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unsoundedcomic · 3 months ago

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Whumptober 2024 - 10&11 - "Blow to the Head" & "Double Vision"

Durlyne let the Tanners have the slums and, in exchange, the Tanners did not often venture into the city's ghers nor its moneyed streets. This rule wasn't written down anywhere nor ever even said aloud; it seemed instead branded on local hearts. Durlynians learned it in the way that children learned knives were sharp and stoves were hot.

The Tanners had been Lemuel's boogeyman the first ten years of his life. Afterwards, he met the world's scarier monsters, but tales of the Tannery rogues had primed him for them: throatcutters, twin takers, back flayers. Hides from the Tannery were the finest in the land, for they did not skin the swine nor stag; Tanners skinned the man.

If you stayed out of the slums though, a lad was safe. A careful lad was safe.

So why, today, was the Sheriff of White Hill constabulary laying murdered in his fine home? His whole family, in fact, was murdered. A wife, two little boys, an infant girl, and even the family kedises slashed to death in their drawing room. Lemuel didn't understand it, but it was hard to question: one of the assassins had been caught trying to put the manor to the torch afterwards. A Midmolil boy for sure. An oily little throat-cutter called Corley Full Tang. By dawn, the inquisitors would twist him into shapes that did not yet have names.

But right now, his two accomplices were flying through the labyrinthine slums beyond Blue Boy Bridge. And Lemuel Adelier wanted them badly. He was only a week returned home from the army, freshly recruited to the Lions of Mercy. He was a Lion! They could never send him away again.

As long as he was a GOOD Lion.

"Take some care there!" Duane called after his brother, egging his mount on until it ran apace with Lemuel's panting bull , "You don't chase the viper into its den; you don't put yourself alone in the dark with it!"

Lemuel barked a laugh. "Home to the wife then if you're afraid, old man! Did you not see the blood in the Sheriff's home? From corner to corner it pooled! Over tin soldiers and a Tainish primer it pooled!"

Lemuel didn't have to turn to see the words had struck. There was a six month old baby girl in his brother's home now. Never again would he be fighting fully armoured. "Of course I saw it," Duane snarled, "And my prudence is not fear, ye strutting cock! Do as I say and wait for reinforcements. Do not ride off unbuttoned in your shortclothes and embarrass me, the one that brought you here. This isn't Chinoll!"

"Embarrass you!" Lemuel echoed, "Embarrass you!"

"Do you not covet the snakes? Know your place or the closest you will ever be allowed to a vliegeng are their dung heaps!"

"I don't need your permission! I'll find them!"

The Adeliers had been born and raised in the Godkiller's city, and though Lemuel had always respected his grandfather's advice to never venture beyond Blue Boys Bridge, he knew the Tannery's mark as well as any other local with a sense of self-preservation. As his hound snuffed after the villain's scent now, he noticed that mark mysteriously absent from the walls. Should the killers not be running back to their den, or at least towards the assurance of their own territory?

Lemuel was about to make this observation aloud when a door blew open, and eyes flashed in the night. "There!"

A throwing knife shot wasp-like from Lemuel's hand. The figure in the doorway yelped (Lemuel distantly hoped he had not just murdered a washwoman) and bolted from the building towards a break in the opposite wall. Clattering to the pavement, the knife didn't stick, but Lemuel's dog was already pounding past it, leaping, landing hard on the rogue's back. Lemuel dismounted like a diving raptor, sailing over the hound's head and to his prey's side.

"Some viper!" Lemuel grabbed his collar, hauled him to his feet. "More a worm slinking on his belly through the dirt! You slaughtered that entire family, and not a drop of blood on you! Look at the professional, Duane! Look at the coward!"

The elder Adelier pulled his hound up sharp, oozing disgust. "Excrement in a suit," he hissed, "Child-killing trash that would make a liar of Sonum Ssael when He taught every man has in him the way to His side. WHY! Who hired that hit, demon?"

Lemuel punched fingers into the knife slash in the assassin's coat, then ribs. The move would have felt more satisfying with a clawed gauntlet, perhaps, but it still produced a warbling, ricocheting scream. Blood oozed, and stuck the contents of the rogue's opened pocket to the LIon's punishing hand.

"Stop it!" Duane demanded. Lemuel did it again. Oh, Duane professed to loathe this sport, but he'd deliver this bastard to the inquisitors without a qualm in his heart. Ha!

"Sing for us!" Lemuel snarled, "Sing! Or I let you live to see the pit! And by God, if you do, you'll wish I'd taken your liver-"

The world offset suddenly, violent as a rutting vliegeng. Lemuel's vision exploded silver, and it was his turn to be on the ground. It was happy to catch him, but then he couldn't lift his newly wet head nor remember what he'd done with his legs. Fearfully Duane snapped his name but it was only his shadow that approached. Then in a mighty leap it cleared him, and Lemuel saw his brother bolt to the far end of the alley, palms flashing green spellfire. There was an exchange of pymary there, too fast for Lemuel's concussed brain to follow. Duane would win of course. It was hardly worth watching. Perhaps he'd give that show a miss entirely…

When next he opened his eyes, Lemuel was in his bed at the Temple barracks. Pink sunlight filtered through the high slits in the walls. He felt warm and sleepy and doped with something that he thought he'd like a second helping of.

"Oh, no, no," admonished Leysa, pushing him back down. Drugged or sober, Lemuel was powerless to resist. He lay obediently paralysed by the same tone of voice his new sister-in-law used when telling Duane he WOULD be playing cards and smoking with her father and his friends tonight.

"Where… is…?"

She smiled, grim, and fixed the cold rag back on his forehead. "Duane is choosing the 'most cross and callous tyrant in the Temple' for the task of interrogating the man he caught last night. Those terrible criminals nearly had the undoing of you, sweet boy, and you know your brother is one to take that personally."

Lemuel shut his eyes, giddiness and nausea battling for control of his stomach. "He… will wring his hands over insulting a hackney… until one he holds dear is threatened. Then, he would challenge God."

"I confess it to be a quality I adore," laughed Leysa. Lemuel thought she had the most musical laugh. He felt singularly accomplished when he could produce it. "Please do not mistake his nature for hypocrisy. Recognise that it is love."

"I fear… I embarrassed him last night."

"You are his brother. It is why brothers are. I did not see embarrassment when he laid you here in your cot however, nor after he had sent for his own sleeping wife to tend you. I only saw-"

"Love. It's how he gets away with everything."

Leysa laughed her songbird laugh, carefully petting his head. She liked him, and Lemuel still couldn't figure out why. He rubbed his eyes, cross, then felt a stinging spot suddenly at his side. His blood-sticky fingers found bandages there, and produced great agony when he pressed them into his abdomen. Leysa captured his hand, shushing him.

"Now, I told you they nearly had the undoing of you. After his friend struck you with that spell, the man you were on top of put a knife into your side. He's still out there, somewhere, but no concern of yours. You need to rest. I will have the cleric bring more medicine."

Hard breaths through his nose. Lemuel bade the pain subside as his mind raced. None of this made sense… but he would NOT be Duane's embarrassment. "Please," he agreed with Leysa, "More."

===

Double Vision

A few hours later, his hound was happy to see him, though Lemuel wondered why the kennel lads were keeping the animals two apiece in their stalls today. As he neared, careful not to seem in a hurry to the attendants, the pair of dogs resolved into one.

Oh.

He wanted to shake his head to clear it, but was certain that would result in a swoon. God's Beard, could he ride at all with his eyes half-crossed by the Temple's finest unguents?

They'd killed the pain at least. Lemuel was able to swing onto his saddle with the barest grunt, and only the slightest tickle of oozing blood from his stitched side.

"We don't have a lot of time before Leysa returns," he murmured. The dog whumped and beat its tail twice. Leysa'd gone home to feed the new baby, but she'd threatened him with strangulation if he moved from the cot. That's why Duane had sent for her. It had nothing to do with her laugh nor her kind eyes nor any particular skill she had at pressing cold rags to hot foreheads. Duane simply thought he'd mind her more than anyone else. Well! The great Duane Adelier was not so wise, was he!

