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mst3kproject · 3 years

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Godmonster of Indian Flats

If I had a dollar for every movie I’ve seen about a bloodthirsty mutant sheep, I would have... two dollars.

I was entirely willing to feature Godmonster of Indian Flats based on its strangeness alone, but it does have one connection to MST3K in that actress Peggy Browne was also in Avalanche. Another performer here, Kerrigan Prescott, also had a part in previous Episode that Never Was Fiend Without a Face, so hey, close enough!

Dr. Clemens and his assistant Mariposa discover a mutant lamb on Eddie the Rancher’s sheep farm, and take it up to a secret lab at Indian Flats for study. This seems somewhat outside of Clemens’ claimed purview as an anthropologist, but whatever, I’m just here to watch the movies. While the monster grows to maturity in a tank, the mayor of a local tourist town, Mr. Silverdale, is refusing to sell land to a Mr. Barnstable, who is interested in the mining rights. We soon get the idea that Silverdale is less interested in tourism than he is in having his own private Wild West LARP, and the townsfolk have an almost cult-like reverence for him. Eventually, their increasingly violent attempts to run Barnstable out of town cross paths with Dr. Clemens’ pet mutant, and all hell breaks loose!

Well, maybe not all hell. This movie hasn’t got the money for all hell. Rest assured, though, that they unleash all the hell they could afford.

The hell in question takes the form of a lumpy hunchbacked sheep creature with a rubbery sock puppet head, one long dangling arm, and a huge Kim Kardashian ass. It interrupts a picnic, and blows up a gas station by knocking over a pump with its bubble butt. It may or may not understand English, and it breathes poisonous gas when injured. The puppet is pretty weird and scary-looking in the darkness of Clemens' secret lab, but out in the full light of day it is ridiculous.

Any movie with a mutant sheep monster is going to be weird, and the monster is the weirdest thing in the movie, but make no mistake – Godmonster of Indian Flats sans monster would still be a weird fucking movie. The other story going on here, Silverdale vs Barnstable, is thoroughly bizarre in itself.

Apparently it's not enough for Silverdale and the townspeople to simply refuse to sell Barnstable their mining rights. Instead, they have to totally ruin his career and both his physical and mental health! First of all, they invite him to their 'Bonanza Days' and have him take part in a shooting contest, where the whole town conspires to make it look like he accidentally shot the sheriff's dog. Then they hold a funeral for the dog as if it were a person. The whole time the dog is fine – it was just playing dead, and afterwards the sheriff sends it to live with a friend.

When Barnstable still doesn't leave town after this, Silverdale's toady Phil whacks him over the head with a bottle, then shoots himself in the shoulder and puts the gun in the unconscious man's hand. Barnstable wakes up in jail and demands a lawyer, but everybody ignores him. Eddie and Mariposa help him escape, and the sheriff then forms a posse to hunt him down and lynch him! At the end of the movie Silverdale triumphantly tells Barnstable that he's going to lose his job because his boss is embarrassed by all these goings-on. At this point Barnstable also has a cracked skull and a broken arm. He's a PTSD-ridden shell of a man and yet Silverdale is still yelling “I've beaten you, Barnstable!” as the end credits roll.

All of this might become a little less weird (but way more horrible) when I mention that Barnstable is the only black character with dialogue. And yet, none of it is ever overtly framed as racist. Nobody ever uses a slur – in fact, Barnstable's race is never once referenced in dialogue, not even obliquely. You could cast a white actor in this part and nothing would have to be changed. What Barnstable seems to represent, and what Silverdale and the townspeople claim to be fighting against (Silverdale declares that he is 'the custodian of an era'), is decadence and capitalism, concepts traditionally associated with a white elite.

This in itself should be read as a commentary on race. It's notable that Barnstable is playing by white rules. He's a smooth businessman representing the interests of his presumably white boss. When Silverdale invites him to Bonanza Days, he is happy to step into that role, too. He dresses the part and takes up the six-shooter, and does a pretty good job with it. Barnstable is a 'model minority' figure, a black man with the trappings of white success... and in spite of that, he is still abused. Hard as he tries to fit into the white people's world, he is not welcome there.

I don't think that's actually what Barnstable is supposed to represent to the viewer, however. The people of this town are described in the opening as 'living in the past' and we see that they're very dedicated to it. Silverdale dresses the part of a nineteenth century gentleman even when he's at home. Everybody dresses up in period costumes for occasions like parties and church, and the town's status as a tourist attraction requires many people to play such a role full-time. There's a dark underbelly to this quaint little world, as we see in the opening when a barmaid steals Eddie's casino winnings, but even that fits their chosen period.

Barnstable intrudes into this world as a representative of modernity and reality. If you're paying attention, you soon realize that the 'past' the townsfolk are living in isn't like the real past at all. The real history of this little mining town would have involved filthy, back-breaking work in the mines, and saloons full of drunks, prostitutes, and crime. The modern town has adopted the pretty trappings of the 19th century – the clothes, the horses, and nice little shows of piety like the dog funeral – while sweeping the dirt and violence under the rug. The latter are only to be turned on outsiders.

This fantasy version of the old west is also very, very white. In the real world, history is always more diverse than we usually think it was – one of the historical figures who inspired the character the Lone Ranger, for example, was Bass Reeves, the first black US Marshall in the west. The people in Silverdale's town have no interest in that. There is not a single Native American character in the movie, and I've already mentioned the lack of other people of colour, except for a couple of background tourists. This is an essential part of throwing away the ugly parts of the past – race brings conflict, and Silverdale and his followers want none of that. Barnstable's race makes his status as an outsider all the more obvious, both visually and as a reminder that the world these people are trying to live in never really existed.

This puts Barnstable in a very strange place in this movie. He's definitely a victim, but never a hero – in fact, Godmonster of Indian Flats is yet another movie that doesn't have a hero – yet he is not a villain, either. He's just some poor bastard who wandered into a horror movie and now he can't find his way out of it.

So... what does any of this have to do with a mutant sheep monster?

I dunno. There seem to have been mutants in this area for a long time, since Clemens talks about legends of a 'mine monster' and even shows off weird fossils he's found, but how does that tie into the theme of clinging to the past? Maybe it's supposed to be about history repeating itself, since new monsters are being born just as the mines are about to re-open? I have no idea.

Does the monster die at the end? I cannot tell you. I think it dies when the truck it was caged in blows up? The movie ends with an angry mob pushing the truck over a steep slope where they dump their garbage, while Eddie, Clemens, and Mariposa try to reveal Silverdale's own land-grab scheme. This all degenerates into chaos and people tumbling down the hill and shooting each other, while Silverdale stands there yelling about how violence controls the masses and how he's beaten Barnstable. It's an ending that seems calculated to leave the audience going, “... huh?”.

Why is it a God monster? Now this, I do have a theory about. I don't think the sheep is actually the godmonster – I think the titular menace is actually Mr. Silverdale! He wields a god-like authority within the town, even when his evil scheme is apparently exposed at the end, and uses it to do monstrous things! If that's not what they were going for... then I have no idea.

I mentioned in the opening that I've seen two movies about mutant sheep monsters. The other is Black Sheep, which is one of those off-the-wall movies they make in New Zealand when they're not doing Tolkien-related stuff. Black Sheep was apparently inspired by Godmonster of Indian Flats, but it throws out the race relations stuff and runs with the 'mutant sheep' thing to make on of the most perfect dark comedies I've ever seen. I would recommend it to the strong-stomached in the same way I recommended The Valley of Gwangi to anyone disappointed by Beast of Hollow Mountain – it is everything the older film should have been but was not.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #godmonster of indian flats #70s #just fuckin weird #allow me to recommend a better movie

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pangtasias-atelier · 4 years

Text

Irreplaceable

A commission for the great @kanonffa

It’s always fun writing for Takumi cause I love him a lot lol. Also, writing this made me sad about the powercreep in FEH but I still use the hell out of him...

Thanks again for the commission!

______________

A half battered training dummy staring back at him, Takumi clenches his teeth. Shoulders hunched, his bangs cling to his forehead as he catches his breath. Fujin Yumi in hand, the bow is undrawn as he surveys the training ground. The arena is littered with a multitude of arrows: targets destroyed cleanly in two, a training dummy more reminiscent of a pin cushion, and even the bench is nicked with a few stray arrows.

“It’s still no use,” Standing up, Takumi’s grip on Fujin Yumi tightens. “No matter what I do, I’ll always be inferior,” A few tears threaten to pour from Takumi’s eyes, the salty liquid prickling his eyes. Violently shaking his head, as if his thoughts will stop, Takumi sniffles.

Having been summoned to Askr early on, Takumi’s aid had been invaluable to the Order of Heroes. His relationship to Kiran strained at first, Takumi immediately distrustful of anyone, Kiran’s caring nature warmed him up eventually. Repelling Veronica’s initial assault on Askr, Takumi had been the main cause for the turning point. However, soon enough, his strength was beginning to lack. Foes and heroes grew stronger alike, and he was left to catch up. At first, it simply meant sharing the limelight, something that Takumi was rather fine with. As long as he felt he was doing his fair equal share, working in a team of four was inconsequential. But soon enough, playing catch up was no longer possible. Even with all of Kiran’s favoritism, Kiran offering refines and seals to Takumi first. Eventually, Takumi’s share was no longer equal, Takumi always contributing the least to his team. As Kiran shifted members around, the newer heroes always contributed more despite their increasing recency in being summoned. Once the star of any team, Takumi had been relegated to support, a role that others fared much better in as well, even as Kiran continued her attempts to help Takumi out.

“She’ll give up on me eventually,” Takumi glumly reminds himself. Scoffing, he heads back to his room. He merely offers a curt ‘hello’ to the few heroes that do greet him. He slams the door behind him as he enters his room, placing Fujin Yumi on its stand.

Takumi lets himself fall into his chair. Slouched, the tiny little addition of pudge on his stomach, his beginner abs now washed away by flab, presses against his shirt. “Ugghh,’ Takumi leans his neck back, staring at the ceiling. “If only Ryoma were here,” Takumi shakes his head, imagining Kiran falling for Ryoma if he were here as well. “Well, Hinoka would be nice to talk to,” Realizing Hinoka would most likely tell Takumi to take charge and confess, he rescinds that comment as well. “Sakura…” Takumi trails off, trying to find some fault in his expectation of a conversation with Sakura. But he finds none, Sakura’s reasoning so perfect that he can’t even imagine what she’d tell him.

“Any of them would be nice to talk to,” Slumping, Takumi crosses his arms over his chest with a pout. The only of his siblings summoned, any sort of talking was done with Kiran, but with his issue involving Kiran herself, the lack of his siblings was starting to become increasingly obvious. “I should clear my mind,” Unwilling to dwell on the issue further, Takumi stands up. He heads over to the mess hall, eating his idea of clearing his mind.

Upon arriving at the currently near empty mess hall, Takumi immediately focuses on the two rowdy heroes eating together. The two of them newer additions to the Order, Gatrie and Osian both have hearty helpings of food. A couple of plates for each, the two talk about their training regimens in between bites, talk of women equally as involved as their talks of their regimens.

Takumi continues to listen in as he grabs something to eat. The idea of more food, Askr’s delicious myriad of dishes a soothing comfort, at the cost of some extra training sounds revolutionary to the desperate Takumi. Grabbing an extra serving of spaghetti, Takumi greedily rubs his hands as he sits down. He imagines his dream body, a defined chest with strong biceps, glistening abs and powerful legs to finish it off, Kiran surely falling for him if he puts on some muscle. Stronger with the added muscle, he’d be able to better pull his weight. His vision in mind, Takumi greedily devours his spaghetti.

Unwilling to spot any other fault with his mind too busy being preoccupied over his lack of strength, his indulgence of food for comfort escapes Takumi’s notice. Training so hard, a bit of extra snacks, or even meals, is a necessity. Or needing the extra food to aid his bulking process to impress Kiran. Takumi is far too willing to rationalize his indulgent behavior as anything but an issue. Even as the bit of pudge on his torso grows some more before that too becomes a noticeable sliver of lard. The extra girth to his body is simply his body being in the middle of his metamorphosis onto bigger and buffer things. At least, Takumi consoles himself as the days pass by. His training sessions grow frequently shorter and as his meals grow comparatively larger. Already deep into his training, a few more days will show some actual growth. And yet, the days turn into weeks, Takumi finding zero progress as the month passes by.

Well, not his intended progress.

Having just woken up, yesterday’s extra helping of cake sits in Takumi’s stomach. It heavily sits in his stomach, Takumi as stuffed as he is groggy. He rests a pudgy hand on his budding gut, his thick fingers curving alongside his stomach. “I…” Looking down, Takumi grits his teeth. His extra girth notable to everyone with eyes, tears threaten to prickle his eyes once again. His stance a tad wider than before his training regimine, his thighs curve a bit inward from the extra flab, the bundle of fat slightly squishing up against each other. The budding layer of fat marking the onset of his double chin presses against his chest. His love handles, both the size of dinner rolls and perfect for a grab, jut out on his sides. “...I just need to train more,” Takumi’s eyes shift, as if anyone else is in his room. Reaching for the nearest shirt, his clothes uncomfortable to sleep in with a clear lack of breathing room, Takumi grunts as he lifts the shirt over his head.

The fabric is already taut as Takumi stretches his shirt to cover his doughy back. Yanking the material down, he lets out angry puffs as he struggles. Fabric catching on fat, the material wrinkling, he yanks his shirt down each time. The hem going past his chest, he grits his teeth as he pulls harder; his arms squish against his sides. Tugging down, the hem goes down as far as possible. The bottom bit of Takumi’s flab remains exposed, his shirt unable to go any lower. His torso is absolutely stuffed inside his shirt. His outward ovular curve of his love handles press against the fabric, the material clinging to his rolls. His shirt is painted on, his soft chest bulging through the top; the outline of his moobs are visible.

Takumi stomps his foot, the pressure reverberating in his leg. “This is..” Takumi grabs his love handles. He shakes them, his gut jiggling alongside his love handles. “This is pointless!” Crashing back down on his bed, a strained sob escapes him as he rests his head in his hands. The tiny crack from his bed’s frame goes unregistered. “I can’t impress Kiran now,” Sighing, the prior vigor in his body dissipates. Takumi’s frame curls in on itself as he lies on his side. “Not when everyone outclasses me…”

Unwilling to go out, feeling absolutely ridiculous in his far too small shirt, Takumi remains on his bed, shifting every once in a while as he wallows in his self pity. The day going on without him, he dejectedly sighs, his eyes downcast. Unaware of the exact time, the only marcation is the sun’s descent. Takumi sits up as a knock sounds. Takumi scrambles to fix himself, his hands shooting towards his shirt to yank it down. His eyes nearly bulge as the door begins to open.

“H-hey, wait a minute!” Takumi freezes as Kiran walks in.

“Here you are!” Bustling in, Kiran’s ever jovial expression remains present on her face. “I couldn’t find you anywhere,” Kiran smiles at Takumi, her gaze focused on his face.

Takumi inwardly screams. Kiran right in front of him, he prepares himself for a snide comment on his weight, or laughter or just about any way this’ll go wrong.

Yet, none of his envisioned scenarios come to pass, Takumi eyeing Kiran. “Yeah…” Takumi rubs the back of his neck, his shirt rising up his belly. “I woke up late,” Takumi smiles, staring at the wall behind Kiran instead of her face,

“Are you okay?” Kiran steps forward. She places a hand on Takumi’s shoulder.

Takumi grits his teeth. “Of course I’m not!” Takumi shouts, pushing away Kiran’s hand. “Not when I look like this,” Takumi places both hands on his roll of a stomach, the lard slotting itself into his hands. “I’m fat and-” Takumi grunts, lifting his hands in exasperation.

“So, you haven’t been trying to gain weight?” Kiran innocuously asks, her head slightly cocked to the side.

“Huh?” Broken out of his anger, Takumi stares at Kiran. “You think I did this on purpose?” Takumi nearly jumps as Kiran places a warm hand on his stomach.

“I’ve seen you so often in the mess hall that I figured it was intentional,” Kiran pats Takumi’s stomach. She smiles up at him. “I think you look a lot cuter like this, but if you want to lose the weight, I could go over some training sessions with you tomorrow morning,”

Takumi’s face burns, his cheeks a vibrant hue of red that seems to want to melt his face off. His mind replays Kiran’s words, his entire being focusing on Kiran calling him cute. He glances down at Kiran’s expectant face. His mind pieces the rest of her words, Takumi clearing his throat. “Yeah! Tomorrow sounds great!” He winces from his palpable excitement.

“Great, I’ll see you then,” Kiran gives a small wave before rushing away, her face gleeful from the prospect of spending time with Takumi.

Takumi watches as Kiran walks off, her pace always in a hurry. He closes his door as she turns the last corner of the hallway. Alone again, he presses his back against the wall. Pressing a hand to his racing heart, he takes steady breaths. “Okay,” Mind replaying the prior scene, Takumi mulls over the interaction. “She said I looked cute…” Takumi begins to walk in circles. “She was probably just pitying me,” Takumi glances down at his tummy. He pokes his pale flab, his stomach jiggling in response. “But I still have a date with her tomorrow,” Takumi chokes on his saliva as he catches his mistake. “It’s not a date! Just a training session, but still, there has to be some way to get rid of this,” Takumi sighs as he realizes his answer. “It’s gonna be magic…” Inept in the art of magic, the tomes he could barely decipher are now his last resort. Mentally preparing himself, the already late hour is perfect for his little escapade.

Giving one last tug at his shirt, Takumi grumbles as his thighs rub against one another. Peeking his head out the door, Takumi checks for anyone around. The hallway is completely empty. Takumi picks up a decent pace. Fast enough to show he has somewhere to go, but not fast enough to look like a maniac. Or for his fat to be shaking everywhere. Though it still jiggles from his pace. Takumi hopes his face doesn’t get even redder. He passes by a few other heroes, none of them thankfully from the World of Fates. Though, he still keeps his gaze averted from them, hoping for zero comments about his extra flab. Another few turns, the seemingly endless hallways are nothing to Takumi’s long time in Askr. The ornate brown doors marking the library’s entrance open easily as Takumi pushes them open. The library is void of any other individual, Takumi the only occupant. Deciding to get to work, he begins by the walls.

Takumi mentally thanks whoever organizes the library. Each shelf neatly organized by subject, Takumi quickly browses the shelves by subject alone. Passing by books on geography, painting, weapons, and many more, each subject divided further based upon the realm, Taumi walks along the shelves lining the wall. His attention shifts as he reaches the back left hand corner. A door remains inconspicuous in between two shelves.

Deciding to enter, he praises his luck as he finally finds a section on magic. The room is much smaller than the main section of the library. A few shelves are placed interspersedly; a small table for two sits perfectly in the middle. Takumi glances at each book's title. Spotting a possible contender, the book titled Limits of the Body, Takumi promptly places it back after reading a few paragraphs, the book on the use of magic for tortue. Another book titled Free your Form details the use of light and dark magic and their usage in manifesting incorporeal beings.

“Please let this be the one,” Takumi mutters to himself as he grabs another book, this one titled A Treatise on Molding. Takumi promptly opens the book to the table of contents before he flips over to the back of the book where the spells are listed.

Reading the spells under his breath, it takes Takumi a while to understand each spell. And even then, his lack of magic has him only understanding the mere basics of a spell’s purpose. Takumi taps his finger against the book as he finds the perfect spell. Clearing his throat, he takes a steady breath. Reciting the words as best as he can, Takumi looks down at himself with bated breath. His stomach bubbles for a second, the little mound of fat groaning before it begins to recede. Eyes wide, Takumi lifts up his arm. The flab hanging from his arms begins to recede as well, Takumi stares as the definition returns to his arms, his muscles no longer hidden under a layer of fat. Bringing a hand to his stomach, the onset of abs are back, the flat stomach under his lithe fingers. His hand shifts to his thighs, the wide legs now much trimmer. Takumi hugs the tome, the book pressing up against his slight chest.

However, a thought blossoms in Takumi’s mind. If a spell made him lose all the weight he gained, what’s to say he couldn’t use another spell to gain the muscle he desperately wanted to impress Kiran? With that thought in mind, Takumi opens the book, once more rifling through the pages. The spells somewhat hard to decipher, he struggles a bit before he finds what he needs. A spell to get bigger, Takumi recites the spell with certainty, closing the book with a flourish as he finishes. A warmth begins to bud in his stomach, Takumi looking on with glee.

He nearly falls over as his stomach lurches forward. A gut larger than the extra flab he had before, his shirt tears from the sudden growth. His ass does the same, his flat butt gaining shape as it bulges outward, his pants creaking from the fat. His chin soon grows a double chin. His thighs widen, the prior problem of chafing minor as his legs continue to grow and fatten, the two thighs squishing further against each other. His gut continues to expand; the mass of fat sags ever further to blanker his legs. Lethargic, Takumi uses a heavy arm to open the book. He holds back a choke as his arms grow wider than how his thighs were before all this mess. Takumi flips through the spells as fast as he can, his sausage fingers struggling to leaf through the pages. The sounds of his shredding clothing rings in his ears. A new rip or tear seems to sound out as he goes through every page, Takumi’s eyes scanning for the first spell. Feeling just so damn heavy, Takumi grunts as his legs begin to wobble. Huffing, the pile of lard for cheeks begin to encroach into his peripheral vision. His arms shake as he tries to keep the book lifted. And still he grows, Takumi panicking as he can simply feel the expanse of his body despite not touching it. The sheer weight and space he takes up immense as the last shreds of his clothes fall off, the stuffy air of the library against his skin. He feels how much his fat sags, his titanic gut reaching his knees. He struggles to shift, his thighs unbearably pressed up against each other. His chest sags down on his gut, the two breasts larger than even the numerous well endowed women in the Order.

Finally reaching the page, Takumi pants for air. Simply standing, he feels exhausted. He begins to read the first spell, his still fattening body urging him on. His knees buckling, Takumi falls back. Letting out a shout, the book falls from his grasp. His gigantic ass cushions the fall, the large hills for fat rivaling a two seater. Huffing, Takumi spots the book in front of him. Moreso his stomach than himself, Takumi’s bed for a stomach extending far out as it envelops more and more of the floor. Takumi grunts as he tries to lift up a door crushingly-wide thigh. His thighs alone are larger than his waistline back when he was pudgy. Pathetically moving his arms, even that ends up being a chore for Takumi, his massively fattened arms no longer good for anything. Completely immobile, Takumi whimpers as he feels himself grow even larger.

Unable to do anything, Takumi remains seated as he continues to fatten up. Growing unfathomably wide, he wonders about the sheer amount of fabric that would be necessary just to cover up his tank of a stomach. New rolls continue to form on Takumi’s body as older rolls grow even plumper. Takumi gasps as the sides of his stomach press against bookshelves. His tire for a neck prevents him from turning, Takumi only able to see his growing body overtakes the room. He winces as the bookshelves topple over, his fat simply flowing over the mess. Soon, his arms refuse to budge as well, Takumi only able to wiggle his massively engorged digits. His fat continues its growth, Takumi immobilized by an ocean of his own fat. He shuts his eyes as his fat reaches the edges of the room. Expecting the worst, he waits expectantly for the walls to groan as his fat builds up and presses against all four walls. Nothing happening, he opens his eyes.

The room filled with his own fat, Takumi’s body stops its growth. Panic leaving his body, Takumi lets out a sigh. One problem resolved, his other problem of losing all this weight begins to sink in.

Though the problem sounds nowhere near as bad. Takumi finds the soft, cushiony piles of lard warm. “No, this isn’t happening,” Takumi immediately quiets down, surprised to hear the newfound depth to his voice. Definitely never having a high pitched or squeaky voice, the extra hundreds of pounds of lard seem to make sure no one would ever think that. His voice a bit deeper, Takumi whines as he finds himself enjoying the extra richness to his voice, always a bit too self conscious about how he sounded. Shoving that thought away as well, his face is red as he tries to divert his mind onto something else. They shift onto Kiran, Kiran hugging Takumi’s fat while she- “AARGH!” Stewing in his own lard, Takumi’s thoughts continue to focus on Kiran.

