#Kill the catholic cop in your head and whatever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovelylogans · 3 years ago

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honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

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chapter three: psycellic consentia

psycellic consentia: psycellium (or psycelium) is a psychic nervous system that allows sensates to connect with one another. sensates have a solitary "above" existence, and are connected "below" via the psycelium. consentia, latin: knowledge shared with others, being in the know or privy to, joint knowledge; complicity; knowledge within oneself, consciousness, feeling.

ROMAN

It hasn’t even been five minutes since Sasha left to grab dinner, but Roman’s already feeling strangely jittery.

A nap would be a fruitless venture, he’s realized, so he’s gotten up to pace around the room, reciting the lines of the scene he’s meant to be filming tomorrow. He knows them all by heart, naturally, but it’ll be an odd scene to shoot anyways. His character, Pablo, would be escaping from the grasp of his friend-turned-betrayer (who would turn out to have been bluffing and truly Pablo’s friend all along by the end of the movie) by sprinting through the forest, making his getaway by leaping into a river and swimming away.

This stunt he doesn’t get to do; he’s already technically filmed the scenes when he’s in the water, and a stunt double will be “jumping off the cliff.” So tomorrow is going to be entirely on-location, acting then sprinting through the forest.

So Roman chants his lines to himself, pacing in his room with his eyes closed, trying his hardest to sink into Pablo’s mindset. And, after a few minutes of running his lines over in his head, it’s like he’s actually walking in the forest; the snap of a twig under his feet, the smell of leaves and dirt, the cooing of various birds.

Roman’s jaw drops, because—because no way. No way.

No fucking way is his brother standing there, with a bundle of twigs tucked up under his arms, staring at Roman the way a kid would stare at a particularly adventurous snail journeying along the ground.

Well, the way Remus would look at an adventurous snail, as a kid. Roman would have probably just fled the snail in favor of playing with wooden swords and rescuing imaginary damsels.

"Aw, c’mon, man, what the fuck," Remus grumbles, looking skyward as if asking for some kind of divine intervention, though Roman knows that's never been the case, much to their chronically Catholic abuela’s dismay.

She probably would have been pleased if Roman tacked on a God rest her soul there, but considering her abysmal reaction when her grandson decided to be an actor and an even worse reaction when her other grandson informed them all that he was, in fact, a grandson, he's never really wanted to please her anyway.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Remus says tightly, dropping his bundle of twigs.

Remus. Remus is here. Or Roman is there? Whatever, it doesn’t matter, there he is. That’s Roman’s brother.

“What, are you trying to lure me in for the police to catch me? Because it’s not going to fucking work, Roman.”

God, he’s alive, he doesn’t look hurt, he’s—well, actually, Roman has no idea if he’s safe or not. He just kind of looks like he’s dirty, with scraggly hair and smudges on his face. This alone isn’t entirely unusual for Remus, but the amount of it is. But—he’s here. He’s alive. He has some form of shelter, he’s probably been eating, he’s okay—

“Or are you just here to—”

Roman staggers forward and flings his arms around Remus’ neck, hugging him as tight as he can, almost as if he can feel what Remus feels, the arms wrapping around his neck and the arms wrapping around his torso in kind, feeling echoes of what he does, and what Remus does, bouncing between like a seismic shock.

Across the world, Janus smiles in his sleep; Emile wiggles happily in his chair while waiting for his next therapy session; Patton grins at a wall about nothing in particular; Logan touches his own shoulders, blinking rapidly in surprise at the weight of phantom arms holding him close.

REMY

Remy is used to experiencing emotions that aren’t his.

When he feels a near-violent joy sprouting up in his chest, he pauses briefly in pouring a customer a cup of coffee to put a hand on his chest and smile to himself.

He’ll ask Emile what’s got him so happy later. He’s just happy that Emile is happy.

REMUS

Remus blinks at Roman after Roman pulls back from the hug, hands on his shoulders, still beaming at him.

“—For a while I thought that you were coming to stay at my apartment with me, but then you never showed, and I was worried sick wondering where you were all this time. I’ve been reading all about the case—oh, that doesn’t matter now, we’re together! Now you can come here to the city, and I can post your bail so you can stay with me, and I can get you a really good lawyer, and—!”

“You’ve been reading about the case?” Remus says, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.

Roman blinks at him. “Yeah?” There’s an unspoken duh in his tone.

“So you know that I’m the main suspect,” Remus prompts.

“Yeah…”

“So, you,” Remus says, “acting sweetheart of the nation with your dear fake girlfriend—you want to bring in a dirty gremlin accused of murder? The sibling the whole country doesn’t even know you have?”

Roman looks suddenly anxious, as if expecting Remus to blow up and yell at him.

“Do you even think I’m innocent?” Remus continues, only faking his bluster a little.

“I mean,” Roman says. “It doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Does what matter?” Remus says. The bluster is much more faked this time.

“I mean, you’re my brother,” Roman says. “I don’t really care if you killed him or not.”

Remus bursts out laughing.

Roman gawks at him, caught off guard, and Remus doesn’t know if it’s just from seeing Roman again, or the fact that he’s been on the run for over a week now and has only been eating the plants a hallucination taught him about, or what, but the expression on his face is just too good.