He'd said papa would be coming to visit soon too, after the shop closed. That would not control him either! No, no. That only motivated him to put himself elsewhere. He did not need to see the old man's pity; that look in his eyes with which he had always regarded his youngest son. That look. That inscrutable LOOK.

I'm sorry you're not your brother.

To hell with it. Lemuel had investigative work to do, and some degree of personal honour to restore.

He made it over the Bridge in an hour, sticking to the low streets and away from the busy market corridor. Passing over the river, it was grey and berg-bloated, bottles and trash choking the banks. In the wan afternoon light, Lemuel looked down at his gory right hand. He squinted, willing his vision to align and read to him the torn scrap of paper stuck to his palm.

"Gherson Oa"

It had been in his would-be murderer's pocket. Was it a street? None that he knew. Perhaps a business name somewhere in the slums?

Once he'd reached the mouth of the alley, Lemuel left his hound and proceeded on foot. The wine-coloured stain half-way down the filthy corridor left him even sicker in his middle. He saw Duane's prints in it, a wild frenzy of boot soles and bloody knees. Slashes where his coatskirts had dragged through the seeping red.

"Love," Lemuel whispered. Of course Duane loved him. And he loved Duane. But there was not one Goddamned thing in the world that love could mend. Ssael spoke of honour, of duty, of responsibility towards family, faith, and country. If the Godkiller had thought more of love, He'd have said so. Let love be for mothers, fathers, and children. Let it be for people who knew how to laugh.

Quietly, carefully, Lemuel eased open the door from the night before, the one from which his attacker had bolted. It was unmarked. The lock was broken. Freshly broken. The knights and constables must have already been through here?

Aye, the small room inside was a mess. Turned over tables, papers scattered, a wooden trunk opened with pymary and all its contents emptied into a heap. Lem crossed the room and descended a hobbled set of wooden stairs leading out the back. They led to a basement converted into an equally disastrous kitchen. Its upholstered chairs had been slashed open. Sawdust hung in the air. Lemuel had to squeeze his nostrils shut for if he sneezed he was sure he would split open.

That's when he saw it. Sitting on the dark counter admidst overturned mustard jars, half a loaf of stale bread, and a few broken jars of pickle, he spied a canister with its label torn.

"tmeal," it read.

Sweating through his uniform, Lemuel affixed to it his own bloody scrap of paper.

"Gherson Oatmeal."

He breathed a chuckle, expression a rictus of triumph, and unscrewed the top.

There was only a dead mouse inside.

"Bleeeeeeding heeeeell," he moaned. Duane would laugh at the soldier brat thinking he'd figured out something clever. The Temple's finest men had swept through here. If there was anything to be found, they would have found it!

But there WAS something to find! Something about the entire assassination was wrong. The Tanners would not have ventured to the Sheriff's very home to kill him. They would not have killed the entire family, enraging the rest of the city. They would not have been caught in the act! And a Tannery assassin would not have stabbed a knife into an unconscious Lion and failed to have it kill him!

Amateurs! These were amateurs!

But wait, wait, wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Duane had spoken in the past of pymarics with material triggers. Doorways that only opened if certain keys or materials swept into their questing field.

"Is there a dead mouse door?" he asked the room.

Well, not in the north wall. He held the oatmeal canister in front of him like the world's least successful alms cup, rattling the limp rodent inside, running it past a framed calendar, a faded old poster for the General Foundry's playhouse (destroyed in a fire years ago), a shelf of tin tea canisters and detergent boxes. Nothing. Nor did the east wall budge, nor were there any likely apertures to the west, which was covered over with dusty shelves, a grimy wash basin full of dishes, and a stove missing its grills.

"An embarrassment!" he despaired, holding his head. He felt weak and sick. Blood dribbled down his hip and made a wet, cold streak in his trouser leg. They would never give him a vliegeng. Newly arrived and already put in his cot by some son of a bitch wright; by some cowardly murderer with an oatmeal label in his bloody coat. Probably the lunatic only kept it to roll a weed fag! Piqued, furious at himself, Lemuel threw the canister and its forlorn dead occupant to the floor-

Which dissolved beneath his feet. Into perfect powdery blackness, Lemuel fell.

Concluded here.

#unsounded #whumptober

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bumlets-appreciation-blog · 1 month ago

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Duane Street December Day 2: Favorite Character

A/N: I got carried away and this is way longer than I meant it to be but I've been thinking about this particular subject for about five years now so I'm very passionate about it. Hope you guys like it!

Damian Vasquez was seven years old when he saw Manhattan for the first time. Mamá was pregnant with Bianca (though she didn’t know it yet), Papá hadn’t lost the glimmer of hope in his eyes, and he and his sisters hadn’t yet known the sharp pangs that came with hunger. There was nothing but nervous excitement to be felt in all of them. He’d bounced his way through the registry line and fidgeted so much during the medical inspection that the doctor laughed and called him “enthusiastic,” a word his tongue still tripped over from time to time. When they finally left Castle Garden and stepped foot in Battery Park, Damian had a suitcase in one hand and Gabriela’s much smaller hand in the other. They were a happy pack of soon-to-be-eight (and later nine) ready to take on a new world as a family.

And things were good, at least for a while. Bianca was born and made her preference for her big brother blatantly clear, something he bragged about to just about anyone willing to listen. Then Inés came and hated him for the entire first year of her life, to the delight of his sisters old enough to understand what was going on around them. He picked up English quickly, though not as quickly as Cataleya and Maricela did, and did well in school when he could understand the concepts. He made friends with the boy down the hall and his neighbors marveled at how a boy with so much energy could be so quiet. They were safe and happy and loved.

Then Papá died. The two of them had been walking through the streets (or rather, Papá was walking; Damian was shadow fencing with an old cane he’d found in the alleyway next to their building) when a spooked carriage horse came charging down the street. His father was safe, but Damian wasn’t, and the next thing he knew, his father was shoving him so hard that he crashed into a streetlamp on the other side of the road. He’d turned around at just the right moment to see the horse trample his father. A woman nearby had grabbed him and tried to turn his face into her stomach so he didn’t see anything else, but he still heard the sharp crack of a wagon wheel rolling over Papá’s ribcage.

Damian lied when Mamá asked him about the incident through her sobs, reassuring her that he didn’t see the initial accident and strangers made sure that he never saw the body. He loved his mother and would spare her that pain. But he saw his father’s broken body every night when he laid down to sleep, saw his father’s once lively brown eyes blank and empty every time he closed his own. Lying to his mother and the younger girls was easy, but Xiomara always knew when he wasn’t telling the truth. They’d shared a womb for nine months and a life for ten years, and maddeningly, she knew him better than he knew himself. Still, he was thankful for her hand pressing between his shoulder blades and the gentle sound of her voice as she tried to comfort him when he woke up crying.

It broke him for a while, though he never really told anyone. He’d sat in confession once, a few months after the accident, and asked the priest if it was a sin to lie to his mother like he had. Padre Nuñez went silent for a minute before gently telling him, “In this instance, my son, lying is a kindness,” and Damian felt at least part of the gaping wound in his heart close. It was a little embarrassing, crying in the booth the way he did and coming out with red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, but no one said anything, and the next time he saw Padre Nuñez, the priest shook his hand like he was a man and not the little boy he still felt like.

Things got a little better as time went on. Everyone called him “the man of the house,” and he started selling papers to earn the title, which is how he ended up with the nickname “Bumlets.” He’d wanted to impress the older boys in the paper line and tried smoking one of their cigar butts. Of course, being eleven years old and entirely unused to smoking, he’d coughed so hard he nearly threw up, and another boy around his age had to hold his shoulders to keep him from falling over. It wasn't a fun experience, but he’d met Swifty that day and found out that getting a nickname from the newsies meant that you were one of them, which made him feel significantly better about the whole ordeal.

Mamá died a few months later. The doctor had called it “pneumonia,” a word he could say but not quite spell at twelve years old. He’d thought losing Papá would be the worst pain he would ever feel, but losing Mamá was like a molten knife to the chest. When Papá died, at least, they could still be a family, but with Mamá gone, the girls were sent away on the orphan train and Swifty hooked an arm around his shoulders and led him to the lodging house at No. 9 Duane Street. Kloppman had been old even then, but his eyes were kind and he wouldn’t let the older boys give him a hard time. It was almost like having a father again.