Making her usual rounds patrolling the Order’s base, Kiran stops in her tracks as a thud sounds out. Keeping a brisk pace, she watches her footsteps. The noise sounding from the library, Kiran easily slams open the door despite her small frame. Briedablik raised to summon a hero, Kiran instead finds the library in perfect order. A door in the back of the library creaking, Kiran quickly opens it.

She steps back as some pale gelatinous thing seeps forward. The object squeezes through the doorway, the rest of it still contained inside the room. Kiran presses a finger against it. Her entire finger sinks into the mass. Removing her finger, she presses her whole fist against it, the substance absorbing her hand up to her wrist.

“H-hey! Who’s there?” The strange pale blob responds to her prodding.

The voice sounding familiar, Kiran squints in concentration. The name of the voice’s owner ready to jump out of her mouth, the slight deepness throws her off, the voice an octave or two lowers than-

“Takumi?” Concern replacing any remaining confusion, Kiran crawls on top of the mass of fat. Careful to not step too harshly, she fits under the remaining space between the top of the doorway and Takumi’s lard. Her hands and feet sink into the blob known as Takumi. Hurrying her pace, Kiran shifts all her attention in climbing up. The large plate sized nipples mark Takumi’s breasts, the crease of fat not aiding with a myriad of rolls lining the entirety of Takumi’s body. Takumi’s moobs alone are larger than Kiran’s entire head, the pumped full of lard breast sagging to the side as it curves down Takumi’s bed crushing gut. Two smaller mounds of fat placed a bit further back and above Takumi’s pillows for a chest, Kiran sighs as she makes out Takumi’s face. An exaggeratedly puffed out version of Takumi’s face, his jowls even slightly sag onto his tire for a neck, Takumi’s neck comprised up of rolls just like the rest of his body. His partially visible hair gives it away to Kiran, Kiran devoting to memory Takumi’s long soft locks of hair. “Takumi!” Reaching his face, Kiran grab’s Takumi’s cheeks. She stares at his face, checking for anything and everything. “Takumi, are you okay? Who did this? Why were y-”

“I’m fine,” Takumi grumbles, his cheeks jiggling as he speaks. He doesn’t elaborate, instead preferring to shift his gaze away from Kiran.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah!” Takumi snaps, his voice rising in intensity as he stares at Kiran. He quickly catches his mistake, sighing afterwards. “It’s just…” Takumi sighs a second time.

“It’s just what?” Kiran adjusts herself, shifting a bit back to give Takumi some space. When Takumi refuses to offer any more insight, Kiran speaks up. “Takumi, we’ve been through more stuff than we can remember together. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, I’m always here for you,” Leaning to the side, Kiran has to lie down on Takumi’s fat to reach his hand. Putting a pinky out, she wraps it around Takumi’s sausage of a pinky. “Pinky promise,” Sitting back up, she smiles at Takumi, finished with her piece.

Takumi continues his grumbling. He opens his mouth in random intervals before he clams up. A few minutes of silence passing by, Takumi lets out a short, exasperated groan. “It’s just, I know you were lying about saying I look cute when I was…” Takumi pauses. “When I was stocky, just to make me feel better,”

Kiran nods, allowing Takumi to keep speaking.

“So I decided to use some magic before our training session tomorrow. I managed to lose the weight, but when I tried to add a bit of muscle, this,” Takumi wobbles his arms in a poor imitation of gesturing to his corpulent body. His arms remain glued to his corpulent frame, Takumi unable to lift them.“Well, this happened,”

“Takumi,” Kiran pats the side of his cheek. Her hand is smaller than the surface area of Takumi;s cheek. “ I said what I meant back then. You look great regardless of your size,” Kiran grins, her face growing a flushed red, the same red as Takumi’s face whenever he stares at Kiran when he thinks she isn’t aware of his staring. “But,”

Takumi’s eyes widen, the shred of confidence gained deteriorating by the second. “But…”

“I honestly think you look much better with some weight on you,”

“Err, you already said that last time?” Takumi furrows his brows, his confused expression unfitting with his overly puffed out cherubic face.

“I mean you look great even now,”

“Oh.” Takumi’s face burns red, the cogs in his brain jamming as they register Kiran’s confession. “OH. I - um,” He winces at his sudden lack of speaking. “I don’t entirely think this is awful?” Takumi counter’s Kiran’s confession with his own before backpedaling. “But just for a while! Being this huge all the time is-”

A small chuckle bubbles in Kiran’s throat, her face grinning to stop the oncoming laughter before she lets loose, uproariously laughing to herself. She places a hand on her sides as her laughing fit continues, Kiran’s laughter devolving into a fit of coughs. “Sorry,” Kiran devolves into giggles for a few seconds. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I just think you’re great and nothing can change that. So, remember to loosen up a bit once in a while. Cause, you’re special and irreplaceable to me,” Kiran smiles, her eyes crinkling as she stares at Takumi’s puffed out face. Bringing a gloved hand to his face, she pinches his cheeks, her smile as vibrant as ever.

Takumi whimpers at the praise, any sort of bold declarations rare in Hoshido’s culture. He retreats in his own fat, his bundles of necks squishing down as he tries to not turn as red as a fire tome. Flabbergasted, the wind knocked out of him and cognitive thinking destroyed, Takumi shyly looks back at Kiran, unable to do or say anything. Kiran is the first one to break the rather short silence, though Takumi finds the silence lasting longer than Corrin’s silence during her decision on which side to support back during the war.

“Well, you’ve probably been like this long enough, so I’ll go find someone to reverse this,” Kiran gives a second smile at Takumi, ruffling his hair in the process. She pushes herself off Takumi, sliding down his hill for a gut. She hurries off before Takumi can complain at her. Walking through the library, she heads over to the perfect person to ask. Going over to the nearest wing, the mages living closest to the library, Kiran knocks on a door.

“Give me a second,” The voice retorts back. Kiran grins up as Leo opens the door for her. Leo’s hair disheveled and his shirt on backwards, Kiran prefers to not mention his clear ready for bed state. “What is it now?” Leo rubs the bridge of his nose. He closes his door, stepping into the hallway.

“I need help reversing a spell,” Kiran leads the way, Leo walking beside her.

“That’s it?” Leo stifles a yawn with his hand. “It better not be far,”

“It’s in the library. Takumi messed up a spell,”

Leo’s eyes widen at Kiran’s confession. “I guess I’ll help him considering how woefully inept he is,” Any sort of dirt on Takumi the best kind of dirt, Leo savors the possibilities of being able to rub it in Takumi’s face about how he needed his help. “What kind of spell was it?”

“You’ll see,” Kiran remains silent for the rest of the short walk.

Entering the library, Leo squints his eyes as something seeps through one of the doors in the back. Stepping closer, he kicks the object, the object profusely shaking in response.

“Watch it!” The blob responds back.

“That’s Takumi; he messed up a growth spell,”

Leo stares at the mass upon hearing that it’s Takumi. “Maybe I’ll let this blunder aside,” He whispers under his breath. His face red, he clears his throat. “This will be easy,”

Before Leo can cast a spell to counter Takumi’s, Kiran grabs his arm. Pulling him down, she whispers into his ear. “You have to teach me the magic of whatever he did. And also make the fix last awhile,”

“Sure,” Leo responds without any hesitation. The more embarrassment for Takumi, the better. He stumbles back as Kiran hugs him. “Enough with the gratitude,” Ignoring the heat on his face, he begins reciting a spell as Kiran finally lets go. His spell a basic counter to the prior spell used on someone, a blue haze swirls around his fingers. The hue turns darker the further he recites the lines, Leo having memorized the spell. Finishing it, he presses his hand against the soft flesh of Takumi’s overflowing gut. The effects completely unnecessary, Leo grins as Kiran oohs and awes from his added little spectacle. “He should return to normal in a few hours,” Leo flushes as Kiran hugs him again.

“You’re the best, Leo!”

“Yeah, yeah. Now go do whatever it is you plan to do,” Escaping from Kiran’s vice-like grip, Leo heads back to his room.

Alone with Takumi once more, Kiran begins to climb Takumi’s immobile body. The soft warm pudge under her, and with the promise of learning the spell, the edges of Kiran’s eyes crinkle from her smile. No longer in a rush of concern, she savors the small climb. Checking around the room, she nearly loses her jaw upon realizing the sheer extent of Takumi’s massive state. The room admittedly small, the fact does nothing to lessen the realization of the entire floor being covered by Takumi’s mammoth like body. So filled with his fat, the flab of Takumi’s ass begins to rise up along the wall, his lard propped up by even more lard in its desperation for room. His couch sized thighs do the same, the gargantuan appendages squeezed tight in between the wall and Takumi’s monstrous gut. Reaching Takumi’s face, she perches herself atop his breasts, the two massive jugs the most comfortable seat.

“I already feel the weight going away,” Takumi offers a slight smile, still embarrassed about the whole situation. The upper portion of his fat pressed up against the wall no longer feels as high. Neither does the lard escaping past the door.

“Good. They said that it’ll take a few hours to go away,”

“Oh,” Takumi glances down at himself. “You don’t have to stay just cause you feel bad for me,”

“I meant what I said earlier,” Kiran grabs Takumi’s cheeks. The two piles of fat sit heavily in her hands, her palms overflowing with Takumi’s cheeks.

“I just wanted to make sure,” Takumi continues to avert his gaze from Kiran’s. “At least this isn’t a terrible feeling,” Takumi clamps up at his further admission.

“See, I knew you’d realize how cute you look!” Kiran fusses with Takumi, squishing and pinching his cheeks as Takumi squirms under her touch. “But, first we have to wait out for the spell to be reversed,” Kiran holds on tight as Takumi’s body begins to shake, adeep guttural groan sounding from Takumi’s gut.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” Takumi whines, his face pained as his hunger begins to catch up to him.

“I’ll be right back, then. The mess hall should still be open” Inching herself closer, Kiran’s hands sink into Takumi’s expansive lard. The moment passing in an instant, Kiran presses her lips against Takumi’s. Pulling back as quickly as possible, a smile on her giddy face, she deftly climbs back down Takumi’s girth, heading off with an extra spring in her step.

His first ever kiss, Takumi’s mind races as it replays Kiran pecking him on the lips. His bright red face burns even brighter as his mind registers Kiran’s complete eagerness in his size. He fails to register his own extra eagerness as he smacks his lips, already hoping that maybe his size takes a bit longer to go away.

#my writing #fat!takumi #fat!heroes #ssbhm #maleweightgain #fatfiction #fat emblem #feeder emblem #fat!fates

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veraynes-blog · 4 years

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If you feel like it could you do Tensimm 6 or 7 for the cuddle prompts? I love your writing

6. For warmth

7. For comfort

This is the most delayed response ever, I'm so sorry anon 😭 This was for the long-ago Cuddle Prompts I was doing. It took a while to be back in the mindset, but hopefully it's still of interest.

This is technically just cuddling, but like... slightly sexy cuddling. I hope that's okay. 😶

The Tardis is still exactly where he left it.

He hadn't been expecting that, honestly.

The Master frowns at the blue box, breath misting in front of him as he stands shivering in the remnants of his coat. The ship is still ensconced almost out of sight down the tight alleyway where he'd made his escape from the Doctor's hospitality almost three days ago now. More than enough time for him to have taken the alien city, if he'd really wanted it. The Doctor would have known that, should have come to stop him.

Only he hadn't, and the Master had spent his three days' impromptu shore leave slumming aimlessly round the lower levels, debating with himself and growing increasingly frustrated. He'd had some half-formed idea of commandeering another ship at the port, but no real destination in mind. He'd played with the thought of making a real bid for control, delivering a blow that would have shattered the frozen city like glass so he could pick through the shards at his leisure. But somehow it had seemed a lot of effort for little entertainment value, when he was the only one playing the game.

In the end he'd been lazy and petty, spending his hurt feelings on bar fights and low-level chaos in the poorer sectors. Enough to have drawn the notice of anyone paying attention.

But apparently no one had been, because not once had the Doctor come looking for him.

He seethes resentment as he glares at the Tardis, conspicuous and infuriating in how little it's moved. Would it have been worse to have slunk back here and found it gone entirely? Or is it more humiliating to realise the Doctor seems to be patiently awaiting his ignoble return? He supposes it doesn't matter. Not like he finds himself with a surplus of options.

He crunches through the last few feet of filthy snow towards the Tardis. The door opens easily enough at his touch and the Master slips inside. He finds the control room dark and silent, and hardly much warmer than the icy street outside. His breath still mists visibly in front of him and he shivers slightly in the damp, ripped clothing he's wearing. He picks his way past the central column and along the walkway, familiar with the layout even in the dark, leaving a pair of scuffed leather gloves discarded atop a console as he passes.

The Master trails along the dimly lit corridors of the Tardis. The layout has shifted somewhat in his absence, but he keeps his destination in mind and brushes a hand against the wall as he walks, until a softly pulsing strip of lights illuminate the correct turnings. It occurs to him to wonder at the Tardis's uncharacteristic cooperation, but for the moment he'll take what he can get.

He shucks his sodden wool coat as he goes, letting it crumple carelessly to the floor behind him. His suit jacket joins it after a few more meandering steps, and then he really is shuddering as a chill creeps through the thin, wet material of his shirt. He clenches his teeth, hands flexing restlessly at his sides.

He's expecting to have to hack the security lock barring the Doctor's bedroom when he gets there, and isn't quite sure what to make of it when the door slides open for him without issue. Warmth seeps from the room, and he sways toward it without conscious thought. The lights are out in here as well, and the air smells of sleep and familiarity. He's not sure he belongs.

The other Time Lord is curled on his side in the centre of the mattress, not stirring at his presence. The Master cocks his head, regarding him narrowly for a few moments.

He scans disdainfully across the messy floor, then picks his way across the room and tries to ignore the vague sense that he's intruding. Movements stiff, he sits carefully on the very edge of the bed, barely willing to rest his weight. Even so, he feels the exact moment the dip of the mattress wakes the other man. Something comes alert in the dim room, the prickle of attention sharp against his back.

"You came back."

The voice emerges low and slurred from the nest of covers behind him, faint disbelief evident in the words.

The Master glances down, plucking at a loose thread in the sheets. "You didn't leave," he counters eventually, for lack of anything better to say. He keeps himself quiet too, reluctant to disturb the sleep-thick atmosphere.

There's a lengthy pause, and then the sound of the Doctor pushing himself upright against the pillows. He clears his throat. "Yeah, I... I wanted to wait. This time."

The Master exhales briefly through his nose. He kicks his ruined shoes and socks off, then shoots an arch look back over his shoulder.

His eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that he can make out the details of the other man. The Doctor's sitting with his knees raised in front of him, covers pushed away. He's wearing a loose cotton T-shirt and striped pyjama pants, hair in disarray from the pillow, watching him with a bemused frown. He looks rumpled and soft and safe in a way the Master thinks is one of his better deceptions.

The Doctor blinks as he catches sight of the Master's face for the first time, noting his split lip and the bruise he wears along one cheekbone.

"What happened?"

The Master begins unbuttoning his shirt, irritable when numb fingers fumble the delicate work. "Disagreement over who buys rounds," he lies blithely, peeling off the damp shirt and letting it slither to the floor. "You should see the other guy."

The weak joke holds double meaning, they're both aware: first the more typical dismissal of further conversation down this route; second the knowledge that the Master is being entirely genuine in his implication he was not the loser of the confrontation that left him slightly bloodied. He suspects the Doctor would be far more upset if he did see 'the other guy'.

Tellingly, the Doctor doesn't pursue the matter.

"Have fun?"

The Master ignores the question, unable to determine if it's as passive aggressive as it sounds. Besides, the Doctor doesn't need to know his answer would be a resounding no.

"You didn't come after me," the Master says abruptly, the near-accusation escaping against his will, and immediately has to look away and close his eyes against embarrassment for himself.

The Doctor fidgets. "I'm not forcing you to stay. I said I wouldn't."

The thing is, he hadn't been too sure on how seriously to take that particular promise. It had seemed like one of those empty principles the Doctor offers so easily. He'd wanted to prove it to both of them, fully intending to crow smug victory when the Doctor inevitably came to fetch him back, all high-handed duty.

The Master doesn't know how he feels about being wrong.

"I'm... glad you came back though," the Doctor adds cautiously.

He wants instantly to insist it doesn't mean anything more than practicality. That he'd been cold and tired and this was as good a shelter as any other he could think of. That he won't be tricked into staying put by whatever attempt at cheap reverse psychology this is. The excuses come so fast they catch in his throat.

As if he can feel the unspoken protests mounting, the Doctor lets the moment go easily enough. He shifts himself to lie down again with a stifled yawn.

"Come on. Get in."

The Master darts another glance. He thinks if the Doctor had looked even slightly calculating he would have resisted the temptation out of little more than spite. But the other man appears to be halfway back to his interrupted sleep already, dozing and unguarded, one arm flopped carelessly towards him across the sheets.

Giving in, the Master quickly unbuckles his belt, shoves the worn slacks down and off himself, and then turns onto the bed. He doesn't bother keeping his distance, sliding smoothly across the space and over the other man's prone form.

The Doctor hums pleased surprise, loose-limbed and accommodating as the Master moves him as he likes. He slots himself between the Doctor's spread legs, rocking his hips down even though neither of them are hard. That's not what he's after, for the moment. Rather, he wants to know that he's still permitted here; that he can bury himself in the warm body and ridiculous pyjamas and be welcome, all the cold, sharp edges of him. The Doctor stretches indulgently beneath him, letting his legs fall further open so the Master can lie properly between them, tilting his head back when the Master presses his face against throat and collarbone to inhale the familiar smell there.

"You're freezing," the Doctor murmurs in lazy complaint, making no effort to push him off.

The Master lets his weight rest heavy, enjoying the way it pins the other man in place. He smooths a hand down the Doctor's waist, feeling the groove of prominent ribs and pointy hipbone beneath the thin cotton. The Doctor hisses protest as he slips under the T-shirt, arching helplessly away from contact with his frigid fingers.

"You only want me for my body heat," comes the whinging accusation, and the Master is glad he can hide a smile against the other man's collar.

He says nothing to confirm or deny, instead letting his other hand find skin as well. One dips below the Doctor's back where he's arched up off the mattress, flattening against the base of his spine. The other he spreads across the plane of the Doctor's stomach, pushing his chill fingertips into the vulnerable spot. The side of his thumb strokes idly along the trail of dark hair there and he rolls his hips down again, with more interest now, although still not enough to do anything about it until he's warmer.

The Doctor shifts so they're both more comfortable, one bare ankle hooking over the back of the Master's thigh, arm draped across his shoulders. "This is awful," he mutters, already sounding half asleep again. "You're awful." He reaches down and grabs blindly for the covers, managing to tug them into place across the two of them.

"Hm," the Master agrees. He feels the Doctor slip back into sleep, utterly at ease beneath the weight of him, and wants to scorn the display of trust - but he's pulled under too fast by stolen heat and comfort, and they sink together into contented oblivion.

#doctor who #doctor/master #tensimm #thoschei #ten/simm #best enemies #tenth doctor #simm!master #the master #verayne writes

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rosethornewrites · 3 years

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Monday’s T & G fics

Here are the fics I read today! Some of these are ones I’m subscribed to (and behind on).

Finished:

Rated T:

Encounter - Grass Butterfly, by ArchiveWriter

LWJ POV - set just after WWX's death and LWJ having suffered his punishment.

Context: Timeline mash-up. In my interpretation of events, Wen Quing and Wen Ning go to Jinlingtai alone; a lynchmob of clansmen led by Jiang Cheng besiege Burial Mounds whilst WWX is away with little Wen Yuan to try and get them back; when he returns, he can only hide the child in the charred tree before flying to face the massed clans in his last battle. LWJ chases after him – trying to find him after learning of the Wen siblings’ fate, he races to the old mountain, finds the child and rescues him to Cloud Recesses, then flies to the battlefield at Nevernight where he defends WWX and injures the elders of his own clan, who on behalf of his brother and uncle try to capture him and whisk him to safety before the clans overwhelm WWX (and potentially LWJ with him), then gets dragged off to Cloud Recesses after WWX jumps off the cliff.

two scheming babies scheme murder, by anxiouswreck0_0 (second in a series)

SangYao get married! Knowing how the last wedding went, how will this one go?

Mourning for Love, by bingolin

Lan Wangji had not thought about him in a while. But all who looked at him could almost see the ghost embracing him from behind and weighing him down- regardless of whether they knew to whom the ghost belonged.

Lan Wangji had not thought about him in a while.

But tonight, he was thinking about him.

Home is in Your Arms, by kitsyu

Lan Wangi is trying to grade papers; his husband is a welcome distraction.

(Just a short bit of post-canon fluff and domestic life in the cloud recesses. Minor spoilers if you squint)

Rated G:

In Which Lan Xichen Finds His Brother’s Behavior Concerning, by AshurbanipalJones

“He drank the wine he drank, suffered the wounds he suffered.”—Módào Zǔshī

But you're somebody else, by hamlets_ghost (second in a series)

Two brothers reunite for the first time after many, many years...

Wei Wuxian's plan for sneaking alcohol into the cloud recess is less than successful

Now I can't stand to be alone, by hamlets_ghost (third in a series)

Wei Wuxian is out night hunting alone and bites off more than he can chew.

Luckily a handsome rogue cultivator comes to his rescue.

Don't need you, by Poitre_4

Prompt: 178. "Don't do it. If you attack now, then I won't be able to keep you safe"

Character: Jin Ling

The Best Medicine, by BaconnEggs

Wei Wuxian knows something is wrong when he wakes up before Lan Wangji does.

It's nine in the morning. Waking up at this time is par for the course for Wei Wuxian, but absolutely unheard of for Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian turns over to look at him, and even in the dim light filtering in from the curtains, the drawn paleness of his skin is hard to miss.Wei Wuxian grazes a tentative hand over Lan Wangji’s forehead and he seems to wince at the touch, face tightening as a low groan escapes his lips. The knuckles of Wei Wuxian’s fingers are met with dry, unpleasant warmth.

A fever.

(AKA Wei Wuxian takes care of a sick Lan Wangji because dammit Lan Wangji deserves to be taken care of and given soup as much as Wei Wuxian does)

Alternate Evil, by enchantingmiranchahalo

Post-canon Wei Wuxian time travels to the moment he's reunited with Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng after the Burial Mounds.

Serial Killer, by nirejseki

“So what are you going to do about it, Xichen?” Jin Guangyao heard Nie Mingjue demanding, and paused, tilting his head to the side to listen rather than proceeding to enter the room.

Nie Mingjue had gotten increasingly irascible as of late, no doubt in large part to the growing influence of the Song of Turmoil that he’d been playing for him, and much of his ire was (correctly, although unknowingly) aimed at Jin Guangyao. It therefore would be better to stay outside and listen, to figure out what argument Nie Mingjue was using and design appropriate countermeasures – to convince Lan Xichen that Nie Mingjue was, as usual, making a fuss when there was no reason, and that it was safe to simply ignore him or downplay his concerns.

“Da-ge…”

“Don’t da-ge me! He’s killing people!”

Jin Guangyao tensed.

intersections, by sasamelons

He had just made it to the streetcar stop when he heard his name being called.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying clattered his way down the street with his hastily-thrown on jacket and wild shoulder-length hair falling out of his ponytail. Lan Zhan had given up on trying to fight his way across the crowd before he left, had only managed to catch Wei Ying’s eye and wave from the other side of the room. His heart sped up at the thought that the other man had run out of the bar to say goodbye.

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he said in between pants as he caught his breath. Despite his exhaustion and eagerness to get home only a moment ago, Lan Zhan had the sudden thought that he might be happy to stand on this street corner forever, if Wei Ying kept saying his name like that. “You’re leaving already?”

Growing up, at five intersections.