Roman! Who regularly gets caught in the tabloids! Getting a snapshot of him escorting a man wanted for murder into his warm, loving home! The mental image of the shocked expression on any pap’s face is just—oh, it would be so perfect.

“And your ‘girlfriend?’” Remus says, using air quotes. “Does she know about me?”

“No, but,” Roman says, still with that stupidly heroic, determined look on his face. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her tonight, even. She’ll understand.”

Right. If anyone else was as much of a media darling, it was Roman’s fake girlfriend, with her big, brown, innocent eyes and absolute inability to seem like she’s used to being famous.

“Oh, that’s too good,” Remus chortles. “Yeah, Roman. Okay. Sure. You go ahead and tell her.”

“I’m gonna!”

“Sure, fine,” Remus says, waving him off. “Make arrangements to bring your murderous brother home. I’ll catch a bus or something, I’m sure no cop is gonna see me and arrest me on the way to your apartment.”

“I will,” Roman says, firm and resolute, and Remus just shakes his head, grinning still.

Of the pair of them, people seemed to think Remus was the crazy one when it was clear that Roman was absolutely bonkers. But at least he’d grown a pretty good sense of humor since Remus had been accused of killing someone.

JANUS

“Fucking finally, Jazza.”

Janus considers getting up and walking right back out, but unfortunately, his stomach is already set on fish and chips with the made-in-house sauce here. He wearily begins to weigh the costs of putting up with Key and the nickname “Jazza” against the benefits of sriracha aioli.

And money. The money ends up winning out every time.

Three more jobs, Janus tells himself. Just three more jobs, and then you don’t have to put up with the risk anymore. Two, if one of them has a bigger compensation than average, and for the quality of my work...

It’s a lie, of course. Janus has been telling himself three more jobs ever since he clawed his way onto the bar standards board, years ago.

“What’s been going on with you, anyway?” Key says around a mouthful of chips, which garbles his speech beyond recognition. Unfortunately, Janus has known Key long enough that he can translate it with ease.

“Chew with your mouth closed and clean up your face,” Janus says, unable to stop himself. Habits are difficult to kill, Janus supposes.

Key rolls his eyes but obligingly blots at his face with a napkin. “D’you got it?”

Janus offers a small box wrapped like a present in answer. Inside is a hard drive containing the information their client had requested.

Key takes it, grinning, and stuffs it into his hoodie pocket.

“Be careful with that,” Janus scolds.

“You say that every time,” Key says. “Have I ever lost one of your—”

Janus glares at him.

“—one of the fruits of your labor?” Key says, quickly back-pedaling, realizing they’re in a public setting and a waitress is fast approaching with Janus's order.

“This smells amazing.”

Janus tries his best not to startle, but even with two days to process what the man in his mirror had told him, it’s still bizarre.

The actor beside him looks briefly embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Janus glances over at him—a member of his cluster, what an unappealing word—and sees a glimpse of a cramped little trailer. On a movie set, probably? He’s wearing leather pants and a leopard-print shirt that Janus has the feeling he’d never wear in real life.

Janus also feels the grumbling in Roman’s stomach. Janus sighs to himself.

“And another basket of chips with extras of that same sauce, please.”

“You got it, lovey,” she says, turning to go.

“Extra hungry, then?” Key says.

“Something like that,” Janus says neutrally. Without asking for Janus's permission—maybe knowing Janus was about to offer anyway—Roman reaches out and gulps deeply from Janus's Ribena.

“How’s,” Janus says, briefly casts about in his mind for the name of the latest love of Key’s life, and lands on, “Francesca?”

Key snorts. “Ancient history, mate.”

Not exactly surprising. Key’s always fancied himself a romantic, but he’s never been able to follow through on his commitment to anything ever.

“M’goin’ on a date with a bird tonight, though,” he says around a mouthful of chips.

“For God’s sake, Key, could you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a barn?” Janus snips at him, even as he’s dunking his own chips into the aioli.

Key grins at him, and Janus wrinkles his nose. He can tell Roman is doing the same beside him. They share the same sentiment at the moment, but it’s Roman’s “that’s disgusting” that falls out of his mouth.

He realizes why Key’s brow furrows a moment too late.

“Uh, bless you?” Key says; the closest he’s ever been to the Mexican vernacular of Spanish is ordering a fajita at a local Tex-Mex restaurant.

“Oops,” Roman says, not particularly apologetically. He grabs another handful of chips.

“I’m studying in my spare time,” he says and fixes Key with a look. “A hobby you could choose to emulate.”

“What’d I need more school for?” He scoffs. “Ten years was well enough.”

“To aspire for more for yourself—”

“Oh, here we go,” Key snaps, tossing down the piece of battered cod he was about to eat, splattering sauce on the wood table. “I am so sick of your “high and mighty” act.”

He mimics Janus's accent at high and mighty; Janus grits his teeth, and very purposefully enunciates his next few sentences.

“This cannot last forever, you understand.”

“No, just so long as you get rich off it, eh?”

