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soranis-sunshadow · 4 years

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Why it’s not ok to compare Wrong Hordak to his defective brother.

It doesn’t sit right to me when someone pits two abuse victims against each other based on their coping mechanisms because their circumstances are never the same.

Wrong Hordak was immediately adopted by people who slowly de-indoctrinated him and offered him a supportive environment for all of that growth and healing to happen. When the BF squad kidnapped him, he was ardent about his service to Prime and he only followed them because they deceived him in believing they were servants of Prime.

By providing clear irrefutable evidence of Prime’s fallibility, deceit and the squad’s moral support throughout this moral crisis, they were able to wean him off of his programmed behavior and offer him a new onlook and an informed choice.

Hordak was a defective clone that was sent to die on the battlefield, in essence he was abandoned by his maker for being worthless and deflective. This is why his own disability is such a source of crippling shame and self-loathing, it made him unlovable in Prime’s eye, the person he was literally programmed to worship, love and blindly obey.

For all intents and purposes, Prime is the horde clones’ God. He appears to be all-powerful, omniscient, omnipresent and he is their literal creator. Through doctrine, clones are taught that all creatures are beneath Prime, only His light and His love is relevant. (Prime is that much of a narcissistic monster)

Even while stranded on an alien planet, cut off from his Maker, it makes sense for him to prove his worth through the only means that he was ever taught (worship and conquest), perhaps, that way, he may repent for his failure of being created defective.

It makes sense for him, a brainwashed cultist, alone and stranded on a strange and hostile world to try and bring it into Prime’s light. He didn’t know that he could have been free of Prime if he chose to integrate with the natives. Every time he detected Light Hopes’s portals on the surface of the planet, he went to investigate, hoping Prime had come for him. That is how he found Adora after all.

Of course Hordak was brutal, brutality was all he had ever been shown. Of course he conquered in Prime’s name, that is why he was created. Of course he condoned the training of children to become soldiers once they reach maturity, that is how he was made after all, he didn’t know any better.

It's important to note that before Entrapta, Hordak is essentially a recluse. He hides away in his laboratory and he doesn’t directly interact with most of his underlings who avoid him. In many of his appearances he clings to the shadows or is only shown on a monitor.

Instead of proving his worth to Prime, he seemingly fails at all of the (impossible) tasks he had set himself to accomplish in gaining his God’s favor: He doesn’t conquer the planet (it’s a whole damn planet), he can’t treat his defect (it’s gotten to the point that he’s an emaciated sickly wreck dealing with crippling chronic pain and is immobile without his prosthetic armor), his attempts at making a new body for himself have failed (he is defective, any clone made from his genetic code would also be defective) and he can’t even open a portal to go home (the planet’s magic does not allow an exit from the different dimension it is in). After decades of failure after failure, that he blames himself for, he has grown bitter and hopeless.

That is why Entrapta and her message is so important to him. She teaches Hordak that he has inherent worth as an individual. His imperfections do not mark him as something lesser, to be discarded, to her, he can be beautiful just the way he is. This is when he starts considering to stall the portal project, a project that has been his purpose for years, and considers staying on Etheria with her. "There was even a time you wished I would not come for you." - Prime

When he is told by Catra that Entrapta "betrayed” him, he doesn’t want to believe it at first but his own self-loathing plays a huge part in why he buys the lie. He is after all a defective and worthless failure. Catra’s lie is so much more plausible than anyone ever finding worth in him. As such he comes to reason that another person he has dared to get attached to has abandoned him.

Whereas Catra believes that everyone leaves her, when really she pushes them away, Hordak genuinely has had everyone important in his life "leave" him, as far as he knows. This is why we see Hordak in his most evil during season 4 when he has the arm cannon and he is sacking Salineas. He's completely fueled by insecurity and loss, he has something to prove again, to Entrapta and to Prime. He was eager to face her and show her, on the battlefield, that he can be worth something (affection).

When Double Trouble reveals that Entrapta was sent to Beast Island, Hordak believed she is likely dead after so long. He thinks his gullibility has cost Entrapta her life, another failure to add to the long list of sins.

When he is teleported on Prime’s ship, he is terrified of him. He tries to appease Prime in whatever way possible. His body language, his meek, scared tone of voice, and the terrified expression on his face coupled with the fact that he is literally shaking in fear convey the fact that Hordak himself knows he will not be shown mercy. In order to adapt to Etheria and further his goals, he had committed unforgivable blasphemy, he had taken a name and shown initiative. Prime violates his mind and erases him.

It comes as no surprise that once his memories of Etheria resurface because of Catra’s presence, memories of abject failure, of loneliness, of grief and of betrayal, he submits himself to erasure once again. (in season 4 he had actually let Catra in, he trusted her, they had started a tenuous friendship that weirdly enough went both ways. She too was glad to see a “friendly face”)

Once he finds the crystal Entrapta gave him, he starts remembering her. Her memory is so dear to him that he actively tries to hold on to whatever fragments of her he can hold on. He even hides this from Prime (his only lie in the whole show).

In the final confrontation, while still linked to the hive mind and in the presence of his god, he chooses Entrapta, not because Prime was proven to be wrong or evil or fallible but because Entrapta found worth in Hordak despite his imperfections. He goes against his creator still believing that Prime is all-powerful, omniscient, omnipresent because he cared for Entrapta that much.

This is why Hordak's defiance against Horde Prime has so much impact, at least for me personally. Hordak is a character who never really got a choice up to this point. Arguably, it was less a decision and more of a last resort to protect Entrapta in whatever way he could. And even this choice was a zero sum equation. He either killed the one person that has ever shown him unconditional kindness or he turned against his God. It was a loss either way. The inescapability of Prime and the magnitude of his control over his clones is underlined by his possession of Hordak after he had declared his individuality and tried to kill him. In the deleted extended scene, Hordak himself is horrified at the fact that he had shot his Brother. His conditioning and indoctrination is still there. He never learned that Prime is a narcissistic monster and that he used his little brothers as chattel and had been consistently lied to. He just wanted not to hurt Entrapta, this one choice is his first step towards individuality and freedom. This is the first time he actually exerts his own will and not Prime’s. He’s even making this obvious by saying "I am Hordak." I am someone, I exist.

I think Hordak is actually one of the best written characters in the show, and not because he's a sympathetic villain, but because he is very realistic to how a lot of children that experience neglect or other forms of parental abuse behave as they grow up. They only know anger and rage, never being shown love because they hide themselves in the shadows. Only when someone breaks down those walls can that person begin to heal.

Hordak and Wrong Hordak may be identical clones but their circumstances are anything but and it is wrong to pit them against each other. They are both victims of severe abuse. The comparison is not a fair one since one of them had all the means necessary to break conditioning while the other had all the circumstances necessary to enforce it. Despite what Hordak has done, he deserves to live and he deserves a chance to rebuild what he has destroyed in Prime’s name. Some of his victims may never forgive him, that is their choice. Nobody should have to forgive him. That is not how forgiveness works. Etheria’s justice system is focused on rehabilitation, not on punitive vengeance. Hordak too deserves a chance to heal after all that has been inflicted on him from the moment he was created. He deserves a chance at redemption.

I am open to more discussions on the subject if anyone is willing.

#hordak #wrong hordak #entrapta #horde prime #spop discourse #spop #she ra princess of power #we can only grow as much as our circumstances allow us #being away from church on a sunday doesn't make you an atheist #please contradict me if you can #but do so with logical arguments and not headcanons on theoretical genocide

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gothic-safari-clown · 3 years

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The Mind’s Power Over the Body

Part 14: How Could You?

Story summary: They only ever had each other. It had been that way since high school, ever since Elianna transferred to dreary Arlen and took Jonathan under her wing. They go separate ways for college, and when they're reunited at Arkham Asylum professionally, Elianna comes to find that they've both changed during their time separated. Can she look past the promise of danger and stay by Jonathan's side as they slide further and further into the darkness while she grapples to come to terms with the truth about herself? Can she accept what needs to be done in order to hold onto the only person who holds any meaning in her life? This is a very self-indulgent AU that draws from several different canons of the DCU and ignoring others, starting in the Batman Begins Nolanverse. This will follow the plot of the movie, although the timeline has been very slightly tweaked.

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve

Word count: 1530

Brief explanation of El’s fear hallucination

Elianna awoke the next morning with a sore throat, a headache, and a dull ache in her wrists and ankles. With a groan, she rolled onto her stomach, half hoping to suffocate herself in the pillow. She gave up on that after a few seconds, reaching for her phone to check the time.

8:37? I'm late for work. Shit.

She scooped herself out of bed as quickly as possible, fighting off all the various pains in her body, and stumbled to the bathroom. She was halfway through brushing her teeth when Jonathan entered with a mug of coffee, which he placed on the counter next to her.

She recalled the night before and how angry she was with him for leaving her alone there.

But she was in no position to refuse coffee, so she finished brushing her teeth and rinsed her mouth before taking the mug from him with a glare.

"How are you feeling?"

"Ugh," she shook her head, pulling her makeup bag closer to her.

"Alright, stop getting ready; I already called in. You're taking a sick day, and I'm taking care of you." El shoved the bag away from her again and picked up her coffee as she walked to the kitchen for breakfast. Jonathan rolled her eyes at her tantrum and followed her; this was clearly about more than hating mornings.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong? You're the one that insisted on doing it."

"Yeah, I am." She retorted angrily, slamming a cabinet shut. "And you left me alone in there." Jonathan was taken aback, both by the statement and by her anger. It had been a long time since he had seen her like this, but it had never been directed at him or anyone else who didn't deserve it.

"What are you talking about? I was in the room with you the whole time."

"No, you weren't! I thought you would be, but I looked over, and there was someone else there, and you were gone, don't lie to me!" He raised his hands in surrender and slowly walked closer.

"Elianna, listen to me. I didn't get up from that seat until you finally passed out, okay? Just think about it, whoever you saw sitting in that seat was just projected over me." Her glare didn't falter for a second as he spoke, but he could tell that she was thinking. "Why would I lie to you about this, of all the things I could have lied about since you've known me?"

She didn't reply to that, and the glowering look never left her face, but she looked away from him, clearly considering his words very carefully. Eventually, her brow softened, and she put her face in her hands, shaking her head.

"No, you're right." She strained, pushing her hair out of her face. "You're right. I'm sorry, I just got agitated; it made me a little fragile."

"That's better." Jonathan nodded. "Let's go sit, and you can tell me about what you saw, and then we can have breakfast because I get the feeling that this should take priority." El bobbed her head in agreement, and they walked together to sit on the couch.

Over the next few minutes, she explained everything she had seen; the shadows (explaining that the one in his seat clearly represented Zsasz), the spiders, the holes (when she got to that part, she began to scratch nervously), and finally the way the shadows had broken her bones before she lost consciousness.

"How long would you say that it lasted?" Jonathan asked clinically, his face inscrutable.

"I don't know, maybe...half an hour?" It was a low estimate. Her first estimate had been a full hour, but she knew that the trauma could have affected her sense of time. Even so, she was shocked when Jonathan shook his head.

"Actually, it was about fifteen minutes. A little less, maybe." He took in her look of surprise and confusion. "I know it's disorienting. Do you have any questions?" El thought for a moment.

"I understand most of it, I know what I'm afraid of, but I just don't get why Shadow Zsasz took your place instead of just coming with the other one. I mean, does that mean that I'm somehow afraid of you?"

"No, the toxin changes your perception of your environment, that includes people. That being said, I think there is a reason, but it's more abstract than physical."

That would make sense. El knew that she had some mild abandonment issues, and the way that Jonathan explained it, that was the best explanation she could come up with. It made sense that she would be afraid of Jonathan leaving her behind, given that he was the only person of significance in her life. The initial shock had worn off, and after the constructive conversation that they had had, she now found herself preoccupied with other things.

"So...they're not going to have a problem with me taking the day off, are they? I mean, I've barely been here for a month."

"El, I think if anything, they'll be relieved that you're taking a personal day. After everything with Zsasz, people were surprised that you would even go back to work."

"What can I say? I'm a fighter." She grinned. "Breakfast?"

"Breakfast." They returned to the kitchen, and El thought about the duration of the hallucination. It had felt so real and so long. I guess that's the point, though, isn't it?

"So, fifteen minutes? Is that a normal amount of time for that strain?" He shook his head.

"When I first tested it, they all lasted closer to half an hour, like you thought." He ran a hand through his hair. "I normally don't continue to test a formula once I make a new one. Now I'm wondering if the effects don't last as long if the batch is older, or if that was specific to you."

It was an interesting thought. The deeper she fell into this plot, the fascinated she became with the idea.

Purely professionally, of course, for the science of it. It was strange to admit that she had always had a hard time empathizing with people. Sympathy was easy enough to fake through, but empathy was a different beast entirely. However, her experience with the fear toxin had made it incredibly easy to empathize with its victims.

Not Zsasz. He had deserved the treatment, and she was sure that given another chance to do it again that she would take it gladly. But even her recent harsh thought that the people of Gotham all deserved punishment (or release, depending on the type of person), now that she had experienced the effects for herself, it was hard to hold onto that thought.

She knew it would happen one way or another, regardless of her level of involvement, so the best option was just to keep with it to avoid the fallout. And she didn't necessarily feel the need to prevent the city's apocalypse, but maybe she would keep her interest in the project purely for educational purposes.

"Well, can't you just test it on someone else?" Jonathan pulled it over.

"I suppose we could run it on Zsasz. I have just enough left of that batch for him, although his previous exposure may skew the data..."

"I mean, it's not like you'll be using an old formula for the attack. This test would just be for your own edification. In which case, the fact that it still works should be enough." He turned his head and gave her a look, a sly smile on his face.

"You just want to poison Zsasz again." El flushed slightly, stammering for a response.

"Now that I know what it's like," she began defensively, "I feel like I might be able to follow his experience a little better. Appreciate it more." He just looked at her, still with the corners of his lips turned up knowingly.

"Whatever you want, El. Sometime this week, I promise. I've been developing a new recipe as well. I think it'll maximize the potency; maybe you'd like to help me mix the testing batch." She nodded. It would satisfy a curious thought to watch the toxin be made.

"I'd be happy to."

"Good." She could see a thought cross over his face before he spoke again. "I'll need to run an errand later today. It shouldn't take long."

"Oh. Where are you going?"

"That woman from the DA's office, if she thinks I'm doing something, then she isn't going to stop until she finds out. I'm going to see if there's something that can be done about her."

Elianna decided that she'd rather not know what that meant or who he was meeting about this particular issue. Unsure of exactly what to say, she offered a noncommittal, "good luck," in response.

The rest of the morning passed without incident: breakfast, idle conversation, followed soon by Jonathan getting dressed and heading off to...wherever he was going.

What exceptionally convoluted bullshit I've gotten myself into this time.

#the mind's power over the body #Jonathan Crane #scarecrow #batman begins #Nolanverse #Elianna Montgomery #jonathan crane x ofc #Attraction To The Insane #multi chapter fic #fanfiction #slight au #cillian murphy #cillian murphy scarecrow #tmpotb chapter 14

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ramblingrybo · 4 years

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Encounters with Cows (and a Bull in Belleau)

Every year I get chased by cows. Except for one occasion when I was with my daughter, Alice, in South Ormsby, I have been on my own when this has happened. Obviously, without anyone to corroborate my stories I could be tempted to exaggerate but let me reassure you that what follows is the truth, cross my heart and hope to die. I will limit myself to two incidents. The first is a clear case of bullying, the second, one of mistaken identity. The first occurred three years ago in South Thoresby, the second, two years ago in the Swaby valley.