A Game of Chess..., by Ladycroft4evr

Just WangXian hanging out at Cloud Recesses, Life after Yi City... specifically after that insanely adorable bunny lantern/heart eyes at Tanzou market <3

Of course WangXian have a heck of a lot of free time between then and the Epic Confession @ Jinlintai :D So A bored Wei WuXian suggests a game of Chess (Weiqi/Go), small bet between WangXian...juniors make a cameo too lol.. Have fun, folks :)

Unfinished:

Rated T:

I've Heard of Second Chances, but This Is Ridiculous, by velvet_green

One of Wei Wuxian’s experimental talisman arrays sends himself, his husband and his brother to that mythical land of long ago – the Gusu Lan lectures of their youth.

Wei Wuxian is amused. Lan Wangji is silent. Jiang Cheng is angry.

And their younger versions are mostly just very, very confused.

Muted, by Akabara_13

Jiang FengMian thought the boy would talk again once the storm passed, but Madam Yu praised his silence. The boy would not talk to anyone, but his brother and sister.

demons run when a good man goes to war, by Miranda_Aurelia

In their attempt to consolidate power, Wei Wuxian is framed and executed by the Jin Sect.

A pity, because Wei-xiong was possibly the only person that could have stopped Lan Wangji from razing Koi Tower to the ground, thought Nie Huaisang uncharitably. As for him? They really should have left his brother alone.

Serendipity, by midnight_soul

Lan Wangji is tired of his family’s passive-aggressive persistence in his love life. He will not go on another blind date; the first two times were disastrous enough.

Wei Wuxian has had enough of his family telling him no one would want to stick with him, no one decent at least.

One trying to live his life peacefully and another wanting to prove his family wrong, how can their plan fail? They’re practically meant for each other.

Decay exists as an extinct form of life., by Amanie

Wei wuxian dies after years with the people he loved.

And then he woke up.

——

A jar of emperor’s smile crashed to the ground.

And Wei Wuxian screamed.

“How do you kill an immortal?”

Rated G:

The Undesirable Son, by FragranceLotion97

Wei Wuxian has been living with his Master, Baoshan Sanren, ever since his parents died at a Night Hunt when he was ten years old. Years later, his Master sends him off to join the lecture in Cloud Recesses for a special secret mission to save the entire Cultivation World from the heinous dictator, Wen Ruohan.

Wei Wuxian's journey in finding the real meaning of family and love in Cloud Recesses.

Patriarch, by nilavu

In which Hanguang-jun sends a letter to the Yiling Patriarch inviting him to Jin Rulan's one-month celebration and receives a surprising letter back.

#the untamed #untamed fanfiction #mo dao zu shi #chen qing ling #cql #mdzs

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baseballbitch116 · 4 years

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Hurts So Good

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader

Setting: Takes place shortly after the group arrived at Alexandria

Request: I never asked for one before and I don’t know what to say really lol but can you do Daryl x reader where they fight like mad but they love each other and one day they fight and just kiss and everyone shocked lol something like that thank you if ya can...

Word Count: 1955

Warnings: Strong language & angst

Masterlist | Fandoms | Submit A Request

[gif does not belong to me] Thank you everyone for 2,000 followers!! ♥

You and Daryl had been arguing a lot since the group has arrived at Alexandria. You knew that he was struggling to accept that a place like this existed, that he was afraid to let his guard down. You needed a place like this so bad though, it came at exactly the right time. Daryl knew that too. He saw you losing yourself on the road. He saw you losing your humanity, your hope, your will to live. He knew that you needed some sort of normalcy and security - but he was afraid that this place would make the group weak.

Most importantly, he was afraid that you would get hurt if you or he let yourselves get comfortable. He watched as you tried to interact with the other people in the community. He watched you kiss Deanna’s ass, get assigned a “job,” as you made yourself comfortable in the group’s “home.” It’s not that he didn’t want this for you, he just wanted you to be safe. And his gut was telling him that you would not be.

Because of this, he had been growing increasingly impatient with you. With every passing day you acted more and more like the other people in the community. You would take long showers, not carry your gun at Deanna’s request, wander the community taking strolls - acting stupid, in his opinion. You tried to convince him to join you, but he refused. He didn’t even want to shower, it was a luxury - something that did not exist in the new world. Hell, it never existed for him.

It also didn’t help that one of Deanna’s sons had taken a liking to you. As if Daryl didn’t have enough to worry about, now he had some ignorant prick hitting on his girl. It seemed like no matter what he did he was destined to lose you, one way or another.

He sat on the porch of the group’s house, cleaning his crossbow, his mind wandering as he did so. You had been avoiding him the last few days and it was only making him more angry. He mentally relived last week when the group came to Alexandria. Remembering how he warned you not to get too comfortable. How he argued with the group when Deanna asked them not to carry weapons around the community. How he yelled at you when you took her side. He remembered the look on your face when he said that you were being stupid and gonna get yourself killed. He didn’t like yelling at you, but he didn’t like the idea of you being in any sort of danger.

His blood boiled as he acknowledged that you were safer by his side than off somewhere avoiding him. He intended on confronting you when he came across you some time today. A huff escaped his chapped lips as he shifted his weight against the hard wall of the house. He glanced up when he saw someone walk by. The woman briefly made eye contact with him before hurrying past the house without a second glance. He knew that everyone was apprehensive about him, and he did not care. He was annoyed when you told him that he wasn’t being friendly to the other people here and that he needed to do his part to make sure they were able to stay.

More and more irritating memories of the last few days flooded his mind as he sat there, working him up even more. He stood up when he heard some commotion coming from the front gate. One of Deanna’s sons, Aiden, was hollering at Glenn and making a scene. That was the one that had been pushing his luck with Y/N the last couple days - blatantly flirting with her when surely he must know about Daryl. Had she not told him? Did she not want him to know? He made his way down the porch stairs toward the group of people gathered at the gate, anger coursing through his veins. Who did this guy think he was?

Daryl felt something snap inside of him when he saw Aiden shove Glenn twice, picking a fight with him. He began jogging over, still a while away from them, blinded by his surroundings - acting on instict. He didn’t see Rick or Y/N heading over, he didn’t pay attention to anything other than the rage built up inside of him that he intended on taking out on this guy.

Deanna hollers at her son and Daryl doesn’t hear the conversation from his distance, but he continues making his way over, even a dirty look being enough to push him over the edge. He could feel it inside of himself. And then it happened. Just as Daryl got close enough, he heard Aiden ask his mom why she let them in.

“Cuz we actually know what we’re doing.” Glenn remarked and Aiden spun around on his heel and swung at Glenn. Glenn dodged it and punched Aiden in the face, knocking him to the ground. Deanna and the others are hollering in the background as she and Noah try to break up the beginning fight, but Daryl’s blinders were up. Just as he’s close enough he sees Nicholas go after Glenn, so he tackles him to the ground with ease. He has him pinned to the ground by his throat as Rick attempts to get Daryl off of him. “Hey! Do not do this now.” Rick demands in Daryl’s ear as he tries to pry him off of the smaller man. Daryl spots Aiden standing up behind Rick and releases Nicholas who scurries behind Deanna.

Aiden wipes the blood from his nose briefly before taking a step back, making a wrong move by approaching Y/N. “Your friend is fuckin crazy.” He growls at Y/N, holding his nose. She gives him a look before taking a step back from him. Daryl stalks back and forth as he watches, not hearing a word Deanna is saying, nor anything Rick is muttering to him as he blocks his path. His sole focus is on Aiden and Y/N.

“What, seriously?” Aiden exclaims when Y/N moves away from him. “Look what he did to me!”

“You swung at him first. You’re lucky I don’t put you on your ass too.” She growls in Glenn’s defense. Daryl feels the anger subsiding for about half a second as he feels proud of his girl for taking Glenn’s side. Aiden scoffs at Y/N, taking a step into her personal space, clearly angry and embarrassed. “I’d like to see you try.” He threatens her, ignoring his mother’s yelling.

Rick knows what’s about to happen but isn’t quick enough to grab Daryl before he lunges at Aiden. He punches him in the face, the contact making an ugly sound as he trips backwards. Daryl easily tackles him to the ground and has him pinned beneath his strong legs, blocking off his airway with the pressure on his chest from his knees as he relentlessly punches him. Rick and Michonne fight hard to pull him off of Aiden, but he hangs onto his throat as he shouts at him for daring to threaten you.

“Daryl! Stop it!” You scream at him, making his blood boil more. He finally gets off of him, only to redirect his attention on you. He glares at you angrily as he moves away from Aiden’s limp body, shutting out everyone around him. Rick stares in disbelief at the expression on his face as he glares at you. He has never seen him direct his anger toward you in this sort of way before.

“What?” You challenge your boyfriend. You aren’t afraid of his temper - if he needed to let off some steam you would rather it be on you and not the community’s leader’s son.

“So yer really gonna defend that prick? After what he just did to Glenn? To you?” He growls, stalking back and forth as he glares at you.

“Excuse me?! Because I don’t want you to kill him means I’m taking his side?” You exclaim.

“Right like ya haven’t been all up on his dick since the second we got here!” Daryl shouts, pointing an accusing finger at you.

Your eyes widen in shock and anger at his outburst. “What?! Since fucking when?!”

“Don’t pretend ya haven’t been avoiding me to kiss his fuckin ass! Yer so desperate tuh stay here ya probably already fucked him!” He shouts, taking a step in your direction. Rick puts a warning hand on Daryl’s shoulder but he shrugs it off without breaking his glare at you. Deanna and some others are hollering but he ignores all of them.

“You are absolutely ridiculous, Daryl.” You growl, turning around and heading off away from the crowd. You couldn’t believe he just said that in front of everyone.

Rick tries to stop him but Daryl follows after you, ignoring everyone calling after him. “Hey!” He hollers, grabbing your shoulder to make you face him. You whip around and shove his chest.

“How dare you!” You exclaim, shoving him once more. He stares back at you as you shove him, taking your anger out on him. “How dare you say some bullshit like that! And in front of everyone! Is that what you think of me?! Huh?! You really think that low of me?!” You shout angrily. He stares back at you, his own anger subsiding as he realizes what he said. “Answer me!”

“Ya have been avoidin me.” He mutters, his harsh gaze burning through you.

“Because all we do is fight! Not because I’m fucking someone else! How dare you act as if I would take his side over Glenn’s! I would’ve beat his ass if he actually hit him!” You continue to shout, tears burning at your eyes. You are so tired of fighting with Daryl. “And how dare you act as if I would cheat on you!”

“Well why the hell not?! Yer so determined to stay here!” He hollers, pointing his accusing finger at you again as he shifts.

“So now I’m a fucking prostitute?! That’s what you think of me?!” You scream, shoving his hard chest again.

“No!”

“That’s what you’re fuckin implying!”

“Y/N-”

“You’re absolutely ridiculous Daryl! You’re always fucking picking fights anymore! Do you even give a shit about me anymore?!”

“Y/N!”

“No! I’m tired of this! You don’t even act like you love me anymore! All we do is fight and now you fuckin accuse me of this bullshit! I’m-” Daryl grows impatient and grabs your arm roughly, pulling you into his chest, glaring down at you for a moment. You stare up into his eyes that have noticeably softened before angrily reaching up and kissing him. He holds you firm against his body, your kiss growing softer with each passing moment - your anger subsiding.

From a few yards away everyone else watches in shock. The Alexandrians are baffled and Rick and the others just shake their head - not very shocked by the intensity of the two of you. You tended be very hot and cold, especially lately.

You slowly pull away, your breathing heavy from the kiss and your raging emotions.

“I didn’t mean that.” Daryl mutters, his forehead resting on yours as he lets go of you.

“I know.” You mumble, a small chuckle escaping your lips. “Sorry.”

“Me too.” He responds, giving your forehead a quick kiss before taking a step back, regaining consciousness that you guys were not alone.

“C’mon, let’s clean up your hands.” You say, tugging him back toward the house as the others begin to disperse, bewildered by the events that just took place.

---

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anonymousanomieness · 3 years

Text

Cheat the Church of Integrity — Strip the Sanctuary of Truth — Compromise the Cult of Society — Life is YOUR Game

The Political Game at a “Twenty-Twenty” Glance — Mavericks Want a Chance, Not a Stance

“Let your life be a counter-friction to stop the machine. What I have to do is to see, at any rate, that I do not lend myself to the wrong which I condemn.” – Henry David Thoreau (Civil Disobedience)

“Truly it demands something godlike in him who has cast off the common motives of humanity, and has ventured to trust himself for a taskmaster. High be his heart, faithful his will, clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doctrine, society, law, to himself, that a simple purpose may be to him as strong as iron necessity is to others!” — Ralph Waldo Emerson (Self-Reliance)

(Emerson and Thoreau were essentially family — and while I have been inspired by both, here you will find a handful of quotes from Emerson, as his masterpiece, “Self-Reliance,” could not be more beneficial to the individual than it is now, in the 2020s.)

My most recent disappointment with political ideology falls within the realm of vocabulary. Perhaps what is most disturbing is the reality that the term “liberal” has been so recklessly thrown about without any regard for its etymology. It is derived from the Latin word liber, which literally means “free, unrestricted, unimpeded; unbridled, unchecked, licentious.” Yet, we witness today’s so-called liberals regularly begging for State intervention and regulation with regard to personal liberty. A proper example of a liberal should be a growing adolescent seeking to free himself from the grasp of authority…but logic is defied once we realize the actual example is that of a desperate child, seeking to be coddled. Theorists have attempted to justify this by qualifying the term (i.e., classical vs. modern liberalism) – and new terms have arisen, such as “New Left,” in an attempt to settle confusion. However, this is all hogwash. I don’t need an advanced degree in Political Science to understand what “liberal” truly means. My well-informed, logical intuition is not subservient to the convoluted academia surrounding the righteous experts.

“When private men shall act with original views, the lustre will be transferred from the actions of kings to those of gentlemen.”

While I could potentially dismantle many faulty terms at length, I will remain disciplined to focus on one additional term that particularly troubles me: reactionary. On the widely familiar models of the traditional political spectrum, we find this adjective to be located on the far-right. The common understanding is that people said to fall within this category have a tendency to drastically react to changes proposed by the Left. This implies that the Left actively brings about social change – however, the truth is, the vast majority of leftists do not bring about anything; rather, they merely advocate and petition. It is actually the State that is acting as the Shepherd and providing direction, whether it be at the democratic request of The People, or at the whim of the mighty staff He wields. The sociopolitical stance of the State may waver at any time as it makes its own revisions, and meanwhile, both sides of the spectrum react in some way. If the changes imposed by the State favor the Left, then the Left will react favorably and vocally support the changes, while the Right reacts unfavorably and denounces them. The reverse can occur just as easily, where the Left will react unfavorably and criticize changes made by the State of which they do not approve, while the Right cheers on.

“…Most men have bound their eyes with one or another handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities of opinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars.”

All of this behavior, on both sides, is reactionary, if we are – once again – to pay respect to etymology and logic, rather than outmoded definitions. If anything, “reactionary” is meant to be a replacement for both “liberal” and “conservative,” or “Democrat” and “Republican.” These latter labels, much like a magnetic field, can suddenly and drastically flip, depending on societal circumstances and the motivations of the State. In this instance, to introduce additional terms such as “Modern Democrat” or “New Republicans” to the mix would be ridiculous. It would be better to simply call them all what they truly are: mindlessly reactive sheep. Additionally, we have radical extremists on the far-left and far-right, exhibiting more potent behavior in an effort to lead in tandem with the State. They are the rabid sheepdogs — not heroes for the sheep as many would claim, but instead, the most devout servants to the Shepherd.

Allow me to clarify my use of the word “mindless” in this context. Mindlessness is the opposite of mindfulness, which is the ongoing practice of pure self-awareness. Since we have spawned, we have been crafting stories about ourselves within our own minds. These stories are fiction…but more crucially invigorating is the fact that we, the egos, are the perpetual authors of this creative fiction. You are not merely a profile of predetermined, prepackaged personality traits and qualities; you are the architect of your ongoing life experience. This means, whether you believe it or not, you are always in control of your story.

“These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for the better securing of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and customs.”

The mindless sheep do not trust themselves enough to fearlessly lead their own lives, so they follow a sheepdog of their choice. Additionally, the rabid sheepdogs on both sides of the spectrum have immersed themselves in the Political Game so deeply, that they have all but lost the pages of their unique, individual stories; they have been trained effectively. Their insistence, deliberateness, and passionate leadership seem to resemble mindful self-authenticity, especially when compared to the robotic behavior of the sheep; nevertheless, their passion is a mental addiction beyond their control. They are but mindless slaves to their own deeply-rooted convictions, mostly due to the Shepherd’s Pavlovian tactics.

Continuing with the political spectrum…Centrists, on the one hand, are mindlessly moderate — moderate because they support a balance of social equality and hierarchy while trying to avoid drastic change, and mindless in the event that they still have faith in collectivist politics at all, while lacking faith in themselves. They are merely undecided, and usually do not possess the wherewithal to take the plunge into pure individualism. They would rather be provided with a narrative than write their own. They are sheep trotting in circles.

Now, let us examine the mindful radical, who is synonymous with the anarchists and insurrectionists. He is very much in touch with his individualism, very much desiring to denounce the contrived narratives being spewed out by the Shepherd and His dogs, and very much in opposition to the collective hive mind. He is the antithesis of the mindlessly radical sheepdog, who is consumed by authoritarianism.

However, deep within the grottos of his soul — as much as he despises it — even the mindful radical knows he has something in common with his arch enemy.

In the spirit of the yin-yang, the mindless radical — on one side — is overwhelmingly dependent on authority and virtue…but he still carries with him a faint memory of a time when his unyielding passion once served himself — a time he wishes to forget. He is able to suppress this memory somewhat easily, because his efforts are positively reinforced by so many who share his position. The mindful radical, on the other side, is overwhelmingly independent…but he still carries with him a faint memory of a time when his unyielding passion once served the collective — a time when he believed the system could work in favor of all, and thus in favor of him. It is this weakness that the other side thrives on, as they ever-so-steadily try to turn him around, and ever-so-gently guide him back to pasture. He must be so careful not to succumb, for this would reveal to him that he is not in fact the fierce and mighty wolf he fantasizes about and so helplessly wishes to be — but only a black sheep; unique from the others, perhaps, but still a sheep.

This leaves us with the mindful moderate — perhaps the most ideal position to take, if one only has the audacity. The mindful moderate is the wolf in sheep’s clothing, and ultimately the biggest threat to the State. The Shepherd may contend with the radical wolves at first, as they are more readily disruptive. However, the Shepherd does not remain idle once the hunt ceases, for He is always peering into the distance — on the lookout for a wolf in disguise — which He will later detain and retrain…or destroy. The State’s Orwellian methods of mass surveillance are living proof of this. Much to the advantage of the mindful moderate, the general public is still grappling with him, mostly because he is hard to spot…and even when he is discovered, his Machiavellian methods allow him to escape consequences. His peers grow increasingly suspicious of him, but he knows all too well that they’ve got nothing on him, for he has been refining his craft for years. While all of the mindlessly reactive sheep were trotting about, trying to keep up with the crowd, and wrestling with superficial matters, the wolf in sheep’s clothing has been imitating them, keeping tabs, and machinating all along.

Why does the mindful moderate keep to himself? Why does he ride the fence, while reaping benefits from both sides? Is he mentally ill? Is he a sociopath? Is he evil?

“Perhaps he’s emotionally injured. Yes, that’s it! He’s just depressed! If we cure him of his depression — if we shoot him up with drugs — he will be all better, and we can nurture him back to order!”

The mindful moderate has been hurt, for sure…but the same holds true for all the others. The mindless reactionaries on both sides entertain themselves with the notion that they are “normal,” while the radicals are simply angry, and the mavericks are hopelessly lonely and depressed. This is because sheep and dogs rule by day, when the sun is there to comfort them. However, when the full moon rises, it is the wolves that rule the night, for the darkness does not deter them. The herd huddles together to calm nerves as it beholds these outsiders howling from afar. When the bright and sunny illusion peters out, the sheep are faced with the horrid truth that these howls are not cries of despair; rather, these are pompous battle cries. The mindfully radical wolf is outspoken, while the mindfully moderate wolf in sheep’s clothing is quietly confident and sly. The mindless are ultimately jealous of this self-confidence, self-prioritization, and self-reliance, no matter how much they pretend to pity it.

“Your isolation must not be mechanical, but spiritual, that is, must be elevation. At times the whole world seems to be in conspiracy to importune you with emphatic trifles. Friend, client, child, sickness, fear, want, charity, all knock at once at thy closet door, and say,--'Come out unto us.' But keep thy state; come not into their confusion. The power men possess to annoy me, I give them by a weak curiosity. No man can come near me but through my act.”

The wolf pups once frolicked with the curious lambs, respecting them, until they were all segregated at the hands of the Shepherd and His dogs. The lambs were not at fault for this. The wolf pities the predicaments of the sheep — for he knows the nature of the sheepdog better than they. However, the hatred and fear emanating from the adult herd is far too strong to diffuse. It has been attempted time and time again. This hatred and fear fuels the determination of the mindful radical, who not only seeks to protect himself, but also to glorify the unbridled freedom and autonomy for which he stands. He climbs the highest mountains to maintain his stance.

In contrast, the mindfully moderate, Machiavellian maverick does not bother to fight for a stance; he simply wants a chance — the best chance — for personal success, happiness, and pleasure…or simply contentment. He knows his best chance will not come from fighting the current of a raging river, for even the mighty wolf cannot manage that. No, his best chance will come from waiting patiently, and riding with the current when it suits him. He will fight to defend his interests when necessary, but he knows that his best chance comes not from confrontation, but contemplation. His best weapon is not passion, nor brute strength, but intelligence. His inconsistency — his wavering is not to be mistaken for ignorance or confusion; it is his most effective self-serving strategy.

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day.--'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.'--Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.”

The maverick is not troubled — only misunderstood. Let us not underrate him, but understand him.

#egoist #egoism #egoist anarchism #anarcho-egoism #individualist #individualism #individualist anarchism #anarcho-pessimism #autonomy #autonomist #autonomism #anticiv #society #anarchy

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redprinceau · 4 years

Text

Salt in the Wound

So it begins...

Jon has for years dealt with the crap given to him by Eduardo. Every day is another day of abuse for him and it is only a miracle he hasn't killed his roommates yet. Well that's to change when an old friend comes back.

“Todd!”

It was when that one name was spoken that another straw was added to the camel’s back. A four-lettered word that once spoken guaranteed hell on that house.

Small black eyes, once trained on the television, attempting to enjoy whatever unintelligible crap was on at that moment, turned to the front door where two men stood. One he knew far too well, the other not so much. The new one was wearing red clothing with light brown hair, their bangs nearly covering their eyes. He was being greeted by the “head” of the house in a full hug before being pulled inside.

“It’s been so long,” Eduardo said, leading the red-dressed man over to the couch. Jon watched the display, a little confused on who this guy was. He didn’t look like anything special, but one thing he knew for sure was that Eduardo was acting rather friendly towards the red-clad man.

“Todd!” Jon jumped when the name was repeated, again, this time by Mark. His purple shirted “friend” stood up and embraced this strange man as well, even going as far as to pat him on the back. Though his face didn’t reveal so, in fact, it seemed entirely blank on the outside, his inward thoughts were a mixture of anger and confusion. Who was this man? Why was he getting such a warm embrace?

“Erm, who is this?” he asked aloud, pointing at the man who was for some reason the center of everyone’s attention. Eduardo sniffed, muttering something about “being a loser” and “dying” and returned to talking with the new man. Mark, perhaps taking sympathy, did respond.

“This is Todd. I don’t think you were here, but he was our roommate until he moved away to “chase his dreams,”” he made air quotes with his fingers. The red-clothed man, apparently named Todd, chuckled nervously at the remark but didn’t say anything to it.

“Oh, I see,” Jon nodded though not at all accepting the answer. There was still a strange man in his house, and he didn’t like the answers being given to him.