The girls, thankfully, were adopted into a farming family upstate instead of being sent out to kingdom come like Skittery’s siblings were, and Bumlets got to write to them once a week. The mother, a Russian-born woman named Anya, had gone through the orphan train herself and insisted on keeping them in contact, and the way Xiomara told it, her husband knew better than to argue when his wife set her mind to something.

Anya had written to him once, promising to take care of his sisters and to love them with everything she had. She’d enclosed a picture of the girls in the letter: Xiomara standing proud with his eyes and smile, Cataleya staring cross-eyed at the camera because she knew it used to make him laugh, Gabriela and Maricela hanging onto one another while they laughed, Bianca waving at the camera and smiling as big as she could, and little Inés with her face scrunched up from what he could only imagine was laughter. He’d cried a little when he saw it, but no one judged him, and Skitts even smiled when he saw it, even if it was a little sad.

Life with boys was different than life with girls, but Bumlets was nothing if not adaptable. It helped that he was quiet and not one to cause trouble, making it easy to make friends. Swifty, of course, was his oldest and closest friend, but Skittery was a close second and Pie-Eater after that. Even the boys he wasn’t close with still looked out for him, with Kid Blink once punching out an older boy who’d decided that he didn’t like the fact that Bumlets was Puerto Rican and thought the best way to show it would be to jump him. He’d gone to Kloppman later and begged him to show him how to throw a punch so he would be able to return the favor if the occasion called for it.

The younger kids followed him around sometimes: Tumbler imprinted on Skitts like a baby duck when he got to Duane Street, but sometimes the kid needed someone with a little more energy to wrangle him; Boots was probably one of the smartest guys he’d ever met, and his chest ached at the thought that people would dismiss him based on the color of his skin; Snipeshooter played tough most of the time, but he’d still crawl into bed next to him when he had a bad night; and Charlie, a sweet little Irish kid with more nicknames than Bumlets could remember (he’d heard Flipper, Blanket, and even Crazy Legs before deciding to just call him Charlie), looked at him like he hung the moon and started combing his hair the same way he did, which was equal parts endearing and exasperating.

Life as a newsie wasn’t easy, and he never shied away from that fact when people asked, but Bumlets found that the brotherhood and friendships he had made it easier. Mamá had always told him to remember the good things in life because they were the things worth living for and every night before he fell asleep, he’d recite a list of the things that brought him joy, no matter how small: fencing with Skittery in the morning on their way to the distribution center, helping Swifty teach Tumbler and Charlie how to do backflips, the well-worn dime novels the boys shared amongst themselves, lunch at Tibby’s with the guys, and of course, the photograph tucked under his pillow with six smiling faces staring out at him.

#bumlets #bumlets newsies #duane street december #newsies #newsies 1992

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miitgaanar · 3 months ago

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Whumptober prompt! Requested by @editoress!

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | “If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.) for the brothers Adelier

**********

Smoke billowed high in the starless night sky, the roar of the flames muffled only by the screaming rats that infested the Court. They scattered, pleading for mercy as he pushed through the throng, only to be run through by his gore soaked blade in reply.

Words had long since failed him, his voice hoarse from the thick, pungent smoke and his grief-stricken cries. He had tried calling out to her, silencing the rabble with a swift swing of his sword when they drowned him out—but only the hungry crackle of a raging fire and endless bawling answered.

Mikaila. Her name rang out in Lemuel’s mind like a bell repeatedly struck, loud and constant and inescapable. She was gone. Gone. No—stolen. Vanished into the night like footprints in a snowdrift, locked away for the sins of his hubris.

A man fell to his knees before Lemuel, his dark hair streaked through with gray and his eyes alight with terror. He opened his mouth as if to speak—or maybe scream or beg or cry—but only blood surged forth as Kossaul buried itself deep within his chest.

Mikaila. The bell tolled once more as the man slumped to the ground, his death rattle lost to the distant sound of a building’s collapse. Mikaila.

“What more must you take from me?” Duane hissed, his voice undercutting the anguished mantra. “Was my life not payment enough?”

“I’ll find her,” Lemuel said, his voice low and rough. He scanned the groups of stragglers that continued to fight the flames, their faces blurred by the unending flow of tears. One of them moved to strike him, a plank of still burning wood in hand—but he hardly made it three steps before Lemuel slashed at his throat. Hot, viscous fluid splattered on the ground, mixing with half-melted snow and staining it a deep crimson.

Lemuel kicked the man to the side, his body hitting the dirt with a muted thud, and continued his rampage through the streets.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there,” Duane said, the words drowning out the wail of a child from a pile of smoldering rubble. “She should have been safe at home with Leysa and Simon, tucked away from the cold and the snow as guests began to trickle through the door.”

“I’ll find her,” Lemuel said again, insistent. Desperate. The dark, smoke filled sky glowed a dull orange, casting the slums in a hazy light. Shadows grew longer and darker and loomed with menacing intent, as if they too sought his niece. “I’ll find her.”

“But you had to see her,” Duane continued, the words sharp and accusing. “You had to see her just one last time, damning her along with me.”

“Shut up,” Lemuel snapped, his voice cracking as his eyes burned with fresh tears. The flesh of his cheeks stung as a cold gust of wind blew through the alleyways, drying the tears as they fell.

“The spare finally given his chance at worth,” Duane spat, “only to squander it like an untried youth in a whorehouse.”

“Mikaila!” Lemuel called out, wiping at his face with his sleeve. The bright green fabric came away smeared with scarlet streaks.

“All you had to do was die,” his brother taunted. Lemuel pushed onward, blind to the slaughter happening around him. In the flames of a burning home, Lemuel swore he saw the billowing robes of a Ssaelit priest.

“And yet, even in that simple task,” Duane sneered, unrelenting in his scorn as Lemuel tore through the residents of the Court, “you were still found to be lacking.”

#Lemuel Adelier #Duane Adelier #Unsounded #editoress #I have no idea what this is. I'm sorry lmao #also im specifically sorry @ liz because this is definitely not what you had in mind #i can't write Rector Adelier for shit so this is the only way I can do it #writings from mandalore #writing prompts #whumptober #anyway we'll see how many of the requests in my inbox i can actually get to this year.

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thegenxorcist · 6 months ago

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The Ropen

Shortly after World War II, as western missionaries began to penetrate the deep jungles and remote islands of Papua New Guinea (PNG), stories of a flying creature called the Ropen (“demon flyer”) began to be reported. Duane Hodgkinson was stationed east of Lae, near Finschaven, PNG as part of the Army cavalry in 1944. About noon one day in August he was walking down a trail through a clearing in the forest when he was startled by a crashing in the brush. As he watched a large bird-like creature ponderously rose from the ground, circled and flew away. Hodgkinson, a pilot, estimated the wing-span to be that of a small airplane, about 25 ft. He clearly recalls the dark-gray coloration, long serpentine neck, beak, and distinctive head crest. Described as a nocturnal creature, the Ropen possesses two leathery wings like a bat, a long tail with a flange on the end, a beak filled with teeth, and razor-sharp claws...

The “Ropen” of Papua New Guinea | Genesis Park

#ropen

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upsidedog · 1 year ago

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moon song, phoebe bridgers // love dog, duane dogg // placeholder // bite inhibition, wikipedia // the bad thing, liz gorny // sharp objects, gillian flynn // how to be a dog, andrew kane // bluets, maggie nelson // stranger things throughout

#stranger things #max mayfield #web weaving #cw abuse

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slippinmickeys · 8 months ago

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Old Chem, pt 5

TW: school lockdown

Lockdown. A shooter on campus. Things he never used to have to think about.

He was in class and the kids were quiet, everyone with their nose glued to their phones. The doors were barred. They all looked scared.

“Can anyone tell me what part of the brain takes over in fight or flight?” he asked quietly.

Most of them look up from their phones, confused. Classes were canceled, was this guy really trying to teach? This was a smaller, 200-level class, though, these kids knew this stuff.

One, in the front row, half raised her hand. Mulder nodded at her.

“The amygdala?”