There is a meadow in South Thoresby which has a boggy area next to the Calceby beck where you can find cuckoo flowers and ragged robin, two of my favourite wild flowers. If you have never come across ragged robin, it is a delicate, leggy plant with rose-red petals which often look torn and sometimes arthritic. Three years ago, I visited the site in May and spent a good half an hour squelching through the bog, taking photographs of these flowers. The sun was out and the birds were singing. I couldn’t have felt happier. Deciding that I’d had my fill for the time being, I slung on my backpack and began to walk across the raised boards and sleepers which provide a route through the bog and back onto the higher and drier part of the meadow. Glancing up, I could see a couple of cows idly munching at the end of the boardwalk. Thinking that they would shift as soon as I got nearer, I continued to amble towards them. But they did nothing of the sort. I could see one of them turn her head to look behind her. Within seconds, more cows, this time with calves, had trotted across to join the original couple, meaning that a small troop of them was now blocking my exit. I hesitated and then stopped. By now the cows had bunched together presenting an impenetrable wall. I stared at them and then waved my stick, making rustic shoo-ing noises as I did so. Nothing. They just shuffled en masse to the right, then reshuffled en masse to the left. I stamped my foot in anger and I am sure at this moment, the ring-leader in the middle of the group winked at me. It could have been a fly, of course, but I sensed a swagger in her bearing. It reminded me of a group of bullies at school blocking the entrance to the toilets.

‘Where do you think you’re going, eh?’

Annoyed with myself for being such a coward, I turned tail and retraced my steps across the bog to the edge of the field. If I was to get to the stile in the far right hand corner of the field, I would have to skirt the boundary and follow it all the way round, trying to keep out of sight of this herd of recalcitrant cows which seemed intent on delaying my progress. As I adopted a crouching run, trying to keep any hillock or bush between me and the cows, I couldn’t help feeling how ridiculous I must look. Here I was, a grown man in his sixties, trying to out-Commando a herd of cows. But worse was to come.

I had just started to follow the top fence which led directly to the stile, when I could see the cows start to turn away from the boggy area and begin to trot into the middle of the field. Diving for cover behind a sizeable tussock of grass, I caught hold of my breath and peered over. Instead of just scattering, the herd had now regrouped and were accelerating diagonally across the field towards the stile. It was now a race to see who could get there first. Jumping to my feet, I began to sprint, stumbling into the dips and flying over the mounds in front of me. In the distance, the cows were picking up speed. Please, please, let me get there first.

The cows won, of course, crowding in front of the stile which provided access to a bridge and the next part of my walk. Not only that, they were making one hell of a racket, mooing and bealing and, yes, I am sure of it, roaring with laughter - that was the cows, and giggling - that was the calves. Defeated, all I could do was stamp my foot again and think of what I could do next. Jump over the fence? Yes, that would do for a start. But then what about the brook? I would have to wade over. Would you believe it? I was being forced to jump across a brook by a herd of cows. Well, luckily I managed it but only just, suffering two wet feet and a plastering of black mud in the process.

Did I give those cows a piece of my mind? Of course, I did. I spent a full five minutes pouring venomous scorn upon those bovine bullies. I had never been so humiliated. ‘What have I done to deserve all this? ‘ I wanted to shout when I had calmed down. But then I thought of slaughter houses and savoury mince and concluded that they might have had a point.

The second incident occurred a year later on a beautiful June walk through the Swaby valley. The track is bordered on one side by a fence next to a chalk stream, on the other, by a steep slope covered in grass, bushes and punctuated by chalky outcrops. I was walking from the village of Swaby to Belleau. Happily listening to the reedy song of a robin in a hawthorn hedge, it took me some seconds to realise that my path was being blocked by a fawn coloured cow which was standing sideways on. As the path was quite narrow at this point, it was impossible to skirt around her. I advanced cautiously, making soft, cooing sounds, trying to get her to shift in a calm, peaceful manner. At first, she just shivered but then turned her head towards me and stared. It wasn’t aggressive. No, nothing of the sort. It was a mournful, melancholic stare. I stood still and that was when she took a step towards me and pushed her head at my side and tried to lick my hand. I began to back away slowly but she followed. Oh dear. I knew that I shouldn’t run but I also knew that this cow was getting a little too close for comfort. She nuzzled me again and that was all that was needed to spur me into action. If I couldn’t pass her or sprint away from her, I could climb above her. Yes, that was what I would do. I began to scramble up the slope, grabbing handfuls of grass to aid my ascent. But when I looked back, she was following me. This slope was as steep as Bully Hill in Tealby and she was still coming.

‘Look, just go away. You’re giving me the creeps.’

It was only as I was nearing the top of the slope, having scratched my arms on brambles and blackthorn, that she finally stopped and skidded back down the slope onto the track again. Once at the bottom, she looked up at me and mooed, awaiting my return. For the moment, I was stuck. Regaining my breath, I realised that there was only one thing that I could do. I would have to edge along the top of the slope and only descend once I was near enough to the gate. It took ages and I kept praying that the cow wouldn’t try to keep me in her sights and stay level with me. Thankfully, she didn’t and I was finally able to make a dash for it. On the other side of the gate, I was able to relax and reflect upon my recent experience. This is what I came up with. I think the cow was lonely, perhaps missing her calf. I think she had transferred her affections onto me and I had become her baby. My initial fear had been replaced by feelings of tenderness towards her. After all, it is not every day that you can say that you have been loved by a cow.

So, bullied one year; loved the next. But what of this year? Well, I haven’t been chased yet but I have been bellowed at by a bull in Belleau. It happened last week. I was walking with Jane from Claythorpe Mill to Aby. We had just got to the stile near Belleau church when we noticed the bull on the other side. He was a muscular beast and clearly not in the mood to negotiate our safe passage through his field. He groaned, growled, bealed and bellowed. We hummed and harr-ed and then skedaddled. But, luckily for us, we soon found another track back to Aby, one which led us past the crystal clear waters of the Belleau spring and took us along the banks of the Great Eau. Strangely enough, we have a bull to thank for a brand new and beautiful part of the walk.

So, keep walking those fields if you want to be bullied, nuzzled or bellowed at. Who says that the Lincolnshire Wolds aren’t dramatic?

Next time: ‘Blossoms - stage, page and hedgerow’

#Bulls #cows #Lincolnshire Wolds #Wild flowers #humour

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inmyownmhis · 4 years

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The Morning After - Part 5 - With @BuyMyBlood and @HowBoutDemWings

Jagger:

-I wasn’t prepared. For any of this. It was some kind of surreality and my heartbeat remained a deep chime in my ears. Every ounce of me screamed silently in revolt, urging me to bolt back into the sunlight, away from Ambellina’s vein, the one so perfectly raised in her wrist and its alluring color of soft blue sapphire against the backdrop of porcelain that beckoned me. My fangs stayed retracted in protest. Thank fuck, at least part of my will was intact.

Enter the scene the one and only Lassiter. My eyes darted his way. I envied his cavalier ease. I also found it confusingly attractive. Everything was overload, everything was too much. I didn’t know which way was up or out or anything. As he moved closer, saying shit that didn’t register to Ambellina, I was frozen in my state of internal panic. How in the hell had I let myself agree to this.

His long legs didn’t leave much time between when he entered and crossed the room and I wasn’t sure how I’d react when he arrived to hold me down and keep the monster at bay and when he showed up to do his part, in the words of Reggie Watts… fuck-shit-stack. He didn’t hold me down at all. He joined me on the floor, dropping in behind me. I inhaled as strong hands hit my shoulders and my entire body sighed and sagged in relief when those wings locked me in with hearty yet gentle reinforcement. A robust heartbeat hit against my shoulder blade… unless it was the echo of mine bouncing off his chest. I’d been wound so tightly the collapse of my pent up fears and unexpected abatement was a whole new kind of awe. And shit, fuzzy, wouldn’t you know, then came the fangs. There was no descending dysfunction left in the building.

What was it with the angel?

The internal dialogue was starting to aggravate me. Sure as shit it had been me, myself and I too long. I sunk against Lassiter as Ambellina’s wrist waited in front of me. My eyes lifted to hers and my voice came weak, throttled by a tight, hoarse throat, but the effort was proper.-

Thank you, Ambellina. You are a female of worth and beyond my deserving.

-Eyes dropped closed like steel shutters, instinct drawing me to her vein. It was between breaths my fangs punctured her wrist, her velvety flesh offering no resistance, only ease of access, her blood surging into my mouth in a warm tide. Nature overtook nurture, casting out the sins of my father that made me an undeserving candidate. Ambellina’s blood was concentrated power .Vigor. A different potency. An experience. I felt between dimensions, aware of every cell in my body reanimating as months of fatigue took a swift hike into kingdom come. I moaned without warrant and my pulls became ravenous. Ambellina was exceptional… rare. As my strength returned tenfold, so did my rage at the male who had harmed her. She had awakened my beast alright, but not the one that had held me suspended in fear, ushering me towards a death before my time.-

Ambellina-

~Of all the times I had fed a male, first time or otherwise, nothing about repaying my blood debt and fulfilling Ghiselle’s request felt familiar. I was used to taking control. I was used to males being eager, even when nervous. I was used to that familiar scent of arousal that permeated the air around us at first taste of my exceptional blood washing over their awaiting taste buds.

None of that was present as I watched Jagger kneel at my feet. My head tilted only enough to send my hair cascading back over my shoulder to hide the vein I had exposed in offer to him. I wasn’t offended. Quite the opposite. I was almost eager to get his fangs into mine wrist, his hunger was obvious only because I had seen what a starved male looked like. Unfortunately, some of my clients could only afford to pay for my services when much beyond absolutely necessary. In this instance, however, Jagger was still an anomaly. It was as if he was remaining alive through his stubbornness to not feed.

I didn’t believe for a moment a male with his good looks would have a difficult time finding a willing female to offer her vein, and more. But here we were, he’d not fed. I wanted to ask why. I knew better. I also suspected voicing such an invasion of privacy would put an end to his reluctant acceptance of my vein.

When Lassiter joined us and worked his large yet, oddly unobtrusive wings, I wet my lips and straightened my spine, readying myself to coax Jagger along. The angel did that for me, and the commanding tone in his voice nearly had me lifting my wrist to meet Jagger half way despite his words not being directed at me. What a strange night...and now day this had turned out to be.

I didn’t have time to ponder, the light pressure at my wrist that worked as a warning of what was coming had my gaze dropping back to Jagger while his voice and words of gratitude floated through my mind. The gesture was not lost on me, and it only displayed just how much of a male of worth he didn’t know he was.

I sighed softly, air blowing over my lips just as his fangs pierced into my flesh, and kept my features as neutral as they were before he had begun feeding. There was no way I was going to allow even the slightest amount of discomfort mar my face at the risk of Jagger retreating. I had heard his request of Lassiter in the kitchen and for whatever reason he felt I needed to be protected from him. Displaying any ounce of pain, even though I enjoyed the initial bite of a feed would give him the excuse he needed to stop, I was certain. I refused to allow him to end before he had had his fill.

The light sucking at my vein felt almost...reluctant but then, as he got a proper taste, his natural instincts took over and he was moaning between strong pulls as I had come to expect of many of my clients. Wanting to offer some encouraging reassurance, my free hand lifted and my fingertips lightly traced over his eyebrow as I hummed a soft song I couldn’t recall the name of but knew it had been learned during my childhood.~

Jagger:

-When feeding with Haven I’d always been hyper-conscious, aware of what I was taking, and never minus the ability to pull off. I was all about the bare minimum.

With Ambellina… hello… whole new ballgame. Every swallow pulled me into a deeper, dreamlike state. As my corpuscles swelled to newly robust heights, I teetered on a dangerous trip into my subconscious, losing my grip on the control I’d always kept on lock.

And then… holy shitshine… the humming started, that soft, ethereal soothing sound from the lips of Ambellina. I was… affected… afflicted… a tear rolled down my cheek as the calming gesture twisted up something inside of me, bringing images of my mother to the forefront of my mind as a muffled cry against her wrist broke me into another scene.

Hello U-turn.

It stood in sharp contrast to where I’d just been. Now I was aware of the angel at my back, and more images of him on my bed, depictions I didn’t fight, though fuck if I understood. I stretched back an arm the short distance and gripped Lassiter somewhere on the thigh, wrenching him closer.

I wanted his breath on my skin… his body against mine, or beneath me. Fuck… where was this coming from? Was it Ambellina’s blood? Was it some kind of angel mojo? The torrent of images left no time for dissection and I moaned again, this time for the vivid views that flashed behind my eyes.

I needed to stop… but didn’t want them to stop. I had to let go of her but couldn’t let go of him.

Panic tried to rise but was stuffed by...desire…

Until Ambellina hit a glorious note, that effectively served as a breakthrough. I released the clench of my bite, sealing the wound with a slow swipe of my tongue, savoring the decadent flavour before letting myself collapse back against Lassiter. I wasn’t lacking energy, hell no. I was invigorated. I was vital. My body was roaring and it was a good thing the angel had me restrained, not for Ambellina’s protection… but to stop me from acting on everything I’d just conjured up in my mind while under the influence. Lord knew my body was on board. Hell if I knew what it all meant.-

Lassiter:

<Through all of my time while I took up space and stayed in the manse, I had never watched a feeding. Not really. Sure, I’d caught wind of a couple lingering in the hall when they hadn’t quite made it back to their chambers, and yeah...I guess, I had witnessed a Chosen feeding a wounded brother down in the infirmary, I didn’t count that because those females were more like being connected to an IV. Definitely not the same as what I was about to get a front row view of. Everything I knew about feedings prior to getting myself all wrapped around Jagger was what I had been told. Despite all of my second hand and admittedly limited knowledge, I felt like I was still pretty damned prepped for Jagger to feed from Blondie. His request to be restrained to avoid becoming a monster like his father, I assumed meant he anticipated a bloodlust attraction to develop. It made sense, she was even more fair and lovely than any human and was on level with the Chosen, not to mention smarter, too. That was an instant level up from having only good looks. The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t find an argument against why Jagger wouldn’t ask to be restrained. Even his gracious words of gratitude left me no room to wonder. Maybe this was part of why he initially didn’t want to feed from her. I stretched my neck enough that I could catch an eyeful of Jagger’s bright white fangs as they sunk into the pale skin of Blondie’s wrist. At first, I thought I was wrong. Jagger’s lips took a few beats to seal against her flesh, but when they did, strong sucking was followed by moans and without meaning to, my arms and wings tightened around his body. I told myself it was because he had asked me to ensure she was safe. Jagger feeding was good. He needed blood. I knew this, and yet...the sounds of his moans...they were doing something to me. Fortunately before I could give that something too much further thought, a soft humming began and as I tore my eyes from their alternating path between Jagger’s lips and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple while he swallowed, I watched as Blondie’s fingers moved over his brow. The gesture wasn’t one of intimacy. Well. It was. But not the kind that could be taken as an invitation. I was so wrapped up in dissecting what was in front of my eyes I nearly missed the shine of wetness escape the corner of Jagger’s eye before Blondie wiped it away. No sooner had that happened than did things take an entirely different direction. Instead of wanting to get closer to Blondie and her blood supplying wrist, Jagger was pulling me in tighter against his back. That was unexpected. And not at all unwelcomed. In fact, I found my arms tightening further and while my chin rested on Jagger’s shoulder, watching as his fangs retreated and his tongue swiped over the bite mark, I felt the rapid fire of his heart hammering against his chest. My thumb slid back and forth across this pec as he fell against me, bringing my lips right in line with his ear. I spoke low, not wanting to spook him and lifted my gaze to Blondie’s.> Was that enough?

Jagger:

-This whole thing was turning into a damn saga. Hell if I knew which one, but maybe that’s because this was a shiny new epic, not a cheap remake with an inferior cast.

Shiny new was what I felt, too, with a cherry paint job and a mint engine. And someone had dropped the key in my ignition and was turning the key with a twist of his wrist. Focus was sharp, but figuring that one out was like a Rubik’s cube. Behind the back. One-handed.

Ambellina’s blood had raised me from the dead, only I hadn’t realize how far gone I’d been, until she rushed like rapids through my veins.