A part of him really wanted to stand up and beat this guy and scream and everything. The other part, ever so small, did not. By some miracle, he listened to that little part of him and hadn't attacked his roommates. Specifically on the roommate dressed in green. No matter how much he may have wanted to.

“So, how long will you be staying?” he asked, trying to use every fiber of his body not to raise his voice. No matter how much he wanted to.

“How long?” Eduardo scoffed, rolling his eyes as he did so. “He’s moving back in!”

“You don’t mind...do you?” The one named Todd finally spoke. The tone didn’t at all contain any negativity if anything it was the complete opposite. Jon opened his mouth to give his answer when Eduardo beat him to it.

“Pfft, it doesn’t matter. You can stay anyways!”

Jon once more had to bite back the want to scream. He was used to this behavior after all. Though it didn’t make his attitude any more than he already did. Perhaps he could get away with some coffee and hide away in his room for a few hours. Listen to some music while he avoided his other roommates.

“Where will he stay?” Asked Mark, ever the smart one to ask the appropriate questions.

“He can stay in his old room,” Eduardo said as he basically herded Todd onto the red couch. The red-clothed man sat down next to Jon with a bit of reluctance and still seemed uncomfortable with sitting with the blue one.

Jon’s small black eyes blinked in confusion when he heard Eduardo’s reply. The gears slowly began to churn away in his head as realization struck. There were only three bedrooms in the house, it had been that way since he had moved in. But the third room had been vacant when it had been offered, and that’s when it hit him. After all, it was only clockwork by this point.

“Hang on a minute,” Jon glared up at Eduardo, a hint of his fury shining in his black eyes. “That’s my room, isn’t it? Where am I meant to sleep?”

“You’re sitting on it,” Eduardo spat out. He clearly wasn’t playing this game as he took a seat by their new guest. Mark took his own place back, seeming a bit awkward now that he wasn’t in on the conversation, though seemed content with the television. Meanwhile, Jon was fuming inside. In only five minutes, he had lost own room...now he was sandwiched in between three men with no exact safe place for him to escape to. He tried to keep himself calm, it was just another piece of crap he would have to deal with. Nothing special…

C:C:

Three weeks. It had been three, bloody weeks since Todd had moved in and Jon found his situation growing increasingly worse. Anything that had belonged to him was instantly given to the new roommate. Well, not necessarily everything as most of his blue clothing he was allowed to keep. But his room, his place on the couch, even his favorite mug were all taken from him. And given to who? To Todd of course!

Sometimes the days would be okay, almost enjoyable, but they were so far in between it could hardly be considered a difference. It really didn’t help that Eduardo was continuing his pursuit to prove he was better than their next door neighbor, Edd. The morning they had found out that Eduardo had some sort of radioactive powers had come to a shock to everyone. Only to later result in lots of tests of what he could do, most of which were inflicted on Jon himself.

After that, when the powers had disappeared, Eduardo seemed to grow a bit calmer. It had made Jon hopeful, thinking that his old friend from years of the past, had come back. He was proved entirely wrong when a couple of days later Eduardo was back to his old ways, for some reason or other.

Meanwhile, as all of this was going on, the neighbors weren’t getting anymore quieter. At one point there had been screaming and loud explosions which resulted in some kind of snow monster. Jon has been there to see it...the others not so much. Which he could hardly be upset about considering that only a few days later, during some sort of zombie apocalypse, Mark had claimed to see how it all came to a close. It was Mark who Eduardo believe though...an apocalypse coming to an end was far more believable than a snow monster, but Jon knew his words weren’t heeded simply because it was he who was speaking them. It was just common knowledge at this point.

Jon had been sitting on his own in the living room, the only place he technically had access to aside from the bathroom, when he heard someone come running in. He blinked his eyes up to see Todd had just run into the room, his eyes quite wild with panic and his face didn’t do anything to hide it. Jon narrowed his eyes, sitting up straight and glaring at the other being.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked, never letting his eyes leave the red-clothed man. Todd jumped when he heard the voice, his brownish eyes growing wider than they had been before. When their eyes locked, Todd instantly relaxed and chuckled nervously.

“Oh, nothing. Just came in after...watching the birds!”

“What? Did one of them explode?” Jon asked dryly. He settled back into his seat but he never once let his eyes off of Todd.

Todd shifted uncomfortably, “no, of course not. That’s ridiculous! I just...I saw a big bird!”

“A big bird…?” Jon repeated with skepticism heavy in his voice. He was going to pursue further, it would have been entertaining considering how much this one man had cost him, but once again it was one man that disrupted him from this. Eduardo came marching into the room, a heavy frown on his face as he plopped down on the couch by Jon. The blue man was beginning to think he had gone unnoticed when he felt a hand whack him in the face as a green sleeved arm took hold of the TV remote.

“That loser, Edd, has a new guy living with him,” Eduardo spat out with narrowed eyes. He took a long drink from Diet Coke, slamming it down on the table by the couch. The contents within the can sloshed around, splashing the wooden table and getting the fizzy drink on the carpet. Jon muttered a curse under his breath, knowing that it would be his responsibility to pick that up later.

“What was that?!” Eduardo snapped his attention at Jon, eyes alight with fury.

“I said “who?”” He lied. He was really getting good at that. A few years under this lifestyle indeed held its perks.

Eduardo snorted, clearly skeptical, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue as much. He just waved his hand, his drink sloshing in the metal can. “I don’t know, some guy in a red hoodie. He’s probably trying to copy us.”

Jon frowned and couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He knew exactly who it was from that description alone. He had lived there a few years ago before moving out of Edd’s house for some unknown reason. Jon has barely paid it any mind, but it seemed now that same guy was back and Eduardo was finally taking notice of him.

“Oh, I think I saw him too,” Todd pitched in, but he hardly seemed comfortable with that confession. If anything, he started backing out of the room with a nervous expression. It was horribly hidden. “Seems like an interesting sort of guy. Well, I best be off.”

And with that, Todd was gone. Jon’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t make chase after him. He instead took the remote, ready to turn on something when the remote was snatched out of his hands. He huffed and folded his arms over his chest, blocking out the voice that was insulting him and just turned his attention towards the TV.

He sat there for a few hours, Mark at somewhere in the middle, came to join them watch whatever it was Eduardo had put on. Something about...cats but it didn’t have any real substance to it. Their afternoon was going peacefully when there was a loud crash, and the whole house shook. Mark was the first to his feet, racing to the front of the house where the crash had been heard.

“What was that?” Todd cried as he came running into the room. Eduardo, who was now holding a mug of...something shrugged but didn’t bother getting up from his seat.

“Hey, cool! Free sofa!”

Everyone remaining in the room unanimously agreed that they would investigate what had happened. Well, Jon and Eduardo did. Todd lingered behind, seeming unsure and nervous. When Jon got up to the door, his eyes went wide when he saw the large couch that had somehow been thrown into their house. It had utterly shattered one of their windows, and for some reason, Mark had thought it was a good idea to sit in it.

Eduardo pulled the front door open, for whatever reason, and it seemed to be so perfectly timed to watch an angry Tom go storming by. Jon walked up to stand next to Eduardo to get a better look at the spiky-haired man as he went past.

“Wow, he looks happy,” Eduardo smirked as he swirled his drink around before taking a large sip.

“Really?” Jon rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorpost, “because he didn’t look happy to me. In fact, he seemed kind of–”

“I wish you were dead,” Jon was caught off guard by a finger pressing into his face, horrible breath, and angered filled eyes glaring into his own. Jon immediately felt the urge to punch at his roommate, and he very well would have if it hadn’t been for, surprisingly enough, Todd. The red-clothed man got in between them both, pushing Eduardo away with a nervous chuckle.

“Now, now there’s no need for that. We’re all friends here, right?” Todd asked, giving them both a hopeful smile. Eduardo sniffed and turned back into the house, slamming the door as he did so. Todd breathed a sigh of relief before walking off, now even bothering to look back at Jon. All of a sudden, he seemed to have something new on his mind.

Jon looked through the hole in the wall, trying to see if he could figure out what happened but all he could see was the demolished wall and people looking into their home. He frowned, eyes narrowing as he searched for anything that could have caused this when he heard Eduardo calling his name. Sighing, he pulled back into the house and headed back to the TV, leaving Mark to just enjoy his couch.

C:C:

A few days later, things seemed to have gone back into normality. As far as Jon knew, Tom hadn’t returned since they had seen him go stomping off and the red hoodie guy Eduardo had seen was still living with Edd. Otherwise, everything else was the same aside from their own new roommate who wasn’t making Jon’s sanity last any longer.

Jon had been brewing himself another cup of coffee–his second one that day–when Todd had come into the room with a rather grim expression on his face. Jon barely gave him any notice, now very used to this red-clothed man’s antics and just accepting them as usual. What he couldn’t accept, however, was when Todd pulled the entire coffee machine out of the wall, hot coffee sloshing dangerously around in the carafe.

“Oi!” Jon snapped, slamming his coffee mug on the counter with a loud smack. “That’s my coffee!”

Todd just stared at him as if the other man had just insulted him. Jon had to admit, Todd didn’t look well at all. He was deathly pale with dark bags under his eyes and hair messier than usual. Jon briefly considered if maybe there was some kind of zombie in his kitchen, but he dispelled the thoughts. His current issue was with the man trying to steal his coffee from him, and he would not have it. He reached out to take the machine back, and that’s when Todd finally reacted. He stepped back, pulling the coffee machine closer to himself as he glared at the blue-clothed man with an almost animalistic glare.

“Give me my coffee,” Jon grunted making another grab for the machine. He didn’t even care if he got the device, he just wanted the drink he’d been working on for the past couple of minutes. He’d put too much time into it for it to be wasted because some guy from America wanted his machine.

They fought for the machine, at one point growing physical as Todd delivered a swift and hard punch to Jon’s jaw. It managed to force what little grip Jon had on the machine and Todd ran out of the room as fast as he possibly could. Jon groaned, rubbing at his sore face when realization hit him like a truck. His coffee had been taken him...by the same guy who had taken everything else away from him. Growling, he scrambled to his feet and made chase, tripping over his own feet as he ran down the halls. His only clue as to where Todd had run off to was the sound of a door slamming shut, and he was pretty darn sure which one. Coming to his own door, he kicked it open, eyes alight with rage and fists clenched tightly into balls. Well, they were until he saw the state his room was now in.

What had been a rather bare bones room with nothing but a few cat posters taped to the tan walls were now covered in papers and so many books and computers. It hardly looked like the room he would have slept in, the bed in complete disarray and he was pretty sure the mattress was torn. Then there was the damage to the rest of the room. There were pencil and pen marks all over the walls and floor, there was so much paper the wooden floor could hardly be seen, and then the computers. There were so many computers and radars he was surprised he hadn’t even taken notice before. Especially with all the constant beeping they were making, it was aggravating! On the window sill, there was a pair of binoculars and more pens and papers. Why they were there of all places, he didn’t know, but he had a feeling it was definitely for non-privacy reasons.

His attention was pulled away from the mess of his room when he heard Todd shuffle closer to the window. If he had looked bad in the kitchen, he worked worse in here. Perhaps it was the mess of the room, but he looked more as a mad scientist than a normal human being.

Todd finally set the coffee machine on the ground, taking a step back and holding his hands up in what Jon could interpret as surrender. Through shaking voice, the red-clothed man muttered, “I just wanted a drink.”

Unfortunately for Todd, Jon was no longer focused on the stolen coffee. The blue man gestured angrily towards the mess of the room, teeth gritted and trying to hold back a few particular words, “What happened here?! What did you do to my room?!”

Todd was shaking, taking steps back until his back hit the wall. His line of vision never left Jon. “I-I had to. It was the perfect spot...I couldn’t pass it up.”

He sounded like he was begging which annoyed Jon. He stalked up to Todd and, despite the height difference, stared down the red-clothed man. His response was a whimper and the taller man sinking lower into a sitting position.

“Perfect spot for what?! Why are you really here? There’s a completely different reason aside from ‘coming home,’ isn’t there? Come on...out with it!” he didn’t even care if he could be heard by others. He had been in this state of sleeping on the living room couch and losing all of his things to this one pathetic man. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now!

Todd whimpered again before letting his head hang low. It was perhaps a way to gather his thoughts because when he raised it, his shaking body had eased and his fearful eyes somewhat masked. “I’m here to apprehend the Red Leader.”

“Red Leader?” Jon felt his eye twitch at the name. “The Red Leader?! You’re telling me...that the reason my life has been going downhill, is because you wanted to stalk the next door neighbor!”

Todd opened his mouth to protest only for it slapped shut. His eyes went wide, his body rigid. After a moment of doing nothing but just standing there wide-eyed, he spoke. “You know?”

Jon was fuming, “Of course I know! He had a bloody automatic gun last time he was here. It’s truly a wonder no one else has found him out yet.”

Todd was at a loss of words. His mouth opened and closed in disbelief, mimicking a fish out of water. Jon made a noise of anger and stomped off, planning on getting Eduardo. He had a pretty good idea that once the “leader” of this house found out about his friend’s real intention things would begin to look up. He had just stepped out into the hall when a hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him back with a jerk.

“Wh-where are you going?” Todd stuttered out, somehow looking worse than he had before.

“Exposing you,” Jon snarled back, yanking his shoulder back. “I have dealt with more crap in this one house alone, and you haven’t made that any easier. So thanks, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Todd’s face contorted into one of pure horror. He jumped forward, latching his arms around Jon’s body and attempted to pull him down. It worked to some extent but not in the way Todd had been hoping for. He gasped as he was knocked backward and a full grown man fell on top of him. The breath was knocked out of him, but for some reason, he kept as tight a grip he could muster. Jon pulled out of it easily.

“You can’t,” Todd wheezed, wrapping his arms around his sore stomach. “You can’t tell them. They can’t know.”

“You should’ve thought about that before you took my room,” Jon bit back before turning away. This time he was greeted with the frown of Eduardo and the confused look of Mark. He froze in step only to snap out of his stupor and point towards the fallen Todd.

“Eduardo, Todd’s been ly-” “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Jon was taken aback by the voice as Eduardo shouldered past him and walked up to the red-clothed man on the floor. He helped Todd up, all the while glaring up at the shorter man. “Do you really expect to be able to get away with that?!”

Jon opened his mouth, a million words he wanted to say. There was so much wrong with this situation, yet here he was being treated like a villain. He looked to Mark as if seeking aid in this issue, but as always the blonde man sided with Eduardo. Jon watched as his only hope for support in this argument (could it even be considered one?) went to help support Todd onto his feet.

“B-but he’s not even here for you!” Jon tried to explain. “He was spying on Edd and his friends and–”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Eduardo growled out, leaving Todd in the care of Mark as he stalked up towards Jon. “If anything, he’s just making our job easier. You’re recording things, right?”

He addressed this question to Todd who instantly nodded. To that Jon couldn’t even argue about. He had seen the information stored within his room and knew Todd could provide lots of footage no doubt. At this point, Jon wasn’t sure he even had an argument. After all, Eduardo was standing by Todd on this one, and past experiences told him that wouldn’t be shifting. Even if the person he was siding with was technically doing something illegal.

That didn’t mean he was giving up, “Are you kidding me?” Jon motioned his hands towards Todd. “Are you seriously telling me that you side with him over me?”

Eduardo’s eyes narrowed further, hands clenching his side as he did, “Yeah, I am. And if you don’t like that maybe you shouldn’t be here anymore.”

And just like that, Jon had had it. He’d been given the opportunity, and unlike previous times he wasn’t brushing it off. “Maybe I will!” And with that, he turned on his heel.

As he marched down the hall, he couldn’t believe what he was doing and briefly wondered if this was even real. After all these years when he would be yelled at and sometimes physically abused and not once did he catch a break. Now, in a way, he was finally being freed. And it was all thanks to some random guy waltzing in and being treated like some kind of prince. Though, in a way, it stung. On the one hand, he had known Eduardo for years since they were kids even, but then suddenly this guy comes in and gets all this attention. No, Jon was not having it.

When he had spun on his heel, he had marched right to the front door and slammed it behind him as hard as he could. As soon as he had stepped out of the house, he had that brief thought to go back in, to play it off as a joke or beg for forgiveness and then just mope on the couch. To that thought he quickly tossed away and went stomping down the sidewalk, his hands balled into tight fists. His destination was clearly set in mind as he walked into the house of Edd, Tom, and Matt.

C:C:

“What are you doing here?” Tom pointed to the wanted poster where a clear picture of Tord was displayed. It seemed for once Tom wasn’t as drunk as he was clearly put together well enough to put two and two together. Unfortunately for Tord. Tord’s once slightly annoyed face turned to surprise. He honestly had not accounted for the posters, but he supposed there wasn’t much he could do about that now.

“Okay, okay, you got me,” Tord smirked as he held up his hands in surrender. He closed his eyes as if adding an extra effect to his appearance as he began moving towards the large button in the center of the room. “I only came back for something I left beh–”

He was cut off suddenly by a loud bang from somewhere else in the house. Both men blinked in surprise, wondering what it could have been when a fuming Jon from next door came storming in. Both stood in shock as the other blue man came over to where Tord stood and shoved him out of the way. It was at that moment that Tord was snapped out of his shock and speak.

“What are you doing?” Tord cried, watching as a hand hovered over the large button. “Get away from that! That is years worth of work.”

Jon made eye contact with Tord, and the gaze was hardly human. His hand was directly over the red button, barely space between the skin and the metal, “Oh, boo-hoo. Try living with those idiots for a few days. Now, if you excuse me, I have my own roommates to kill.”

The button was pressed and the other men’s eyes went wide, one of fear and the other from shock. They both watched as a tube slid out from the roof above and sucked Jon into it, pulling the shorter man into another room just by the house. Metal bars extended from within the robot to secure him in place as lights came on, illuminating the inside of where he now sat. The area began to shake as from the yard behind Edd’s home a giant, red robot rose up into the open.

It didn’t take long before Jon got the robot moving, forcing it along until in the direction of the house he had called home. Any kind of attachment he had held towards this house had already been ruined by the other roommates. As far as he was concerned, it would better to burn the place down.

Walking up towards the house, the machine’s footfalls were obviously heard proven by the three men now standing outside. All three of them stood there, awestruck, as the giant robot grew closer and closer. Through the visor, Jon could see Todd’s mouth move but what he was saying he couldn’t tell. The red man took off running into the house, Eduardo and Mark remaining outside.

“Jon?!” Eduardo cried out, taking a step back to get a better look at the machine.

“Who else?” Jon asked through the speaker as he pressed one of the multiple buttons. A compartment full of multiple missiles was opened, and Jon took fire, three of the rockets flying out, each for a different target. One went for the house before him, the other towards the one he had come from, and the third went flying off into the city where a loud explosion could be heard. Eduardo and Mark dove for cover as the missile went flying overhead and connected with the building. The once sturdy house with a hole in its wall was reduced to nothing but fire and wood. Eduardo looked behind him, mouth widening in surprise as he saw the destruction of his home. He looked up at Jon, eyes wide and there appeared to even be hurt in them.

“Jon, I thought we were friends! Why are you doing this?” Eduardo called up to the blue man.

“Friends?” Jon repeated, his voice booming over the speaker. “Are you really this stupid?!” He moved the robot to take another step closer towards Eduardo. “I have spent years.” Another step. “Being pushed around by you.” Another step, one too dangerously close towards Eduardo’s legs. “And you use that against me?!”

Eduardo began to crawl back, using his elbows to push him back, “J-Jon, listen–”

“Don’t back away from me!” Jon pushed the robot that extra step, the metal foot landing on Eduardo’s scrambling legs. The pressure was applied, and Eduardo screamed out as the bones of his legs were crushed. No other noise but screams could be made out of Eduardo’s mouth as he slammed his head into the dirt ground behind him.

“How does it feel?” Jon cried through the speakers, pushing the foot deeper into the soil and taking Eduardo’s legs with it. “How does it feel to be crushed under someone else’s rule?!”

“Jon, stop!” Jon looked up to see Mark looking at him, desperation in his voice and face. “This isn’t right! I-I know Eduardo’s done a lot but...this isn’t the right way to do it.”

“The right way?!” Jon screamed, pointing a hand towards Mark. He was practically seething as he removed his foot from Eduardo’s legs and marched the two steps towards Mark. “I have lived here for years...I have gone with whatever you two have wanted to do, and in return I get shoved around. Then this random guy shows up, and you treat him like he’s a king. And you expect me to further ignore this?!”

Mark opened his mouth to respond but nothing he came out. He just lowered his head in shame. He whispered something under his breath, but Jon couldn’t possibly hear. He turned the machine away to face Eduardo. Unlike the green one of the group, Mark had never done anything too horrible. No...Jon wanted his message to get through to Eduardo, and he would be sure that it would.

He reached down the metal arm of the robot down to pick up the still crying man when he halted. He could hear something, something that eerily sounded like sirens, and realization dawned on him. The third missile had gone off somewhere near the city, of course, it would have attracted the attention of the authorities. He was in a giant robot, and he held no doubt he could hold them off, but it was only Eduardo he wanted, and he wasn’t too keen on being taken to prison or being on a wanted list.

“I guess this will have to continue some other day,” Jon growled out as he activated the thrusters within the robot. He felt himself slowly being lifted up in the air and hoped that this thing was as easy to fly as it was at walking.

He began to gain altitude, the remains of the two houses he had known so well starting to grow distant. He sighed in relief, a part of him glad to finally be free of that place. Though he began to wonder where he was going to go from here. One of his main reasons for staying with Eduardo in the first place was for the rent. Now he had lost that and possibly his job and so much more! He sighed, knowing he’d have to start a new life, probably out of the country when the robot began to shake. A light began to flash above him, the words “Master Override” written in bright red letters. Jon’s stomach dropped as the controls froze and the lights went out. The robot began to lose altitude as it went falling down towards the surface below. In the briefness of his mind, he found it ironic how this would be his fate. With a shout, he covered his face, never noticing the air cushions surrounding his body as the robot made an impact with the ground.

C:C:

“...is showing signs of waking.”

Jon groaned at the loud voice. At least, it was loud to him with the cloudiness of his mind. He opened his eyes, wincing as light shone directly into them. Every part of his body hurt as if he had just been thrown off a 50 story building. As memories began to recollect, he realized that that very well could have been the case.

He bolted upright, his eyes growing wider, only to be forced back and feel a terrible pain in his wrists. He groaned, his headache growing worse as he tried to make sense of what had happened to him.

“Easy there,” a voice, vaguely familiar, spoke from above. Jon groaned and tried to blink his eyes open, but it really didn’t help that there was now a light shining directly into his face. He tugged at his arms, growing worried when he couldn’t get them to move in the direction he wanted them to.

There was a sigh from above him, “Patryck, there’s really no reason to tie him down, is there?”

“But sir…” someone, most likely this Patryck, tried to object but was silenced by a shush. With a reluctant sigh, Jon began to feel his arms being released and as soon as they were, he was sitting bolt upright once more, this time proving to be successful. He whipped his head around, trying to find out where he was and who was with him. Needless to say, the man dressed in the red hoodie, who had been the one to create the giant robot, was the last person he was expecting.

“Good morning,” the red hoodie man, or rather Tord, said with a strangely friendly smile. “Glad to see you awake. You sure gave us a scare. You know, stealing my robot and all. It’s broken now, by the way.”

Jon was barely even listening, still trying to figure out what was going on. He was attempting to recollect all that had happened. He remembered stealing a giant robot and blowing a few buildings up. He remembered so vividly how he had crushed Eduardo’s legs and he got a sort of shiver, though he wasn’t sure from what. When everything in full began to come back, he immediately took a defensive. He backed away from them the farthest he could and glared at Tord.

“Where am I?”

Tord blinked before smirking and gestured around the room, “A safe place. I’m Tord, by the way, also known as Red Leader. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.” He then pointed towards the two other men in the room, who stood just opposite of Tord. “That’s Paul and Patryck,” each one raised a hand and gave a brief wave of greeting.