“That’s right,” he said. He was sitting on top of one of the desks in the front of the room, trying to appear as casual and calm as he could so that his students might feed off of his vibe.

“When the alert came through our phones, the amygdala took over. Anyone remember the first step?”

“Perceiving the threat,” said a kid in the back.

“Yep,” Mulder said, holding up two fingers. “Step two: flight or flight, triggered by adrenaline and cortisol. These happen quickly. We can stay in step two for a bit. Prolonged stress response. Who feels like they’re in it now?”

Most of the hands in the class went up.

“The goal is to get the prefrontal cortex back in control,” he said.

“How do we do that?” said a sophomore from the front. He seemed a little angry, was nervously chewing his gum, fidgeting.

“Deep breathing can help,” Mulder said, and noticed a few students take deep breaths.

“Exercise too, believe it or not,” Mulder went on.

“We’re shit out of luck there,” said the sophomore. “We’re locked in this room.”

There were sirens blaring distantly from the other end of campus.

“True,” said Mulder. “But there are other ways.”

“Like?” said a quiet girl from the front. He thought her name might be Courtney.

“Talking to other people,” Mulder said. “Getting creative. And,” he went on, “Cognitive activities. Putting your brain to work. I want everyone to write or type out–right now–the title of the paper you turned in last week for this class. On paper, on your laptop, on your phone, doesn’t matter.”

He gave them all a minute. “Okay,” he said. “Now write down roughly what your thesis statement was.”

Another moment. “Okay. Now who’s still in Fight or Flight?”

Less hands went up and Mulder smiled. “See? It's already working.”

A few students smiled back, looking more calm.

Then, one of the girls that was on the ski trip with them raised her hand, her face pale.

“Professor Mulder?” she said.

Mulder nodded at her.

She swallowed. “They’re saying hostages were taken. In the Miller Lab.”

All the kids swung their phones back up and Mulder felt a sharp dart of primal fear pierce through his chest. The Miller Lab was the one Scully ran. And she was there right now.

***

What he was doing was idiotic and breaking pages worth of school protocol and policy, but he didn’t think about any of those things as he ran over the footbridge and toward the lab where Scully spent a majority of her time on campus.

The whole of the building was cordoned off with yellow police tape and there was a ring of police cruisers parked at haphazard angles surrounding it. Clumps of students stood in the trees beyond the emergency vehicles, some hugging each other, some nervously watching. About twenty yards away, Mulder spotted Rudy, one of Scully’s graduate lab assistants nervously chewing his black painted nails.

“Rudy!” Mulder called and ran over to him. “Where is she?” he asked without preamble.

“I don’t know,” Rudy said urgently. “I was in a different part of the building. There was shouting and then kind of chaos and then a gunshot. Someone pulled the fire alarm and we all tore ass out. I haven’t seen her.”

Next to Rudy stood another lab assistant. She was teary, wide-eyed.

“He said his name was Duane Barry,” she hiccuped. “He said…he said some crazy shit.”

Just then a large armored-like vehicle pulled onto the scene and parked. A moment later the back door opened and a large man in a blue slicker jacket hopped down. He was bald, with glasses, and when he turned to talk to one of the cops on the scene, Mulder saw the big yellow letters across the back of the man’s jacket: “FBI.”

“Fuuuuck,” swore Rudy softly.

Mulder was in a blind panic, but trying not to show it. Stairs were being attached to the big vehicle, and several other agents emerged from it, walkie-talkies in their hands, all of them looking serious, all of them wearing guns. He was on the verge of marching over and offering help or demanding answers–he wasn’t sure which–when he heard someone shout his name from behind him.

He whirled around and there was Scully coming at him at a full run, her white lab coat flapping in the air behind her. He tore away from Rudy and flew to meet her, sweeping her up into his arms and into a grip so fierce she grunted. Her arms swung around his neck and she pressed her mouth to his collar.

“I’m okay,” she whispered several inches below his ear. “I’m okay.”

***

Charlie and his wife Sandra sat across from them holding hands, Sandra’s dress the same pale pink as the linen tablecloth on Margaret Scully’s dining room table. The leaves of the table had been pulled out and put on and it was set up in festive Easter decor; elegant candlesticks, a light brown water pitcher shaped like a rabbit, round enamel eggs in pastels dotted amongst the platters heaped with honey-baked ham, salad, sweet rolls.

“God, that must have been terrifying,” Sandra said, looking at Scully with a sympathetic look.

“It was,” Scully said simply. She pulled her napkin out of its ring and draped it over her lap.

“I’m just glad they got the guy,” said Melissa, who lowered herself down to sit on Scully’s other side. Across from her, and next to Sandra, sat Bill and Tara, whose belly was softly rounded with pregnancy.

“What motivated him, did they say?” Charlie asked.

From the head of the table, Scully’s mother sat silent and uncomfortable, watching her children talk with her hand resting along the top of her wine glass.

“He claimed to have been abducted by aliens and experimented on,” Mulder said. “He thought the labs at the university were somehow involved in whatever he thinks happened to him.”

“Delusional,” Bill spit.

“Likely, yes,” Mulder said, the only person at the table qualified to make that diagnosis. He felt sorry for the man.

“Did you talk to him?” Bill asked, looking at his youngest sister.

Scully shook her head. “I saw him in the hallway with the gun. Threw the lock on my lab, pulled the fire alarm and jumped out my window.”

Mulder reached over and squeezed her hand. Her quick thinking had probably saved numerous lives.

The incident had shaken him profoundly. Made him rethink all of his priorities.

“I hope the man gets the help he needs,” Mrs. Scully finally spoke.

Mulder remembered watching the guy get perp-walked into the back of an unmarked sedan by the tall, bald FBI agent. He remembered the wild, desperate look in Barry’s eyes. Mulder hoped he’d get the help he needed, too.

“Let’s move on to happier discussions,” Mrs. Scully went on, giving her head a little shake and reaching her hands out on either side of her to grip hands with Charlie, with Mulder. “Who’d like to say grace?”

Mulder held her hand warmly, reached out to take Scully’s as well. Before he ducked his head, he looked briefly at Margaret Scully’s hand, at her thin, paper-like skin, her knobbly arthritic knuckles, the wedding ring on her hand sitting in its own worn groove, nicked and shining, a perfect circle of aurum.

Bless this food to our use

He’d like to put a ring on Scully’s finger, he thought suddenly. He’d like to bind her to him forever.

and us to thy service

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #prompt #old chem universe

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talisidekick · 1 year ago

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I quite like swords, do you have any fun facts on them

(Axes are fine too)

Well, since I already did a whole post on Axes, which you can read here:

I might as well do my due diligence and info dump on my knowledge of swords so ... I should have expected this but here we go:

A Brief (lmao not at all) Overview of a Complicated Sword History

by an autistic trans girl demon

So before we get started, first we have to understand the categorization of swords. What we know as a "sword" is a general term from Old English deriving from the word "Sweord", meaning a "long bladed weapon with a handle and sometimes a hilt that is designed to stab, hew, cut, or slice; this means if it was clearly designed not to stab, hew, cut, or slice, and doesn't have an arbitrarily "long" blade, it's not a sword. Secondly, a lot of historical sources really only focus on swords as weapons, not tools, and thus we have an issue where tools that fall under the same description of swords won't typically be called swords but classified as "this other totally not a sword thing". Thirdly, swords were a slow development from daggers, which were classified loosely as double edged blades of a knifes size. If you're not following yet, this classification doesn't apply to all long-bladed creations and rarely do we get accounts of their use as tools because of this. That is, unless, you start looking at the few tools that became swords. And additionally, we have to remember that other cultures had definitions for tools, weapons, and items that crossed over or into what the English defined as a "sword" meaning that the "sword" category starts getting messy real quick. This simply isn't as clean as "wedge-on-a-stick" (axe) or "short sharp thing with handle" (knife). And rather than define what is a sword by it's common definition, it's actually better to look at what has become classified as a "sword" despite not quite meeting the definition initially defined as "a long double bladed weapon with a handle and sometimes a hilt" and those creations that should be classified as swords but aren't.