With the revival had come an amplified version of the thoughts that had been lurking in fleeting moments since Lassiter walked through the door. Things I never felt. Urges I never had. Reactions that weren’t my every day. I’d heard that it was the norm for my kind to develop an all-you-can-eat appetite for sex following a feeding, but it never happened to me so I thought rumors of this had been greatly exaggerated. Then came Lassiter like an epiphany, with his French toast and syrup, sparkling wit...arms… strong arms… lips that were sexy even when he was running his mouth. Or especially when he was running his mouth…

Sexy? I was sure-as-fuck I had never even thought the word. I gave myself some mental knocks and was pulled out of the well-o-Lass I’d been down deep in by the sound of his voice in my ear. Fingertips dug into the thigh I had a grip on and I opened my mouth to answer, but first came a groan, which spoiled any suspense to how good I was feeling.-

Understatement. A damn understatement. Either I just drank half her stock or her blood is… something more.

-My eyes flipped up to Ambellina’s- Your blood is extraordinary. -Even though my fangs were no longer fused to her wrist, I could feel the connection I had to her. Funny again, not something I ever tapped into with Haven, but with Ambellina, I wasn’t even trying and it was there- You don’t have to answer, I can feel it. -My voice quieted so I could follow Aretha’s timeless advice while I bowed my head-

Thank you, female, for the honor of being at your vein.

-Following up with a few moments of silence before cranking around to get a look at Lassiter- And thanks for… keeping her safe. -Nope, wasn’t dying down, these sudden impulses. I needed off his lap, but couldn’t bolt, fearing I could cause an offense or send the wrong signal that I didn’t like my coordinates.

HOLY. HELL.

Who was I?-

Ambellina:

~All my experience with feeding a male and my usual business like demeanor abandoned me in my moment of need. Once Lass had commanded him to take my vein, I wanted to remain poised and professional. That didn’t happen. No. I had to go and get personal, bypassing the calming and reassuring presence I had started with and jumped straight into personal complete with wiping away a few of Jagger’s stray tears. That was a new one for me, though I should have expected something of the like, that was, after all the running theme of things from the moment Lassiter had found me. Entirely unexpected.

A few slow and steady breaths had my mind focusing on what it was I wanted, to repay my blood debt and follow through on my promise to Ghiselle. Knowing I was in the process of doing both set my mind at ease and lessened the ego blow to my otherwise normal professional behaviour. Truthfully, I knew nothing of this day was anywhere near a level of normalcy. Not for myself, nor Jagger and I was pretty sure not for the angel, even if he was used to saving lives. Something about this whole exchange was all together divergent.

Jagger’s tongue swiping over my wrist brought me back from the cycling thoughts of my mind while Lassiter’s voice pulled me the rest of the way, and well into the present. He wanted to know if Jagger had taken enough. I knew the answer, it would suffice, for the now. Likely twice the amount of time of a normal female vampire’s blood. Fortunately for me, I was saved the task of answering. I did not wish to tell the angel the whole truth. But then, Jagger went and spilled the blood beans.

Did he know? There was no way he could, I had kept THAT particular family secret locked up tighter than anything else.

The word “extraordinary” echoed in my ears and as I pulled my borrowed sweater down over my wrist, I squared my shoulders while mentally preparing myself to outright lie. I could feel a faint warmth bloom upon my cheeks which was yet, another thing I didn’t normally do, but something about the way Jagger looked at me was disarming. Relief flooded my insides and cooled the flush to my cheeks when he saved me from my poorly planned lies and moved right on to thanking me. A small smile curved the edges of my lips and as I inhaled to buy myself some time, I caught it. The scent I had previously anticipated which didn’t come, had finally arrived.

Arousal.

It was unlike any I had encountered before but no less unmistakeable. Masculine, chocolatey with warm coffee sort of undertones, not all that different from how Jagger’s blood had tasted. It wasn’t meant for me however, I knew by the way Jagger’s knuckles had gone white from the vice like grip he had on Lassiter’s thighs. Realization hit and my smile grew a little wider, in a knowingly and understanding way as I spoke.~ You are most welcome. It was my honor especially after your gift of saving mine life. Without being presumptuous, I would like to extend an offer to be available for feedings anytime you need them.

~My ears couldn’t believe the offer my mouth was giving, but something deep down warmed inside me at the idea of helping Jagger, before he could decline, I quickly added on just as he had for me.~ You don’t have to answer now. Just know you don’t have to abstain. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to follow through on cleaning up in the kitchen. ~I nodded and rose to my feet with ease then stepped away from where Jagger continued to remain in Lassiter’s lap, and entered the kitchen, humming once again in a show of offering some kind of semblance of privacy.~

Jagger:

-Ambellina slipped right into her coat of headstrong and the fit was tailored to perfection. I cringed that she was going to do the work in the kitchen. She was a female of worth that rivaled my own mother’s and the housekeeping after the sacrifice she made was teetering on the edge of allowing her to be used. Luckily for her unflappable determination, I had bigger things to contend with, namely the bulge in pants that was as stubborn as her.

My awareness was sharp as a blade that had a recent meeting with a stone and my focus was in magnified. But damn the man, my voice was nowhere to be found and the nervous system was on high alert because all I could think about was the angel’s every feature.

The heat of his body commingling with mine.

The echo of his graveled whisper in my ear.

The way his thumb had passed over my nipple making it stand up and salute under my shirt.

Riding the coattails of Ambellina’s exit, I finally broke out of the mental paralysis and got vertical. I was itching to bolt immediately but couldn’t help but drop my eyes to where Lassiter was still sitting.

Fuck.

My dick jumped against my zipper and that was all the octane I needed in my tank to beat feet back to my bedroom.

Walking through the door, my eyes went straight for the bed where I was assaulted with images of him on it. Again. This time it was the extended preview. Marching over to the bathroom counter I turned on the cold water, splashing myself in the face several times but nothing was washing it away. My arms flexed as I propped myself on fists, letting my head hang to avoid the mirror, but there was no escaping what was doing up in my head and I hated myself for what I wanted… I wanted him to follow me. Come after me. If I looked in the mirror I wouldn’t have recognized myself.

I was blindsided by the personality transplant, fully vital from the feeding but no less fucked in the head. Only my death wish, hunger strike brand of fucked in the head had been replaced by ALADDIN-WHOLE-NEW-WORLD fucked in the head. But wait, did that make Lassiter the genie or Jasmine?

And how in the hell did I know so much about Aladdin? And why the fuck of all things was I comparing us to anything Disney?

Sweet. Hell. Something told me the long night was nowhere near rolling the credits.-

Lassiter:

<It was interesting what happened when I kept my mouth shut, it wasn’t that I didn’t have things to say, I always did, but the two vamps were doing a fine-ass job dealing with shit on their own without my nose-butting. Knowing Jagger had fed enough from Blondie’s wrist was all I cared. He was safe from the fade for now. And to boot, she offered future feedings. I was going to do everything in my power to ensure he was agreeable.

Before that conversation could happen, she was up and moving back into the kitchen. To clean? What the fuck. She must have clued into something I was clearly missing. But what? While my mind was replaying the events at rapid fire, Jagger removed himself from my lap and turned around to look at me.

That was when I got one hell of an eyeful of what it was I had been missing. Well hello there, Jagger’s twitching dick. I swallowed hard and licked over my bottom lip instinctively before I found a shred of tact. Not wanting to make the guy uncomfortable, I dragged my gaze up his torso to find his face. His eyes burned into mine for a split second before he took off down the hall.

Shit. I pushed a hand through my hair, tugging on the ends as I muttered to myself.> At least it wasn’t the front door this time.

<Moving to stand, my wings tucked under themselves and rested against my back, and before I could even breach the kitchen doorway, Ambellina’s voice floated over with her wealth of knowledge.> “That’s not for me, you know.”

<My brows knit together uncertain if she was actually talking to me, and as I crossed into the kitchen to ask, she turned from where she was standing at the sink. With her sweater pushed up to her elbows and hands covered in suds, she gave me a look that left no room for me to ask.> “His arousal. I’ve smelled it on many males and I know when it’s directed my way.”

<She rolled her eyes at me when I continued to stare at her, she was as lovely as this day had been long, but that didn’t mean all vamps mated up traditionally. Fuck, I even knew of a few back at the manse who were anything but traditional. She saw the moment I clued in and turned around back to her dishes. She really was the best at what she did.

My strides down the hall were long as I searched for Jagger, and when I found him, I took a moment to watch the strong muscles of his back beneath his shirt as he let his head hang forward. It had been a long damn time since I had last pursued someone, I had been too focused on the whole soul saving thing and getting my numbers up for the Bossman. But all that faded now that I knew I had until sundown to wait.

As I stepped up behind him, I was sure he knew I was there so I didn’t bother with courtesies like clearing my throat, I simply took hold of his hips and turned him to face me. Over his shoulder, I caught a quick glimpse of my eyes in the mirror, they were glowing a soft white, I knew what it meant, I wasn’t sure he would though.

Stepping closer, I invaded every last bit of his personal space. One arm moved around his waist, pulling him in tight against me, and when I felt his hard body against mine, I groaned. My voice was low as I spoke his name, a question and a statement all at the same time.>

Jagger...

Jagger:

-I held my position at the sink, still refusing to look myself in the face in the mirror. My mind was working to unravel all the conflict in the trap of my skull while my body seemed set on moving forward without it.

My brain was the dark horse with the odds of unfamiliarity, instinct and Disney stacked against it. My body was hard, virile...eager. The feeding with Ambellina had done more than revitalize me, the potency and purity of her blood had unlocked a door to what had long been dormant. Hell, it was a place I didn’t think had existed for me.

With the door unlocked and my body primed, Lassiter had walked right in like he owned the place, with all the pomp and presence of a Ringmaster. As much as it had been her blood inside of me, it was the image of him, the memory of his body against mine, the subtle touches and his glorious construct that permeated every damned part of me.

I sure as hell didn’t understand how everything changed in the course of hours. I’d never held attraction to anyone, hell, I didn’t even understand the word… not until….

Now.

Just as I lined up one row of matching squares on my Rubik’s cube, I felt his heat behind me. God...it was already so familiar. Lassiter’s hands gripped my hips and he spun me like a top. My eyes finally lifted and were immediately magnetized to his. Their luminescence stole my breath and calmed the internal chaos.

I didn’t stop him when his arms came around me. I didn’t push him away when he pulled me into him.

I didn’t want to.

Though my heart had decided it was time for a drum solo, and I couldn’t respond when Lassiter said my name, I didn’t stop him when his hand came to the back of my neck…

I really didn’t want to.

Then his lips hit mine and our mouths fused. The world came into focus and fell away all in one money shot.

Fuck understanding. Fuck making sense. Fuck everything that wasn’t his chiseled lips and hot mouth owning mine.

My hands wanted in on the game and were employed without a background check, coming up to his back, taking a ride north as my knuckles brushed the underside of feathers.

I’d never kissed. I’d never felt. I’d never wanted. Not until now.

My mind took a ten, save for one, bright, neon word branding itself on my soul: MINE.-

Lassiter:

<It didn’t take long for Jagger to start kissing me back. As soon as his lips began moving against mine, something inside me clicked into place...that part of me I had been keeping locked up inside in the interest of remaining focused on my work, that part that I had forced to take a back seat and hadn’t allowed myself to feel in the span of a human lifetime. His hands moving up my back and brushing the underside of my wings were like a key twisting inside my invisible lock. Giving permission to let it all come flooding out, much like the moan that rumbled up from deep inside my chest while I pulled his body in closer.

Rarely these days did I allow myself to indulge in my own feelings, I masked my lone singularity in a world of humans and vamps with bravado, humour and undeniable fashion sense. I had been cool with that, convinced myself I was fine being without the more intimate company of another. Sure, over the years, I had indulged in my basic need to get my rocks off in a variety of ways and with anyone who caught my eye...but this was so much more than a need to get my dick wet.

I could no longer overlook the connection I felt to Jagger the moment I had picked up the cross and chain that belonged to his mother on the ground outside the club. I could no longer deny the memories that had been held inside the golden alloy which assaulted my senses had been the start of something so much bigger. What I had thought, and convinced myself was a need to return a lost item was a mere piece of the puzzle sliding into place. I pushed a leg between Jagger’s and pinned him against the bathroom sink, pressing my hips into his as a chuckle sounded at the realization that the Bossman was still dipping his hands into all the things. My new found understanding left me with a feeling of freedom similar to that when I would fly.

Attraction had always come in all sorts of colours, shapes and sizes for me, the current one was dark haired, broody and with a dry humour that hit like a punch to the chin when you least expected it. I wanted more, if he was interested...and yeah, maybe the reason behind his arousal was feeding. I could find a way to accept that...but if it wasn’t...I didn’t figure Jagger to be the type to put himself out there to potentially get rejected. That was fine by me too, I had no problem making all the first moves...taking control had always been my thing.

Nothing like the present and current state of circumstances to test that set of waters, right? My hand gripped Jagger’s hair tight as I spun him around and pressed his back to the bathroom wall for a few moments so he could feel the press of my hard cock against his own. When that move didn’t get me shoved away, I grabbed him and redirected us toward his bed, landing across it with me on top and his legs still hanging partially off the side. As my legs moved to tangle with his, I broke the kiss and licked over his lips before I searched his face.

I could have easily touched his temple to see what he was thinking, but there was no way I was about to invade him in that kind of way, at least not without permission. Instead, I let a grin spread across my lips as my hips worked teasingly against the still very prominent bulge in his jeans.> Do you want me to keep going or are you going to try and run away again?

Jagger:

-While Lassiter's hands charted my hips, I tried to ditch my brain, all the what-the-hells and the don't-know-what-I'm-doings. His kiss was in control and educated me on a new definition of sustenance. With every suck on my lips and roll of our tongues, something smack dab center of my soul tugged me from the inside out and into him. As the kiss continued without end, he poured into my abyss of a void. Lucky for his skills, the agony that could have come into the sitch, was cast away. I wondered if he caught my low groan when his leg pressed between mine, dragging against the underside of my rock hard cock. Fuck, the sensation was yet another revelation after my blink-and-you'd-miss-it sex life, not that I knew I was missing shit. As if he was reading my mind, Lassiter got a grip on my hair and he spun us, throwing me into the wall and leaning all his weight into me to bring me back to the right here, right now. My fangs punched down forcefully, throbbing and taking note of the pain ricocheting all directions with an origin point of my shoulder blades after taking the brunt of the impact. Fuck...it felt so good, my body coming online in yet another way. That was when my hands turned greedy, snaking under his shirt to rake up his skin and down; I wanted to sink more than just a set of blunt nails into him. Before I could act on the primal impulse, he was transporting us again and without missing a beat, the slick angel that couldn't merely be described as handsome or beautiful, had me on my back on the bed. He was working me hard, driving me insane with all the friction and slow motion and my hands dropped to his low back so I could feel all that power that was currently concentrated at his hips. A moan I had to second guess had come from me split my lips as he broke our kiss and licked over them. It was...erotic...another entry in the New Jagger Dictionary and I felt under hypnosis, my breaths coming slow, but heavy, in a foreign fashion. I felt my lips go smirk as he asked his question because my response was so natural, I didn't have time to analyze where it had come from. Hell, I didn't want to break our eye contact, but it would have to give up a few for the cause. I crunched up, getting a hit of his scent at the neck, dropping my answer close to his ear in a husty tone.- Forgot my Nikes. -I fell back onto my elbows, staying propped. I knew fuck all about what I was doing, but sure as shit didn't seem like that would be a problem. I was putting myself in his hands. And if the way his dick felt rubbing against mine was any indicator, he was the only male for the job.-

Lassiter:

<The desire to smack someone around while in bed with them wasn’t all that far out of the ordinary for me, and when Jagger sucker punched me with another dose of his particular brand of humour, my hand twitched to do just that despite the fuck-hot smirk he was wearing. Instead, I put my hand to use elsewhere, a smirk of my own growing larger as I grabbed ahold of the hem of his shirt, yanking and tugging it up his torso.> You forgot your Nikes, eh? Then you won’t be needing this either.