Jon was not amused, “I asked where I was, not for a roll call.”

Tord paused, wondering if he was being actually serious, before chuckling and walking over towards Jon, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “It’s quite simple, Jon. You’re with us, you’re safe. Welcome home.”

Jon could hardly say a word as those two last words repeated in his head. Then, with a voice that shook with question, spoke, “...home?”

#red prince au #eddsworld au #eddsworld Red Prince AU #ew jon #ew tord #ew paul #ew patryck #ew eduardo #ew mark #Well he's just there

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kasdeyathebitterwoman · 4 years

Text

Running Mate - Part 9

Hello, hello, hello! After a good while, part 9 of the running mate series is here! I hope you all like it! I have been taking requests and loving it, so if you have any Henry fix requests, I’d be more than happy to hear them!

Story idea: While running in the English countryside, Henry meets a fun documentarian and sparks fly.

Word Count: 4,032

Adult, 18+, NSFW

CW: sexual intercourse, penetration

@maeleeme @andyrazzledazzle @fanfictionaddiction99 @henrycavillluv32 @jhenno2002 @blossom-a @xceafh @oddsnendsfanfics @severuined

The rest of your time spent on the island was at the mercy of Henry’s schedule and Henry planned a lot for you. His version of relaxing was either playing video games, beating his brothers at board games, and/or walking everywhere. It’s not that you minded walking, but cars were invented for a reason! Regardless, you followed Henry anywhere he took you and he took you to several places. He took you to the north coast cliff paths where you walked with Kal for several hours one day. Henry told you all kinds of stories about growing up with his older brothers here. In return, you shared stories about life on the farm with your family.

Of all the places you explored, your favorite though, was a tie between the Mount Orgueil Castle and La Hougue Bie. They were two historical sites on the island, the latter being one of the oldest buildings in all of mankind. Henry played right into your love of history and schedule private tours of both locations. You hounded the tour guide for more and more information, ignoring the smiles and smirks from Henry.

You were also actively avoiding newspapers and social media. Paparazzi photos of the two of you on the beach the other night were circulating and causing a ruckus. While it didn’t bother you one way or the other, you knew it was bothering Henry. Especially because they were starting to say particularly nasty things about the both of you. There was much speculation behind the secrecy of your relationship, as if you owed anyone an explanation. Henry took it all in stride, but you could see what it was doing to him.

After La Hougue Bie, Henry took you to a little pub that was part of another historic site. The owner of the pub came out to speak with the two of you and you were able to grill him as well. Henry smiled the whole time, enjoying how focused you could be on something. When y’all had finished eating, it was late in the day. There was still time to do more, so Henry took you around Plemont Bay. The tide was coming in, unfortunately, so you weren’t able to explore the caves under the cliffs, but that was okay. The views from the cliffs themselves were stunning. You stopped occasionally to just take in the beauty. Jersey really was unlike any place you had ever been. Somewhere along the coastline, Henry stopped you.

“Come here,” he said, gesturing for you. You step lightly over to him and accept his open arms for an embrace. You loved the way his arms wrapped around you and the way you fit against him. You never missed an opportunity to be embraced by those trunk-like arms. For a moment, Henry let go of you and you turn around so your back is pressed against his abdomen.

“It’s beautiful here,” you say mostly to Henry, but also to no one in particular. Henry chuckles and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“I’m glad you like it here,” he murmurs to you and you smile. Then you pull your phone out of your bag and open the camera to take a picture of the scene in front of you.

“It won’t do this view justice,” you say. “But I want evidence that I was here,” you glance up at Henry who is smiling at you. Then he pulls out his own phone and holds it up in front of you. “Your camera is facing the wrong way,” you say, pointing out the fact that it’s facing you and not the water.

“Nope,” Henry says, bending down to fit himself in frame with you. He situates his phone so he can snap a picture. Right as he’s about to you make a ridiculous face. The final product is Henry smiling sweetly while you are making a stupid face. Henry checks out the photo and laughs. He kisses you on the temple before standing back up. He looks down at his phone then shows you.

“That’s one heck of a face,” you say and Henry snorts, nudging you.

“Be nice,” he murmurs. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked better,” he adds in a sugary-sweet tone. You smirk up at him.

“I was talking about you,” you reply and Henry snorts again.

“Shut up,” he mutters as you bellow with laughter. He smiles wide at you, watching as you radiate with joy. Then he pulls you in and kisses you deeply, passionately. You accept his kiss and his embrace with equaled passion.

“Whoa nelly,” you say a little breathlessly, coming up for air. Henry smiles and chuckles a little.

“I’m sorry, I’m just,” he says pausing. “I am in love with you, y/n,” Henry murmurs, one hand gently caressing the side of your face. You smile at him.

“You told me this already,” you tell him, looking up with raised eyebrows.

“I know,” he smiles. “Here’s something I haven’t told you,” he looks down at you, smiling gently. “I am heels over head in love with you. I think you are the most incredible woman I’ve been with,” you can’t contain a snort at that declaration. Henry looks at your confused as your ears begin to burn red with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“What?” Henry asks. You look up into his blue eyes and sigh.

“It’s just, well, Henry, I’ve seen the other women you’ve been with,” you begin. “I know that I’m not the prettiest or the smartest or the most accomplished,” you say, not noticing Henry increasingly furrowed brow. “I know that I’m not ‘the most incredible woman’; not by a long shot,” you explain, finally looking up at him. The expression he’s giving you makes you feel like apologizing for existing.

“Why would you think that?” Henry asks and you can hear every ounce of pain in his voice. You suck in a breath.

“Because,” you pause, unsure of how you want to proceed. “Because I’m not blind, Henry. I’m not ignorant,” you sniffle a little, holding back tears. “Like I said, I’ve seen who you’ve been with. I have seen the posts about Lucy and how you still talk about her in interviews,” you explain and watch Henry’s expression change from concern to something resembling guilt. “I’m not an idiot,” you start to say but Henry cuts you off.

“I never said you were,” he says and you shake your head.

“I know, I know you didn’t,” you reply. “What I’m trying to say is I’m not stupid. I know that I’m not an impressive woman on my own, that’s why I mask everything with sarcastic comments and humor,” you explain. “If I can keep them laughing, they won’t notice that I’m actually not that great,” you add, ashamed of yourself for even thinking it. You dare a glance up at Henry’s eyes and see they are storming. His jaw his rolling as he processes what you have just said.

“You are a successful filmmaker; you are a college graduate; you are an award-winning documentarian with a potential Oscar nomination for your first film; you have another major project in the works with a major production company,” he says not looking at you. Then his eyes dart to yours. “You are not any of the women I’ve been with before because you are,” he pauses. “You are y/n. The woman that makes me laugh constantly. The woman that has never once made me feel like a celebrity that owes her something,” he takes a breath and looks at you intently. “You got everything you have because you’ve worked, hard, for it. You are the most incredible woman I’ve been with because you are nothing like the women I’ve previously dated,” he says and you can’t stop the sob that escapes you. Immediately, Henry wraps you up in a bear hug. He strokes your hair and shushes you in his calming way. After a moment of overwhelming emotions, you pull back from and chuckle.

“Surprise,” you say sardonically. “My confidence is completely false and made up,” you attempt to laugh through your tears and sniffles. Henry doesn’t laugh, he just uses his hand to gently push your chin up so you are looking him in the eyes. “I told you. Because of you I have all these feelings and they confuse me,” you say, laughing a little. Henry smiles ever so softly.

“There is nothing confusing about the way I feel about you,” he says quietly. “I am in love with you - completely, undoubtedly, and irrevocably,” he looks at you with those blue eyes that could rival the water behind you. “And besides, I’m not the most confident bloke either,” he adds, smiling at you gently. You chuckle a little.

“That’s exactly something that someone who is Superman personified would say,” you mutter and Henry laughs. “I know you’re not perfect, but you’re damn near close,” you say looking into his eyes. He smiles at you, scoffing just a little.

“You’re pretty close to perfect as well,” He says to you quietly and you snort.

“Not even,” you reply and Henry shakes his head.

“You’re perfect for me,” he adds and you pause, looking up at him. A breeze brushed against your skin and you shivered slightly.

“If we’re not careful, there will be even more photos of us together in the rags,” you say to him, but he just shakes his head.

“I don’t care,” he replies. “Let them see us together. I’m yours, completely, and the world can just figure out how to deal with that,” he explains and you break out a beaming grin. “Come on,” he adds, reaching for your hand. The two of you begin walking again along the side of the cliffs and you feel something close to contentment radiate throughout your body.

Later that night, Henry invited Charlie and his wife out to dinner with the two of you. The four of you went to a local restaurant where everyone spent the night eating, drinking, and laughing. Henry took your sarcastic comments and snarky teasing in stride, often teasing you right back. When everyone was done, you all walked around the area. Henry and Charlie share story after story about growing up together, pointing out different areas that are the same and different from their youth. You loved seeing how happy Henry was with brother. He was almost a different person around his family and it was incredible to witness. The night ends back at the Cavill residence with you falling asleep in Henry’s arms. Your head rests on his shoulder while his arms wrap around your body loving. He holds you close, finding complete enjoyment with the fact that your small frame is pressed tightly against his. Gently, he strokes your hair, feeling as your whole body relaxes into his. He lets his hand softly caress your shoulder and down your back. Your body instinctively shivers at his touch. Henry can’t help but smile.

He knew how scared you were to admit your feelings. It wasn’t something that bothered him because he understood well what you were going through. He knew he was guilty of confusing lust with love and vice versa in past relationships. He’d made assumptions, had poor judgment and flat out been wrong. But he knew what he felt for you wasn’t misunderstood or mistaken. He was in love with you and it had nothing to do with your physical attributes. Yes, you were a naturally beautiful woman with external features that turned heads. But it wasn’t what made him fall in love with you. It was your sense of humor and the way you viewed the world. It was because of how much you loved history, family, and learning. Even the way you drank your coffee, holding the mug with two hands as if you needed to grasp the mug for dear life. Kal snored loudly and shifted in his sleep, breaking Henry from his trance. He sighed and shifted, pressing your body further into his. He fell asleep thinking of different ways he could make you feel as special as you made him feel.

—

When it was time to get back to England, it was done so with a heavy heart by everyone. Henry’s parents were sad to see you leave. Marianne told you repeatedly that you were welcome back at any time. Colin shook your hand and hugged you tightly, a move that seemed to surprise Marianne, Henry, Charlie, and Simon.

“What happened between you and my dad?” Henry asked when the two of you were on the plane headed back to England. You looked at him confused.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“My dad doesn’t hug just anyone,” Henry states. “He’s normally very reserved, but you,” he trails off unsure of what he wants to say. You chuckle.

“What can I say, I guess he just likes me more,” you reply, smirking at him. He smirks back, scoffing. The rest of the flight proceeds mostly in silence. Henry is reading through a possible role to accept while you read through a book about ancient Peru. Back in England, Henry helps collect your research from his house then drives you back to your flat. The door barely has time to close before Henry is on you. His mouth immediately finds yours, his hands running up your back to your breasts. With his tongue, he parts your lips while your hands snake around his broad shoulders so you can lean deeper into his embrace.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” you ask when he finally pulls away from your lips.

“A while,” he smirks and you laugh before pulling him back for another kiss. Without any effort, you tug on Henry’s hand and pull him toward your bedroom. In moments, you are both stripped of your clothes and you have pulled Henry down onto the bed. Your back arches and your toes curl into the mattress when Henry pushes himself into you. He lets out a sigh of relief as he feels your walls wrap around his length. “God, I missed you,” he breathes, rocking his hips into yours.

“You got your rocks off almost every night,” you say gasping a little as Henry goes deeper into you. “How on earth could you have missed me?” you ask before groaning a little. Henry smirks.

“The feeling of being inside you,” he begins, grunting as he thrusts. “And seeing what it does to you. That’s what I missed,” he says before pulling out and flipping you over. You are now on all fours with your ass in the air pointed straight up at Henry. He grabs a hold of your hips and pushes in past your folds.

“Fuck,” You groan loudly as you feel every inch deep inside you. Henry grunts as he pumps his hips rhythmically. Desperately, you clutch the sheets as Henry pushes deeper and deeper into you. “Henry,” you gasp. “Henry,” you repeat, feeling yourself climaxing quickly. Henry’s hands grip tighter on your hips as he continues with fast, repeating thrusts. You can feel yourself clenching around him. He feels it too and he moans with pleasure. With a final grunt and thrust, Henry finishes. He hangs on to you for a moment before getting up, not without a pop to your butt cheek. You yelp in surprise as you collapse on the bed, huffing and breathing heavily. Henry hands you a towel so you can quickly clean up, then lays down next to you, softly running his fingers up and down your back. You prop yourself up on your elbows and look over at the hunk of man that is laying in your bed, completely naked and exposed.

“So tell me, Ms. Award-Winning-Documentarian,” Henry begins, smiling at you. “What do you want to do for your birthday?” he asks. You squint at him.

“My birthday is still weeks away,” you reply and Henry bobs his head in agreement.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But I want to know what you want to do so I can plan for the exact opposite,” he says and you laugh.

“Honestly, do you want to know where I’ve wanted to go ever since I was a little girl?” you ask.

“More than anything,” Henry replies genuinely and you smile.

“Dollywood,” you say, sighing. Henry looks at you intrigued.

“Right. What on earth is Dollywood?” Henry asks and you giggle.

“I’m so glad you asked. It’s the hillbilly Disney World!” you exclaim. Henry’s reaction is a snort with some head shaking. “Dollywood is a theme park and resort created by Dolly Parton herself,” you explain. Henry nods is head though he clearly doesn’t understand.

“Why do you want to go there?” he asks. You glance at him and smile.

“Why does anyone want to go anywhere?” you toss back at him. “Dollywood just sounds like a magical place and it would be a dream come true to see Dolly’s real, humble beginnings in the middle of an empire that she built herself,” you say. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see a warm smile spread across Henry’s face. He leaned down to plant a soft kiss on the bare skin of your shoulder.

“My underdog loves an underdog,” he murmurs, leaving a trail of kisses along your shoulder.

“Mhmm,” you reply, giggling. Henry wraps his trunk-like arms around you and you rotate your breasts are pressed against his chest. You rain down a flurry of kisses across collar bone, feeling every breath and giggle that escapes him. Once you’re done, you look up at him and into his beautiful blue eyes when you suddenly realize you don’t want him to leave.

“What?” he asks, noticing the expression on your face.

“I just thinking about my birthday,” you say. “You’re going to take me somewhere like, Disney World instead, aren’t you?” you ask disdainfully and Henry bellows.

“Rats, you foiled my plan,” he replies, then he gently strokes the side of your face with one hand. “What’s really going on?” he asks and you sigh deeply.

“You’re going to take this the wrong way, but,” you start. “I kind of enjoyed waking up next to you,” you say as nonchalantly as you possibly can. Henry smiles.

“That’s it? That’s the only thing you like?” he asks teasingly.

“Yep, that’s it. Nothing else. Definitely not the way you touch me,” you say as Henry’s hand trails down past your jaw, across your collar bone and along your breast. “For sure not the way you kiss me or make me feel,” you add while Henry proceeds to lean down and kiss your jaw and then your neck. You smile at the sensation. Henry leans back up and looks you in the eye.

“You know you could move in with me,” Henry says to you quietly.

“Yeah, but that would require you having to clear out the closet with all your ex-girlfriends' things and I’d have to toss that unmarked box in the Thames,” you say and Henry scoffs. “Then I’d probably have to kill you because I just told you about that box,” you add. Henry bellows and you smirk up at him.

Reluctantly, the two of you finally get up out of bed. Henry puts his clothes back on and you get dressed in an old sweatshirt and shorts. Henry looks you up and down before pulling you close to him. He kisses you softly at first, but that kiss quickly turns passionate.

“For the record,” Henry states. “I’ve only ever lived with one other girlfriend and that was back in LA. So I’ve got nothing to hide or toss out,” he says.

“Oh, well, in that case. I was totally making it up about the unmarked box and the Thames,” you say quickly. Henry chuckles then gives you another sweet and passionate kiss.

When he’s finally gone, you stand in the living room and look around. Something is making you feel uncomfortable until you realize it’s the silence. Your place is too silent. Henry isn’t humming to himself. Kal isn’t getting into things and making a ruckus. Sighing, you collapse onto the couch.

Randomly, you pull out your phone and begin scrolling through apps. You check the email folder to see no new notifications. You check Facebook and find your sister in law, Rebecca, has posted several photos of your niece and nephews. Finally, you scroll through Instagram. On a whim, you open Henry’s account and see multiple reposts from your documentary account, promoting your film. Every post has an encouraging comment from Henry about how great the film is or how well it was produced. You smile at his obvious show of support and then you see it when you scroll back to the top. Somehow you missed it at first, but now you can’t unsee it. There is a selfie of Henry, standing with his back to a field of lavender. One of the touristy places Henry took you in Jersey was the lavender fields. It was one of the most beautiful places you had ever seen. Apparently, Henry had snapped a selfie of himself with his back to the field. And behind him, there you stood. You were facing the other way, so all that was seen was the back of your head, but there was no mistaking your form. He added only one hashtag to the image - #touristythings. You chuckle and double-tap the screen to like it.

While staring at the image, an idea occurs to you. Neither you nor Henry had made an announcement about your relationship and frankly, neither of you had any intention of doing so. However, clearly, Henry was comfortable sharing suggestive images of you so you decided to follow suit. Plus, it would be fun to see just how many people freaked out. Scrolling through your images, you found one that Henry’s assistant had taken of the two of you at Cannes. She’d sent you the image afterward and it made you actually laugh out loud. Henry was looking handsome as ever, but you were just a blur. Something had caught your attention at the last second and you turned, resulting in your face being obscured. You laugh to yourself as you type out the caption for the image.

“There’s a reason I stay behind the camera #picturesarehard”

You chose not to tag Henry because there was no mistaking him. For a second, you hesitate to upload the image. You saved the image as a draft and texted Henry.

Would you mind if I uploaded this image? You send the image along with the text and wait. Moments later, he responds.

I think that would no longer make you an ‘unidentified woman’ ;) he says and you snort.

A hit to my image that I’m willing to take ;P you hit send and chuckle at your own ridiculousness.

Oh yeah? Well, that’s a hit I’m willing to take as well he replies. You scoff at the message.

A hit you’re willing to take? you toss back.

Yeah. Being seeing with a soon to be identified woman who can’t even take a decent picture looks pretty bad for me

You read the message through two times before busting out with laughter. Shaking your head, you bite your bottom lip and type out a response.

Guess you’re going to have quite a bit of damage control to do on your image then you say, hitting send and chuckling. Navigating back to the app, you find the saved draft and click post. You know what’s at stake and the longer you think about it, the more you begin to realize you don’t care. Henry is the man you love and you were beginning to realize that significant parts of your relationship were being tested. You go back to your messages with him.

Ask me about moving in with you on our 1 year anniversary, you hit send and take a deep breath in. Your phone chimes.

Deal, Henry replies and you smile.

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #long form fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #meowpurrbooks writing #henrycavillxreader #henrycavillxfemmereader

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jade4813 · 4 years

Text

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 9

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Until he met Margaret, John had never given much thought to marriage, other than to occasionally acknowledge he would one day be expected to enter into the institution. With so much responsibility to assume after the death of his father, he’d wasted little time imagining the type of lady he might one day take as a wife, and less time still pondering how such an arrangement would impact his life. Such concerns, while admittedly important, had fallen to the wayside in light of more immediate concerns, until they rarely crossed his mind at all.

Until her. Until Margaret. Though he could not now look back and identify the single moment when he first loved her, his attachment to her was undeniable, fixed, and constant. It might always be hoped that marriage should bring felicity to the involved parties, but in the privacy of his own heart, John felt he was likely happier than most, for few other men could be as fortunate in choice of bride or as unwavering in depths of love as he.

His only concern, in those first few days of married life, was that Margaret would not count herself quite as fortunate, not having the same manner of attachment. However, he was pleased to see that she seemed content in her choice of groom, and he strove to undertake any manner of activity that might please her.

Her initial shyness in physical matters quickly gave way to enthusiastic engagement (although he’d never forget that first, scandalized protest: “John, it’s the middle of the day!”). As her reservations faded, her playfulness increased, and he risked tardiness to more than one appointment due to her reluctance to let him leave her side, as well as his own unwillingness to do the same.

So it could be comfortably said that married life treated him well, and he hoped, at least, that it was equally as kind to Margaret. He had one initial reservation, early on, that she might not be as she seemed. The moment came upon her receipt of a letter from her cousin, Edith. After relaying the details of some ridiculous scheme to him over breakfast – the details of which had long since escaped his memory – John had remarked that Edith was a fortunate woman, thinking of her near scrape.

In response, a wistful expression overtook Margaret’s face as she remarked, “Indeed. She and the Colonel are very much in love, and she’s fortunate to find someone who can be so forgiving of her failings.”

John had watched as her attention fell to her plate, where she poked dispiritedly at her breakfast, the happy mood broken, and he’d wondered if she regretted that she had not married for the same reason. The moment soon passed, however, and the felicity between the newly married couple was quickly restored, leaving little more than a shadow in his own mind as evidence it had ever existed.

And so, secure in his own happiness and confident in hers (being, as he was, willing to do whatever he could to ensure it), the newlyweds’ happiness was only marred by the increasingly strained financial situation at the mill. Although John tried to protect her from such concerns, the stress of the situation weighed on him and took him away from his bride more often than he would have wished.

One evening, he returned late from work to find Margaret at her dressing table, putting the final pins into her hair to ready herself for dinner with Fanny and Watson. His sister had invited the family to dine with her that evening, which John suspected was due more to a desire to show off her newest furnishings than any filial yearning. She loved them all, in her own way, but she had never been overly susceptible to sentiment.

Exhausted by the day’s exertions, he lingered in the doorway, content to do nothing more than gaze at his wife, but he was drawn to her side when she threw a smile at him over her shoulder. “How do I look?” she asked coquettishly, and he found himself entranced by her smooth, pale shoulders. He had seen her in this dress once before, at his mother’s last dinner party, and it had been all he could do that evening not to pull her in his arms and press his lips against that skin bared so tantalizingly before him.

He gave into that temptation now, bending to press a kiss against the curve of her shoulder, but Margaret caught his arm and drew him down to her instead, until he was on one knee at her side. Cupping his face in her hands, her expression was grave as she stroked his cheeks with her thumbs in a slight, comforting gesture.

“You’ve been working yourself to exhaustion lately. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Touched by her concern, he leaned into her embrace and murmured, “This trouble at the mill will pass.” He hoped it would, at any rate. “Having you here with me is enough.”

Margaret was unwilling to be so easily placated. “But is there anything I can do at the mill? I’m not afraid of hard work, you know.”

Grabbing one hand gently in his own, he pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist. “There may be,” he acknowledged, moved more than he could express that she’d taken an interest in the mill on his behalf, and not solely on behest of his workers. “Let me think on it tonight, and we can talk about it tomorrow.”

She looked so grave, so serious. While her concern over his wellbeing sparked hope in his breast that she was not indifferent to him, he didn’t wish to cause her concern, and so he remarked lightly, in an attempt at levity, “But only if you promise you won’t cause any mischief or encourage my workers to rise up in a revolt against me.”

For just a moment, he feared she might be affronted by his remark, but she quickly alleviated any concerns on that score. “No serious mischief, I assure you. Only the occasional minor act of rebellion,” she teased him in return. Growing more serious, she confessed, “I know it’s expected that I play the role of obedient wife, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak my mind when I think it necessary.”

The thought of her holding her tongue caused him wry amusement; Margaret’s opinionated nature had vexed him in the past, but he wouldn’t love her if she were anything other than she was. “Of course. I hope we can grow comfortable enough with each other one day that there should be no need for secrets between us. Should I take this to mean you’ve already planned your first mutiny?”