Which we begin the "sword-enough" category in China with the Dao. The above image is the Duan Dao. Dao are single edged long bladed weapons that showed up somewhere in 1600 to 1050 B.C. during the Shang Dynasty period but gained popularity as a cavalry sword much later. There are many types of Dao, each classified by their blade length, blade type, handle length, etc. and had strict requirements for construction. It was used like a sword, but only had one edge, so we called it a sword despite it's cousin the Dao phased out, the Jian, actually fitting the initial "sword" description perfectly.

A version of a Jian for reference.

But I can hear it coming: isn't a Dao just a Sabre? And sure, the image I showed LOOKS like a Sabre, but thats because of the Dao's complex history and how it evolved over time. It at one time looked like this:

Which is a Wodao, a variant if the Dao that looked and often had very close similarities to another "shouldn't be a sword but is" creation from a different country. That is, the one edged blade known as ...

The Katana. But oh wait, this is actually part of a series! See out of all the "swords that shouldn't be swords" from Japan, the Katana has a shorter cousin, the Wakizashi, which is slightly smaller in blade and hilt, and the Tanto which should be a knife, but somehow squeezed itself in. All of these weapons have specific requirements to their construction to be called what they are from blade and tang length, to steel folding requirements, etc. but all have one thing in common: they've only got one edge. And next up from another edge of the world is ...

The Scimitar. A bastardization of the Persian word Shamshir, which is an entire classification of swords with curved blades that some Sabres, Dao, and at one point Katana's were all classified as. This category of one bladed swords is massive and includes weapons from North Africa to the Middle East to some areas in Europe. And is this rants segway into the tools category, starting with dancing swords. Now bear with me because I don't have a photo for this one; just a rant. While sword dancing began as training exercises for many cultures, it became entertainment and from it birthed a subcategory of unbladed swords that were flimsier, more flexible, and less likely to cut you. Unlike dancing with axes where the most that was done at best was a blunting of the blade, dancing swords aren't able to be resharpened to be weapons but are rather "tools" of entertainment. Despite not being bladed at all, or intended to stab, cut, hew, or slice, they look like swords and thats enough to call them swords. But want to know who doesn't get this treatment?

The Machete. Tanto gets to squeeze in on sword, but this is just a "long bladed knife". It's history is supposedly grounded in South America as a bush clearing and harvesting tool. But it's a tool, not a weapon, and thus in it's own class. Another familiar face stuck in it's own class is ...

The Sickle. Now theres MANY types of sickles, many sizes, several could be "swords" by the way we include one-bladed creations. But alas, it's not a weapon, thus not a sword, unless it IS a weapon in which it IS a sword, a "sickle sword" or ...

A Khopesh. But oh crap, a sickle that is a sword? A tool used both for combat, harvest, and a trade tool? Thats only 1/3 sword! What can we do to preserve our obviously pristine and infalliable "sword" categorization? Answer: call it "Sickle Shaped".

Look, I don't know how to end this besides saying that I do genuinely love swords. They've been coming of age gifts, presents for achievements, badges of honour, and in many cultures, like my ancestors, a symbol of love and unity. The very act of driving a sword deep into a pole to see how far it would go in as a "sign" of how long a marriage could last was part of some germanic/viking culture. Swords are awesome. But the classification and what we do and don't consider a sword is arbitrary, hypocritical, and stupid.

Go buy a sword for a loved one. The classification apparently doesn't matter so just make sure it looks "sword enough" and no one can argue with you.

#talisidekick #talisidekick things #swords #sword history #sword rant #not where I thought this was going but yeah: swords #trans #transgender #mtf #talisidekick rants

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primecat9 · 1 month ago

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Chasing the Light

Summary: Nora Armstrong, a no-nonsense former Navy vet who lands a job as a secretary at Da Kine Bail Bonds. While adjusting to her new life in Hawaii, she quickly becomes part of the crew. As Nora takes on her first bounty, sparks fly between her and Leland. Soon Nora discovers that she's not just a part of the crew-she's beginning to find a home in their hearts. Will the chase lead to more than just captured fugitives?

For Reference: This story starts at the tail end of 2005 and will go through the following year. Leland is 28, and Nora is 27.

Pairing: Leland Chapman x OC (Nora Armstrong)

Author's Note: Uuuuuuh.... I can explain. I had a really rough week of life and my brain grabbed onto it's favorite comfort character from when I was teen. And just ran with it.

Fun fact: I wrote a Leland fic when I was like 10 and it got found by my mom. So maybe this is my way of revenging what could have been the start of my fanfic career.

Flexing Under Pressure (S1:E1)

The office buzzed with energy as phones rang and the faint smell of coffee lingered in the air. Nora Armstrong, a poised yet unassuming woman with sharp brown eyes and a subtle air of military discipline, adjusted her necklace as she jotted notes on a bail inquiry. Her first week at Da Kine Bail Bonds was a whirlwind, but if her time in the Navy taught her anything, it was how to adapt quickly and handle high-pressure situations.

But right now, that mountain of manila envelopes looked like a formidable foe. And she was only equipped with her Starbucks coffee and muffin to trudge through it.

Nora had just turned on the radio-an old George Strait song crooning through the speakers-when Beth swept in with her usual presence.

Beth Interview "We met Nora through an old friend of my dads. She just got out of the service and was a little lost on what to do next. So she worked for Bobby for a bit before I convinced her to come try out Hawaii. Bobby already had enough good girls working for him." Beth explained, fanning herself with a file while smiling.

"Good morning, your Starbucks is on your desk." Nora smiled as Beth mouthed a silent 'thank you' before disappearing into the office behind her. It didn't take long before the sound of steel-toed boots hitting the carpet brought her attention back to the door. This time it was the infamous Dog, strutting in like he owned the place.

Well.... he did. But he acted like that in every place he walked into.

"Good morning. Beth had me get you some tea. Should be on your desk." Nora announced with a smile as she opened the next file.

"Thanks, Sunshine. Been a while since we had someone to run coffee. Did you get Leland anything? He's kinda grumpy in the morning." Dog chuckled as she nodded, having already asked Beth days before everyone's preference.

Dog Interview Dog is sitting in his office chair while drinking the tea Nora had just brought in for him. "Now, I call Nora 'Sunshine' because she's got this energy about her. When she first walked into the office, we'd been through a pretty rough patch-lots of slip-ups, fugitives getting away-and the place was a bit... heavy. But then here comes Nora, all calm and smiles, and suddenly everything feels a little brighter. She's not like the others-she's got this way of handling pressure with a quiet strength. It's like she's got a little light of her own that makes everything better."

"Yup, it's on his desk and Duane Lee has a monster in the fridge," Nora confirmed taking a sip of her own coffee.

"Good girl. You're a quick learner." Dog praised before disappearing into his half of the office and turning on the TV. Nora turned back to start working on the computer when Leland walked in this time. This time he beat her to the greeting.

"Morning." He grinned, tapping the desk as he walked by toward his little safety corner to help his dad out today. Nora, unabashedly, watched him walk by in the camo pants and black t-shirt before she turned back to the paperwork.

"Morning, Nora. You're up bright and early... or is that just because of the view?" Beth asked suddenly appearing at Nora's side, causing her to startle a bit and the flush to come to her cheeks awfully quick.

"Just used to early starts. Hard habit to break." Nora shrugged trying to regain her composure as she looked up to Beth who was already giving her a grin with a knowing look. "Beth...I..."

"Just be careful..." Beth warned as she walked past to go sit with Dog and go over today's bounties. Wesley, the more senior admin, was busy getting some bonds ready for court. Nora let out a long held-up sigh before turning back to work.

In the other room, Dog had gathered the team, Nora could see the whiteboard being more and more filled with notes as she took a sip of her coffee.

But then she heard her name being called. Well, that was new.

She stood up quickly and walked into the room, almost falling in attention when Dog addressed her.

"Yes?" Nora tilted her head as now several sets of eyes were on her.

"We need your help on this guy." Dog pointed toward the headshot taped onto the whiteboard. Nora hoped her jaw didn't drop open.

"What can I do to help? Need his file?" She asked, taking half a step towards the other half of the office.