“Um,” Roman says. “I’d offer to go and leave you two to duke this one out in private, but I’m not really sure how to stop this weird astral projection thing—”

Janus ignores him.

“Oh, as if being a lawyer doesn’t pay enough. Put your brain to some use and think, why is it that I keep helping you?!” Janus snaps, leaning across the table and softening his voice. “Why on earth do you think I continue with this?!”

“Spare me,” Key scoffs.

“The only reason I keep doing this is because you keep doing this,” Janus hisses. “The only reason I became a lawyer was because of you getting us into trouble.”

“Don’t—” Key says, his face twisting up.

“It is because of me we are not rotting in jail, Quirinus. I’m sure it’s such a burden I want more for you.”

“It’s Key,” he grumbles before he rolls his eyes at Janus and tilts his baseball cap at him in farewell. “And since you have aspired to more for yourself, and since being a big fancy lawyer does pay so much, and since you saved me,” this is said with heavy sarcasm, “you fucking prat, you can get the bill. Much obliged, big brother.”

As he walks off, he tosses a “wanker” over his shoulder for good measure, jamming his orange cap onto his head.

Janus pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply.

There’s a pause.

Then: the slurping of someone draining his Ribena.

Janus opens his eyes and turns his head to Roman, who’s chasing the last drops of Ribena about the glass with a straw.

“So, he’s probably not finishing that, right?” Roman says. Without waiting for an answer, he grabs a handful of chips and shoves them into his mouth. “‘Cause I’ve been waiting for Sasha to come back with dinner for like an hour now and I’m starving,” he says loudly while chewing.

Janus's jaw is slightly unhinged.

“You are a pestilence upon my life,” he says at last.

Roman smirks at him, mercifully close-mouthed, and swallows down the food that Janus supposes he’ll be paying for. Janus is certain that Roman is doing this to annoy him.

“Wait ‘till you have to deal with my brother.” He dunks the cod into the sauce. “Also, how much do you know about what’s going on here, anyway? Why do random people keep popping into my life?”

Janus lowers his voice so they aren’t heard by any random passerby.

“Allegedly, we are known as sensates. I assume you’ve been seeing other people—we’re stuck seeing them psychically for the rest of our lives, as well as sharing specific skills, languages, emotions…”

Roman reaches for Key’s Ribena and drains that too.

“Tastes,” Janus adds pointedly. “That the other is paying for.”

“Yeah, exactly, you’re paying for it,” Roman says, and grabs another piece of cod. “It won’t go to waste now.”

“You won’t even get the nutritional benefits of eating food,” Janus says. “You’ll just get the taste of it.”

“Still, you’re getting your money’s worth. I’m helping.”

“Aren’t you rich?” Janus says. “Being an actor and all.”

“Aren’t you?” Roman counters. “Being a lawyer and all.”

Roman jams the cod into the ramekin of sauce.

“Either way, this place sure won’t take pesos, and it’s not like I can psychically transfer you money. Hey, how much do you know about Mexican law, anyways?” He takes a massive bite.

Janus puts his face into his hands for a few moments, before he reaches into his messenger pad and pulls out a legal pad and pen.

“Enough,” he says grudgingly—truthfully, not quite as much as English law. However, with this whole connection thing, they do share knowledge, so he certainly knows more now than he did before. He gestures at the waitress for another couple of Ribenas. “Why don’t you refresh me on the details of your brother’s case?”

PATTON

Patton frowns, tapping his pen against his chin as his kindergartners are all sprawled out on their mats for their post-lunch nap. He usually takes advantage of this time to catch up on marking (normally, just putting “good job!” stickers on their papers, they’re five) but right now he’s staring at something he’d written down out of the blue and trying to understand it.

He knows that he’s technically a sensate now, but does that mean his kindergartners are going to have to put up with scrawlings about Mexican flora when Patton had meant to be writing down the activities of the day?

“Aw, jeez,” someone grumbles, and Patton turns to look over his shoulder.

He grins sheepishly at the sight of an academic article plastered over with shiny star stickers. “Oops.”

The man is familiar and yet not; Patton doesn’t think he’s seen this one outside of briefly popping in and out.

The man sighs, turning the paper over and then looking back at Patton.

“At least they’re purple,” he grumbles, and within a heartbeat, he’s gone. Patton returns his attention to his marking.

Oh, yay, he did end up putting stickers on the kiddos’ papers!

LOGAN

Not many people were particularly aware of this, especially considering the average population was generally unaware of the space research in Antarctica, but the cafeterias here are actually excellent.

In the history of Antarctic explorers and researchers, it had gone quite differently—Ernest Shackleton and Tom Crean ate seal, dog meat, and biscuits mixed with melted snow during the Trans-Antarctic Expedition of 1914—but chefs now seem to view it as an intriguing challenge, a way to sharpen their skills.

Logan is an adequate enough cook, to the point where he can feed himself at home, but the food here is on another level. He’s finishing off his dessert, a lovely chocolate tart when a chef sits across from him at the dinner table, the same one that had served him his tray tonight.

He doesn’t know her well, so he hopes he’s disguised her squint at her nametag under the guise of adjusting his glasses.