She looked troubled at his words, but she shook her head and reassured him lightly, “Hardly a full-scale insurrection! I’ve just been thinking. I know it isn’t possible now, but when matters at the mill are resolved, I intend to speak to you about raising your workers’ salaries to what they were a few years ago, at least. It would make them more comfortable, and that would make them more productive and increase their loyalty to you.”

While John would have resented anyone else’s interference with his affairs, he respected Margaret’s opinion at least enough to entertain the suggestion. There was logic to her argument, at least, although he was hardly in a position to enact the measure at the present time. “Perhaps,” he conceded, promising, “When the bank loan is paid in full, I’ll give your suggestion its due consideration.”

Her joyful smile was more than sufficient recompense for this concession, although there remained a shadow behind her eyes, and he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair off her cheek. “Does this mean you no longer consider me the overbearing monster you once believed me to be?” he asked, wondering how she could be ignorant of the feelings in his heart, betrayed as they were by the tenderness in his voice.

“I never thought you a monster!” she replied in faint protest.

Her obvious oversight made him smile. “But you did think me overbearing?”

She scowled at him in mock affront. “Well, perhaps a little,” she allowed. Her hands became restless, one rising to brush the hair off his forehead as she continued in a less playful tone, “I may have misjudged your character at first, but I’ve long since come to realize the depths of my misunderstanding. I suspect I think better of you than you realize.”

His heart began to race as hope settled in his breast, refusing to relinquish its hold upon him. He felt he could barely breathe as he asked, “Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?”

The warmth in her eyes gave him momentary hope that she might one day return his affections, but he watched as an expression of such horror overtook her countenance that pierced his heart. “Oh!” she gasped in alarm, her eyes wide in mortification. “I—”

Suspecting she was searching for the words to reject him without causing undue injury or offense to his pride, and eager to make amends for his overstep and distract her from the unwelcome imposition of his feelings, he forced a smile. Sliding his hands under her skirts, he attempted to divert her attention to a less controversial subject. “We have some time before we should leave, after all.”

Margaret appeared surprised, and she sucked in a deep breath when he lifted her leg to brush a kiss against her bare skin. If she couldn’t accept his feelings, he could only hope she would believe that he had always intended to refer to the physical act of love rather than some deeper emotion. Whether she believed in his fiction or was merely happy to pretend in order to prevent awkwardness between them, she seemed willing to play along.

“John!” she gasped as he ducked under the heavy fabric of her skirts, rubbing his cheek against her leg, but she didn’t draw away. On the contrary; she placed her palms upon the mound of his head through her skirts and held him in place, even as she remarked, “We’ll be late!”

“Fanny will wait,” he murmured, scraping his teeth against her inner thigh. Her slight moan of pleasure was enough to drive him onward, and he occupied himself beneath her skirts until the chiming of the clock recalled the pair to their appointment. John’s body protested the rude interruption, but he was charmed by the brightness in his bride’s eyes and the flush on her cheeks, which spoke to her own smoldering desire. At least she had been adequately diverted from dwelling upon the words he’d so foolishly spoken, and he intended to resume his attentions to her later that evening to ensure that the memory dared not reenter her mind.

In the meantime, he turned his own thoughts to more repressive matters as he willed his blood to cool before the sight of his current state scandalized his dinner companions.

“Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?” The words replayed themselves over and over in Margaret’s mind as she prepared herself for the day ahead. “Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?” In her preoccupation, she stuck herself with a hairpin and winced, forcing her mind back to more mundane matters. Yet the memory of his softly spoken question the night before continued to plague her thoughts.

“Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, striving to quell the mortification that arose within her at the memory. It was not the question that elicited such chagrin but the answer that had hovered upon her lips in return.

“I already do.” Her heart had been ready to confess to the feelings that her head had long been determined to deny, and Margaret had only swallowed the words at the last moment. That they could have crept upon her so thoroughly in defiance of her own awareness astonished her, but the certainty with which her heart had answered horrified her.

She loved him. When had the attachment first taken hold of her heart? For how long had she been living in denial of her own feelings?

Of course, it was not the usual nature of things, to meet such tender feelings with dismay – certainly not when the recipient of said feelings was her own husband. However, in the matter of Margaret and John’s marriage, things were not so simple. Margaret loved him, it was true. She loved him – the thought brought such a mixture of joy and alarm that it nearly made her lightheaded. But while they had not spoken of her presumed lover – secretly her brother – since their engagement, she had no cause to believe he’d changed his mind about her.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to force a change of heart from him. All she had to do was to reveal the truth. Doing so would undeniably alter his opinion of her, but it would do so without resolving her fundamental concern. Relating the whole truth to him now would justify his trust in her now, but it would not compel it in the future. And, regardless of her own tender feeling for John, Margaret knew she could never be truly happy in her marriage if her own husband couldn’t claim to truly know or understand her. If she told him the truth now and forced his concession of her own blamelessness (at least of the charges that had been placed upon her doorstep, though she had courted danger in urging Frederick return in defiance of the charges against him), she would never truly feel the assurance of her husband’s faith in her character and person.

But what was she to do? Carrying this secret in her heart grew more trying by the day, John’s coincidental use of the word mutiny the night before nearly sending her out of her own skin. His assertion that there should be no secrets between them had caused such a swelling of guilt in her own heart that she’d longed to tell him all. Her heart and her mind were at war, locked in a skirmish that she’d just come to realize had been waging for far longer than she’d ever suspected.

She loved him. It was still astonishing to her that those feelings could have crept upon her without her knowledge. Lost in her thoughts, she hardly registered the words her mother-in-law spoke as they took a tour of the mill, looking for ways that Margaret could lend assistance to her husband’s enterprise. Almost against her will, she found herself watching for him, scanning the crowd for his familiar – beloved! – figure and face.

She nodded at something one of the workers said, though she had no idea what it had been, as her eyes drifted up to the landing above. And there she saw him, as she had on that very first day. John. Her John. Her husband.

Their eyes met, and Margaret held her breath, unable to breathe from the twisting in her heart at the sight of him. So tall and commanding. She had once thought his features so remote – even severe – but now she knew the way they could soften with a smile. She’d once thought his eyes cold, but now she knew the only thing warmer was his touch.

If she reached out her hand to him now, would he come to her? Perhaps he would. He had always been there for her, even when another man would have turned away. When her mother was dying, he’d sent fresh fruit even after her rejection of his hand, demonstrating a level of thoughtfulness and compassion that had shamed her for her treatment of him. And when the man who had accosted her brother was found dead, not only had he chosen not to betray her lie in professing she hadn’t been on the train platform that evening, she had no doubt he’d spoken with the eyewitness and encouraged the recantation that had ended the matter. In doing so, he had betrayed his honor and fundamental sense of honesty on her behalf.

But it was not for the services done to her that she loved him. It was for his person. There were two sides to him – the hard Master and the devoted husband – but Margaret no longer struggled in reconciling them. She had once thought him proud, even arrogant. She had even once thought him unfeeling, but she’d come to understand the truth of his character long before, and well before their precipitous engagement. He could be hard, but he was never unscrupulous. He was honest in his dealings, his genuine care and concern for his workers hidden beneath a stern demeanor and a veneer of sound business acumen.

She loved him. She loved him. She loved him! She’d begun to wonder if it was possible she’d come to love him long before their marriage or even before their engagement. Had she loved him when she’d crept to his office to confront him about his callous accusations against her? Her behavior that evening had been so uncharacteristic of her, something she’d recognized even at the time but had refused to dwell upon for explanation. Had it been heartbreak, more than anger, that had propelled her to his doorstep? It certainly seemed likely that her attachment, hidden even from herself, had compelled her to kiss him that night. Let alone…well, everything that came after.

Oh, dear. Her newfound revelation couldn’t come at a worse time, and it was causing her to make a fool of herself, staring at her husband like a moon-eyed calf, for all the world to see. Tearing her gaze away from him at long last, she attempted to fix her attention upon her beleaguered mother-in-law, whose single-minded purpose could not be dissuaded by young love, particularly when she was likely skeptical of its existence. And rightly so, for hadn’t Margaret once openly scoffed at the notion of John’s attractiveness to the fairer sex?

What a fool she had been! What a fool love was making of her now! Her heart longed to lay itself at John’s feet, urging her to confess her feelings to her husband in the hopes that affection wasn’t just something he requested but something he offered her in return. More, that genuine attachment underlay his honorable intentions in offering for her. But that brought back the undecided question of his faith in her.

“Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?”

She loved him, and so she owed him the truth of what he had seen that night on the train platform. If only there was a way to first assess whether he had succeeded in his efforts to grant her the wish she’d made of him before their wedding: that he find it in his heart to trust in her once more. As much as she loved him, any lingering doubt on that score would tear her up inside.

Pretending to attend to the task at hand, Margaret dutifully fell into step behind her mother-in-law, continuing her tour of the mill’s needs. But as she walked away, she couldn’t resist one last look over her shoulder at the imposing figure on the overlook above, and the face that had somehow become so dear to her. Her John.

For the sake of their marriage, for the sake of her own heart, she would find a way to restore his faith in her. Somehow.

#like moths to a flame #john thornton #margaret hale #my fanfiction #fanfiction #north and south #john x margaret

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ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 4 years

Note

I was inspired by watching Jaskier singing scenes and the part where he goes "valley of pENIS" was just so 😂😍😭 so do you think you could do a fic where the reader is attempting to seduce Jask but he gets nervous and flustered so that's the type of response he has... but in a GOOD way, not scared for his life? 😂😂

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Jaskier x ReaderWord Count: 1,608Rating: Ea/n: Hope you like it!

Jaskier had many talents but letting others take care of him wasn’t one of them. For all that he fussed about you and Geralt fighting his nurturing, he could be just as stubborn when the roles were reversed. You’d only been able to get him into the bathhouse under the pretense that you’d let him bathe you but as soon as the door closed you turned around with a mischevious grin on your face.

“Lavender or jasmine?” he asked, already rifling through the bath salts.

“Oh I dunno, what do you think?” you asked casually.

“Well lavender is quite relaxing and I know your muscles must be sore after that long ride wait what are you doing” he asked as you gently took the lavender salts out of his hands.

“This is an ambush. Strip,” you announced.

“What are you talking about? There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he said, trying to take the salts from your hands but finding your grip stronger than he’d expected.

“Agreed but first, you’re going to have a lovely long hot bath,” you said.

“No, you’re all turned around you see we came in here so… you… could…” you watched as realization dawned on him. “You minx!”

“Yes, the minxiest, now take off your clothes Jaskier, or do I have to do it myself?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he challenged. You seized the bottom of his shirt and pulled while he tried to dance out of reach, tethered by the shirt which you’d somehow successfully half-pulled out of his trousers.

“This is ridiculous,” you fumed as he batted at your hands, “Jaskier, stop.”

He stood still and paused his assault to listen, your tone suddenly seriously. You cupped his face in your hands and fixed his eyes with a focused, intense stare.

“Let me do this for you. You spend all of your time taking care of others. Let someone take care of you for once,” you said. Emotions warred in his face, curiosity and caution and finally, blessedly, resignation.

“Very well,” he said, “But you know I really do enjoy it, right? Taking care of you?”

You smiled as you turned back around to the display of bath salts again.

“Yes, love, you’re very enthusiastic about taking care of me and your enjoyment is always quite evident.”

When you turn back around you pause and stare lecherously, met with the sight of his nearly fully naked body as he stripped. The lean muscles of his frame, usually hidden beneath stylish clothes, reminding you of moments he’d surprised you by moving your body around and manhandling you with ease.

“Shall I turn for you and give you a full view?” he asked, breaking through your reminiscing. He was smirking at you arrogantly, fully aware of the impact he had on you.

“Yes,” you said, and gestured your fingers in a little twirl which, laughing, he followed so you could see the taut muscles in his back and shoulders and the nice, round ass he kept hidden away like a secret with those baggy trousers he wore.

“The water should be cool enough for you to get in now, come on,” you said, gesturing as you did, and he climbed into the hot tub. A soft, relaxed sigh escaped his lips as he settled into the still steaming water. He rested his head against the back of the tub before suddenly remembering that you were here and trying to perk up again to offer conversation or a song or some form of entertainment to justify being there.

“Lay back,” you ordered softly and he did as told while you sprinkled the lavender bath salts in, filling the room with its soft, relaxing scent. You settled next to the tub and dipped a fresh wash cloth into the scented waters before raising it to his neck and starting to gently rub away the tension from the many days of journeying you’d been through together. He kept looking over at you, watching your face for any sign of boredom or something that would signal that you did this out of obligation but you just smiled at him, thoroughly enjoying getting to be the one who made him feel cared for and treasured. He moved when and where you asked him to, making deliciously satisfied sounds as you washed his hair, massaging his scalp as you worked the soap into a lather in the dark curls.

“Thank you,” he said, catching your hand as it moved to brush his hair out of his eyes. You leaned in and kissed him, his lips wet and tasting slightly of lavender.

“You can thank me with a song,” you suggested and he eagerly complied, beginning an old favorite while you finished rinsing the soap out of his hair. He’d closed his eyes to keep the water out and kept them closed as your hand dipped back into the water.

“Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of PENIS!” he cried at the sudden touch of your hand taking a hold of his member. You laughed so hard you nearly fell in the tub.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Surely it can’t be that hard to figure out,” you said with a wry smile.

“Well, I just, this is,” he sputtered and you were shocked how easily your prodigiously flirtatious bard could be scandalized when the tables were turned.

“I can stop if you want,” you said, loosing your grip on his hardening cock.

“No, no, that is, unless you don’t want…”

“Jaskier darling?”

“Yes?”

“Shut your pretty mouth and trust me to know what I want.”

“Well if you insist,” he said. You rolled his eyes and tightened your grip, soft sighs of pleasure falling from his lips as you stroked him through the warm water.

“Come here,” he murmured and pulled you in for a kiss, supporting you so you didn’t fall in the tub.

“Do you really want to make me feel good?” he asked, a sly smile spreading over his mouth.

“Yes,” you answered.

“Then join me,” he said, whispering the words against your lips. You eyed him suspiciously.

“Are you certain this isn’t just a sneaky way to turn things around so you end up taking care of me?” you asked.

“No you’ve convinced me of the merits of selfishness. But as lovely and skilled as your hands are, I want more. And you want to give me what I want, don’t you?”

You’ve seen many sides of Jaskier before but never this one. His eyes are dark and his voice demanding and cajoling and you know you would do anything he asked. A deceptively dangerous man; god, you loved him. You reluctantly pull your hand away and move to take off your clothes but he interrupts you.

Wait – do it slowly. I want to watch you strip for me,” he says. His eyes are hungry as he watches you slowly unbutton the shirt you were wearing, letting it fall away and then reaching for the lacing on your trousers. He makes the same playful little gesture you’d made earlier and you do a slow 180 so he can see your ass as you finish stripping away your clothes. You step into the bath carefully, sinking into the warm waters and onto his lap, straddling him as his arms wrap around you and pull you in for a hungry kiss.

“Is this better?” he murmurs the words into your ear as he grips your ass, pushing you closer against his cock, “Do you like it when I take what I want?”

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, “But you can’t take what’s already yours.”

“Watch me,” he says, and thrusts up into you, the aching need his kisses had caused being sated for just a moment before just as eagerly needing more. He meets your need as he chases his, gripping your hips and setting a pace that you follow, lying back and letting you ride him while he watches admiringly at you. He teases and strokes your breasts with his hands and tongue while you grip his shoulders for leverage. The water in the bath sways and splashes but you take no heed, focused solely on his pleasure and the pleasure he’s providing you in return. He snakes a hand below the water and gently begins to stroke you.

“Fuck,” you choke out, the sudden feeling stalling your hips for just a beat.

“Keep going,” he orders and you do as your told though his deft fingers are making it increasingly hard to focus on the task. He rests a forehead against yours and locks eyes with you.

“You want to make me feel good? You want to take good care of me?” he asks, the words soft yet steely all at once. You nod and he kisses your nose, an oddly innocent gesture as he pushes you closer to the edge, “Then come for me, Y/N. Now.”

You fall apart at his words and feel him follow closely after, his arms wrapped tightly around you as he finds his release in the throes of yours.

“Admit it,” you say moments later, head resting against his chest.

“Admit what?” he asks.

“Admit it’s nice to let someone take care you sometimes.”

“Oh we’re way past that now,” he says, “I’m already compiling a mental list of all the ways you’re going to take care of me from now on.”

“Oh really?” you ask, amused, “Do tell.”

Jaskier regales you with a list of increasingly ridiculous tasks and you stay in the bath together laughing and teasing each other til the water grows cold.

#Anonymous #jaskier x reader #jaskier imagines #jaskier smut #drabble

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creepingsharia · 4 years

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“32,000 Christians Butchered to Death”: Muslim Persecution of Christians, May 2020

by Raymond Ibrahim

The following are among the abuses Muslims inflicted on Christians throughout the month of May 2020:

The Slaughter of Christians

Nigeria: From January 2020 to mid-May 2020, Muslim terrorists massacred at least 620 Christians (470 by Fulani herdsmen and 150 by Boko Haram). According to a May 14 report:

Militant Fulani Herdsmen and Boko Haram … have intensified their anti-Christian violence … with hacking to death in the past four months and half of 2020 of no fewer than 620 defenseless Christians, and wanton burning or destruction of their centers of worship and learning. The atrocities against Christians have gone unchecked and risen to alarming apogee with the country’s security forces and concerned political actors looking the other way or colluding with the Jihadists. Houses burnt or destroyed during the period are in their hundreds; likewise dozens of Christian worship and learning centers.

The report further states that, since 2009, “not less than 32,000 Christians have been butchered to death by the country’s main Jihadists.”

Earlier this year, Christian Solidarity International issued a “Genocide Warning for Christians in Nigeria,” in response to the “rising tide of violence directed against Nigerian Christians and others classified as ‘infidels’ by Islamist militants…” More recently, in a May statement, the Christian Rights Agenda, another human rights group, expressed concern for “the seeming silence of Nigeria’s President, Gen. Muhammadu Buhari, who as the commander-in-chief of the armed forces has not only failed to protect the Christian communities but has remained silent over these killings. To date, no Fulani herdsmen have been arrested and prosecuted over the killings, a development that has helped to embolden them.” It is worth noting that Buhari himself is a Fulani Muslim.

Separately, the Muslim man who murdered Michael Nnadi, an 18-year-old seminarian at the Good Shepherd Seminary, confessed from his jail cell that he did so because the youth “continued preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ” to his captors. According to the May 3 report, “the first day Nnadi was kidnapped … he did not allow [Mustapha Mohammed, his murderer] to have peace” due to his relentless preaching of the Gospel. Mohammed “did not like the confidence displayed by the young man and decided to send him to an early grave.”

Democratic Republic of Congo: Muslim fighters from the Allied Democratic Forces, which earlier pledged allegiance to the Islamic State (ISIS), murdered at least 17 people, possibly many more, in the Christian-majority (95%) African nation. “They fired several shots in the air,” a local said. “When the population was fleeing, they captured some people and cut them up with machetes.” In late 2019, the same group murdered a pastor after he refused to stop preaching and convert to Islam.

Attacks on Christian Churches, Cemeteries, and Crosses

Greece: Muslim migrants ransacked and transformed a church into their personal toilet. This public restroom was once the St. Catherine Church in Moria, a small town on the island of Lesvos, which has been flooded with migrants who arrived via Turkey. “The smell inside is unbearable,” said a local. “[T]he metropolitan of Mytilene is aware of the situation in the area, nevertheless, he does not wish to deal with it for his own reasons.” According to the report:

This is only the latest incident … [I]t has become extremely common for Greek Orthodox Churches to be vandalised and attacked by illegal immigrants on Lesvos….

As a deeply religious society, these attacks on churches are shocking to the Greek people and calls to question whether these illegal immigrants seeking a new life in Europe are willing to integrate and conform to the norms and values of their new countries.

These continued attacks have ultimately seen the people of Lesvos, who were nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2016, become increasingly frustrated by the unresolved situation that has restricted and changed their lives as they no longer feel safe on their once near crime-free island.

Other incidents on Lesvos include “African immigrants ridiculing and coughing on police in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, and thousands of olives trees being destroyed.”

St. Catherine’s in Lesvos, now a Muslim toilet.

Turkey: On May 8, a man tried to torch a church in Istanbul; the church had been attacked in the previous years, sometimes with hate-filled graffiti. When police detained the arsonist, he said “I burned it because they [Christians] brought the coronavirus [onto Turkey].” Discussing this incident, another report said that “Minorities in Turkey, such as Armenians, Rums and Syriacs [all Christians], as well as their places of worship, are occasionally targeted in hate attacks.”

Two weeks later, on May 22, in broad daylight, a man climbed the fence of a historic Armenian church in Istanbul and proceeded to yank off its metal cross and hurl it to the ground, as captured on surveillance footage. The man, who looks more like a Westernized “hipster” than an ardent Islamist, walks up to and stares at the cross for a while — he even looks at and strikes a pose for the security camera — before attacking the crucifix.

Pakistan: After Friday prayers on May 8, an armed Muslim mob shouting “anti-Christian slogans” attacked and tried to set fire to the Trinity Pentecostal Church in Hakeem Pura. Built 22 years ago, the church was desecrated, and a large cross and part of a wall broken. The Muslim man behind the attack had sold land to the growing church a year earlier, and now wanted it back. A Christian eyewitness said that the mob, “after attacking the walls and the cross, challenging anyone who dare oppose them, fled… Not only was the cross broken, but our hearts were crushed too.”

Separately, Muslim “land grabbers” seized, desecrated, and ploughed over the graves of a century-old Christian cemetery with a tractor. According to the May 22 report:

The Christian community there reportedly protested against the violation and tried to stop the vandalism. However, they were allegedly threatened with guns… [A]ll graves that were destroyed had crosses fixed on the top… [S]ome of the houses occupied by the Christians were demolished and people were forced to flee from their homes. Amid widespread discrimination against the Christian community in Pakistan, the properties owned by the minorities are often subjected to injustice including land grabbing and being the target of criminals. Moreover, the economic disparities and religious bias in Pakistan’s judiciary have increased the struggles Christians face to recover the lost land.

Serbia: On Sunday, May 31, two Muslim migrants entered the St. Alexander Nevsky Church in Belgrade during service and robbed several of the mostly elderly congregants. “There were two of them. They broke into the church during the liturgy, which was in progress, and they stole two purses along with three mobile phones,” a church leader said, adding:

Upon entering the temple, they split up on two sides, and after the people saw what was happening, they managed to catch one of them and take away his mobile phones and the money he stole. The other managed to escape. He took two purses, in one there were 3,500 dinars, while in the other there were 18,000, which was the entire pension of one woman. We handed that young man over to the police, while the other managed to escape. This is an insult. Isn’t anything sacred to people, such as the liturgy? Terrible.

Egypt: On May 30, 2020 — two days before President Trump recognized Global Coptic Day — Egyptian authorities demolished the only Coptic church in village of Koum al-Farag, even though it had stood for 15 years and served 3,000 Christians. According to the report:

The destruction of the church was a punishment for the ‘crime’ of building rooms for Sunday school…. When the work began, some extremist Muslims began to attack Christians.

A separate report on this incident relates:

According to an ancient Islamic tradition, or common law, churches are prevented from being formally recognised or displaying any Christian symbols if a mosque is built next to them.

The authorities decided to solve this issue by demolishing the church, which took a tractor “six long hours,” a Copt recalled:

The decision was not welcomed by the Christians in the village, so they protested by appearing at the site in possession of the documents. However, the police and some radicals began to insult and assault Christians, including women and children. The church leader received so many punches in the face and chest that he passed out.

In a separate attack in the early hours of May 16, “an air conditioning technician threw a Molotov cocktail inside the Virgin Mary Church in Alexandria.” According to the report:

Security camera footage led to his apprehension. Fortunately, no one was injured in this attack. Predictably, however, the prosecutors appear to be [pursuing] an acquittal on the claim that the perpetrator of the religious hate crime is also mentally ill. Based on precedent, it is extremely unlikely that this perpetrator will face any consequences for his attempt to torch a church.