"No. You're gonna help us trick this guy. You're gonna call him up and say that you work for us, and you messed up his paperwork and he need to fill out a new one. Have him meet you up the street to fill out a new copy." Dog explained and Beth glanced back at me before turning back to Dog.

"Duane... this guy is dangerous... do we really want our new secretary to be the bait?" Beth asked, maybe a little protective or a little bit hesitant to trust her just yet. Maybe a bit of both.

"She's a vet. She can take him if he tries anything, right?" Dog asked resting his hand on his hip and Nora took a breath before nodding.

"Yeah. We train for combat. But I rescued folks.... not detain them." She joked before Dog waved at her comment.

"Same training. Just a different outcome. We'll be in our vehicles nearby, as soon as he starts walking towards the car, BOOM, we'll nail him." Dog tried to reassure me, but Nora still felt a little nervous.

"Leland, you need to be ready to chase him. Don't let him get to her." Beth ordered, causing both her and Nora to turn to him for his confirmation. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

"I'm just saying, maybe it's a little early to throw her into the fire. Let her get her feet wet first." Leland tossed up and it was hard to miss everyone's surprised look.

"What's the matter, Leland? Afraid she'll outshine you?" Beth asked with a shit eating grin on her face as I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"Just don't want her getting in over her head, that's all." Leland quickly returned, trying to brush it off just as genuine concern. Are his cheeks pink? I opened my both to agree but Dog stepped in first.

"Leland will get him before he touches you. That's what we keep him around for." Dog chuckled before tossing half of his blonde locks over his shoulder.

"Alright. I'm in." Nora smiled as Dog gave his own approval and called for everyone to suit up.

Nora moved to get waters for the vehicles, trying not to dwell too much on what she had agreed to do. She had just finished loading up the cooler when Leland appeared at her side with a radio in hand and the file.

"Here. You're on the right channel. Just click this to talk." He explained, showing her the little button on the side before handing it to her.

"Thanks. You better catch the dude if he runs." Nora teased, knowing in this group it seemed a bit of roasting helped bring everyone a little closer.

"Yeah yeah..." He chuckled waving her off as he headed over to get suited up as Dog whistled for them to return inside.

"Okay, go ahead and make the call. Just be calm so you don't set this guy off." Dog explained as he handed Nora the phone that was already on the speaker phone. She took the phone and dialed the number before sitting down on one of the nearby arms of the sofa.

Fugitive: Hello? Nora: Hi this is Debby from Da Kine Bail Bonds, is this Jace Calloway? Jace: Yes. Nora: Great, hey I'm in some hot water... I forgot to have you fill out some papers here and Beth chewed my ass out this morning. Could I maybe meet you at the...

Nora paused looking for a suggestion and Leland mouthed the 7 Eleven just a few miles up from the office.

Nora: ...The 7-Eleven on _____ street? It should only take like 5 minutes. Jace: Uuuuuhhhh Dog won't be there, right? Nora: No, they are on the big island. It's just me. giggle Jace: Uuuuh sure. Does 10:30 work? Nora: Sure. I'll call you when I pull in so we can find each other. Jace: Okay.

Nora said goodbye and hung up the phone with a chorus of praise. Beth beside her laughed a little that she was the bad guy in her story.

"Chewed you out, huh?" She teased pulling the little ponytail Nora had.

"What, I had to make it sound legit! And everyone knows you're the real boss around here." Nora laughed as Beth shouted in excitement.

"She's going in my car. Let's go." Beth praised wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they headed out to the two black escalades to roll out. She gave Nora a loving pat on the back as she climbed into the seat catty-corner from Beth and adjusted the vest she had on and her radio. The equipment feeling both familiar and odd.

Nora scrolled through her phone until Leland climbed into the car beside her and smiled at her. He digs at something in one of his bags and hands Nora a pair of shiny silver cuffs.

"Just in case. Doubt you'll get to use them today." Leland added and Nora raised a brow.

"Well that sounds like a challenge, Chapman." Nora chuckle before tucking them in her back pocket and watching as the landscape outside of the car started to rapidly change.

"We gotta test you out somehow, Armstrong." Leland added with a gentle tap to her arm. Nora rolled her eyes as Beth turned the radio on and drove to the meeting place.

Once they arrived there, Nora called up the defendant and moved to go sit at one of the nearby picnic tables as instructed by Dog and the crew.

Nora: Hey, Jace, it's Nora from Da Kine. I'm here at the gas station. At one of the benches. Just roll in when you get here. Jace: Okay. I should be there in like a minute. Nora: Okay!

Nora hung up the phone and tapped her radio twice, the signal they had agreed on. From her spot at the picnic table, she scanned the area. Beth and Leland sat in their black Escalade near the gas pumps, keeping a low profile. A few spots down, Dog and Duane Lee's SUV idled, barely visible past the rows of parked cars.

Dog's voice came through her earpiece, calm but charged with anticipation. "Alright, Sunshine. Keep your cool. As soon as he's in range, we've got him."

Time stretched unbearably thin, the seconds ticking louder in her head. Finally, a black truck roared into the lot, its tires screeching as it parked at an odd angle.

It was him.

Nora tapped the radio again. "Target's here. Black pickup, left of the pumps. He's getting out."

The tension crackled in the air, electric and heavy. The man stepped out of his truck, scanning the area with a wary gaze before locking onto Nora. She plastered on a nervous, slightly apologetic smile, playing the part of the frazzled clerk.

Dog's voice cut in. "Stay put. We move as soon as he's close enough."

The fugitive started toward Nora, his gait deliberate but cautious. Suddenly, the loud slam of a car door shattered the silence.

"Move! Move! Move!"

In a blur of motion, Dog and Leland exploded from either side of the lot, their sheer presence cutting through the man's bravado. Leland slammed him against the hood of a nearby car with practiced ease, Dog right there beside him.

"Get your hands behind your back! Now!" Leland barked, yanking the man's arms into place as he struggled and spat a flurry of expletives.

"Son of a bitch!" the fugitive snarled, twisting futilely. "You got nothing on me!"

Beth appeared at her side; Beth's grin wide as she clapped Nora on the shoulder. "And you thought being the bait was scary. Looks like you survived just fine."

Nora let out a shaky laugh, nodding as she watched the guys work. Leland didn't miss a beat when the fugitive turned his venom toward her.

"You set me up, you little-"

Before he could finish, Leland shoved him into the backseat with a satisfying thud.

"Watch your mouth," Leland growled.

The man sneered, attempting to spit at her feet, but Beth tugged Nora away with an amused shake of her head. "Let the boys handle him," she said as they made their way to the other SUV.

"Asshole," I muttered under my breath. Beth laughed, patting me again as we climbed into the safety of the car, leaving the fugitive to stew in his own rage.

Dog Interview Dog grins, flipping his long blond hair over his shoulder. "That's how we do it. Teamwork, timing, and a little bit of Sunshine to lure them in. They always fall for it."

"Nice work." Leland praised, holding out his fist for Nora to bump. She gently tapped it with her knuckles as Beth nodded in the rearview mirror.

"Wasn't too bad. He didn't seem very happy though." Nora joked as she pulled the cuffs Leland had given her out of her back pockets and returned them to him. Paying a little too close of attention to the way their fingers brushed.

The car ride on the way to jail was quiet, but maybe that was just because everyone was tired from the adrenaline dump.

At the jail, Duane Lee took in Jace to get him booked, the guy seemed a little less calm and to Nora's surprise, Leland brought him over to apologize.

"I'm sorry ma'am. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." Nora nodded with a soft smile, seeing Leland's hand still holding onto the guys arm just in case.

"Thank you for apologizing. No hard feelings. I'd be mad too." Nora said with a laugh as the guy nodded and Duane Lee took over from Leland and let him up the steps to hit the buzzer.

Leland leaned against the car next to Nora, chewing something idly, while Dog stepped over with a proud grin. "Not bad for your first bounty, huh?"

Nora stretched and let out a relieved sigh. "Nah, it could've been worse." She pushed her sunglasses up and over her forehead, eyes glinting from the sunlight.

Leland, now smirking, caught her attention. "Didn't even flinch when he spit at you."

Nora turned toward him, shrugging with a playful glint in her eye. "Guess I'm tougher than I look." She raised her arm, flexing a muscle, a teasing smile on her lips.