“Very well done, Dot,” he says, lifting his fork to his mouth.

“Oh, good, you are one of us,” she says, with a level of relief that seems odd for hearing a compliment about her cooking. “I was wondering, Casimire gave me the oddest look when I told him to head off early so I could make eye contact with you.”

“What are you—?” Logan says, eyes narrowed, before his eyes flash to the kitchen, automatically looking for Casimire, the chef he’s most used to seeing.

True enough, Casimire isn’t there.

But Dot is here.

Dot is here twice.

Dot is sitting at the table with him. But Dot is smiling and chatting with one of the marine biology research team members, ten feet away. But—

“Oh, I can hear that brain working,” Dot says. She reaches out to pat his hand; it feels as warm and real as a hand can feel.

“What is this,” Logan forces through numb lips, appetite gone, chocolate tart entirely forgotten. “What are you—what is happening—?”

“Shh, shh, not too loud,” Dot says in a hushed voice. “To everyone else, it looks like you’re sitting alone. Here—you’ve got your bag with you, did you pack your earpiece?”

Logan nods.

“Put that in.”

He does as she says. What else is there to do?

The Dot in the kitchen turns to wink and smile at him reassuringly. He isn’t sure how to tell the Dot before him that there is absolutely nothing in this situation that could comfort him, and pointing out that there are two of her and that he is seeing things is not a particularly good way to go about it regardless.

He fumbles with the earpiece a few times, but he puts it in and clicks it on.

“There,” she says in satisfaction. “Now it’ll look like you’re talking over Bluetooth. Neat little trick, isn’t it? Keeps us from looking,” and she circles her ear with her finger and gives a two-note whistle, the universal sign for off your rocker. “I’m surprised your parent hasn’t taught you yet, but I suppose you are very new. Has your migraine stopped yet?”

Logan gawks at her. “How did you know I have a—?”

“Because I had one too when it all started,” she says. “All of us do. Let me tell you, I really wasn’t expecting to see a sensate down here, but I guess when you come to a place like this nothing should surprise you, right? That’s what my Larry said. But this’ll be handy, he was hoping I could meet a nice scientist to connect to the Archipelago! You’re an astronomer, right? That’s a very brainy subject.”

“Wait, go back,” Logan says. “How did you know I have a migraine? Why are you talking about my mother? Why should she have taught me about using Bluetooth? What does a group of islands have to do with anything, and what’s a sensate?”

The smile on Dot’s face slips.

“Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear, you don’t know anything at all, do you?”

Logan gives her an offended look before he can really stop himself.

“Well,” Dot says thoughtfully. “A scientist. I bet you’d be really interested in the opportunity to send a question around the world within seconds, wouldn’t you?”

“Google exists,” Logan points out.

Dot smiles at him. “Where do you think they got the idea? Sapiens invented it in the 1990s; we’ve had it since the Neolithic.”

Against his better judgment to stop listening to what is most likely to be a hallucination, Logan finds himself very intrigued.

VIRGIL

Virgil is elbow-deep in papers about abrus precatorius, sorting them into piles for useful information or irrelevant when there’s the sound of someone hitting their knees beside him.

Virgil jumps, startled, and looks into the stunning blue eyes of Logan, the handsome Pole in Antarctica. His eyes are bright, eager, excited, and there’s a wide smile on his face.

“We’re not hallucinating,” he declares and spreads out an armful of his own notes; hastily taken, from the look of it, and he presses his fingers against an earpiece that’s blinking blue light. “Oh, and get one of these, by the way, technology has apparently made things much better for us, Dot said we’d get burned during the witch trials because we’d be talking to people who weren’t there and knowing things we shouldn’t know, but I think that’s an exaggeration. I wish there was a more central written history, but I suppose we’ve evolved in a way that word-of-mouth knowledge is the most efficient, haven’t we?”

There’s a lot of thoughts whirling around Virgil’s head—what do you mean, how do you know, why are we talking about witch burnings and evolution—but what comes out, a bit stupidly, is “You look good.”

Logan’s rambling stops in his tracks as he stares at Virgil, bemused, mouth slightly ajar.

“Um, I mean,” Virgil says. He coughs. “You look… less worried than last time. Which is. Good!”

Logan keeps staring. With his lips parted like that, it’s all too easy to see that Logan must have licked them, recently; the sheen of it catches Virgil’s eye. He stares at Logan’s mouth. He stares at Logan.

Stop it stop it stop it he’ll think you’re weird, something in his brain shrieks, and that breaks the spell.

“So, uh, you’ve figured out what’s happening to us?” Virgil prompts.

Logan shakes himself, before he spreads out his papers, picking up one in particular. Virgil takes it, examining it; it’s two sketches of a brain. He’s familiar enough with biology by virtue of having doctors for parents to know that the sketch on the right side of the paper is not right.

There’s something wrong with this brain.

“This,” Logan says, tapping the leftmost brain with his finger, “is the typical human brain.”

“Right, yeah,” Virgil says, frowning, and points to the rightmost brain. Their hands almost touch. “There’s something wrong with this one—something about the hemispheres, I think? It’s like there’s a growth.”