Mozambique: Islamic terrorists attacked a monastery. The four monks residing in it managed to hide and emerge unscathed. However, the hospital they were building for a nearby village was destroyed by the armed Muslims. According to the May 18 report:

Little is known about the insurgents, and until recently there were doubts they were actually islamists, but they have claimed to be fighting for the imposition of Sharia law in the North of Mozambique…. The attack on the monastery, which included the destruction of a hospital that the monks were building in the village, is the second most serious attack against a Christian target since the troubles began. Last month a Catholic mission was also attacked, although, as here, nobody was killed. Other communities have not been so lucky, as the insurgents have left a trail of death and destruction behind them in the towns and villages they attack.

Nigeria: On May 7, a helicopter bombed and destroyed a church. The building was empty at the time; no casualties were reported. According to a local leader,

The helicopter used to hover around the area, dropping some things. We don’t know what they have been dropping but yesterday in the afternoon, the helicopter came and dropped a bomb … [The] Assembly of God church was destroyed including a nearby building…. Hours after the incident, a group of people numbering about 100 pass through the village carrying guns. Some were trekking while others rode on motorcycles. One of them was carrying a flag which is not a Nigerian flag; one other person was making some incantations in Arabic… People have fled the village… The question is who was in the helicopter dropping bomb?… We are very concerned … If it was a mistake by security agencies, they should come out and explain so as to allay the fears of the community.

Algeria: Four Muslim guards responsible for protecting a church vandalized and overturned its statue of the Virgin Mary. According to the report,

[T]he chapel of Santa Cruz built in stones extracted from the mountain of Murdjadjo where it is perched, was the object of an attempted theft… Four looters allegedly destroyed the statue of the Virgin Mary by attempting to steal it. They have even destroyed other holy monuments in their path….

It was later found, however, that the chapel’s four hired guards were themselves the “looters” responsible for the desecration. The report continues:

In addition, the Christian community in Algeria denounces… the intimidation which the faithful are subject to. Many Christians have denounced the series of closings of churches in the national territory. Several evangelical associations and organizations have called for an end to “the increasing pressure and intimidation from the Algerian government.”

Iran: On Sunday, May 17, a Christian cemetery was set ablaze, just two days after the tomb of the biblical Esther and Mordecai was also set on fire on the 72nd anniversary of the creation of the State of Israel. Damage at the tomb — a holy site shared by Jews and Christians — was reportedly minimal. Few other details concerning the burned Christian cemetery aside from video footage showing smoke billowing over its walls are available. A Hindu temple was also reportedly set on fire in May.

France: Unknown vandals cut down an iconic iron cross that had stood on the summit of Pic Saint-Loup since 1911 and was visible for miles around. According to the May 14 report,

While Europe has experienced a growing number of acts of vandalism and profanation of Christian sites, the greatest number of such acts have occurred in France, where churches, schools, cemeteries, and monuments “are being vandalized, desecrated, and burned at an average rate of three per day,” according to reports drawing from government statistics.

Although the identity of the vandals responsible for this latest outrage is unknown, it appears that Western European nations that have large Muslim migrant populations are seeing a disproportionate rise in attacks on churches and Christian symbols. According to a 2017 study on France — which has the largest Muslim population in Europe — “Islamist extremist attacks on Christians” rose by 38%, going from 273 attacks in 2015 to 376 in 2016; the majority occurred during Christmas season and “many of the attacks took place in churches and other places of worship.” Similarly, around Christmas 2016, in a German region where more than a million Muslims reside, some 50 public Christian statues (including those of Jesus) were beheaded and crucifixes broken.

Abduction, Rape, and Forced Conversion of Christian Women

Nigeria: Between March 23 and April 30, six young Christian girls and one older married woman were kidnapped. “We are saddened to report to you the battles we have been fighting even amidst the lockdown,” the Hausa Christians Foundation reported on May 4, adding that it “has been working on the following tragic incidences of abduction and forceful Islamization, despite the fact that the lockdown has limited our efforts.” The statement continues:

The usual practice is that these girls will be forced into marriage and perpetually be abused sexually, physical and emotionally. We are doing our best to rescue these precious lives but our efforts have been truncated by the current government imposed lockdown that has put everything on hold…. The simple reason for the injustice and the persecution we have been subjected to… is because of our faith in Christ Jesus.

Two of the young girls have since been rescued.

Pakistan: Another young Christian girl was kidnapped. According to a May 2 report,

On Sunday, April 26, a 14-year-old Christian girl … was abducted by a group of armed Muslim men… [T]he Christian girl’s family has filed a police report and is begging police to recover their relative…. Myra Shehbaz was abducted by a group of Muslim men led by Muhammad Naqash. Eye witnesses claim that Myra was attacked while she was traveling to her workplace as a domestic worker on Sunday afternoon…. Myra’s abductors forced her into a car and Myra tried to resist…. [The] abductors were armed and fired several shots into the air…. [The girl’s mother] fears her daughter will be raped, forcefully converted is [sic] Islam, or even killed…. [A]n estimated 1,000 women and girls from Pakistan’s Hindu and Christian community are assaulted, abducted, forcefully married to their captor, and forcibly converted to Islam every year.

Egypt: In a May 22 report, Coptic Solidarity, a human rights organization focused on the plight of Egypt’s Christians, made the following remarks:

The indigenous Coptic Christians of Egypt continue to experience increasing persecution, by the government and society…. To illustrate, at least five Coptic women, including some minors, have reportedly been kidnapped or disappeared in just the last few weeks, and Egyptian state security has made no concerted effort to recover them…. Ranya Abd al-Masih, a Coptic wife and mother of three from a town just north of the capital, Cairo… remains hidden despite protests, including from the region’s church, which laments “the total lack of reaction by the authorities.”

Hate for and Abuse of Christians

Austria: A local newspaper reported:

A graffiti that rightly causes a lot of agitation. The lettering “Christians must die” can be seen at the Traisen-Markt train station. Above it, in the same style, the words “Allach Akkbar” [sic]. The removal of the graffiti has already begun and will cost about 500 Euros.

Uganda: A Muslim father burned his daughter for converting to Christianity. While traveling with her father, a sheikh (respected elder) of the Muslim community, Rehema Kyomuhendo, 24, heard the gospel and secretly converted. On the night of May 4, while she and her father were staying at her aunt’s home, she called a Christian associate: “As she was sharing Christ with me, I was so overjoyed,” Rehema later explained, “and my father heard my joy and woke up, came from his bedroom furiously and started beating me up with blows, slaps and kicks.” He also shouted that he was “going to kill her.” He broke a gas container, lit the pieces with the unspilt fuel, and began to burn his daughter. Her cries awakened her aunt, who protected her from the sheikh. Last reported, Rehema was expected to need more than a month of hospitalization due to “serious burns on her leg, stomach, rib area, near her neck and on part of her back.” No one has “reported the assault to police for fear that her father might try kill her.”

Pakistan: In another example of abuse of Christians in connection to COVID-19, “an Islamic cleric claims his organization is using COVID-19 food aid to convert non-Muslims to Islam,” according to a May 8 report. Speaking on Pakistani television, the cleric boasted of how when a destitute Christian man came for aid, the “staff of the organization offered him conversion against food which he accepted.” The man was subsequently renamed Muhammad Ramadan, signifying his conversion had occurred during the Muslim holy month. The cleric had added that Muhammad was then fasting (which is ironic considering hunger is what prompted him to convert in the first place).

About this Series

The persecution of Christians in the Islamic world has become endemic. Accordingly, “Muslim Persecution of Christians” was developed in 2011 to collate some—by no means all—of the instances of persecution that occur or are reported each month. It serves two purposes:

1) To document that which the mainstream media does not: the habitual, if not chronic, persecution of Christians.

2) To show that such persecution is not “random,” but systematic and interrelated—that it is rooted in a worldview inspired by Islamic Sharia.

Accordingly, whatever the anecdote of persecution, it typically fits under a specific theme, including hatred for churches and other Christian symbols; apostasy, blasphemy, and proselytism laws that criminalize and sometimes punish with death those who “offend” Islam; sexual abuse of Christian women; forced conversions to Islam; theft and plunder in lieu of jizya (financial tribute expected from non-Muslims); overall expectations for Christians to behave like cowed dhimmis, or second-class, “tolerated” citizens; and simple violence and murder. Sometimes it is a combination thereof.

Because these accounts of persecution span different ethnicities, languages, and locales—from Morocco in the West, to Indonesia in the East—it should be clear that one thing alone binds them: Islam—whether the strict application of Islamic Sharia law, or the supremacist culture born of it.

Previous Reports:

#Islam #Muslim #Sharia #Jihad #Immigration #Legal #News #Persecution #Religion #Terror #Politics #Travel #Media #Mosque

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

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Illicio 3/?

Part 2

“We’ll get it out,” he says. Jon doesn’t doubt him, but he also doesn’t know exactly what to expect, and he definitely doesn’t want Melanie dead or- or worse.

“I need to get Basira,” is all Jon says before climbing to his feet and hurrying out the door.

III

Jon Knows the door to his office will open about a second before it does, but he still flinches a little when Gerry barges in and slams it closed behind him.

“I thought you’d left for the day,” Jon smiles a little as Gerry drops heavily on one of the chairs before his desk. “You’re in a mood huh?”

“I don’t like your Martin,” Gerry says, crossing his arms over his chest. The eyes on his elbows look at Jon as his face grows hot.

“Please don’t call him that,” Jon mumbles. Gerry’s real eyes are also fixed to his face, and Jon only grows more flustered at that.

“Met him just now at the break room. He’s got a good bite- are you sure this is the guy that spent two weeks hiding from Prentiss?"

"Very,” Jon says dryly. It’s still a sore spot for him; he should have known that wasn’t Martin, he should have-

“You could do better.” Gerry’s still frowning something awful, and Jon can’t help the tired chuckle that escapes his lips. “What?”

“I really couldn’t.”

“Oh come on!” Gerry shakes his head. “Of course you’d think that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon frowns, but Gerry only rolls his eyes and looks to the side, the chair’s front legs lifting off the floor as he leans back on it. After a few more minutes of silence, Jon resigns himself to spending an undetermined amount of time with a grown man sulking, and goes back to finishing his emails.

Jon’s not too used to being quiet around Gerry, probably because when Gerry seeks him up it’s because he needs Jon to feed. The silence feels odd, and Jon finds himself stealing glances across the desk from time to time.

Gerry looks like a statue, completely still except for the ring around his lower lip that periodically shifts against the flesh, glinting almost hypnotically under the cold lights of the office.

“He used to- he was always looking after me, you know?” Jon doesn’t really know why he’s telling Gerry this, other than he needs him to understand that Martin is so much more than what the Lonely is making of him. Gerry’s teeth flash into view as they bite and pull the silver ring. “He went through the trouble of getting some of Prentiss’ ashes, so I’d feel… safe.”

“Hm.” The ring flips a little more aggressively, Gerry’s lip pushed pursed and pressed under a slightly chipped -from a mosh pit when Gerry was sixteen, the Eye informs helpfully- front tooth.

“And he was always making sure I had something to eat and that I took breaks even when-” his voice falters a little, and licks his bottom lip in a thoughtless mimicking of Gerry’s movements, “-even when I was acting like a tool and stalking them all because I was sure they were trying to kill- Gerry!” Jon stops abruptly, when an index and middle finger each lay on the sides of Gerry’s bottom lip and his tongue flicks between them in a very suggestive way.

Gerry’s only response is a loud bark of laughter, and if Jon’s face was warm before when talking about Martin, now it’s positively boiling.

“W- are you twelve years old?” Jon stutters out, feeling the keen burn of embarrassment in his stomach. Gerry, mouth is curled in a devilish smirk he remembers from when Tim used to joke around and tease him, and the corners of his eyes are crinkled in amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You were just so focused,” Gerry cackles, and the chair’s front legs land again with a heavy thud. “It’s ok. I still don’t like him, but I’m not going to try to convince you. I’ll just keep an eye on him.”

“…I’ve come to learn stalking people doesn’t bring great results, but suit yourself,” Jon grunts, focusing on his computer screen again with a dark frown.

The chair creaks, and Gerry’s eyes peek over the edge of the laptop’s screen. Jon scowls, and Gerry pushes the laptop closed with a hand, his chin resting comfortably on the other.

“It’s rude to ignore your presents, Jon. The Eye might start to think you didn’t even want me back.” Gerry’s still sporting that infuriating smirk, and Jon narrows his eyes.

“Personally, I’m starting to think you’re more of a punishment, Gerard.” It’s too hot in the office; it wasn’t so hot before. Jon stands up to make sure the radiator is turned on, and grabs the box of real statements from the shelf on his way back. “Now, I have work to do, unless you want to keep distracting me.”

Gerry lifts his hands in surrender, and Jon rolls his eyes. It’s still too hot in the office, but a statement should make him feel better. A tape recorder clicks on in one of his desk drawers.

“Alright then. Statement of Sergeant Terrence Simpson, regarding an outbreak of violence in the crofting community of Lancraig, Ross-shire…”

He does in fact feel better after reading it, at least in a physical sense. In all others thought, it's… an absolute downer.

“Slaughter is nasty,” Gerry offers, and Jon almost jumps on his seat. He was so focused on the statement he completely forgot Gerry was there. He’s made himself at home with his legs on the second chair and his arms behind his head. “Normally the Fears go one on one, but you get a single wielder into the mix and suddenly you have tens of dead or injured.”

“Yes… honestly I’m very surprised Melanie has kept it under control this time,” Jon nods. Gerry’s head whips towards him, and he gets his feet off the chair. Jon pays him no mind, following his train of thought instead, “with that bullet still in her leg, pumping her up with violence and- w- did I read that somewhere?"

Gerry leans across the desk. Jon can hear the static now, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Gerry’s as the man gives him an encouraging nod.

"Ride it,” Gerry whispers, “let me hear it.”

“W- well yes. The- the bullet. From her trip to India.” It’s much easier to let the Knowledge out when he’s telling it to someone else. “It didn’t show in the scans, in any of them, but it’s still there. Just above the tibia and getting infected-”

Gerry nods. His entire demeanor has changed, Jon notices. His brow is furrowed, his shoulders tense. This is most definitely not the man that teased Jon into a flustering mess just an hour ago.

“We’ll get it out,” he says. Jon doesn’t doubt him, but he also doesn’t know exactly what to expect, and he definitely doesn’t want Melanie dead or- or worse.

“I need to get Basira,” is all Jon says before climbing to his feet and hurrying out the door.

—-

Melanie’s sleeping. Basira knows the cocktail she has every night is enough that she won’t hear them unless they’re deliberately loud, but she still worries. Melanie’s dangerous under the best circumstances, and Basira can’t tell she’s too keen on her waking up and finding Basira looming over her with Jon and Gerard Keay of all people.

“The guy said you’d need to hit the right nerve or it won’t work,” Basira hands over the syringe and takes a step back. “You know much about-”

“Here,” and he points to a spot on her leg that looks perfectly unremarkable to Basira.

She arches an eyebrow. “You sure?” she asks, then when he nods, “ok, go for it then.”

“Right,” Jon takes a deep breath, and leans over Melanie’s limp form. Basira cringes a little; Melanie’s her friend, but-

“Pray the injection doesn’t wake her-”

“Yes thank you, Basira-” Jon’s increasingly annoyed voice is cut off when Keay slaps a hand down over his mouth.

“If the injection doesn’t wake her up, you will. Just poke her,” the man says in a hoarse, tense whisper. Basira blinks in surprise when Jon lifts a hand to pull Keay’s hand from his mouth but doesn’t actually push it away.

“… Okay,” is all Jon says before he pushes the needle into Melanie’s leg in a single move that seems almost practiced in its certainty. Keay waits only as long as it takes for him to slip the needle out again to pull Jon back. “Now… now we wait.”

“You better be right about this,” Basira says as she sits down with her back against the wall.

Jon looks at her with a pained grimace, like he wants to smile but knows she doesn’t want to see it. “I am.”

He and his shadow sit against the wall across Basira, and she takes the opportunity to watch them. Jon’s sitting partly turned towards Melanie, which leaves his back half exposed to Gerard Keay, and he doesn’t seem too worried about that.

Basira somehow doubts Jon had an easy time being touched even before the multiple kidnappings and attempted murder, so this has probably got something to do with the Eye, making him feel like he’s safe in Keay’s presence so he grows even more distant from other humans.

She’s been… trying. She greets him back when he comes into the Archives, waves goodbye while trying to ignore the boiling jealousy that he gets to go home still. She wasn’t lying to Melanie; once upon a time, she liked Jon.

But Basira still can’t forgive him for surviving when Daisy didn’t.

Every time she sees him it feels like he’s stealing a breath Daisy should’ve had. Like some cosmic power placed them both on a balance and decided Jon was more important before it took Daisy away without leaving even a body for Basira to mourn over.

She knows she’s being unfair, and she doesn’t like it. She’s better than this, more objective. So she tries harder.

“I should’ve noticed before,” Basira offers tentatively, an olive branch that Jon jumps on much too quickly. Once upon a time it would have been endearing.

“No, of course not. You didn’t know Melanie before…” he makes a vague gesture pointing at his leg, “a- and she’s very uh- assertive. Even without the Slaughter, I think it would’ve translated into violence once you all started being in danger and there was no one else to… protect you.” He seems to catch on to what he’s saying, because he looks away almost immediately.

“Hm,” is all Basira says. She should’ve known this would bring her back to Daisy. Everything does. She can feel Keay’s eyes on her, and she focuses on not fidgeting. He doesn’t scare her.

“You… you’re living here too?” Jon asks after a moment, his voice dubious like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to continue the conversation after he ruined it once.

“It’s not safe out there. I got a camp bed by the tunnels,” Basira shrugs. “I like to keep an eye on them.”

“I… see. And- and Martin?” Jon asks. Keay makes a sound like a groan behind him, and Basira arches an eyebrow. Jon however, seems much more interested in a loose thread in his sock.

“I think he’s still got his own place. Whatever he’s doing for Lukas seems to be enough to keep him safe.”

“That’s… not ideal,” Jon tells the floor in a voice so low Basira can barely register it.

“No. I guess it isn’t.”

Neither one of them is too interested in conversation after that, and when Jon finally looks up and says it’s time Basira hops up to her feet immediately. It’s been a long thirty minutes.

“The scissors, please,” Jon extends a hand to her.

“I thought you had the scalpel?” Basira scowls. Surely he’s not planning on cutting her leg op-

“For the trouser leg!” Jon snaps in an exasperated whisper.

“Oh- right,” she hands them over.

Jon snips at the fabric until the trouser leg falls away, and he takes a deep breath.

“God… look at that,” he mutters. Basira feels every hair on her body stand on end, as a familiar static begins crackling around them. Jon’s eyes are giving off a faint green glow as he looks down at Mel, before he turns to face Keay. “Can- do you see it?”

“I see the mark,” Keay shrugs. He looks normal enough, no eerie glow or sharp teeth or anything, but by now Basira knows not all the monsters are that obvious.

“It’s a leg,” she says dryly.

Jon shakes his head. “It’s all rotten inside.”

“See the bullet?” she asks. Jon nods, and she tilts her chin towards Mel. “Get it out then.”

“Easy to say… she’s probably not going to swing at you,” Jon tightens his grip on the scalpel.

Basira doesn’t try to contradict him because while she’s sure none of them will be safe if Melanie wakes up, she’s even more certain Jon is going to be the first target.

“Here we go…"

And then Jon is sinking the knife into Melanie’s leg, and then his fingers, and Basira heaves a little when he pulls out a bright gold bullet dripping something black and slimy.

That’s when Melanie wakes up.

"GET OFF ME!” Melanie’s first lunge sends their makeshift operation tray crashing to the ground.

“Oh Jes- get her, she’s- she’s not supposed to be-!” Jon yells out, taking a hurried step back and crashing into Keay.

“Melanie, it’s alright!” Basira tries to reach her from the back- a chokehold won’t calm her down, but it’ll keep her still.

“Jon, get back-”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” It must be the Slaughter’s residual effects, because there is no way Melanie’s slight frame has enough strength to shake Basira off this easily- “I’LL KILL YOU!”

Basira sees something silver glint in her hand as she lunges at Jon, and she screams. “She’s got the scalpel!”

Jon screams when Melanie stabs the knife into his shoulder. Then she’s pulling back, and Basira knows she’ll go for the throat this tim-

The dry slap of a punch against flesh cracks over them and Melanie backs down, dizzy enough that Basira can wrap her arms tightly around her torso and arms.

“Run!” Basira yells, but Keay’s already half carrying, half dragging Jon away towards the exit.

The bullet sizzles as it burns a hole straight into the floor of the Institute.

——-

If whatever Jon and his friends did at the Unknowing didn’t destroy it outright, the Anglerfish could take some notes from the Archivists, Gerry thinks. For a couple of avatars that gain absolutely nothing from having people devoted to them, they’re both especially adept at luring them in.

Gertrude knew perfectly well what to give people in order to ensnare them. Gerry never did fall for the dainty old lady image that she so carefully cultivated to make both avatars and assistants drop their guard, so she never tried it with him.

It kept him from ending up like Michael Shelley, but of course that only made her come at him from another angle.

He knows now she never cared for him. Not as a person; not enough to not mutilate his body and tie his soul to the book and then not even take it back with her. But at the time it was easy to let himself believe this woman could give him at least some of the things his mother refused.

Sometimes during their trips, when they were just having supper at a small roadside restaurant or another, Gerry found himself stopping and marvelling at how normal it felt.

“Decaf for my grandma please, she’s very delicate,” he’d tell the server of the day and smirk at the way Gertrude’s eyes gleamed dangerously from the other side of the table.

“My grandson’s paying,” she’d say at the end of the meal when the bill landed on the table, giving the server a sweet little smile like she hadn’t just poured a couple hundred pounds of concrete onto a woman with as many arms as she had fingers. “He’s always treating me, a real sweetheart,” and Gerry would have to burn some more of his emergency cash on a meal.

At some point he started believing ‘normal’ was 'real’, and when Gerry tasted acid on his tongue and smelt burnt hair before his body started seizing, the most reassuring thought in his mind was that Gertrude was there with him as he reached a hand to her.

He doesn’t know if she took it.

Jon is a different story. It’s difficult not to notice when one spends every other night at his flat, but Jon is so alone that Gerry’s a little surprised to find none of the ten marks he bears belong to the Forsaken.

Jon flinches when Gerry touches him, and Gerry knows he should stop, that not everyone is ok with it, but Jon never really seems uncomfortable, just… surprised.

Jon smiles very rarely, but when he does he almost always looks down, like he doesn’t want you to see it. His smile is a bit lopsided, his teeth a little crooked and there’s a worm scar right at the edge of his lip. It’s a good smile, in Gerry’s opinion.

Jon takes up an eternity to dress up every morning because his right hand only barely works, and Gerry can’t bring himself to offer to help because Jon always mutters little apologies for the delay and he thinks it would only make him feel worse.

Jon greets Melanie and Basira every morning and says goodbye every evening, even when Basira’s the only one that responds and even then only sometimes. Gerry can pinpoint the days she doesn’t because he comes out looking a little more deflated.

Getrude had her assistants, Decker, Leitner, Gerry himself and half of the avatars moving across a chess board only she could see. Jon has a man willingly feeding himself to the Lonely -allegedly- out of love, and a poor imbecile who apparently can’t resist people who are as broken as him.

“How’s your shoulder?” Gerry asks as though he can’t see the bright pink new skin through the loose neckhole of one of the oversized shirts Jon wears to 'sleep’. “Wounds from the Slaughter take a while to heal.”

“I’m- I think it’s doing fine,” Jon fidgets with his sleeve a little, before going to sit at the opposite end of the sofa. “Martin’s still avoiding me.”

Jon’s voice is perfectly calm and unaffected, and Gerry knows it’s full of bullshit. He reaches to lay a hand atop Jon’s head consolingly.