Leland immediately stepped up beside her and flexed his own arm in response, his grin widening. "You got nothin' on me!"

Nora rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Hey, I've been out for a minute. And I'm not doing it for the girls, like you are." She pointed toward the camera, making sure they caught the lighthearted jab.

Leland laughed, shaking his head as he waved her comment off. "Yeah, whatever!"

Nora smiled, climbing into the car beside him. She shut the door, her gaze lingering on Leland for just a moment before they both settled in, the weight of the day beginning to catch up with them.

Dog's Final Interview: Dog leaned back, his eyes twinkling as he watched Leland and Nora settle into the car. A small chuckle escaped him. "Another successful bounty, and I'm proud of Nora. She didn't just step up-she excelled." He gave a knowing glance, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "And hey, a little muscle doesn't hurt either. Might be some more 'tests' in her future." The camera panned out as Dog winked, the hint of mischief in his eyes. "We'll see what happens next, huh?"

#leland chapman #leland chapman x oc #dog the bounty hunter #i dont even know #hyperfixation #send help

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jess-le-mess · 2 months ago

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Feedist Kinktober - Day 27

(Prompts: Boozy Belly 🍺 / Dragon's Hoard 🐉)

[Content notes: Fat FtM main character; Thin nonbinary love interest; M/Nb attraction dynamics; belly play; mild intoxication]

Game Night

Flynn loved his tabletop gaming group dearly. He'd met the core members when he was still in Engineering school, and not a single one of them at the time had said anything bad or weird about his transition. Now, four years later, and a few of them were out too as various things. A couple of the guys, Kyle and Oliver, had come out as gay, and Dana had come out as a woman.

And then there was Duane, bless him, who was cis and straight and often forgot that Flynn was trans and called him "big bro" despite the fact that, although Flynn did have a few inches and at least a hundred pounds on him, Duane was like forty or something.

Tonight Dana was hosting. She and her wife lived in a manse, which she enjoyed telling new group members every time and assuring them that she "thoroughly witchified it" with a smirk.

She greeted Flynn wearing a cute little sundress that accentuated her petite figure, and gestured for him to head to the dining room-slash-gaming table.

"Vivian made miniature pop tarts for tonight, Flynn. Do you like miniature pop tarts?"

Flynn shrugged. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a miniature pop tart.

"Good man," she said, patting him on the back. "They're cherry filled."

As they headed into the dining room, Flynn spotted a new face. The new person had short dark hair combed off to the side, wearing a red flannel and a black tank top. They looked to be in their mid-20s.

"That's Eli," Dana said. "They were on the Pride planning committee with me this summer."

Eli offers a wave. "Hey."

Flynn takes the empty seat next to Eli. "I'm Flynn."

"Cool. Nice to meet you. So Dana says you're an engineer too?"

"Yep. IT. And you?"

Eli laughs. "Hell no. I like to think of my career as being more gay disaster, terror to gender everywhere. Something like that." They take a sip of their beer. "And by that I mean I'm an event planner."

Eli smiled at Flynn and looked into his eyes for a second, and Flynn couldn't help but feel a bit flustered. Eli's skin looked so clear and soft, a nice contrast to their sharp jawline and visible cheekbones. He wanted to touch it, if he was being honest with himself.

Flynn takes the beer handed to him by Dana and opens it. He takes a sip, in motion with Eli. "That must be interesting, though."

"It is what it is, I guess," Eli shrugs.

Flynn frowns at the apparent end of the conversation, wishing he'd had more courage or at least affability to keep talking to this person.

The first board game they played was some game where people had to draw pictures that could only be of adjectives that could be used to describe the thing, but not the thing itself.

Flynn's partner was Jade, Dana's best friend. But Flynn had already had two beer by this point, and Jade had already had half a bottle of wine.

"Goddammit Flynn, it's not a hockey stick! Hockey stick isn't even an adjective! Dana, why can't I be your partner?" Jade whined.

Dana waved at her and squeezed her wife's hand. "Sorry bestie. Viv and I have a mind link."

Jade slumped down in her chair.

Unsurprisingly, Flynn and his partner came last.

*****

The second game was some trivia thing and Flynn was paired up with Kyle, who knew everything about everything.

It was mostly smooth sailing for them, thankfully. Flynn had probably have five beer by then, but Kyle didn't drink so he was in fine form. At least until they ended up with a question about music history and Vivian, a muscular butch who was at least six feet tall, threatened to cut him if she didn't give him the point. Kyle refused to relent, but his answer was wrong anyway.

In the end, they won the game, even if Vivian did silently signal that she still had her eyes on Kyle.

*****

As Flynn had lost count of how many beer he'd had by this time, he figured it was maybe more than he should've had, but he was paired with Eli for the third game, that much he did know.

The game itself involved a dragon in some way. You had to steal things from the dragon, and get them...somewhere? For reasons?

Eli was really pretty.

Shit, though. Did they like being called pretty? Flynn knew firsthand the power of a gender-affirming compliment. He'd die if someone called him pretty, but getting called handsome, rare as it happened, could sustain him for days.

"You look good," Flynn said, the words rolling out of his mouth.

"Hmm?" Eli looked at him, his eyes a bit dazed-looking. He'd probably had a few too many too.

"I dunno. Pick the term you like to use. But, like, you look so good. I want to touch your face."

There was a pause.

"You too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Flynn felt the warmth of Eli's hand touching his cheek. He leaned into it, until the pressure again left him. "That was nice."

Eli then whispered in his ear, making the hairs on his neck bristle. "Hey, can I?"

Flynn had no idea what Eli was talking about until they put a hand on his large belly that rested on his thighs.

He nodded quietly.

Eli made happy noises as he reached underneath Flynn's T-shirt and quietly massaged Flynn's belly for a moment until stopped when Dana looked over at them.

"I mean, we're both pretty wasted, huh?"

"Yeah," Flynn said, his whole body suddenly feeling warm and alive from Eli's touch.

"We probably shouldn't."

"Yeah."

Eli whispered again. "But I would."

"Yeah?"

"Oh hell yeah," Eli said, slipping his hand under Flynn's shirt again, just for a second, before getting back to the game.

#feedist kinktober 2024 #feedist kinktober #fat ftm main character #nonbinary love interest #cw intoxication #belly play #M/Nb couple dynamics

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djarindykes · 2 years ago

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the mandalorian, jon favreau // sharp objects, gillian flynn // dog thoughts, anna haifisch // no one is ever going to want me, giles corey // love dog, duane dogg

#stole this from my main I want it on the side blog #din djarin #the mandalorian #web weave #web weaving #sw webweave #star wars #dog motif

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awritingcaitlin · 1 year ago

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✨Vibes✨

4 Songs 3 Visual Media 2 Books 1 Author

✨BREWING WAR VIBES✨ 🎧 "Bullets" by Archive, "Opacus" by Arkasia, "Heartlines" by Florence + the Machine, "High Priests" by Ronan Hardiman 📺 Witcher, Arcane, Dragon Age 📕 THE THOUSAND NAMES, WAY OF KINGS ✍🏻Brandon Sanderson

✨ SiegeWIP vibes ✨ 🎶 "Avalanche" by FLETCHER, "Love Lost" by Mattia Cupelli, "An Toll Dubh" by Runrig, and "Steampunk Dogfight" by Escape the Clouds 🍿 Sharpe's Rifles, Dishonored, SW: The Clone Wars 📗 DUNE and MISTBORN 🖊️ Robert Jordan

✨ CureWIP vibes ✨ �� "Jump!" by Thomas Bergeson, "Whispers" by DREAMOIR, "Fight Song" by Rachel Platten, "Alba" by the Sidh 📽️ Firefly, Cowboy Bepob, and Warhammer 📘 The Expanse series and CRIMSON QUEEN ✏️Diane Duane

✨ Violin Heist Vibes ✨ 🎻"The Hero Within" by James Paget, "Halo of Light" by Taylor Davis, "Roundtable Rival" by Lindsey Stirling, "Wild Heart" by Thomas Bergeson 🎦Pirates of the Caribbean, Mission Impossible, Fullmetal Alchemist 📔MISTBORN era 2, FOUNDRYSIDE 🖋️ Tamora Pierce

