The corners of Obi’s mouth curled up.

He raised his hand, three fingers bent in, and pawed the air in an unmistakable slash — the kind he had found carved into a tree, a lifetime ago in Tanbarun.

Obi cocked his head, holding their gaze. “Meow?”

...

A heavy hand descended on Obi’s shoulder.

It was the man with the eye patch, and his fingers gripped like steel.

“That’s a nice story you’ve got there,” he said softly, leaning in close to fix Obi with his good eye. “I know somebody who’d like to hear you tell it.”