<When the material cleared his head, I took a moment to get a good look-see of what my body had already sampled by way of pressing up against his. There was one little surprise that drew my still glowing stare down and held it. Jagger had a nipple piercing. That earned a lick of my lips and a rather quick departure of my wings so I could remove my own shirt to reveal a set of my own piercings. I had twice as many as him but that wasn’t the point. Reaching out and grabbing ahold of the metal, my thumb and index finger pinched and gave a quarter turn of the piercing while my eyes burned into his.> There are only two reasons people get these kinds of piercings...either they are vain and want it for aesthetic reasons, or...they enjoy pain.

I’ll let you get away with half answering me this time, Jagger. I’ll expect a full answer, next time. <My teeth clipped his earlobe, biting down hard and dragging the blunt edges over his captured flesh, giving him a few moments to let the fact that I was already thinking about hitting repeat with him before speaking again.> I am a mix of the two. Both vain and enjoy pain… <I pulled away to flash him a wicked grin and a wink, he could decide what he believed of that particular share as I pushed him to relax back against the bed. My mouth was watering in anticipation, he was Costco and I was going to enjoy all the samples that were on offer.

My teeth scraped down his throat and over his collarbone. I stopped to suck hard at the base of his throat as my hands moved along his sides, fingers dancing over the ladder of his ribs. As I moved lower on his chest, my mouth was on a one-way road to hit up his piercing while a hand was ready to deliver some attention to the opposite side.> Jagger:

-Impulse was not my nature. I’d been reserved and controlled but this… this going with the flow shit was serving up a freedom, and a part of myself, I hadn’t been acquainted with. Every action and reaction Lassiter threw out was unearthing previously buried relics of my instinct. I couldn’t help a moment of satisfaction that came when he called out my Nike answer but my nerves ratcheted up as he got me out of my shirt. Joining the party next was anticipation, I was unashamed as his eyes raked over me, lingering when he caught the titanium barbell that had a home through my left nipple. My cock throbbed solely for the way he took me in and harder when he licked his lips. That was for me, and fuck, drawing that out of him made me ache in a way I never had. Awestruck, it was a good thing he was taking the lead, stripping off his shirt and laying waste to any doubt in my head about what I was feeling.

Seeing his skin and his own set of bling, I was for fact, turned on. My lip flared at one corner when he took my piercing between his fingers, twisting it just enough that I got a taste for why people might get them outside of my own reasoning; I’d wanted the pain but not for erotica. No, I wanted to remind myself of the disappointment I was for the lineage I had represented. Physical pain had always served to distract from the emotional shit I carried around.

Funny how that all fell away in a quarter twist.

The air in the room was electrified as Lassiter built on every move with another. His breath at my ear called my body to further attention, heat channeling under my skin to every inch of my body before he even spoke. Lassiter’s message about letting my incomplete answer fly only this once… Yep, I knew I was out of my league. The command in his tone was subtle but unmistakable, and fuck if I didn’t like it. An urge to please him surfaced as his teeth clamped around my earlobe and I growled, sounding my pleasure. I caught the “next time” and vowed to myself not to let him down…

When he pulled away again… yeah… I couldn’t stop myself from thinking he earned his vanity, and fuck if it didn’t feel kindred that he too enjoyed pain. He could probably teach me a thing or two about appreciating it more than I had, I mean… he already was.

God, he was really fucking pretty, but not in the way you would call a female. NO… he was all male, from the hard cuts of his body to the light scruff that peppered his jawline as it rested above a thick and tempting throat.

I took the shove back to the bed and liked it. I liked it even more when Lassiter’s weight landed on top of me and I welcomed the scrape of his teeth with another moan that carried through the sucking on my throat. My hands found his broad back and roamed, learning the territory. His touch along my ribs left shivers in their wake, the contrast of his actions raising an army of sensations. With Lassiter’s mouth nearing my chest, I found a hand trailing up the back of his neck and into his multi-colored locks. My tongue finally came back online, and there were only a few words on the edge of a grunt as he reached my nipple…-

Anything you say. I’ll do anything you say.

-It came out of nowhere, along with a thick, but inoffensive musk that suddenly permeated the air around us… between us. The surprises with Lassiter just kept coming.-

Lassiter:

<In the distant past when I would bring someone to my bed, I’d pretty often find myself annoyed with one thing or another, largely because I hadn’t being particularly discerning, and when I’d pick someone up at a bar it was for the singular purpose of getting my rocks off. Not to mention, alcohol worked a number on my usual standards. Rarely, in those instances did I find myself wanting to bed someone a second time. On the rare occasion, I’d find someone who took me by surprise and with that surprise, I’d find myself interested in pushing their limits as I exposed my preferences with them over a longer period than just a quick drunk fuck.

Here, with Jagger, I was finding myself in a perpetual state of surprise. Granted I knew very little of him, aside from his whole feeding issues and that which I had accidentally gleaned from getting inside his head, but even then, it wasn’t THAT easy to take me by surprise. I’d seen a lot in my long life and had gotten pretty damn good at predicting the type of personality I was in the company of. Each reaction he gave to the moves I used to test the waters with him only increased my desire and interest. He handed over control to me in a way that felt genuine and not out of some kind of desperation to get in my pants. In fact, I’d go so far as to label him as reactionary at the moment.

This male was a complex one with a whole set of mysteries I wanted to solve, and for the first time in a long ass time, I found I was in no hurry. I wanted to take my time with him and learn at the speed he was willing to share. That personal revelation earned a grin that broke some of the contact my mouth had on his nipple, which was all good and well because that reactionary label I’d just given him was slowly changing into something else. As his hands moved up my back and threaded into my hair, his words registered just as I smelled the scent rising up off of him. I knew that smell...well, not this one in particular because it was different for each male vampire, but I knew what it signified and the repercussions of what it meant to be a bonded male.

Lifting my head, my eyes held his while my hand continued to tease his nipple. I could feel the truth of his words and smirked at him as I spoke.> Now there’s an answer that pleases me.

Your jeans better be off by the time I’m done closing the door. <Sure...I could have willed it closed, but that wouldn’t have had the same commanding effect, and I wanted Jagger to know how seriously I was taking his promise. As I closed the door with a soft click, I could hear the sound of him working quickly to remove the remainder of his clothes. Pushing my own jeans down and stepping out of them, I turned around and smirked at how well he had listened. We still had as many hours of sunlight as I had fingers and I knew just how I was going to reward him.>

Ambellina:

~A genuine smile worked its way across my lips as I turned my back to Lassiter after shedding some light on what was happening with Jagger. The expression that filled his face when he realized what I was saying was amusing, for certain he knew he was a good looking male. Perhaps he had a complex about not being a vampire? I wasn’t sure but that was not my problem to fuss over. Jagger could deal with that, which by the sounds of the grunts coming from down the hall that had been quickly sorted out. My smile grew wider as ‪my hands worked below the layer of suds, working the cloth over one of the syrup-sticky plates.‬

It had been a while since I took care of any domestic duties at my house, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know how and just like the bath I had taken, there was something cathartic about washing the dishes from the meal we had shared. My mind got lost upon itself as I moved the wash cloth over each dish, I had things to do...revenge to plan, a boss to update and my doggen to warn. Naturally, the dishes would be completed before any of that would happen, a promise was a promise and I kept mine. Always.

When the kitchen had been cleaned and all evidence of the meal put away, I moved to the living room to turn on the television. Not that I cared about hearing what was happening down the hall, the semblance of privacy was more what I was trying to create for both the males down the hall and myself.

I didn’t have television to watch as a child, my mahmen could barely remember to buy groceries and didn’t always pay the bill on time to keep the power on, so there was no way she was willing to pay for something as accessory as cable, and as I flipped through the channels on Jagger’s set, I settled on some sort of game show before returning to the kitchen to use the telephone. It hung on the wall and looked like it belonged from the same era as the lino on the floor...70s perhaps 80s. Corded and with a spinning dial you had to touch your finger to the metal to register which number you wanted. It filled me with nostalgia, though not the kind I would like to sit and reminisce upon.

Lifting the receiver from the cradle, I paused for a moment and thought back to a time before speed dial and the ease of voice commanding a cell phone to simply dial a pre-programmed number, the digits of Ghiselle’s phone number had once been committed to memory and was effortlessly retrieved from the back of my mind.

As I listened to the line ring and waited for her to pick up, I twisted my the coiled cord around one of my fingers. It didn’t take long and her voice was as sharp as ever, she’d never let on to being woken from sleep. Ghiselle was forever the picture of professionalism.~

“Hello.” ~Not a question, but an expectation of whomever was calling to identify themselves. I carried a desire to one day hold that much command from a single word, too.~

Ghiselle, it’s me. I’m calling from the home of Jagger Rhuin. I’ve completed what you asked. ~I paused to see if she would say anything, when she didn’t, I continued to fill the empty space between us on the line.~ I’ll be taking a few days off. Talk to you then?

~After a moment, she spoke.~ “Fine, but I expect you to fill me in. You never take time off, not without my forcing you to. Tell me you’re alright?”

~My lips pinched together briefly at her question. I could tell her what had happened with Rhancid but I knew better than to admit I booked him outside her rules. She’d be at my house by night fall and I did not want to deal with that.~ I’m fine. You know you never have to worry about me.

~I could hear her nails clicking on her desk, she was deciding whether or not to believe me. I waited.~ “You have three days. I’ll see that your appointments are rescheduled. And then I want to see you with mine own eyes before I will believe your ‘I’m fine.’ Understood?”

Yes, Ghiselle. See you then. ~I sighed as I hung up the phone. She always had an inkling for when I wasn’t entirely forthright. I should have known this would be no different. But I needed time to plan and find Rhancid so I could ahvenge what he did to me before he left Caldwell, I could feel the echo of my blood in his body far enough away to be safe but also close enough to know he had not packed up and left town.

I picked up the phone again, this time calling my doggen to let them know I’d be home at sundown and if anyone showed up unannounced, not to allow them in. I didn’t want to take any chances that Rhancid wasn’t going to go looking for anyone who might miss me when I didn’t turn up at sunrise. I was not going to underestimate him again particularly when he knew where I lived thanks to his driver picking me up the night I first met him.

When that was done, I retired to the living room and curled up on the sofa. The game show was over and a daytime talk show had just started, that was fine by me, I was beginning to feel the weight of the last few days and exhaustion was starting to creep in. Reaching for the knitted afghan that was spread across the back of the sofa, I pulled it around my body and let my heavy lids fall closed, confident I’d wake up well before Jagger or Lass re-emerged from the bedroom.~

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patricianandclerk · 5 years

Text

Lost At Sea

Rated T. 3k. Miles/Ginger. From Adam’s POV!

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

“And you might as well take Ginger with you, so that he doesn’t bother me,” said Nina, and I looked up at her from the breakfast table. It was a fine Sunday morning, and she had joined me for breakfast at my lodgings due, in part, to the lateness of the hour, and in larger part due to her going abroad somewhere in the North for a few weeks, that we shouldn’t see each other for the duration.

“You can’t make it that he doesn’t bother you of your own accord?” I demanded, with more affront than I intended, and she gave me a severe look.

“I could,” she allowed, “but not without being very rude, and he really doesn’t deserve it, Adam.”

“Oh, but I mean… Ginger,” I said, as a man arguing the method of his execution. He had joined us initially, but was now across the room, talking with his strange, uncertain confidence to a handsome, green-eyed chap that had recently entered. Said chap seemed somewhat overwhelmed, but it was nothing to Ginger’s own palpable overwhelmedness. “I don’t know that he’ll like our friends.”

“He likes everyone,” Nina said charitably. “He pretends to, anyway.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure they’ll like him,” I replied. “And they certainly won’t pretend.”

“Please,” Nina said, and laid upon me such beautifully brown eyes that, as ever, I was spellbound, mystified, and bewitched all at once. “I couldn’t bear to be rude to him just before I go away. I should have to write him a dozen letters to make up for it, to spare myself the shame.”

“You can’t just be rude and leave the shame by the wayside?”

“Not really,” Nina said, with a light air of misery.

“Alright,” I assented, with a sigh. “I’ll invite him.”

“Thanks awfully,” Ginger said, slightly stiffly, as if he was expecting the shot to the temple that naturally followed an invitation to an outing at any moment. He was not looking at me as we walked together from the train station, but instead scanning the countryside, as if expecting for some hired gunmen to set upon him, or perhaps a highwayman out of a story, or even a very large cat. The latter, after all, was the most likely to be within my own means, so long as it was a rugged tomcat of questionable heritage, and not a purebred beast. “Nina seemed to think I ought get some sun with you.”

“Well, there’s a great deal of it to go around,” I said with attempted cheer.

Ginger gave me a look with a great furrowing of the brow, as if to ask merely with said brow what it was I thought I was playing at, coming out with such nonsense as that, and then looked forward again.

Sighing my defeat, I led the way to the revelry.

“Adam!” cried Agatha, and she caught me by the shoulders, kissing me with rather too much aggression on each cheek: if red marks bloomed there, know that they were bruises, and not stains from her lipstick, which in any case, Miles was wearing instead of her. “Who’s your friend?” she whispered in my ear. Her breath smelled of champagne, and it mingled surprisingly pleasantly with the cologne she and Miles had been sharing as of recent.

“His name’s Ginger,” I muttered with no small amount of injected despondency. “Nina bid me bring him so he wouldn’t follow her about like a dog.”

“And you must be Ginger!” Agatha said brightly as she pulled away, her gloved hands spread wide as she set upon the invader. “Adam has often spoken of you!”

“Has he,” Ginger said, with undisguised suspicion, and Agatha grabbed him by the hand, striding with him through her friends and toward the picnic blankets that were spread upon the grass. Miles, to my surprise, did not have his customary lapwarmer of a handsome chap, and reclined alone with one leg outstretched, daintily taking drags of a cigarette that was butted with gold paper.

“You must meet Miles,” Agatha said, as a priestess declaring the new initiate must be sacrificed immediately, and were that her sentiment, perhaps I would have agreed. I did not, in fact, abhor Ginger, except for finding him somewhat sad and at times a bore, but he had been stiff with me of late, and I so resented being made to bring him out with me that I probably would have let him fall into the Avon, let alone in the waiting arms of Miles Maitland, who was looking at him up and down with analytical gaze over the dark lenses of his spectacles.

“Hello, Adam,” he said, waving an airy hand for Ginger and I to join him on the blanket, which we did, I with some relief at being able to sit, for the day was overly warm and the walk from the train station had somewhat winded me – we would be driving back to London, in any case – and Ginger with uncertainty, as if he thought the picnic blanket, or possibly Miles, would devour him. In the latter, I suppose, he was not far off, because Miles was looking at him appraisingly. “Agatha—”

“Oh, Angela has arrived,” Agatha said with salacious relish.

“Oh, do be off from me, then,” Miles said, tossing his hair with faux-indignation. “Why should you be in my arms when you might be in hers?”

“I’ll take your arm later, you brute,” Agatha said, and kneeled for a moment, to kiss Miles’ head. He pinched her belly, and she laughed and shoved him, the two of them wrestling for a moment, as siblings do, before she used his shoulder as a brace to draw herself up once more, and jogged off in the direction of the girl. I saw her far off, in a floral dress and a wide sunhat, and wondered if she had worn the former purely for ease of access, as Agatha grabbed at the dress’ hem and drew it up higher upon meeting the girl, that she might drop and kiss each of her knees.

A strange habit. I had seen Agatha do it once and tested it upon Nina, but she’d only called me a madman – although her knees had proved ticklish, and I had performed the action in private to some aplomb. This girl giggled and laughed and threw her hands in Agatha’s hair, and went back onto the grass when Agatha tackled her thither.

“I am beset by ill mood,” Miles declared, drawing my attention away from the overaffectionate display.

“Oh?” I said.

“Quite. I am having a tiff with my tobacconist. Thus, you may notice, I take what little pleasure might be taken from these disdainful objects, instead of my usual.” He waved, with distaste, the gold-papered cigarette.

“Why, what’s wrong with your tobacconist?” I asked, leaning forward with my elbows against my knees.

“We are quarrelling.”

“Yes, I know what tiff means. Why are you quarrelling?”

“I shan’t tell you.”