✨ SecretSoup2 Vibes ✨ 🎧"Dog Days Are Over" by Florence + the Machine, "Never Say Die" by CHVRCHES, "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper, and "What About Us" by P!nk 🎮Xenogears, Tales of Symphonia, Xenoblade Chronicles 📙Discworld, KH novelization 📝Every ND fanfic author

✨ Team W Vibes ✨ 🎵 "Don't You Worry Child" (PTX cover), "Rebels in the Light" by Manicanparty, "Gold Guns Girls" by Metric, "Night Sky" by CHVRCHES 🎮Kingdom Hearts, Spiderverse, Super Smash Brothers Brawl 📘His Dark Materials, Circle of Magic ✍🏻x-over fanfic writers

✨ The Great Game Vibes ✨ 🎶"Walk me Home" by P!nk, "A Praise Chorus" by Jimmy Eat World, "Disarm" by Smashing Pumpkins, "Moondance" by Nightwish 📺Hero among Thieves, Disney's Atlantis, Chrono Trigger 📘The Witcher Series, THE SHADOW THRONE 🖊️Claudia Grey

✨Aftermath Vibes✨ 🎼"I'm not Okay (I Promise)" by My Chemical Romance, "We Don't Have to Dance" by Andy Black, "Kill the Lights" by Set it Off, "Heartbreak Feels so Good" by Fall Out Boy 🎥The Owl House, Breath of the Wild, Avengers 📕CLOCKWORK BOYS, THE FAULT IN OUR STARS 📝Robin McKinley

✨Beauty and the Dragon Vibes✨ 🎶"What if it Doesn't End Well" by Chloe Moriondo, "I Need a Hero" (Shrek 2 version), "If I Ever Leave This World Alive" by Flogging Molly, "Love from the Other Side" by Fall Out Boy 🎬Shrek, Beauty and the Beast, Gargoyles 📙BEAUTY, DEALING WITH DRAGONS ✍🏻Patricia C Wrede

#the brewing war #siege of berthingtonn #cure for the queen #relic of the gods #soup2boogaloo #team w #the great game #aftermath #beauty and the dragon

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unsoundedcomic · 3 months ago

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Whumptober 2024 - 14 - "Left for Dead"

After the spellfire and the crack of bones, the sweaty pursuit and the terror of loss, Duane Adelier lay quiet in an alley far removed from the kind of battlefield he'd long assumed he'd die on.

He remembered the first time he'd truly thought death had come for him. It hadn't been the old houndcart that had given him his limp and his relationship with God, nor that drunk and murderous Plat egged on by his school chums. There hadn't been time, then, to wonder how many more of his breaths the khert had saved.

No. The first time he'd feared for his life had been in Fachlyne, a week after deployment, when he and a dozen other Council Army recruits had found themselves pinned at the end of a long street by a rebelling crowd of plague-stricken. Duane had not wanted to start blasting at civilians, but they'd already started blasting at him. The ground was growing red and slippery underfoot. Duane saw a boy throw his arms out as though to catch something, and his own intestines unspooled into them.

"Ssael help me not to disapoint you," he'd whispered, "Ssael, I long only to follow your Way."

A sharp knee ground suddenly into his back. Hands twisted his jaw open, icy liquid was poured behind his teeth. It was syrup-sweet at first, then painfully bitter, thick, and choking. Spellwords compelled him to swallow. And swallow. And swallow.

The air grew thin. His heart cramped and his brain spasmed silver starfire in his skull. Every artery burst into flame, then were extinguished by a cold knife punched expertly into the back of his neck. It was held there, squirming like a living thing. His poisoned soul screamed one unending scream-

Then nothing. The khert-lines soothed themselves. Snow settled over the stillness.

"Hell of a fight," his captain had said as they'd picked their way over the pieces of bodies on that Fachlynian street, "Somewhere in the bright lands, the eels are eating well."

#unsounded #whumptober

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bumlets-appreciation-blog · 1 month ago

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Duane Street December Day 3: Irving Hall/Medda’s Theater

Irving Hall was still a mess when the strike ended. The bulls who’d raided the newsie rally had cared more about brutalizing the boys in front of them than actually arresting them, and it showed in the state of the theater. As Medda looked around the main hall, she saw the swing dangling from one rope, her gilded harp broken in two, chairs and tables knocked over, the railing of the bridge knocked out of place, and multiple vases shattered on the ground, the flowers that had been inside of them lying dead in the water stains on the carpet. She desperately tried to ignore the flecks and splatters of blood on the floor because if she looked at them, she��d get sick.

Medda wasn’t as close with the other boys as she was with Jack, but she knew them and couldn’t help but love them. Kid Blink and Racetrack came to the theater at least once a week, usually together but not always. Blink was happy to take her up on her offer of a balcony seat, but Race was content to sit as close to the stage as physically possible, most likely due to the fairly obvious crush he had on her. Bumlets usually sold his papers in the area and sometimes came backstage when he was done, listening to the performers talk about the industry. She’d taught him how to project his voice to help him shout headlines and got a kick of seeing such a quiet boy holler louder than Jack could.

Skittery usually came in with his little brother, and the two of them often spent hours exploring her storage rooms. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her to go backstage and find Tumbler playing with her prop swords or trying on costumes while Skittery supervised, but they always cleaned up after themselves and thanked her so sweetly that she couldn’t bring herself to mind. Other boys drifted in and out of the theater on occasion: sweet Mush, mischievous Swifty, clever Specs and Dutchy (she hardly saw one without the other), and all the rest, but of course, no one came in as much as Jack did.

He��d still been Francis Sullivan when they’d met, all sharp elbows and gangly limbs. He was still in school, his father wasn’t in prison, and he hadn’t yet decided on being a cowboy. Some things, however, hadn’t changed: his cheeky grin, his boundless energy, the way he whooped and hollered with joy. Medda wasn’t built for motherhood, but she imagined the way she loved Jack was the way a mother loved a child. It was agony seeing him arrested and beaten by grown men while the other boys rushed to his aid, and it was agony to hear that he’d been sent back to the Refuge. She’d cried when David told her and again when she’d heard that he’d been released and the strike was over.

None of the boys had been in to see her since David delivered the news, but she couldn’t fault them. It had only been a day since the strike ended, and if the other boys had been as hurt as Racetrack had been, they were probably still recovering. Just as well, the theater still needed to be cleaned, and with a sigh, Medda moved to get to work but stopped when she heard the cacophony from the lobby. To her surprise, her rabble of newsies came streaming into the main hall, talking and laughing with Jack at the lead, David on one side and Les on the other.

“Heya Medda!” Jack’s grin was as bright as ever, even with the bruises on his eye and jaw. “Figured since it was our fault the theater got destroyed, we should probably help you clean up the place.” The boys behind him looked more than a little worse for wear but were no less enthusiastic when they agreed with the sentiment. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she couldn’t fight the smile that spread across her cheeks.

“As long as you don’t break anything else.” With a laugh and a kiss to her cheek, Jack turned and hollered for the boys to get to work. Medda could only watch in wonder as the newsies got started on cleaning the theater. Most of the boys set upon the tables and chairs, clearing them out of the way and separating the broken ones from the rest. Bumlets brought brooms over to Swifty and Race, and the three boys started sweeping up the broken vases and dead flowers. Skittery had put Tumbler on his shoulders and was gently coaxing him through how to reattach the swing properly, looking happier and more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. Kid Blink and Mush were attempting to straighten out the railing on the bridge while Specs and Dutchy tried to put the harp back together, bickering amongst themselves all the while.

Jack and the Jacobs boys had been helping move the tables, but when he saw her watching them, Jack told the other boys something that made them both nod and grin before making his way back to her.

“Everything alright, Medda?” Jack looked so sweet and concerned, she could almost pretend he was really her son and he was concerned about his mama instead of just his father’s friend. She couldn’t bring herself to speak and hoped the embrace she pulled him into said enough. And, based on the way he hugged her back, holding her tight and tucking his head into the crook of her neck, maybe it was.

#duane street december #newsies #newsies 1992 #jack kelly #medda larkson

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