Logan moves to point to the rightmost brain, and this time, their hands do brush. But, before Virgil can think anything about it other than his hands are soft and he feels a little cold—

“This is what our brains are becoming.”

Virgil immediately panics.

“But it’s okay!” Logan says quickly as if he’s able to tell. Maybe he can—Virgil isn’t sure how clear it reads on his face. Or maybe, the way he’s been laughing at nothing or frowning at thin air, Logan can feel it. “It’s okay, it’s totally natural for us. For homo sapiens, no, but for homo sensorium—”

“Homo sensorium?” Virgil repeats, brow furrowed.

“It’s what we are,” Logan says. “Scientific name homo sensorium, colloquial name sensate.”

Sensate. Virgil hears the word, and something slips in place in his mind—it’s as if he’s heard that term before. It feels like breathing in a whiff of air and catching the scent of a sweet that sends your memory careening back to a time when you were seven and elbow-deep in dough with your grandmother. But it’s like he can’t quite fully grasp the memory. Something niggles just at the edge of it. It’s like his brain is trapped on the grandparent metaphor because he cannot stop thinking about his mother’s mother.

He sets the memory aside, for now; he’ll have time to think of it later.

Because, as Logan explains everything he’s learned so far, Virgil has absolutely zero chance of thinking about anything else.

They spend most of the night talking about it. Even with all the bizarre aspects of what this new information brings, it’s easy to talk to Logan in a way that isn’t typical of Virgil speaking with other people. Virgil isn’t sure if that’s because they share this psychic connection, or if they’re both doctors, or if it’s some other connection.

“The way it was phrased is that we’re different types of human, but I don’t think we’re so different that it sets us apart from other people. From what I understand, the growth of our population is primarily due to epigenetic factors…”

Okay, so, primarily due to how behaviors and environments affect his genes. But what epigenetic factor triggered this in Virgil? Was this a dormant thing that could be triggered by ingesting some sort of chemical, or was it due to the way Virgil behaved? Had he done something in his life to cause all of this?

“A lot of the science is conjecture,” Logan warns, “and there was apparently some big corporation intent on doing medical experimentation on us ten or so years ago, but that’s mostly handled, you just have to be more careful about making eye contact with strangers in public…”

Oh, great, scientists hunted them down for medical experimentation so now he had to closely guard himself in any hospital! What a thrilling thing to hear for the son of two doctors!

“I’ve gathered that we can “share” certain skills or memories and that these things will become easier with practice. That’s why I could speak Xhosa and you Polish when we first met, it was the skill-sharing attribute, which could certainly come in handy for several reasons, but I also understand that we can visit each other at various times. There’s apparently a medicine you can take to block it, but it’s rather rare to come by, so unless you know a pharmacist willing to do some work under the table…”

That would almost definitely come to bite one of them in the ass at some point. What about privacy? Was he just doomed to have people from all over the world pop in on him while he’s in the shower or something?

“Dot said that she met her husband Larry through the connection, which drove off into a whole side-tangent. Apparently, romantic partners in clusters—that’s the widely accepted term, ‘cluster.’”

Virgil pulls a face.

“I know, they could have picked literally any other more appealing word for it, couldn’t they? Bunch, group, flock, clique, assemblance—Anyways, romantic partnerships within clusters are somewhat common, and most of the sensate community finds it quite normal. I think our parent is in one, or at least that’s what Dot said.”

Logan clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Apparently some of the old-fashioned sensates think it’s like—what was it Dot’s parent said?—”the worst sort of narcissism.” Apparently, her parent was very displeased to be a parent and wanted nothing to do with creating bonds. I personally think that’s a rather backwards—humanity survives and thrives due to its ability to create bonds and care for each other—but I suppose I tend to think that way about a lot of old-fashioned things.”

“I guess I do, too,” Virgil muses aloud.

They sit quietly, for a while, so quietly that Virgil doesn’t notice when Logan slips away; the only thing that does bring him back from his swirling thoughts is when a voice breaks Virgil’s silence. It sends the emotions of knowing what’s happening to him shattering to the ground.

“Who on earth are you talking to?”

#my fic #my fanfic

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ryttu3k · 4 years ago

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Finishing up SoNY, ‘bad’ end and final thoughts!

But first, the early game over.

Wow, she just gets shot. Not even slurped? That’s rude as hell XD;;

And on to the ‘bad’ end!

Beginning is much the same, ofc.

“You’re too in love with weaving a good story and establishing a seductive narrative to let facts get in the way.” Foreshadowing for the ‘good’ end, maybe?

God that Embrace scene gives me literal goosebumps.

Alright! Last time I did Danse Macabre and Retributive Justice, let’s try The Risks of Swiping Right!

lmao god I’d eat this guy too. Back to the ghost club! That legitimately is a really neat scene. ...Ooh yes so that’s where the girl was from.

Panhard just lowkey dying at the mental image of Katherine Weise in a fast food restaurant is so good.

The sweet scene between Julia and Dakota hits a bit different after the ‘good’ end XD;;

Went to the park, reminisced, and helped out the guy. That was sweet ;_; High-humanity Julia, this time!