“Why ever not?”

“It’s the naughtiest thing.”

“All the more reason to tell me!”

“I’ll tell your friend,” Miles said. In speaking to me, for not a moment had his gaze left Ginger, and now, Ginger’s lips parted, making his moustache move most unpleasantly.

“He might not want you to,” I said.

“Don’t you?” Miles asked him.

“We haven’t been introduced,” Ginger said, holding out his hand. “I’m Ginger Littlejohn.”

“You don’t look ginger,” Miles said, blowing out a pretty puff of smoke and looking with distaste at Ginger’s outstretched hand. “What about the other thing?”

Ginger stared at him. Miles put out his left hand, palm down, and Ginger stared at it as if he thought it might bite him.

“He wants you to kiss it,” I supplied. Ginger stared at me, now, utterly agog. “What happened to Tiger?”

“Oh, I divorced him, or he divorced me, darling, I couldn’t possibly tell you which,” Miles said, his gaze to the sky. “In any case, we parted, and moreover I broke one of my favourite vases, because I threw it at the wall behind him and missed and hit his horrid shoulder, and he punched a hole through the four-fold screen.”

“I thought that was made of leather?”

“No, the four-fold was chinoiserie, made out of some light, fragile wood. You know the one, with the lovely birds, and the gold embossing? The third panel is quite destroyed, he always did have a brutish strength.”

“It can’t be repaired?”

“Alas, no,” Miles said, sighing.

“Divorced?” Ginger repeated.

“You are handsome,” Miles said, looking to Ginger quite intently. “Where did you get those eyes of yours? They are devilishly good, you know, so dark and brooding, and I must say I do adore the cut of your eyelashes, and those cheekbones, goodness, I feel I might cut myself upon them if I seek to caress your cheek! Do you often cut men with your cheekbones, or do you fare better cutting them with your tongue?”

“What?” Ginger asked.

“He’s asking if you’re witty,” I said. “But he wants to make it clear he’s wittier, even if you are.”

“Oh,” Ginger said, and I saw his lip twitch. He was rather lost at sea with Miles, but I could see that the sea legs were swiftly incoming, even if he had to work through legs A-- and B-- first.

“You’re so unkind,” Miles said, with a moue on his painted lips.

“Only to you, Miles,” I said. “And only with affection. Are you drinking?”

“Tremendously,” Miles said. “What about you, Ginger?”

“Can we drink together?” Ginger asked. “You’ve not shaken my hand.”

“Well, you haven’t kissed mine,” Miles said.

“Do you have to be like this with every man you meet?” I asked wearily, reaching for a bottle of wine and pouring myself a glass.

“Not every man,” Miles murmured. “Shall I tell you why I’m quarrelling with my tobacconist, Mr Littlejohn?”

“Will you make me kiss your hand?”

“You shall kiss it sooner or later, dear.”

“Oh, will I?”

Ah, yes, Ginger really was learning to sail the turbulent Maitland seas, now.

I fancied I’d be able to make my escape at any moment. Talking with Miles was rather, I thought, like being a lion tamer – you had to have a stiff hold on your chair to keep him from ripping out your throat, but once you had the hang of it, it was really rather like a dance. Perhaps I’m mixing my metaphors. I don’t know that lions can swim.

“Well, I shall have to whisper in your ear,” Miles said. “To tell you, you know.”

“I won’t let you. Your lipstick will stain me. Why, anyway, are you wearing lipstick?”

“You darling naïf. So that I can mark my territory, of course.”

“Like a dog?”

“More like a man.” I handed Miles a glass of the red, which he took graciously before turning his smile back to Ginger, and saying, “Are you in the market for a wife?”

“I’m in the market for a drink,” Ginger said, and Miles laughed, putting his cigarette into his mouth. I reached for the bottle to pour him a glass, but Miles was already leaning forward on his knees, touching the side of Ginger’s face and bringing the glass up to his mouth. He was often like this with men, overly affectionate, although not with me, and I watched Ginger startle, but then take a small sip from the glass. A few dregs of red clung to his moustache, and he delicately wiped it with a handkerchief.

“Ah,” Miles said sharply, withdrawing his hand from Ginger’s face and looking down at his palm. “You see, my dear, you have cut me with that jaw of yours.”

“I haven’t!” Ginger said, horrified, and grabbed for Miles’ palm, which was, of course, quite uncut. “Oh.”

“Do kiss it better,” Miles said. “There’s a darling boy.”

Ginger laughed, looking at the soft lines of Miles’ palm, which he moisturised daily, but to my surprise, he shyly dipped his head and dusted a kiss onto the skin, like a bird dipping its head into a stream.

Miles beamed, and then said, “We must be rid of that moustache, you know. It’s most repulsive, and I expect it makes it awfully hard to kiss you.”

“I don’t believe it’s an obstacle,” Ginger said, turning his gaze downward as he drew his hands away from Miles’.

“It is. I tell you, you hear of men coming from boats and kissing the grass and wild flowers, or rushing into chapels and kissing the cold stone, but they never kiss carpet, do they? That’s what kissing a fellow with a moustache is like.”

“How would you know?”

“I make a study of these things.”

“What about your lipstick?”

“What about it, dear?”

“Is that no obstacle?”

“Why, no, it’s excellent fun, in fact. Shall I tell you about my tobacconist?”

“Please. I am on tenterhooks.”

“Oh, good. I shall have you on hot coals next.”

“You are dreadful,” Ginger proclaimed, but there was little rancour in it, and he was smiling in his shy, awkward, almost-confident way.

“I make a habit of it.”

“You ought stop.”

“Ought I? For your benefit?”

“For yours.”

“For mine? Why, my dear, it benefits me immensely to be dreadful. I have such fun!”

As Miles leaned in to murmur in Ginger’s ear, I laid back on the blanket, my gaze upturned to the sky. White clouds made their lazy promenade overhead, and I fancied I saw all manner of shapes drift past above me, until the shapes rather gave way to a different sort, because I had fallen asleep.

I awoke, some hours later, to Miles gently patting my face, which I was grateful for, as Agatha was not the sort of woman who found it in herself to be gentle with men other than Miles himself, and she would have slapped me rather hard if she felt it would break my stupor anymore quickly. It would have, of course, but nonetheless, one likes to avoid these things, and I fancy I still felt the marks from her kiss.

“You must eat something,” Miles was saying. “Else Nina will write to me and tell me I’m cruel.”

“You are cruel,” I said, with lopsided smile.

“Well yes, but not to lovely things like you, Adam. You’re so pleasant to look at, it would be a crime against artistry to starve you.”

I sat up, rubbing at my eye, and I watched as Miles laid down again, his head in Ginger’s lap. Now and then, Ginger would feed him a grape, and Miles would, each time, giggle and touch his elbow.

“Tiger is forgotten, then?” I asked.

“Who, dear?” Miles said distractedly, looking beatifically up at Ginger’s face. Much as Miles had waxed poetic about it, I didn’t see anything especially handsome in it, but then, Miles had a funny view of the world no matter the subject.

“Yes,” I said, and looked about the party. Everyone was eating, now, but for Agatha, who was quite asleep upon the breast of the girl Angela, the two of them wearing matching crowns of daisies and buttercups, and Angela was absently stroking her hair as she read a book and ate some strawberries.

Reaching for a cucumber sandwich, I bit into it with some relish, chewing thoughtfully. Once I had swallowed the mouthful, I said, “So, what is wrong with your tobacconist?”

“Oh, we’re quarrelling,” Miles said absently, in a dreamy sort of manner. To go back to the lion metaphor, as if it fits this better than the sea, Ginger was petting his hair, much as one might pet a lion, I suppose, if one and the lion in question were very good chums, and the lion was neither hungry nor of ill mood. Indeed, Miles’ ill mood seemed to have faded with the morning dew, and evaporated elsewhere.

“Why?”

“Well, I did something tremendously lovely to him, that I believe he rather enjoyed. It was quite naughty of me.”

I connected the mental dots of this statement, although I’m sure there were dots missing that I had not made the most of, and would later require Nina to fill in. “And…?” I prompted. “Why should that make him quarrel with you?”

“Well, I told him I wouldn’t do it again,” Miles said, and Ginger laughed. It was a loud, somewhat overexcited sort of laugh, a little airy, and it occurred that I had never seen him appear quite so giddy, even when he had been betting with me when first I had met him.

“That was unkind of you,” I said.

“It was stupid,” Miles said, smoking a cigarette. It was not one of the gold-leafed things – it was one of Ginger’s. “I shall have to find a new tobacconist.”

“Serves you right,” I said.

“Yes, well, I must say, darling, I prefer the hand of Justice when it keeps to molesting others than myself. I prefer to be molested by much nicer hands than that. For instance—”

“Stop it,” Ginger whined, but the complaint was once more suffused with that strange giddiness, and I watched him giggle as Miles stained the inside of his wrist with lipstick. I looked back to my sandwiches, and resolved to write to Nina of the whole debacle.

When next I saw Ginger, some weeks later, Miles was on his arm.

“I can’t seem to shake him off,” he said softly, almost shyly. He had shaved off the moustache, and I saw, now, the little birthmark on his lip. It was a blemish, I supposed, but no worse, really, than the moustache had been, and it was currently accessorised with a little smudge of lipstick.

Following my gaze, Miles coloured, his cheeks flushing red and lighting up the blush he was already wearing, and he hastened to wipe the bit of red wax away.

“You needn’t,” Ginger murmured, and I fancied that this time, I heard the giddiness in Miles’ laugh instead of Ginger’s.

#as defined by dictionary #bright young things #miles maitland #ginger littlejohn #fanfic

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pearwaldorf · 5 years

Text

That modern Dorian post reminded me I actually did have a modern AU started. It’s never getting finished, but I think it could have gone in a cute direction.

Features: Cullen/Dorian, Dorian & Adaar friendship/snark, the Inquisition as an academic library, a dog I made Patho name because she wanted the story (sorry Patho)

Dorian was pondering how best to rearrange his wine glasses (by likelihood of use? height? a pleasing eclectic mix of both?) when he heard a somewhat frantic knock on his door. He opened it to find his neighbor from across the hall, holding a set of keys and a leash with a very large Mabari at the end of it. Dorian had seen the blond man and the dog out and about, but had never exchanged more than a polite greeting.

“Can I help you?” Dorian wasn’t sure exactly was going on here yet, but from their limited interaction, he didn’t seem like a serial killer. (It certainly didn’t hurt that he was extremely good-looking.)

“I was rather hoping you could.” His neighbor put his hand to the back of his neck, a ridiculous nervous affectation that Dorian found charming, even though he was sure he wasn’t supposed to. “I’m being called away on rather urgent business for work, and I don’t have anybody to look after my apartment or feed my dog.” Here he looked awkward and sheepish, like he couldn’t believe he’d found himself in a situation this ridiculous. “I’m new to the area, and anybody else I would trust to do so is also going to be traveling with me. I understand it’s a great deal to ask from a virtual stranger, but--”

“I’d be happy to. I'm Dorian, by the way.” Dorian smiled, and his neighbor nearly collapsed in relief.

"Dorian, you are a lifesaver. Feed Henry two cans of wet food along with two scoops of dry food twice a day. Make sure he has water at all times. He likes to walk twice a day before mealtimes, but any time you can get him out is fine.” His phone pinged and he handed over the keys and leash to Dorian. “Shit, that’s my cab. I owe you so much for this. Name your favor, and when I get back I swear it will be done.”

“But I don’t even know your name!” Dorian called to the retreating figure running down the hall.

“Cullen! Cullen Rutherford!” He--Cullen--shouted back. Henry whined quietly, looking the direction his master headed. Dorian let Henry sniff his hand and the dog licked it, politely if not affectionately. Dorian tugged on the leash, still a little unsure of how exactly he’d gotten himself into this situation.

“Come on Henry, let’s go for a walk.”

A couple days later, there was a knock on his door, and a courier handed him a slim envelope. It was addressed to “Dorian in Apt 302”, and he wondered once again at the ridiculous circumstances of his life. Opening it, he found a note and some money.

I just realized that I was low on dry food. If I could trouble you to pick some up I would be so grateful. There’s a pet store down the road that sells the special food Henry eats. Here’s my number if you need anything.

Continuing to be in your debt,

Cullen

Sticking the money and note into his pocket, he went to work. He was in the middle of trying to figure out how best to catalog an overblown address to the Magisterium when Adaar sidled up to him. She had a first name, but nobody besides the payroll person actually knew what it was. They’d collaborated on the Koslun project, which was of mutual interest to both of their areas of expertise, and he’d found her to be sharp and thoughtful, as well as one of the few people who had deigned to talk to the Vint about non-work matters when he’d first arrived.

“Sera tells me you got a note from your neighbor.”

“And where did Sera hear that?” Dorian asked as he slipped the transcript back into its protective case. Sera was a tech who somehow managed to have eyes and ears in the most mysterious places.

“Probably from Josie.” Josie was one of the directors, who made it a point to stop and chat with everybody. She cooed over the pictures Dorian took of Henry and seemed thrilled to to hear all about the strange and somehow delightful ridiculousness going on with his neighbor. Adaar smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Are you going to text him?”

“I admit the thought hadn’t occurred to me.” Dorian lied.

“You are so full of shit sometimes, Pavus. I bet you had to stop yourself from tapping one out as soon as you got that note.” It was still strange to him, this staying in one place long enough for people to see through his calculated feints and attempts to keep safe distances. It wasn’t as terrible as he thought.

“You’re wrong. I waited until I got on the bus.” It wasn’t quite a concession, but as much as he’d give. Adaar’s expression softened, something that still looked odd to him for a split second before his thinking brain kicked in. Qunari were painted as fanatical, fearsome beasts in Tevinter, and he’s spent enough time outside the Imperium that he knew a great deal of what he was told growing up is bullshit, but there was only so much one could do with initial conditioning.

“From what you say, he sounds sweet. I think you should do it.” She punched him on the shoulder gently. “You of all people deserve a chance to be happy.”

“But only if I text you about what happens first?”

She laughed, the gilding on her horns catching the light as she shook. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

He took a selfie with Henry and sent it to the number in the note. We’re getting along great! he tapped out. It was an acceptably neutral message, he hoped. He got a reply back almost immediately.

I'm glad to see that. Has he been behaving? We're not usually apart and I worry about him.

He's fine, helicopter dad. Dorian sent. He hesitated before tapping out Are *you* doing all right without him? There was a pause, longer than he thought should have been necessary to reply. Before Dorian could apologize, Cullen responded.

You’re very perceptive. Although given how much I fuss over Henry, it must seem obvious. Dorian chuckled. The phone pinged again.

Which is to say, my obviousness does not negate your perception. Just in case that wasn’t clear. Andraste’s knicker weasels, he shouldn’t have found it anywhere near as charming as he did.

So tell me about your day. He texted. Dorian got a steady string of observations about the Orlesian countryside, mostly long-suffering but wry enough to be amusing. Cullen talked a little about the work he did with the Inquisition: scouting, evaluating locations for a more permanent base of operations. Apparently it was looking to expand its presence in the more remote, underserved areas of Orlais, where its presence would be most welcomed.

And will you be staying away long? Henry will miss you.

Gods, no. Dorian heard back almost immediately. I'm too old for extended time in the field. I miss my bed already. Dorian, already in his, curled up tighter in his blanket in sympathy.

They chatted back and forth for longer than Dorian realized, until he found his eyes growing heavy and his vision blurring. He stifled a yawn.

I have to go to sleep now, or Cassandra will kill me. Dorian’s heart dropped for a moment, before another message popped up. She is a terribly fussy roommate, and always has been.

She sounds formidable. I would not wish to incur her wrath.

The next reply was a single word: Hah. It was then followed by You have no idea. Sleep well.

Pleasant dreams, if I may be so bold. For a moment, Dorian wondered if it was too much. It wasn’t as if they actually knew each other, although they were certainly more familiar than they were two days ago. One last message popped up on his screen. You may. Good night. :) How quaint; he still made his emoticons on the keyboard.