“Still not your Martin?” he asks, only the slightest bit teasing. It still manages to bring a pained little smile out of Jon.

“Not anymore, in any case.” Jon sinks back against the sofa’s plush backrest, his head heavy against Gerry’s hand. “Basira told me his mother died while I was in the hospital. I didn’t even know.”

“If Lukas is keeping him isolated for some reason,” Gerry doesn’t say 'asides from sacrificing him to his patron’ because he’s not insensitive, thank you very much, “it makes sense he can’t just come into your office to talk feelings over a cup of tea.”

Jon sighs. “It’s not his fault. I- it’s selfish.”

“How is caring for him selfish?” Gerry arches an eyebrow. His hand in Jon’s hair moves the slightest bit, only enough to ruffle through it softly.

“Because I’m not caring for him. I’m caring about what he thinks of me. If I- I should respect his decision,” Jon finishes lamely, pulling his feet up onto the sofa to circle his knees with his arms.

“You are. It’s not a crime to miss someone you like.” Gerry never had a cat, but he imagines this is how it feels to pet one. Careful not to move too much or too abruptly lest he shatters the fragile trust he’s managed to build. “They- if they don’t want to save themselves, you can’t do it for them, Jon.”

Jon’s head tilts sideways so that he can aim his big dark eyes at Gerry. “We saved Melanie.”

“And look what it got you.”

“It doesn’t matter what happened to me. Melanie is… recovering. That’s all there is to it,” he says, and Gerry has no doubt Jon actually believes it. “Are you going out tonight?”

Gerry’s not stupid by any means, and he knows a diversion tactic -and a request for space- when he hears one.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Gerry says before climbing to his feet. Jon’s muttered 'be careful’ follows him through the door and prompts a small smile out of him.

Jon is easy to grow fond of, or maybe Gerry just doesn’t learn from his mistakes.

—-

It’s almost midnight when Melanie wakes up from a fitful sleep. It was probably the nagging hunger, so she sets to digging around the fridge for something she can put together with minimal effort.

“That’s a good bruise right there,” says a familiar, amused voice. Melanie smiles. Helen doesn’t usually manifest her door outside the lower levels of the institute, but Melanie hasn’t gone back down yet, choosing instead to sleep on a sofa at the makeshift infirmary Basira set up for her in the break room. She must be worried.

“I think he almost dislocated my jaw,” she says as she turns on the sofa to face Helen’s distorted, ever-changing form. “Jon’s new boyfriend has a good hook.”

“In my defense, I was only trying to knock you out. Is that the Distortion?”

Both of them turn at that, and Helen’s long fingered hand wraps itself protectively around Melanie’s shoulder. Melanie’s pleasantly surprised to notice the touch doesn’t trigger the mix of irritation and rage it did just a few days before. Now she’s only grateful to have Helen by her side as she looks up at Gerard Keay.

“Michael knew you,” says Helen, tilting her head to the side a few degrees further than a human could reasonably go.

“Only a little,” Gerard shrugs. “Before he became you. Who are you now?”

“I am me. But Helen is also me.”

Gerard nods. “Sans Getrude in the mix, I’m guessing a sacrifice that outsmarted you somehow?”

Helen’s smile curls at the corners, her eyes swirling with delight when Melanie looks up to check on her.

“Michael was getting distracted. Archivists have that effect, I’ve found.”

“And Helen doesn’t get distracted?” Gerard asks.

Helen’s smile keeps growing and curling into itself, but she doesn’t respond. Her hand tightens around Melanie’s shoulder.

“What do you want?” Melanie knows there’s a knife behind her. A blunt one, only good for spreading mayonnaise or butter, but it’s still a knife and she’s still aware of it. Her feeling for these things has diminished over the past two days, but she figures it’ll be a long time before it’s gone. If it ever is.

“To check on you, mostly. You didn’t go full avatar, but that bullet still did a number on you.”

Melanie’s fist clenches by her side. “Well, no need to worry now. I’m back to being inoffensive little old me.” The truth of it aches at her like a bad tooth. Logically, Melanie knows the bullet was bad, and that it made her terrible and feral. But she’d been… powerful. She’d driven out the Flesh’s creatures by herself, she’d saved everyone. And now the power is gone, and she can lie to Basira, but not herself.

She misses it.

“Yeah, right. I doubt that.” Gerard gives her a wary smile. “The Slaughter goes for tigers, not kittens. But without that thing inside you you should at least be thinking more clearly.”

“…I am,” Melanie responds after a moment’s hesitation. She’s not quite sure she buys that the Slaughter only powered up what was already inside her, but… this guy would know, wouldn’t he? “How- how is he?”

“Healing. A statement or two and he should be right as rain,” Gerard frowns a little when Helen chuckles behind Melanie. “Do you know something we don’t, Helen?”

“You know the answer to that question.” Helen’s smile looks angular now, like they’re looking at it in a fractured mirror.

Gerard rolls his eyes and shakes his head, before turning to Melanie again.

“He’ll be happy to know you’re feeling more like yourself.”

“I still don’t like him,” Melanie crosses her arms over her chest, “don’t give him any ideas.”

“As if Jon would ever willingly believe anyone likes him,” he smirks, but it’s a soft, amused smirk Melanie’s seen before on people talking about Jon- seriously, what do people see in him?!

Do Georgie and Martin and this guy just have some sort of… disaster human fetish? And that’s another problem because if Georgie does have it, that doesn’t say anything good about Melanie herself, one way or the other.

“How do you not… hate him?” Melanie asks. Whatever Gerard thinks about Jon, there ought to be some resentment in there.

“Jon?”

“No, the bloke that keeps leaving used spoons next to the sink, of course I’m talking about Jon!” Melanie snaps. He’s got to be making fun of her, it’s the only explanation. “You died, you were dead and you wanted to be dead and now you’re back in this fucking mess!”

The man lifts a pierced eyebrow. “It wasn’t Jon who brought me back.”

“But it was because of him! We’re all trapped here because-”

“Because Elias is an asshole?”

“Elias isn’t here!” Melanie snarls. Helen’s hand tightens around her torso again, from shoulderblade to clavicle, and Melanie thinks if the bullet were still in her she’d be at Gerard’s throat already.

“If you’re going to blame Jon for all that’s happened to you, you might as well blame yourself for knowing Jon.” The absolute bastard has the gall to shrug at her. “That’s how much choice he had in the matter, or how much you did.”

“So what, you’re saying this was going to happen one way or another?” Her teeth grind as she tensed her jaw. “That we had no choice?”

“Oh no. There were definitely choices involved,” Gerard seems to sense she’s about to jump at him, because he readjusts his stance a little. “Jon chose to take on the promotion at work. You chose to come and give your statement. Your friend here chose to open the door-”

“Leave her out of this. She couldn’t have known what would happen if she opened it, I couldn’t have known coming here to tell a story would end with me being- being turned into some kind of monster!” By the time she’s finished, Melanie’s panting for breath. Hot, angry tears burn at her eyes that she won’t let spill.

“There you have it,” Gerard says simply. “I was born into this mess. You pushed a domino and ended up here. Not everyone is Martin Blackwood.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” At some other point she’d find this hilarious. Two men pining over an absolute mess of a monster. As it stands, the only thing she feels is the slightest wave of protectiveness towards Martin; because she’s known him the longest out of the two of them.

Gerard shrugs.

“Jon may trust him… but Martin knows what he’s doing. And I don’t trust anyone who chooses this willingly,” he says, averting his gaze. “I knew a woman who did.”

—

Martin doesn’t like to think of Elias at all, much less in positive terms. He has to admit though, that unlike Peter, he at least knew something about running an institution. Peter disappears for days, sometimes weeks at a time, and when he does show up all he cares about is how Martin’s self isolation is going.

He caught him talking to a tape recorder a few days ago, and Martin had to sit through another lecture on how this is for everyone’s good, including Jon, and he’s been doing a wonderful job but needs to work harder and… Martin had lost interest after that, the gist of it is the same every time.

As long as Peter believes it’s working, he’ll leave Jon and the others alone.

Martin sits down before the two steaming mugs -he keeps brewing an extra one on reflex-, and pushes his glasses up to his forehead to rest his face on his hand. At least the Archives’ break room is free again, after Melanie recovered from whatever it was that happened to her leg.

There’s a very familiar click below the table, and Martin’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Hello there,” he greets the tape recorder when he bends down to retrieve it. He places it behind Jon’s cup of tea, and it does make him feel a little bit better. “Not doing anything really interesting right now, but you can stay if you want.”

The tape whirs away, and Martin nods at it.

“Yep. Just taking a break, Peter can get really exhausting, but you’ve heard him before, I’m sure you know.” It’s a fun little exercise, pretending the tapes talk back to him. It still makes him feel very lonely, but in a different way. One way or another, this is Jon here with him. “Not really, I mean if what he’s been saying about the Extinction is true then we do have a bigger problem in our hands but God, sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. He doesn’t even know his email password, you know? Has to change it every time he logs in, I think by now we’re up to Tundra22. One would think the head avatar for a supernatural entity would be a bit less incompetent.”

The tape recording gives two little clicks, and Martin chuckles.

“Yes I know, but Jon could at least log in to his email, even if Sasha was always guessing his passwords. But you’re right, maybe it’s an avatar thing.” He takes a sip of his tea; this is the most at ease he’s felt in days. “How is he doing by the way? I guess it’s good he’s not alone, he makes… really poor decisions when he is. Or when he thinks he is- remember when he dug my Mum’s letter from the trash? What was he thinking? I wasn’t going to confess to a murder over a letter, much less throw it in the bin!”

Click.

“Yes, fear makes us do stupid things, I know.” He rolls his eyes, feeling a wave of fondness for the man. “I just… I wish I could talk to him. But thinking about it, I don’t even know what I’d say. 'Hey Jon, did you hear me when I read to you at the hospital? I missed you at the Institute, but at least it was very reassuring to know where you were instead of wondering if you’d been kidnapped again’? Not great conversation starters.”

Click. Whirr. Click.

“I mean… I want to think so, of course. But I don’t know if you can really think when in a coma, much less miss someone. I- if he wanted to miss me of course!” Martin is such a mess, getting flustered at his own imagined conversations with an inanimate object. “I’m just- I’m going to get back to work, I’ve already spent too much time talking to you.”

A series of accusing clicks.

“Don’t give me that. I know you can just pop into my office whenever you want anyways,” he gives the tape recorder his best stern look. “Go back to him, come on. Before he decides to… I don’t know, go find another ritual to stop and almost gets himself killed again.”

The click this time sounds amused to Martin’s ears, and he chuckles as he climbs to his feet.

“Yeah, alright. You can- you can keep his tea. It’s not like I’m going to drink it anyways.”

He walks out of the room before he can convince himself to stay. He really does have things to do, and the last thing he wants is for Peter to come find him.

Inside the break room, a door opens that hadn’t been there before, and a long fingered hand snatches the tape recorder from the table.

#jongerrymartin #jonathan sims #gerry keay #martin blackwood #j/g/m #vit writes

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sciencespies · 3 years

Text

Some people keep parasitic leeches as pets, and let them drink their blood

https://sciencespies.com/humans/some-people-keep-parasitic-leeches-as-pets-and-let-them-drink-their-blood/

Some people keep parasitic leeches as pets, and let them drink their blood

To the disgust of many of our readers, we have discovered that keeping leeches as pets is actually a thing.

And yeah, it’s certainly… a bit different. But in light of humanity’s disconnect with nature, and our concerning lack of knowledge about parasitic creatures, the idea that some of us are nurturing these parasites is also, uh, fascinating.

“They’re amazing, curious creatures that grow like crazy and make wonderful pets,” leech keeper Ariane Khomjani told ScienceAlert.

He explained how individual leeches have their own unique personalities, with some being more adventurous and others more shy.

“Some like to try and sneak a feed more often than others, haha! But once they’re full, they’re content to sit and rest for a bit out of water if handled gently,” he said.

Khomjani has four of these squishy vampires, including Leara who is pictured below. The species he keeps is one of the larger types: buffalo leeches (Hirudinaria manillensis) from Asia.

Leara the leech. (Ariane Khomjani/Instagram)

There are over 600 leech species worldwide and most, but not all of them, are blood suckers. Others, like worm leeches (Pharyngobdellida), are predators that swallow their invertebrate prey whole, while some species are detritivores that eat organic debris.

These wriggly sausages can have up to eight pairs of ocelli (eye spots), which they use to detect the shadows of potential prey. Their brain bits are spread across 32 body segments, and they are hermaphrodites, so each individual leech has both male and female organs, although they still require a mate to breed.

If a hungry parasitic leech senses your body heat or the CO2 in your breath, it can loop its way towards you by using its mouth and butt suckers. Yes, you read that right, their butts suck, too.

Leech looping locomotion. (Chiswick Chap/Wikipedia/CC By SA 4.0)

If it finds a suitable bit of host, the leech will inject its saliva – which contains anaesthetic and anti-blood clotting compounds – before biting down with two- or three-pronged serrated jaws.

“Once they get feeding you don’t even feel it, even with the large buffalo leeches,” explained Khomjani, although the initial bite can hurt a bit. They can go up to a year between feeds, but leech sellers recommend feeding the larger species every 3-6 months.

Of course, as with anything involving direct contact with your bloodstream, feeding a leech your own blood should not be attempted without first seeking advice from a doctor. Some people are allergic to leech saliva and there’s always a risk of catching an infection from them.

Khomjani told us that while most bite wounds heal without a scar, due to the anti-coagulants in the leech saliva, it can sometimes take several days for a bite to stop bleeding. But it’s exactly these saliva properties that have long made leeches of interest to humans.

“Leeches have been linked with human culture, particularly in Europe, for centuries,” parasitologist Mackenzie Kwak from National University of Singapore told ScienceAlert.

In fact, we have been keeping leeches, primarily for medical purposes, for around 3,000 years. During the Victorian era (in the 1800s) they were recommended for treating everything from headaches to nymphomania.

This craze led to a rather absurd battle between rival pharmacies, who produced increasingly elaborate leech jars in order to entice customers to choose their product.

They were ridiculous, huge, over the top, and not really even practical for storing the escape artist leeches at all. But ultimately it was all about appearances, and a more eye catching display meant more customers.

Here’s some photo examples of this madness.

(6/7) pic.twitter.com/g4gl10suk2

— Jane Nibful ♿️ (@Nibful) June 13, 2019

This historic use of leeches severely reduced medicinal leech (Hirudo medicinalis) populations across Eurasia, so this species is now protected.

Today, leeches are still kept for use in both human and animal medicine around the world and are approved by the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) as “medical devices“.

“Leeches are used post-operatively in patients who have had digit reattachment or muscle or flap surgery,” nurse Julie Smolders from South Western Sydney Local Health District told ScienceAlert.

“The leeches are applied to the site and suck away the congested blood to allow for blood flow to the peripheries to keep the surgical site viable.”

The hospitals keep 100-200 leeches to make use of this blood-vessel clearing ability. These leeches are sourced from captive bred populations raised in controlled environments, to help minimise the potential risk of infection.

(Ariane Khomjani/Instagram)

If the idea of keeping one of these little Draculas intrigues you, but you’ve no interest of offering yourself up as a meal, there are various accounts online of pet leeches being fed raw liver or heated blood from the butcher.

“Provided the blood [is] fresh and not treated with any preservatives or anything like that, I could see that sort of thing potentially working,” Kwak told ScienceAlert, pointing out that parasitologists and medical entomologists have been using similar techniques to maintain parasites in laboratories for decades now.

He believes “pet leeches are a marvellous way to learn about parasites, and on a broader level, to appreciate how intricate and bizarre the natural world can be.”

When asked about people’s negative reactions to his pets, Khomjani replied, “could you imagine the outrage if someone talked about dogs and cats the way you see them talk about leeches?”

A version of this article was originally published in July 2019.

#Humans

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ladyherenya · 4 years

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Books read in June

I didn’t read everything I had planned. I was distracted reading other things and now I have to decide which library books I will return unread.

Part of me is stubbornly convinced I should retain my eleven-year-old self’s ability to borrow armfuls of books and read all of them at least once before the return date. Which is ridiculous. Back then I had fewer responsibilities and read shorter books. And having too many books to read is a better problem to have than running out of books.

Favourite cover(s): Thorn, Battle Born and White Eagles.

Reread: All Systems Red by Martha Wells.

Still reading: Descendent of the Crane by Joan He and Riviera Gold by Laurie R. King.

Next up: Aurora Burning by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, and The Enigma Game by Elizabeth Wein.

One day I’ll get back to posting other things on Tumblr but for now, it’s just book reviews.

(Longer reviews and ratings on LibraryThing and Dreamwidth.)

Unseen Academicals by Terry Pratchett (narrated by Stephen Briggs): The wizards of Unseen University play football. This is humorous, clever, sharply observant about people -- very much what I’ve come to expect from Pratchett. I enjoyed it a lot.

Girl Gone Viral by Alisha Rai: Katrina is horrified when a conversation she has with a man in a café is overheard, twisted into a romance, documented on Twitter -- and goes viral. Her bodyguard offers his family’s farm as a safe retreat. I enjoyed reading this and liked how it’s romance about a woman dealing with panic attacks, but by the final act, its priorities had diverged somewhat from mine. It wanted to get to its happily-ever ending, whereas I thought it had raised interesting issues worthy of further exploration and slower, more complex solutions. I wanted a happy ending, too, but wanted more story first.

Blame It On Paris by Laura Florand: I’ve read a few of Florand’s romances and even though the descriptions of Paris and chocolate shops were lovely and vivid, as stories they were not really my thing. But I loved her memoir, which is very funny. During her year in Paris, Laura isn’t looking to give up her independence, travelling or career plans for romance. But then her friends talk her into asking out the French waiter she admires. Getting to know Sebastien allows Laura to see France from a different perspective, and challenges her assumptions about serious relationships, her (American) culture and her own family.

Stepping From the Shadows by Patricia A. McKillip: A story about growing from childhood into adulthood. Published in 1982 as McKillip’s “first book for adults”, I can see why this is now out-of-print. It is strange, even by McKillip’s standards for strangeness. In merging the mundane with the magical, the mythical, it attempts something rather interesting and thoughtful, but it isn’t quite successful. However, the descriptions of places are wonderfully vivid, the narrator’s emotions are conveyed with intensity, and there were moments that felt like catching a fleeting glimpse of myself of a mirror. I didn’t always like it, but I’m glad I got to read it all the same.

True to Your Service by Sandra Antonelli: Kitt is sent on a mission to the Netherlands and his boss insists that Mae accompany him. This spy-thriller is, like At Your Service and Forever in Your Service, a bit too violent for me. However, I liked that Mae and Kitt talk about their reactions to distressing events with each other. In fact, the two of them are constantly discussing their thoughts and feelings about what’s happening, including the way Kitt’s job collides with their personal relationship. I really like the way their relationship is an on-going conversation.

The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer:

Cress (narrated by Rebecca Soler): Following on from Cinder and Scarlet. Cress, born without the Lunar gift for manipulation, has spent years living alone in a satellite orbiting Earth, using her tech skills under the orders of the Lunar thaumaturge Sybil and dreaming of escape. I really enjoyed this. I like how it wove in elements from “Rapunzel”, and dealt with Cress’s perception of herself as a damsel in distress, a girl in need of rescuing. There is an increasing focus on teamwork and friendship -- this means we see the characters from different perspectives, and we also see different sides to them.

Winter (narrated by Rebecca Soler): Princess Winter, step-daughter of Queen Levana, is determined that she will never use her Lunar gift to manipulate others -- even though refraining makes her a bit crazy. Meanwhile Cinder and her friends plot to overthrow the queen. This is tense and entertaining, and the narrator does a wonderful job of bringing all the characters to life. I love that the gang are so accepting of each other’s weird quirks and that the romances are given time to develop. I love their teamwork, banter and perseverance. The focus is on the characters’ relationships and the action, and both are excellent.

Thorn by Intisar Khanani: Fifteen year old Princess Alyrra is sent to marry the prince from another kingdom but en route is forced into swapping places with her lady-in-waiting. This retelling of “The Goose Girl” is riveting. I instantly cared about Alyrra, and appreciated how thoughtfully and effectively the story walks a line between darkness and hope -- between fear and trust, sadness and joy. Alyrra’s new life has dangers and difficulties, but also positive things -- satisfaction in her work, a supportive found-family. She becomes increasingly aware of injustice around her, but her story is shaped by her choices -- to be kind, to seek justice and bring change.

The Physicians of Vilnoc, a novella in the World of the Five Gods by Lois McMaster Bujold: Penric and Desdemona are summoned to deal with an outbreak of a mysterious disease. This could easily be an intense story and, oddly enough, it isn’t. Given the current state of the world, I’m glad Bujold didn’t go with the dark, harrowing possibilities and instead wrote about Pen investigating how the disease is transmitted while treating as many patients as he can. Still a stressful experience for Pen, but I was confident his worst fears wouldn’t transpire. And it was satisfying to get a better understanding regarding the best way for Pen and Des to use their knowledge and skills.

Hamster Princess: Ratpunzel by Ursula Vernon (aka T. Kingfisher): Like Of Mice and Magic, this is another entertaining twist on a fairytale. When Harriet helps her friend Wilbur to find a stolen hydra egg, they come across someone else in need of help -- a rat with a very long tail.

Battle Born by Amie Kaufman: A satisfying conclusion to Ice Wolves and Scorch Dragons, with a couple of unexpected developments and a lot of expected emphasis on wolves, dragons and humans working together. I liked the realism of this. Anders and his sister Rayna have both cool shapeshifting abilities and special status arising from their parentage. But their success depends upon the support of resourceful friends and wise, trustworthy adults. They save the day, not because they know all the answers but because they bring people together. This trilogy is one I wish I could send back in time for my eleven year old self.

Time of Our Lives by Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka: Two teenagers cross paths while touring East Coast colleges. There’s a lot I found interesting: Fitz’s fascination with words; Juniper’s enthusiasm and passion for the college-choosing process; the way they challenge each other; their intense family situations; and the glimpses of university life. However, I ended up feeling oddly annoyed. I was drawn into the story because Fitz and Juniper’s perspectives and motives were so very real and understandable, but something about some of their later choices and thoughts seemed too pat. Like the level of realism slipped slightly because the authors wanted to get their Message For The Teens across.

Tweet Cute by Emma Lord: Two teenagers, two business Twitter accounts and one very public argument about grilled cheese. Pepper and Jack see each other in class and cross paths training at the pool, but they don’t realise that they’re at war on Twitter nor pseudonymously chatting on a school-based app, like something out of You’ve Got Mail. This was a lot of fun -- super cute and full of Pepper’s passion for baking, Jack’s passion for his family’s deli, complicated-but-ultimately-supportive family relationships, and references to internet culture. I like how the story explores the strengths, the pressures and the problems of social media.

Text, Don’t Call: an illustrated guide to the introverted life by INFJoe by Aaron T. Caycedo-Kimura: The text offers a basic explanation of introversion. It might be a decent introduction for someone new to the topic, but I found it a bit too basic to be interesting. However, the illustrations were great! Very funny and often relatable, and in one or two cases, usefully thought-provoking.

White Eagles by Elizabeth Wein: When Germany invades Poland, eighteen year old Kristina of the Polish Air Force has a chance to escape with her aeroplane ‐‐ and an unexpected stowaway. Her journey allows for a fascinating bird's-eye view of Europe in 1939 and of the challenges posed by such a trip. This novella-sized story is aimed to be both accessible and interesting to reluctant or dyslexia readers. It has moments where I, personally, would have liked more detail but I've worked with struggling readers and I think it's so awesome this sort of thing exists.

#Herenya reviews books #Marissa Meyer #Terry Pratchett #Discworld #Patricia A. McKillip #Laura Florand #Lois McMaster Bujold #Ursula Vernon #Amie Kaufman #Elizabeth Wein #Sandra Antonelli #Intisar Khanani

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