‘Fairy God Mother?’ is great but ‘Vin Diesel?’ is objectively the funnier response.

“Shining even more brightly than usual, Aisling.” Samira got a cru-ush~

Poor Julie. It’s probably been tough without Sophie around :(

Huh. Interestingly, refusing to lie to Mia results in Julia actually feeling genuine loyalty to the Cammies (for now, at least).

Believing Agathon is still alive = more optimistic = different dialogue! See, this is how you make choices have consequences, game!

Oooh boy time to meet Adelaide XD;;

“She uncrosses her legs in a strangely seductive motion. In her mind’s eye, it probably looked like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, but in reality, it had all the grace of a tracksuit Slav squatting.” *snickering*

Fight me, Adelaide >:(

‘sup Nastya. Went with the slightly less disruptive routine here XD Huh, she’s an aspiring DJ! Julia is deeply confused as to how being a DJ and being head of security works together.

lmao Julia referring to Hope as a girlboss. That phrase has lost all meaning to me...

The conversation between Julia and Father Leonard is still really interesting. Man, you know who I want Julia to talk to? Anatole. Interesting insights into balancing being queer Catholic vampires there for sure.

lmao oh my god I want to fight this street reporter.

‘I can almost feel my brain losing its wrinkles.’ *snort*

Yeaghhhh the Abyss bit is still so creepy...

Oops. Being honest regarding Tamika and Torque’s relationships gets a fail :(

Oh, or not XD That works! Also, uh, apparently the giant albino ghoul alligator is real, according to New York by Night. He’s Calebros’ pet.

“Because I think I have a pretty good nose for people’s auras. And when I take a good look at you... ...somehow, I have a feeling you’re a surprisingly decent person. Whatever way of unlife you choose, I hope you don’t change it. And that you remember my advice.” :)

“I know.” Oof.

“Hi.” “WAAAH!” lmao sorry Princess XD;; Just trying to imagine Qadir’s face as he tells Julia to find a 1990 glass statue of Scrooge McDuck... dying...

Oh she’s so a Toreador XD Low art options are a fantasy book, an anime DVD, or a video game... those can all be arty, though! And went with the anime DVD called ‘Ririsu no Daibouken’... that translates to ‘Adventures of Lilith’. How on the nose XD “The cover says ‘Lilith’s Carnal Carnival’.” Oh. Yeah, that’d do it XD

“This 90s original video anime presents us with a tale of five big-bosomed samurai warriors travelling through America in search of General Hastavista, The Incubus King. Don’t let all the titillation misguide you: the main draws here are peerless direction, a nearly avant-garde editing rhythm and dialogue that coyly comments on traditional gender roles in anime. Once you see the animation in the final battle, you’ll understand why it never fails to set a sakuga fan’s heart ablaze!”

She’s my new favourite.

“So can I know your name now?”

“Hmmm... Let me think...

No. <3″

I need to stress that the heart appears in the dialogue box. Like. The actual less-than-three heart.

Didn’t investigate the rat this time, so Qadir did and I die. “Glad you’re alright, little guy.” Qadir...

Still not over the drunk blood doll rats.

Kaiser’s still a goddamn creep and this time Julia is not going too far. She still has her humanity, dammit. Final set of traits:

Loyal to the end

Glass half-full

Not into a bad cop schtick

Honesty is the best policy

No more human, still humane

Onwards to the ‘bad’ end! Oops, and Dakota still did the Single White Female thing XD;;

Man I’m still really curious who the ‘good friend’ is!!

Okay! Time for end game!!

So that’s the good friend, huh? “Let me phrase it differently, then. You’re not Ecaterina the Wise, the Agitator of Prague, a Brujah elder causing turbulences all over the world... are you?”

Mention of Christof! Mention of Christof doing shady shit :| Poor Hana.

“An immigrant from Eastern Europe comes to New York City, takes the position she always expected to find herself in, is molded into someone who is no longer herself.”

Julia and Dakota representing Carthage is kind of neat.

I want to say the mention of St Jude is a reference, but I’m not sure what to XD;; Is that from Redemption? Christof could have been the one to tell Hana that.

“Like a two-person human centipede loop or something. An Ouroburos? Or an, uhh, Mobius strip?” No, that’s the other traditionally Sabbat clan XD

That‘s. That’s a hell of a reconciliation XD “Yeah, let’s give it a try. By the way I’m on the run for my unlife, want to go to California and try to find utopia?”

Julia, wear a fucking mask XD

“Hey.”

“Yeah?“

“Do you love me?”

“... Of course I do. For now, at least.”

I still don’t know if I love her. Or even if I can love anyone, for that matter. I’m a fucking monster, after all. I don’t even know if we’ll exist next month. The prospects are not looking good. But although I can’t see myself in the rearview mirror right now...

...I will remember this image of us leaving the city, somewhat melancholic, and somewhat hopeful, forever. And maybe the meaning of this image will be clarified with time. Or maybe I will just force a more positive description on it, and that is what I’ll believe.

No matter what happens... even if oceans of blood lie before us, I will make this a cherished memory.