The next thing he knew, his phone was buzzing in his hand, the alarm demanding his wakefulness. He’d been holding it all night.

Upon reflection, Dorian realized it should have been obvious that bringing Henry to meet his cat was not perhaps the wisest idea. Henry was perfectly all right with the idea of sharing space, however temporarily, with another animal, but Livia was of the exact opposite disposition. She growled at them both and fled to the bedroom, where Dorian would have to no doubt spend a great deal of time coaxing her out from under the bed with dried fish flakes and apologies. But that was for later.

He unlocked the door to Cullen’s apartment and let Henry back into familiar surroundings, which he was pleased by, judging by the way he ran around and sniffed contentedly. He fed Henry the specified amount of food and marveled at how dainty a giant dog could be in eating. As he ate, Dorian looked around. The place was sparse, like its occupant was used to living with only essentials, thus making the personal items scattered about much more significant. There were some books, mostly Genitivi’s travelogues and popular nonfiction pertaining to the Chantry, but also a surprising number of mass-market fiction books by Tethras. Dorian noticed there were photographs: a family portrait, two boys, two girls, and parents; the eldest girl and Cullen in front of a chessboard; a picture of a young, serious Cullen in a Templar uniform, posing in front of a large stone tower. It was the most recent picture, and Dorian guessed it was at least ten years old.

Adaar came up to him silently; a not insignificant feat for someone of her size, and just waited until Dorian noticed her. He continued sorting some of the twenty linear feet of archives some windbag magister willed to the university without looking at her.

“We’ve been texting. It hasn’t gone beyond that.” He’d get sporadic updates during the day: a snapshot of a silly Orlesian dog (accompanied by commentary on the difference between them and Ferelden canines), a fancy dessert he grudgingly approved of, and once, a picture of a stern, fearsome-looking woman he assumed was Cassandra, fast asleep.

He did not need to look at her to register the disappointment emanating from her direction. It wasn’t like he could do anything while Cullen was away on business. Well, to be precise, there was video chat, but Dorian had a very strong feeling this was not the way to Cullen’s heart, or his pants. His lack of emoji use notwithstanding, there was something charmingly old-fashioned about him.

#scrap

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tinymixtapes · 5 years

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Feature: Insomniac Focus

Drew McDowall’s work extends well before Coil’s 1998 album Time Machines, but his major releases from that work to now is more than enough to explore. Coil fans, I know you’re set. It’s partly you who I had in mind when I welched on my assignment for his latest solo album, The Third Helix. You likely have alerts on this guy, and no amount of critical descriptors (“harrowing,” “cavernous,” “dreamscape,” “hallucinatory,” “bleak,” “trance-inducing,” etc.) are going to make any difference to you. And, as for neophytes, McDowall is not only an easy sell, but one who you likely have to get to ass backwards. And in these diffuse, cherry pick-enabling internet times, that’s something. We tend to keep our paths of discovery close to the vest against the snotty record store clerk in our heads. I say “we,” because I’m a newbie myself at 38. I did meet a classmate in my junior year of college who tried to help me with my post-NIN fan, small town ignorance, but it was to little effect. I don’t wanna admit I got into Blackest Ever Black and PAN artists before McDowall, but it’s true. There is no tomorrow, so allow me to show my ass in this regard. It took time — and a closer friend with a staggering record collection — to show me the way. I won’t blame blowing my assignment on anything but me, but I will offer the assertion that Drew McDowall’s music is alive in ways that language is not. Although McDowall, John Balance, and Peter Christopherson collaborated on Time Machines, you could hardly call it a conversation. It feels more like an unstable, massive hum, with the creative instinct of human interference put in restraints. It’s the sound of artists getting out of their own way, carving out a path for something that doesn’t sing so much as surge like blood or water or electricity (it resists analogy, so I’m inclined to reach for more elementary terms). If the intention was to induce the loss of a sense of time, it dissolved critical faculties in the process as well. It is sound happening to you. Whatever a train does to you when you hear it, before you even begin to get to the typical leitmotifs. Whatever a tuning orchestra makes you feel, before you remind yourself not to feel anything about it. There is suspense, sure, but there’s also the flat pulse of pure sensation. Time Machines hunkers down and dispels reaction in favor of presence. Of true immersion. Of rote and unquestioning self-sacrifice to a sensorily consuming source. The tracks being named after psychotropic drugs and the perhaps unavoidable (there’s always “repeat all”) reality of their finiteness are the only things stopping this machine. It has you without a hello. Time Machines hunkers down and dispels reaction in favor of presence. Of true immersion. It’s curious that this towering, uncompromisingly minimal work is collaborative, while his eventual solo material doesn’t shy from a comparatively genre-friendly, kitchen-sink aesthetic. But more on that in a bit. First, a decade-plus later, some more from the creative alliance dept. Having familiarized myself with Psychic Ills, McDowall’s collaboration with Tres Warren as Compound Eye was on my 2013 radar. Their music intrigued in ways that the sturdy psych rawk of Psychic Ills never did. I liked it enough to save it, but never got too deep. So McDowall’s presence didn’t properly register until researching him this year, even after the aforementioned friend gave me his free download code for 2017’s Unnatural Channel. Having familiarized myself with McDowall, it’s easy to see that the man never quite got triggering-then-getting-out-the-way-of-strong-currents out of his system in the intervening years. It contains that blissful, sci-fi pastoral modular babbling that is really nothing to turn off, but the album is balanced with the (watch me writhe, beset by stultifying magnetic poetry adjectives) vast, impassive coursings of McDowall’s high water mark material. The album title, Journey From Anywhere, reinforces the notion of not ruining vital elements of sonic procession with basic human shit. Both are men, with presumable communication skills, but never does conversation seem like an apt analogy. Their collaboration is a numb sort of cooperative sentience, toiling as a vessel for steady, sluicing flow. Destiny being God and human’s favorite crap joke alike, the void really deserves more credit. Compound Eye’s shimmering, delicate, 69-minute reverie comes across like a humble attempt to give the nothing its due. It simmers in rote bodily function reality, even as it attempts to merge with the least dense, most windless air it can manage to breathe. Another collaborative work, The Ghost of Georges Bataille (released on Bank earlier this year), is less of a curious animal, but enticing nonetheless. Hiro Kone (a.k.a. Nicky Mao) specializes in elegant digital snowdrift downtempo. She, like McDowall, is a friend to contemplative melancholy as a default mode. But similarly to McDowall, she’s careful to augment her traditional rainstreaked Aphex brooding with character-rich textures that teeter on the brink of encroachment. Here, McDowall pushes this bordering that much closer. Each haunted progression is enshrouded with warm yet disorienting clamor. Similarly to the post-Boards re-tooling of Dalhous, Bataille takes away the head-nod in favor of a swirled sort of distance. This blithe obfuscation renders that tradition of pastoral, half-remembered dream progressions that much more affecting. McDowall excels as a bit player as well. In 2015, he featured on Ben Greenberg’s (Sacred Bones engineer, Men) debut with Michael Berdan (York Factory Complaint) as Uniform. As much as the album is a scorcher par excellence and far superior (and I’m edging on apples/oranges territory here), what “Death Star” is to The Future of War, “Lost Causes” is to Perfect World. McDowall’s hermetic throb steals the show on an album of showstoppers. Then, ably displaying his adaptability to ambient techno, McDowall lent his modular chops to another album highlight on Hiro Kone’s 2017 album, Love is the Capital. “Rukhsana” is a shorter track, but it still bears the unmistakable fingerprints of McDowalls absorptive approach. With these drop ins, McDowall redeems the notion of the guest spot from mere name-dropping and seamlessly applies his methodology rather than his personal stamp. Now, back to 2015 and Drew McDowall’s first official solo release under his own name, Collapse. As I mentioned, McDowall wound up being decidedly less reductive once left to his own devices. Similarly to Prurient’s later output, there is a concerted effort to tacitly merge monophonic direness with monolithic earthen beast-sloughing reverbations, whelmed to the edge of over. Dark monophony has retained a lasting power, even if the grubby fingers of branding-obsessed metal aestheticians have rendered its keenings almost cute. These are the ones who cry “false metal,” which in and of itself is false. It’s no different than complaining about how football has changed or how a comic book adaptation oughta be. True artisans of inner and outer darkness are not beholden to purist genre fetishism. They survive, thrive, and die by their virtue in this exploration. By their unwaveringly limitless drive, we are able to imbibe the vast shimmering terror innate to existence. While Collapse may not be the most chilling thing out there, its black satin bug eyes affix you to where you are and evaporate your culture-soaked lunges for contextual asidery. Collapse by Drew McDowall True artisans of inner and outer darkness are not beholden to purist genre fetishism. They survive, thrive, and die by their virtue in this exploration. Things only seemed to get better with 2017’s Unnatural Channel, though it’s of a piece enough that “seem” might be the operative word. There are two tracks featuring words/vocals from Roxy Farman (of superb NYC duo Wetware, also a guest on the Hiro Kone album), but the key adjustment is a Vanity Records-like focus on the embracing of silent rests. Of course, the fidelity is higher, but the unrelenting hesitation of that legendary label’s best material (namely, Tolerance’s 1981 LP, Divin) is a curious early precedent. Even with the presence of a singer, Farman’s recitation of “this is what it’s like, sleep deprived” is just as innately infused as the “I convulsed” sample on the last record. And her whooping and schizo mutterances on closer “Recognition” are essential but unshowy bits of punctuation. All spaciousness aside, the tetanus textured throb of “Unnatural Channel (Part 2)” is a sort of head-nodder, but even this winds up being more of a cautious slink through a confusing party (boring? bad scene? twisted? brilliant?) than a departure. Although the bowstring bouncing on The Third Helix opener echoes Unnatural Channel’s “Tell Me The Name,” “Rhizome” initially feels like a proper departure. Not unlike the airy skittering of Actress’s R.I.P, this tune initially seemed like a wrong turn. It’s lovely, especially when the “Sinking of the Titanic” strings come in, but it feels almost lateral rather than expansive. The touchstones come too easy. It’s a fascinating track, the way it swells and glitches out abruptly, but it’s also strangely on-the-nose for this artist. Things get better and back to the same (“Proximity” sounds cut from the same cloth) from there, but one couldn’t be blamed for mistaking Third Helix for a Helm, Fis, or post-Virgins Tim Hecker album. Of course, he is a sort of godfather to said touchstones, but similarly to the atemporal realm of Time Machines, this sort of sine wave slippage reads more familiar than it actually is. And, for what it’s worth, why shouldn’t masters be genuinely influenced by their descendants (beyond tokenistic exaggerations)? Chances are, they are beholden to a lot of the same technology anyway. Taken another way, McDowall’s newest is a sort of long-distance collaboration with those who’ve been inspired by him and his rarefied peer group. Conscious or not, its blending with the aesthetics of younger, like-minded artists could be seen as a rejection of the notion of hierarchy in musical succession, one way or the other. The Third Helix is an endearingly solid listen, and it deserves a place among the heralded releases of 2018. Similarly to the previous two (all on Dais), the album’s tracks don’t stray too far past the five-minute mark. Despite this, they stretch out in the ears like ancient aural cobwebs, making one feel as lived-in as the planet itself. I’ve tried not to use the word “innovation” here. Too often, the notion of innovation is whittled down to novelty, and reinventing the wheel is not what makes McDowall’s third-act material so worthwhile. More so, it’s the sense of earnest drive. The deep affinity for life’s rich tangent. That it’s darkly fixated is no more material than that the blues are despondent. Actually, the best of that long deracinated-to-pilloried genre has much of the same turning-oneself-inside-out quality. Even if Drew McDowall never tops himself or others in this quietly industrious field of wide-eyed abstraction, he is set to remain a stirring essential to every cerebral wandering ear, regardless of prerequisites or lack thereof. http://j.mp/2RBEqkz

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tickles-tea · 6 years

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A Well-Deserved Punishment

**Happy Valentine's Day! Here's a fic no one asked for that I had fun writing!**

**Fair warning: This is a tickle fic**

Shizuo loved moments like these.

He and Izaya were resting on the couch, Shizuo settled between his boyfriend's legs and leaning back against his chest. The informant had been doing something on his phone for the past hour or so, and it must have been important because he had been blessedly silent.

Shizuo realized the importance of these moments and tried to enjoy them as much as he could. After all, Izaya was considerably more stingy with physical affection than he was with his taunts and insults. He must have been in a really good mood today since he didn't so much as blink when Shizuo started caressing the legs caging him in.

Izaya's loose shorts did little to hide the way pale skin turned to goosebumps under Shizuo's feather-light touches. He lazily drew circles on Izaya's inner thighs, curious to see how quickly the skin would react, though this movement provoked a different reaction than he'd expected. A shaky breath sounded from behind him as the muscles tensed beneath Shizuo's fingers.

Glancing back at his partner, Shizuo raised an eyebrow in silent question. Izaya, however, seemed to be intently focused on his phone. His face was completely neutral except for the very faint blush coloring his cheeks. It would have been hard for most people to notice this crack in the pokerfaced man's facade, but in the years that they'd been together, Shizuo had learned to catch these little details that revealed Izaya's true feelings.

This skill had proved to be very useful in their relationship as Izaya still had trouble admitting to certain things, such as how much he really cared about Shizuo's well-being. His reluctance to voice this had caused some problems in the beginning of this strange thing they developed. Luckily, Shizuo had always been good at seeing through Izaya's bullshit so it hadn't been an issue for very long.

Now though, this understanding allowed him to see how flustered his partner was. While Shizuo could admit that he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed-something Izaya liked to remind him of daily-he could easily determine why.

Izaya's eyes flicked down to Shizuo briefly before returning to the phone. "Did you need something, Shizu-chan?" He said, words straining as he tried to speak in a nonchalant tone.

"Ah, no, sorry." The blonde responded, not sounding very sorry at all. Shizuo looked away from the informant with a smirk as he resumed his fluttering touches on the now trembling thighs. He made no comment on the soft gasp that escaped Izaya's mouth nor on the not so subtle squirming as he quickened his pace slightly. He could imagine how the stubborn man behind him was trying to fight down the smile that was surely tugging at his lips.

After a few months of dating, Izaya had grown comfortable with more intimate touches, a change Shizuo had welcomed with open arms. He had initiated physical contact as often as he could, and with this he discovered a secret Izaya had done his damnedest to hide.

Orihara Izaya was unbelievably ticklish.

Shizuo was hardly surprised to discover that Izaya's thighs were sensitive; after all, it seemed that the man was ticklish everywhere, and there was really no reason for his thighs to be an exception. Shizuo found it incredibly amusing that Izaya still tried to hide it, even though this particular weakness had been exploited by his partner many times before.

Eager to learn just how sensitive those legs were, Shizuo focused his tickling on Izaya's inner thighs after noticing that the informant squirmed a little more when he'd lingered there. After only a few moments of the concentrated tickling, Izaya's writhing started to become more urgent and his legs pushed against Shizuo's sides in a futile attempt to escape the touches. The blonde's body, however, kept them open and vulnerable, which said blonde took complete advantage of.

"Shizu-chan, s-stop it. I'm busy," Izaya said in a shaky tone that was nothing like his usual clear and confident speech. This obvious instability and lack of control still did nothing to keep him from saying, "Maybe I should look into beast-sitters to keep you entertained while I'm working."

Shizuo brushed off the weak jab and kept his mind on the objective. His goal was to break the seemingly unbreakable man's composure, and it seemed that such a goal wasn't as unreachable as one would believe. Apparently deciding that talking was too risky, Izaya remained silent, or as silent as he could be. In a mere couple of seconds, soft, broken giggles started to come free from Izaya's mouth. They only increased in volume as the tickling persisted, despite Izaya's best efforts.

"Is something funny, Flea?" Shizuo asked, knowing just how much a teasing comment like that would annoy the other man, especially since he wasn't able to snark back.

Izaya was fighting a losing battle, a battle Shizuo knew he refused to give in to easily. That is until deft fingers moved a little higher up his thighs. With one particularly sharp jerk of his legs, Izaya was finally reduced to loud, breathless laughs rather than the muffled giggles from before.

"S-STOP IHIHIHIT, YOU PROTAZOAHAHAHAN," he exclaimed now that he had lost the unspoken competition between them.

Thin hands grasped the back of Shizuo's shirt and tugged desperately. While Izaya was most certainly a clever individual, all reason seemed to escape him in his haste to make the tortuous touches stop in any way possible. One way he apparently deemed to be possibly successful turned out to be pulling at Shizuo's hair. His attempt proved to be a failure as his boyfriend only chuckled and carried on with his motions, barely taking notice of the assault on his hair.

Izaya cackled and kicked his leg out when Shizuo gently squeezed the area right above his knee. "FUCK YOU, SHIZU-CHAHAHAN," was the near immediate response he received for that action.

As much as Shizuo wanted to mess with him more, teasing was the informant's forte and frankly, he just wanted to enjoy this. If anything, Izaya would likely be affected by his silence just as much as he would his teasing.

Shizuo was brought out of his intense focus by a hard object smashing down on his head. Fingers stilling instantly, the blonde turned to see Izaya, flushed and panting for breath, holding his cellphone above his head. Shizuo was somewhat satisfied to see the moment Izaya realized his mistake. His auburn eyes widened, standing out starkly against his now pale face.

"Shizu-," he started timidly before he was interrupted by Shizuo's fingers digging into his thighs with such intensity that he howled. He flailed his arms about, phone falling from his hand and onto the ground. "STAHAHAHAH, STAHAHAHAHAP, I'M SOHAHAHAREHEHEHEE," he tried to stutter out an apology in hopes of mercy, but he could barely get past the beginning of the word before it dissolved into hysteric laughter. Izaya's thrashing legs didn't deter Shizuo in the slightest, who continued to wreak havoc on his boyfriend's thighs with spidering fingers.

It was only when Izaya's laughter turned silent and his writhing ceased that the blonde's fingers slowed to an eventual stop. The informant heaved in a deep breath and covered his blushing face with a hand that felt much heavier than it was. Shizuo waited as his boyfriend caught his breath before asking, "Are you okay?"

Izaya lifted his hand to glare at Shizuo before muttering a halfhearted "I hate you." Shizuo only smiled and turned his body so that he could wrap his arms around his partner's waist. They both knew the statement was a pathetic attempt to salvage whatever pride Izaya had left. They also knew that he'd had way too much anyway.

It must have been that pride mixed with too much confidence that allowed the breathless man to murmur an exasperated, "Maybe we need to sign you up for obedience classes too," before he was faced with merciless-and much deserved-tickling once more.

#durarara #izaya orihara #shizaya #shizuo heiwajima #tickle fic #drrr #first ever tickle fic #i had no idea what i was doing #anyway i hope it's good lol #dialogue is hard #tickling #ticklish!izaya #my writing

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ruffoverthinksthings · 7 years

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Let Ben Rest: Disney’s Opportunity to Explore Auradon, Encourage Youth Involvement in Politics, and Encourage Healthy Leadership Habits

Many thanks to @screaminginternallyalleternity for pointing this out, and making wonderful writing besides about all the ways Auradon is incredibly messed up.

Auradon’s power is far too concentrated at the very top. We see that Beast, despite being one man and ruling over such a diverse and massive union of states, has the power to:

Completely, utterly ban Magic, one of the most powerful tools (and means of living) for its citizens, what brought a lot of the Royals into power in the first place and let them keep it, and united these states together in the first place,

Exile a gigantic portion of their population into an island prison, whilst bringing some of them back from the dead specifically for this, with inhumane conditions, no government supervision or aid, and literally dumping all their trash on them, and

Oppressing pretty much all non-human minorities so efficiently that most people aren’t even aware of it happening, and they had to wait for a change in administration to have their grievances aired and actually redressed, rather than getting yelled at and threatened until you shut up and sit back down.

I headcanon a lot that the decisions such as the Magic Ban, the Isle of the Lost, and the numerous oppressive laws weren’t entirely his fault—there had to have been civilian support, along with allies with the other royals—but as Kanye West sang, “No one man should have all that power.”

I can understand why the power structure came to be: in majority of the States’ time periods, royalty was seen as divine, infallible, and absolutely deserving to do whatever they pleased, because they couldn’t be sitting on the throne if they weren’t the true, right ruler for the kingdom. Even with London bringing with it the ideas of democracies, liberalism, and secularism, religious beliefs and long-held truths like that don’t die easily, nor do they fade away within the span of 20 years.

They may have compromised with the elective monarchy they have right now, but the point still stands: we have one man who has far too much power, and as Alex wrote about, far too much responsibility than any one person should ever have.

I understand that Ben is basically the Kim Possible of the Descendants Universe sans fighting evil villains on a regular basis,* that he is perfect in every way, with superhuman time management skills, intelligence, and energy stores to be a star athlete, captain and president of pretty much every club under the sun, and straight A grades plus numerous colleges and professionals courting and asking him for his opinion.

But like Kim Possible the show frequently used as a dramatic plot point, even if you can do anything, that doesn’t mean you should, because you are still human and you have limits.

It’d be a massive opportunity for Disney on all fronts to show Ben being overwhelmed by all his responsibilities and duties, and doing what responsible and successful leaders do:

Delegate responsibility to others.

It’d be a great way to point out the flaws of Auradon’s political system of entrusting so much power into a very small elite (or just two-three individuals) surrounded by advisers (who may or may not be corrupt, like Jafar), and are both oftentimes blind and deaf to the needs, the desires, and the realities of the people they serve.

It’d serve as an excellent critique of our current world, with how so many people put far too much trust in their politicians and leaders, believing them to be the actors of change rather than just the people coordinating the effort; having more sway over matters than they really have (such as with the economy, or massive, complicated crises like poverty); and more often than not, giving them too little supervision and accountability, content to disregard their duty as citizens to watch over the people watching over them, and just let them take the wheel.

Whether that leads to them to greener pastures, or off a cliff, too many people think their civic duty ends once you cast your ballot.

It’d be effective in teaching kids this most valuable lesson of adulthood: you can’t do everything by yourself. You need the help of other people. Even if you can take the weight of the world on your shoulders, you shouldn’t, because you’ll get tired, you’ll get sick, and you’ll eventually get crushed by your load, if you don’t have someone who can help take some of the weight off, or tag out for you while you recuperate.

It’d be a wonderful, convenient, and lore-friendly way to put attention into the various aspects of Auradon outside of the Isle, Auradon Prep, and parts of Auradon City, and develop individual characters—have Ben make new committees, initiatives, and departments, and delegate a student representative for each of them.

Hell, just make them the official Secretary, as apparently this society is perfectly fine with handing over absolute executive power to 16 year olds still in high school, why not his alter-egos in his cabinet?

Have Jane and Mal team-up as the Secretaries for the Magic, Sorcery, and Mystical Matters Committee, trying to find out some way to slowly, safely, sanely undo the magic ban without causing widespread chaos and discontent, have us see how exactly the Fae population have been affected by having the very essence of their existence made illegal, and how Auradon’s regular population had adapted with science and the consequences of getting rid of magic.

It wouldn’t be strange of them to go visiting the cells and settlements of expatriated Fae and magic users like the Stars (a headcanon of mine), interview the other Faeries of the realm and how they’ve been adapting or more often than not, suffering, and explore magic and the effects of the Ban deeper because that’s their job.

Have Jay be in charge of the “At-Risk Children Athletics Program” and explore the concept of Auradon Villain Kids (AVKs): the children of pardoned criminals or “not THAT evil” individuals that have avoided the Isle, but have a massive stigma anyway. Have him find out how the Romani (“gypsies” from The Hunchback of Notre Dame) have been doing, hang out with his fellow street urchins in Agrabah, London, China, and so on, introduce to these kids who think they have no future and nothing to live for that there is hope for them in sports, and getting into education.

Have Carlos and Evie be part of the Department of Science and Technology, exploring how education is still faulty in Auradon with parents perceptions that their kids are not going to benefit from it, the horribly mistaken belief that girls belong at home and not in college, along with the flaws and issues that technology and science have wrought with Auradon.

How many blacksmiths were put out of business when mass-produced products from automated factories came about? Why does Auradon such a huge throw-away culture where they can’t seem to use anything more than once or to the last drop, and is this because they live in such a time of abundance, they have stopped caring about the environmental and societal costs because “there’ll always be more?” How was technology adapted by these mostly medieval fantasy universes, and what the hell is going on with London right now?

You can also rope in the other AKs and give them the spotlight, like making Lonnie, Audrey, and Doug into the trio in charge of the Rural Development Initiative, exploring the people that have likely been left behind by Auradon’s move into a very automated, information-based economy: farmers, small, out of the way villages, and people who thought they’d be working the same well-paying, low barrier-to-entry, low-skill jobs all their lives, until they suddenly disappeared.

Expose us to the plight of the minorities through Doug’s experiences as the son of the Dwarves, how he thought there was no future for him but the mines, and how Snow White and his family fought damn hard to get him the education he deserved.

Have Lonnie explore how the middle class is better off, but not that much, and how certain societal problems have remained like arranged marriages because singles are so overwhelmed by how much choice they have, along with how Feminism still has a long way to go in that you’re still very much expected to quit your career at some point and become a full-time mother in Auradon.

Get Audrey’s hands dirty, have her interact with her people outside of parties and formally arranged meetings where everything is staged, shiny, and clean, and let her see the reality of the people that she’s going to govern, how things REALLY are outside of her gold-and-jewel-studded bubble as a 1% Royal, and that her luxury always comes at the cost of someone else’s prosperity, as there’s only so many resources to go around.

For far too long, Disney has been perpetuating the myth of “Divine Right” with their royals and the people who marry into the monarchy: that they deserve their positions because of them being inherently better, smarter, and more ethical people, that they deserve to rule because they are obviously good rulers and the bad ones are deposed in short order, or that it’s only the kings and queens who can actually enact any sort of change in the world, the commoner’s job is to make that happen like they were horses pulling a cart.

Having Ben delegate his tasks, admit that he needs help, and spread the responsibility around not only makes him a more realistic and sympathetic character and less of a Marty Stu, it empowers the other members of the cast and gives them importance in the world, AND it shows real life kids that you don’t need to have been born into royalty or have a crown put in your head to take charge, and lead the way for change for the world around you.

Plus, it can be a great opportunity to show the kids a HEALTHY, sane, safe way to have a high power, high responsibility executive job, that even if you are at the top, you’re still relying on the people below you holding you up just as they are on you, that you will inevitably need several hands of help, and that you need vacation days, breaks from your work, and time to yourself, away from the crush of paperwork, demands, and people demanding hearings.

That you need to and can make a system where the colour of this year’s ball is handled by your Royal Event Planner, you have a clear chart and system of if you really need to take this call or hear out this plea or can have someone else do it for you, and that your primary job as a leader isn’t to do all the work, it’s to figure out how to get everyone to do what they’re best at or can do, so you can all achieve more than if you were all working by yourselves.

I’d also LOVE to see a scene where Ben is kicking back in his room, slowly working through a giant pile of books, interspersed with the VKs and AKs running around, trying to keep this dystopian disaster we call Auradon from imploding.

* I actually have an AU about this. More on it Later.(TM)

Interested in financially supporting my writing habit? Consider donating to my Patreon!

#descendants #disney #headcanon #let ben rest

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pupsung · 7 years

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RFA+V+Saeran with an MC who touches them distractedly a lot, like not in a sexual way or a ticklish way, but just absentmindedly touching their skin as if it's physically comforting for the MC to know the one they love is right beneath their fingertips. If you've got too many, don't worry about it though. ^-^

I feel like some of this is very close to the fine line between ‘cute and soft’ and ‘cheesy and cringey’ so I guess I’ll leave it to you guys to decide which side of the line it’s on lol

Yoosung:

he finds it oddly intimate

every time you do it his entire body heats up with a weird kind of mix between embarrassment and pride

she’s touching me she loves me

it really helps to calm his anxieties about not being good enough for you

he especially likes it when you do it in public, because it shows everyone that you belong to each other and that you’re not ashamed to be with him

it always sends tingles throughout his body and makes him shiver in the best way

he probably gets all sulky if you haven’t done it in a while, or didn’t do it for as long that time

he just really likes how it feels ok

Zen:

he thinks it’s super adorable

it makes him grin like an idiot whenever he feels you doing it

he’ll often do it back in response because he loves the innocence of the whole thing

he’s sometimes worried it’ll awaken ‘the beast’ but honestly, it never usually does

it’s too soft and pure and he doesn’t want to corrupt that

the most it ever leads to is a soft kiss, because it makes his heart swell with love and sometimes he can’t resist it

it makes him feel so fuzzy

Jaehee:

she’s really not used to affectionate physical contact, and so it surprises her at first

she might jump a little when she feels it the first few times because she isn’t expecting it

you instantly apologise and say it’s just a habit you have with people you care about

and she’s like… me?! you care about me?!

once she’s used to it, it soothes her a hell of a lot

if she’s ever stressed over something all she has to do is sit with you for a little while and feel your fingers dancing over her skin and it’ll calm her down

she kind of melts into it when it happens, because she’s never felt this loved in her entire life

Jumin:

every time he feels your fingers brushing against him, it makes his heart leap a little

he’s not used to this kind of loving touch

whenever women have flirted with him before, they touched him in an awkward, flirty way, but this is different

he didn’t realise that a simple touch could feel so good

you often don’t notice when you’re doing it, and he never points it out because he doesn’t want you to get embarrassed and stop

he’s never quite sure how to respond to it, because he doesn’t have much experience with this kind of thing

so he settles for just closing his eyes and allowing himself to let down his guard for little while

707:

the first few times it happens he kind of tenses up and freezes

he’s not used to any kind of physical contact with people, and he doesn’t feel like he deserves your affection

you usually don’t notice his strange reaction, so you continue

after a few moments he relaxes into it, and every time it happens he gradually gets more and more comfortable

and he finds that he actually really loves it, because it shows that you genuinely do love him, which is always something he worries about

he worries he’s not good enough for you and that you’ll get sick of him, but this helps him forget that

it helps calm him down and focus on nothing but you for a few moments

it’s like you guys are the only people in the entire universe

and he ends up finding himself subconsciously picking up the habit too

he loves the physical contact and the constant reminder you’re here with him

Saeran:

at first it makes him jump every time you touch him

he’s kind of twitchy and definitely not used to gentle, physical contact

he knows you don’t do it on purpose, and honestly he’s not entirely sure how he feels about it at first

he tries to put up with it because he doesn’t want to make you feel bad about it, and he kind of wants to figure out how it makes him feel

eventually, after he manages to push past the initial anxiety, he realises it’s actually kind of… nice

your touch is never harsh or aggressive, and so this gives him a taste of the kind of human contact he isn’t used to

he never knows how to respond, and usually just sits there while you do it, totally hyperaware of every movement

it sends his brain into overdrive every time

he really doesn’t feel like he deserves any kind of love

and he’s always been scared of abandonment, but whenever you do it he questions how he could possibly ever be scared of you leaving

he’s big on touch too

and as it turns out, he has pretty much the same habit

whenever you’re near each other, you’re always touching in some way

maybe he’ll be stroking your thigh and you’ll be tracing patterns on his arm

he loves it because of how intimate it feels, and it also reassures him that you’re there and that you love him

it helps soothe him whenever he’s feeling down

and it helps him realise that there are different kinds of love in the world

strong and trusting love with Jumin, fast-paced and intense love with Rika, complicated and fragile love with Saeyoung, and then soft, gentle and pure love with you

neither of you really notice when it’s happening

it’s only once it’s stopped that you feel the absence of it

#mystic messenger

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inhumansforever · 7 years

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Uncanny Inhumans #1.MU Review

spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers

Captain Swain and the Uncanny Inhumans star in this one-shot tie-in to the Monster Unleashed Event from the creative team of Paul Allor, Brian Level and Jordan Boyd, with a neat throw-back cover from Gustavo Duarte and Michael Walsh. Recap and review following the jump.