Whatever possible salvation still remains for me... ...it probably lies in the eyes of another.

Oh dang I have chills.

So the ‘bad’ ending is about the subverted compromise. Julia resigns herself to letting the compromise about the truth of Callihan’s death go ahead. ‘Catherine’ is a walking compromise to hide the Ecaterina’s real deeds. But while Hana is still stuck in her role for now, Julia refuses to accept the compromise she’s made, both the one relating to the investigation and the compromise she made of her own views and morals. It might blow up in her face, yeah. But damn, she’s going to try.

So, final thoughts! For the sake of completion, this is what I said about Coteries:

And of course this is the part where the game all falls apart :-\

Just… god. This is probably the biggest problem with CoNY, and the reason I didn’t bother getting it until it was like… 60% off. The bulk of the game is great - the writing is intriguing, the design is stunning. But the choices themselves are so limited it’s barely worth even getting it at 60% off!

You have three choices of characters, with their own opening chapters and own individual scenes with their touchstones. You have four choices of coterie members, and three sidequests. You can probably get in at least three full story arcs and a sidequest or two, but you’re only ever limited to two of your coterie members showing up at the not-yet-endgame.

So let’s say you decide to play all three protags, which, indeed, is encouraged (there’s an achievement for it). You are going to repeat coterie arcs and side quests, because there simply aren’t enough for three unique playthroughs.

And then you get to the end and literally everything is scripted. You get attacked by the SI. You get rescued by your two coterie members (and then never see them again, despite the game being called Coteries of New York). You meet Torque, you escape the SI, Sophie reveals her plan to Torque, you go to Ellis Island, Adelaide kills Sophie (and despite the fact that you’re given multiple options there, none of them work), Arturo does his spiel, end of game. You don’t even get to choose between ending up blood bound or going “no fuck you” and at least dying with a bit of dignity!

I just. I really want to like it, and there genuinely is a lot there to like! But uuuugh the ending. Like damn at least give the poor protag the option to choose what happens to them!

Anyway. Not sure what’s next. To get all the achievements, you have to finish with all three protags, so that’s three full runs and a lot of repetitiveness (compare to, say, Bloodlines or Night Road. I have eighty-five hours on Night Road and there’s still stuff I haven’t seen!), so I can’t even just… rush it through up to the meeting with the touchstones on the third play. Nope. Gotta finish it :-\

Final rating: 6/10

8/10 characters, 9/10 atmosphere, 8/10 story aside from ending, 3/10 story ending, 2/10 replayability. Final consensus: get it on major sale if you can, otherwise, you might as well just watch an LP. I might do that instead of doing a third run, although I at least want to do a second.

I ended up revising that 6/10 to 5.5/10 after finishing all runs and getting the achievements just out of how goddamn repetitive it was. So, how does Shadows measure up?

Absolutely continued with all the things I enjoyed about CoNY (characters, atmosphere, and writing), and of the bits I hated (cookie cutter protagonists, lack of real choice, repetitiveness, the godawful ending), every single part has been completely improved.

Instead of three fledglings so similar they even have the same internal thoughts, we have Julia, who’s got such a distinct voice that she becomes the most memorable game protag I’ve seen in years, and I’m including non-VtM games in this. This is absolutely her game, and it’s just... absolutely fascinating to read and watch.

Related - actual real choices. There are five key choices that determine the ending, and every single one has actual consequence in-game. You get different dialogue. Different introspection. Different philosophies. And this carries across - if Julia believes Agathon is alive, she’s more optimistic about her relationship with Dakota, too. And of course, both endings are completely distinct and incredibly written - the ‘good’ ending where Julia gives in to her most Lasombra instincts, plays the game, wins it, gets power and respect at the expense of her humanity and avoiding all those wraiths... or the ‘bad’ ending when she listens to her morals, reconciles with Dakota, and leaves for California, uncertain, but hopeful.

Not a lot of repetitiveness. Yes, by design, you’ll probably do two playthroughs. The main plot is much the same, but there are enough options there to get multiple dialogue options and stuff. And for the little sidequests, you can actually get all in with just the two playthroughs, only repeating like... two, I think. Still, I wasn’t feeling actively bored like I was midway through my second run of CoNY!

Loved seeing more in-depth backstory and development for the coterie members. Agathon’s section was particularly fascinating, literally getting into his head.

And just. Atmosphere and music is so, so good.

Final rating: 9/10. Thank you, Draw Distance, you hit it out of the park.

#vampire the masquerade #vtm shadows of new york #ry plays sony

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sugar-petals · 5 years ago

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Understanding The Death Card In Tarot

the great juxtaposition. we start with a detail and my favorite card reference. so, you’ve seen the skeleton, the horse, the people... i ask you to center in on the imagery again though, to extract whether DEATH really wants to convey all but despair and the inevitable. if you look twice, you see the message. plain image analysis: it's a sunrise scene. THE SUN in tarot is the absolute best arcanum you can get. happiness, freedom and enlightenment in its pure form. look at it, that’s paradise. it could even be the formerly kneeling baby that is now riding DEATH’s horse! DEATH can be read as the key to to all your wishes fulfilled, and you being spared from doom. that’s what it boils down to. so whatever you worry about has a good end. if you know that THE SUN is the level up-result of DEATH, you will view it differently.

relating the card. see how it intertwines with other cards. your spread will tell you what kind of sunrise it means. if it relates to a wonky card, rejoice because this issue will be resolved big time. if it comes with a wholesome card, even better, double the sunshine, a grand new reveal, the old is gone. the skeletal rider brings the tidal wave to usher in the bright atmosphere. humans cannot understand the concept of happiness without knowing DEATH equally. no DEATH, no sunshine.