Monsters have invaded the Marvel Universe! No one has yet been able to ascertain where these giant creatures known as ‘Leviathans’ have come from, why these have come, or what they want… mostly because all of the heroes have been all too busy fighting these monsters off all over the globe, desperately trying to push back the tide and save the countless innocent people threatened by these rampaging beasts.

The answers behind the onslaught of these Leviathans will ultimately be addressed in the pages of the main Monster Unleashed book, while this issue focuses on a team of Inhumans and their efforts to repel a pair of monsters attacking Rome and save a group of civilians who were left behind in the initial evacuation of the city.

Medusa, Karnak, Inferno, Triton and The Human Torch battle the Leviathans while Swain and Crystal attempt to evacuate a group of civilians in a New Attilan skyboat. One of the two monster notices the escaping skyboat and gives chase, trying to bat it from the sky. Piloting the craft, Swain attempts to utilize her empathic telepathy to ‘nudge’ the leviathan, dissuade it from its pursuit. It doesn’t work and Swain is distracted by the bizarre, alien nature of the monster’s mind. The skyboat is swatted from the sky and crash-lands in a forested area of the Italian coastline.

Meanwhile, Karnak is finally able to detect the other leviathan’s key point of weakness; he directs Medusa and The Torch to concentrate their attacks to exploit this weakness. The monster is destroyed and The Inhumans quickly depart in search of their fallen allies.

Following the crash, Crystal receives a severe blow to the head, leaving her concussed and barely conscious. Swain must take charge and corrals the civilians into a cave, hoping to escape the leviathan.

All the while, Swain attempts to use her empathic powers to connect with the monster’s strange and savage mind. She succeeds for a brief time and is able to keep the creature away.

The exact nature of how Swain’s Inhuman powers work has yet to be fully explained. Unlike a standard telepath, Swain’s psychic abilities are more affect oriented... she can read and influence another’s emotional experience. And it turns out that this ability is not completely unilateral, rather it can act as a two-way street. Swain is able to calm the leviathan, curb its furious bloodlust, but in the exchange Swain herself is effected, overwhelmed by primal and savage feelings of the monster.

The shock of it all breaks her concentration and once again the leviathan is on the attack. Struggling to control her own monstrous feelings, Swain continues to lead the escape. The cavern opens up to the face of a cliff and in a final confrontation, Swain is able to overpower the leviathan’s mind, causing it to leap from the cliff and fall to its doom.

Yet Swain is left significantly infected with the monster’s bloodthirsty mentality. When the other inhumans finally catch up with them Swain lashes out and attacks Inferno. Karnak steps in and delivers a swift chop to a nerve cluster that renders Swain unconscious.

The narrative leaps forward, back to The RIV where Swain is convalescing following the ordeal. Crystal comes to visit her, expressing her thanks for saving her life and lauding the great heroism and leadership that she demonstrated. Swain does not feel she deserves the approbation.

Swain feels that she let the leviathan get inside her head, let it get the best of her and unloose a more beastly and savage side of her. She is still infected by the monstrous feelings that she had come into contact with inside the leviathan’s head. Crystal assures her that it will all soon pass; that she will eventually make a full recovery. Crystal adds that she is very proud of her. And it is here that the one-shot comes to an end.

A not especially necessary but nonetheless fun read. The Monsters Unleashed event thus far has been much more style over substance, with lots of very cool drawings of great looking monsters, but not much in the way of plot. As a one-shot tie-in this issue doesn’t address the plot-based matter of the event and instead offers a character study of Swain and the intricate ways in which her powers work.

Swain’s powers are rather interesting. There are a lot of psychics and telepaths among the heroes and villains of the Marvel Universe, but it’s quite uncommon for such powers to entail a bilateral reciprocation. Swain can telepathically influence someone, yet the path can go both ways and she too can end up influenced.

In the field of psychotherapy, the term ‘vicarious traumatization’ refers to instances where a therapist comes to feel overwhelmed by the psychologically traumatic experiences of their patient. On a psychological level, trauma can sometimes be akin to radioactivity… and discussing such matters on a deeply empathic level can often act to essentially infect the therapist with those same feelings of pain and helplessness (it’s a matter more likely to occur as a cumulative effect when a therapist has multiple patents on their caseloads who are coping with issues of trauma).

Self-care, supervision and working with their own therapist helps these councilors contend with vicarious traumatization, thus allowing them to continue being helpful and effective for their patients. Still, it can be a substantial problem for newer or younger therapists who don’t yet realize how such exposure to another person’s trauma can impact them.

Captain Swain’s situation in this issue very much reminds me of the matter of vicarious traumatization. She has only had her powers for a short while and is still relatively new to figuring out how they work. She did not realize that communing with the leviathan on a psychic/emotional level could end up going both ways. The primitive savagery of this monster is itself somewhat ‘radioactive’ and Swain ends up infected.

Empathy is a double-edged sword. To be especially empathic is a great source of strength in that it adds to wisdom and allows one to truly understand and sympathize with others. Yet it can also be a source of pain in that you feel what others feel and, if they are in pain, you share that pain... experiences it as your own. A lot of people often try to suppress or side-step their own empathic feelings because it can be so tough to feel the pain and hardships that others are experiencing.

Paul Allor’s tale does a pretty good job addressing these themes with Swain, although I would have liked them to go a bit deeper. Stand-alone stories can be tough because the economy of story and action is razor thin. I ended up wishing there had been a bit more attention granted to Swain’s interactions with the leviathan. Although this might just be a product of the fact that I’ve been kind of starved for seeing Swain on the page ever since All New Inhumans ended.

Swain is such a wonderful character and I’m so glad that she is getting the attention she deserves (I’m especially happy that Al Ewing shares this enthusiasm for Swain and is including her in the cast for his upcoming series, The Royals).

Brain Level and Jordan Boyd do fine work with the art. The illustration style is not exactly to my taste, but this is merely a matter of preference. I’m more inclined toward a clean line and an animated style, whereas Level’s artwork leans more toward a fluid, busier line. It’s very good artwork, but, again, not in tune with my tastes.

All in all, the issue is worth checking out. It doesn’t do anything to forward the over arching narrative of Monster Unleashed, but does a nice job of further exploring Swain’s character and examining the multifaceted nature of empathy. Three out of Five Lockjaws.

#Inhumans #Monsters Unleashed #Paul Allor #Brian Level #Jordan Boyd #spoilers #review

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[SP] The Hand of Glory

I never planned on becoming a thief. Skulking around in the dark was never really my forté and, other than a few misguided instances of childhood shoplifting, I never stole a thing in my life. That being said, I never thought I’d be living in a quarantined city while the world burns away into chaos and hatred like charcoal and ash. The whole thing felt like something out of a bad dystopian horror movie.

Scavenging had become the only way of finding resources, murder the only means of survival. If you hoped to see the sun the next day, you had two options; smash and grab from a commercial business or sneak into an occupied home. (I personally believe that the lesser of the two evils is making my way into a house.) Looting a store out in the open forced you to face other desperate scum, hoping to find anything of value, only to leave empty-handed more often than not. If it looked abandoned, you can bet that it’d already been picked clean by those vultures... or worse. A house, on the other hand, was still occupied which meant they were not only secure but even filled to the brim with valuables and whatever else people wanted for themselves.

I know you must be thinking me some kind of creep or predator, sneaking into someone’s house while they’re still home in order to pilfer their property.

I’m not a bad guy, though making that choice grew rarer the longer the quarantine went on. When I burgled a residence, I made sure to enter and leave without almost anyone becoming aware of my trespassing until I was far and away, never a soul harmed nor an item lifted that couldn’t be replaced. Things did not always go so smoothly though; it took more time, mistakes, and blood on my knife than I’d like to admit before I could call myself a “Propper Theif”. It wasn’t with years of practice, persistence, or any sort of talent that I had perfected my new skills. Some say its a blessing, though they know nothing of the curse it truly is, for no soul since 1599 AD had made a Hand of Glory.

All it took was one botched job, one bad day to haunt my dreams and force me to seek out a new way about my “business”. I could not abide by another pool of red, another little girl lifeless on the floor, her blood dripping from my knife and her parents wailing like banshees into the night. Looking back, I’d have happily starved to death that night rather than endure that horrifying grief and unrelenting guilt.

The archaic system of survival demanded we become beasts again, however, no other child would ever know or need fear the monster I had to become.

Creating the Hand was not my first option, honestly I never even considered it until I fount The Book. A hodge-podge of parchment and calfskin vellum pages, bound in some strange scaley leather, the tome was filled with recipes and “spells” that seemed more appropriate at a renaissance fair than a safe in the back of some large manor. The information found in the book was bizarre, “Command animals to do your absolute bidding (Ha!), Build a man out of clay to protect your community (too Jewish), Create a skull that tells the future (doubtful), The pro’s v. con’s of wish-granting ape fists (baloney) ...” It all seemed like superstitious mumbo jumbo when I first flipped through the pages, after carefully liberating it from the previous owner. After my initial look through nothing seemed to be of any use, other than maybe the age of the book, it didn’t have really any value. Hell, I threw the book across the room and remember thinking a drink seemed more important at the time. Something stopped me from walking out the door to my kitchen, some deep-seated urge kept ringing in my mind, “Go pick up the book”.

Unable to clear my head, I turned back, walked over, picked up the mysterious codex and saw my wretched future drawn out in that faded iron ink. “La Maine de Gloire. The Hand of Glory: A gift for thieves and those who wish to remain unseen.” Though never a religious or superstitious man, this was the first time I felt...blessed. Clutching tight to the book, a single tear streamed down my cheek, the first tear I had shed since that terrible night.

After hours of translating a rediculous mixture of Latin, French, and very old English scribbled around the page, I had my recipe for creating the Hand. The recipe was not a simple one: requiring pickling, saltpeter, hot peppers, hair, fat, and of course a human hand. Even the means of procuring some of the ingredients were incredibly detailed and complex. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find the fresh human hand, fat, and hair of a recently executed murderer, during the new moon... at MIDNIGHT?! Luckily, there was no shortage of scum and villainy out on the streets, so I had my “pick of the litter” when it came to materials. Finding some poor devil strung up on a street lamp by some angry mob was where I claimed the left hand, the hair, and fat to make the candle. All the other ingredients could be found in your local grocers or chemists.

The process was long and overly complex; first draining and arranging the hand, then salting and pickling, air drying and inscribing with mystic symbols, before finally repeatedly dipping the hand in a tub of melted beeswax. After months of work and preparation, my Glory was finally ready. After sticking the candle made of human hair and fat to the palm, I attempted to light my macabre creation. I held the flame of my lighter to the “wick” for minutes waiting for it to catch, but as moment after moment passes I feared I had made a mistake, or worse, the Hand of Glory was just another old-world folktale. I checked the book and realized that I somehow missed that the Hand required the phrase “Vox Vorbis Lux” to be chanted continuously for the hand to ignite. Once lit it could only extinguishable by the barer or by a splash of sterilized milk. I tried again, fearing failure meant no other options, many wasted nights, and my eventual death via starvation. This was it. It HAD to work...and it did.

The candle ignited in a tiny explosion covering me in a bright, almost blinding, light emanating from a white, blue, and violet flame. It was wonderous, I could barely pull my eyes away from the miraculous flame. As I looked around the room, a thick inky void surrounded me, all-encompassing and inescapable. I pointed the light towards my dresser on the far side of the room and was astounded when the entire wall began to illuminate as though being basked in the light of the sun. I could see everything in perfect detail, nothing could escape my gaze.

After that stealing became the easiest thing I could wish to accomplish. On my first job, I learned just what the Hand was capable of. When I entered a house through the basement, my usual means of entry, and ignited the Hand and the void blanketed everything in sight. Not only was the candle aflame, but so were the thumb and the first three fingers that I later learned indicated that the four members of the house were still awake. Cautiously, I started walking around the house and, to my complete surprise, slipped by every member of the house as if I wasn’t even there. I didn’t even try and hide, the young family just continued on their activities. As the children fell asleep, two of the flames slowly fade before snuffing themselves out. Without a single worry or care, I was able to make my way through and out of the house pilfering cash, jewelry, food, trading material, and other valuable resources. As I continued my thieving spree, I gained enough treasures and provisions to easily live out the rest of the quarantine in comfort and luxury. Through thick and thin I never forgot why I created the Hand of Glory, often leaving gifts or provisions to the house of the grief-stricken family whose lives I crippled. They never knew from where all the gifts came from, I never left a name with any of the gifts. The last thing I wanted or deserved was recognition.

Before long I felt something was wrong with the Hand of Glory, with every use I could feel as though something was affecting me. I went back to the mysterious book, scanning the pages about the Hand vigorously, hoping to find any clue or list of side effects using the Hand may have caused.

Nothing. What else could there be, I’ve read over each of those pages thousands of times... but I never bothered to read the back of the page. There, not only did I learn the properties of the Hand of Glory but also the eventual fate of whoever used the Hand, as well as whoever dares craft one.

According to my translations (which I had confirmed by educated professionals), those who use a Hand of Glory for a prolonged period of time( or multiple times) are susceptible to horrific nightmares, visions, spontaneous parasites, all manner of illnesses, bleeding from the eyes, and leprosy. Though my use of the Hand had finished by this time, I made sure to seek out proper medical treatment to counteract any lingering side effects. It didn’t matter though, I was damned but just didn’t know it yet. The “sins” of using the Hand were microscopic compared to that of the creation of a Hand itself.

According to my translations, consultation from the catholic arch-diocese, and advice from so-called paranormal investigators,

“...those who use the Hand are already prepared to break a number of the Lord’s commandments. The creation of the Hand of Glory is not only a macabre and physically vile act but also spiritually binding to those that were deemed ‘suitable materials’. The Hand of Glory must be constructed with the left hand of a murderer, thief, or otherwise heinous villain. Their soul, already damned to hell, becomes warped and twisted by the procedure and incantations needed to construct the Hand, and their soul itself is used to light the Hand and acts as the source of its power. Those who actively seek to create the must understand the severity of this action; the sins one commits in order to create a Hand are numerous and horrendous, setting them on an unwavering path to the depths of damnation. Upon their passing, amongst the flames of the inferno, sits a malevolent beast waiting simply to torture and torment its victim. This demon is all that remains of the soul of whoever was mutilated post-mortem to gather the aforementioned materials from their corpse, seeking retribution for their eternity of suffering and deformity. There is no means of reversing this bond, for God himself contends those selfish enough to dare create a Hand of Glory.”

There you have it, it’s all there. I am damned.

Not only damned but awaiting a reserved torture chair and personal tormenter at the moment of my passing. I know I deserve to go to hell, for what I did to that girl, to her family. What I didn’t know, nor expect, was that I was horrendously tormenting the eternal existence of the poor man I found hanging from that street lamp. Now he, or what I can only imagine is left of him, sharpens his tools of torment and pain in anticipation. Can’t say I blame him, really. He deserves his vengeance, especially after the number of times I used the damned artifact to further my own agenda.

I made the Hand of Glory 45 years ago. The years are catching up to me, there is nothing I can do about it and that frightens me terribly. Wallowing in my fortune, my breath grows shallower and shallower, there is nothing left I can do but wait for deaths cold embrace. All I can do anymore is glare at the key of my eternal punishment, and ponder that poor girl from all those years ago. What would she have made of herself? Would she have been happy with life? What good would she have accomplished? What was her name?

My god, have I really lived my entire life without ever knowing the name of the little girl who died on my knife? I’ve spent all these years trying to avoid reliving that terrible mistake, but was it for their benefit or my own?

The shadows are creeping in now, little time remains. If you are reading this, then my soul has already been claimed. I implore you to head this warning; there is no glory to be found with the Hands use. It shall rot you from the inside out, festering gluttony and incurable greed, it is a curse I would not wish upon my worst enemy. If you are smart you might cast it into the sea, or lock the thing away submerged in a bath of blue milk and holy water.

There is nothing left for me to say, my time has arrived. He is com--

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#Blogger #Story

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