DEATH’s power. if i had to associate an animal with the card, it’s the snake. shedding its skin and presenting the new shining self, pretty much. and it’s still the same snake, but with less baggage and old outer woundings and personas. so, if DEATH shows up in your reading, that skin shedding effect is already taking place and it’s a good thing.

no hazards. there is few sense of immanent danger or doom in that card. at least, less than it seems. the skeleton on the horse treads very slowly. it’s not the KNIGHT OF SWORDS rushing in and mowing you down. also, unlike the sword suits that are all cloudy and gloomy, DEATH has the sun on it!

predicting real death? it’s hard to know if the card means literal passing or not unless you create context in the spread. to be sure about that is crucial given the severity of the topic. of course, if you explicitly ask if there will be somebody dying and you draw that very card, the answer is unequivocal and you can take it at face value. but when DEATH pops up seemingly at random, check whether it is paired with the 5 OF CUPS (=grief), swords (=conflict, cutting away), and compelling reversals of beneficial cards to see whether an actual fatal event is involved, which, given the probabilities, is rare.

metaphors. in most other cases, DEATH is best read as metaphorical, much like the fertility theme of the EMPRESS doesn’t mean you get pregnant 100% and extends to creative projects coming to fruition instead. so, read DEATH as a revolution in an area of life, e.g. with the 2 OF SWORDS you can interpret that you finalize a decision between two options.

but who, and when? even if you do spot the 5 OF CUPS nearby, you gotta find out what person is involved in this. look for court cards or a signature arcanum that you associate with someone. e.g., the page that always jumps out when you do a reading on relative XYZ. this is where directions come in handy. IMPORTANT: where is the horse on the card headed? if it faces to the right, see what it points at. or, which card on the left it has embarked from. that way you can see what happened (lean back in that case) or what is still to happen (be curious what gift death brings in that case).

DEATH and serfdom. if there is one historical theme that is always squarely ignored it’s that DEATH is about to trample over a highly decorated 1) rich 2) white 3) old 4) catholic 5) man. quintuple feudal threat combo. yes, the scene does depict a tragedy, especially as there are kids kneeling before DEATH to appease his horse. but the nr. 1 focal point is DEATH marching towards the guy who made a fortune via taxes and people’s fears of death and now ironically gets targeted himself. even if he is supposed to be the most blessed and protected of all as a cleric, and looks like a walking deity in his shining gown. interesting, isn’t it. so: ouch. the DEATH card is one huge medieval roast.

the crown takes a tumble. it gets even wilder. check out the background. you see that there’s a king without his crown (!) lying on the ground as DEATH’s first casualty. this card is nothing but a savage blow to the feudal system. DEATH killed the head of state and now he’ll take down the top of the hierarchy, the clergy, too. the entire machinery is defeated. like why would you not want this card in all of your spreads, DEATH is the greatest symbol of nation-wide liberation you could possibly think of.

the warning that’s not for you. you gotta understand this. the card’s scenery is a rather deliberate potitical statement and probably doesn’t concern you unless you’re the 1%. DEATH, in essence, is a ‘lol, even you won’t last’ and a warning for larger-than-life elites. or, not even a warning, but a plain fact. the funny thing is, DEATH doesn’t do this on purpose, but naturally without giving a damn on his funky horse. as a tarot reader, if anything, you can interpret this card as the laws of nature working against privileges and buddha’s teaching of how everything passes. karma is a relief.

DEATH and authority. the card is the better version of JUSTICE. there’s no court ruling that someone gets a fine and the case is closed. there’s no idle debate. no exceptions and cop-outs. death has not discriminated once. the bad guy gets what he deserves. DEATH is anti-hierarchy in nature. he tears down rigged systems, and whatever theme your spread has, this card hails of oppression coming to an end. the HIEROPHANT is quaking. the EMPEROR, too. the entire court cards, also. DEATH made the entire conceited and power-hungry population of the tarot his bitch.

a lesser evil? i know that shifting your worry doesn’t help, but how dangerous the DEATH card really isn’t while other cards are much more alarming reflects the truth of the deck which is the ultimate goal to grasp as an advanced reader. if you draw THE TOWER, THE DEVIL, 3/5/9/10 OF SWORDS, 5 OF PENCACLES, and the 5 OF CUPS, possibly all at once, aspecting other positive cards in your reading, then you gotta watch out. DEATH is nowhere near as crazy. look at the coloring and weather deptictions of the imageries and the difference is very visible. weather in tarot reflects the entire meaning and mood of the card. DEATH has clear, neutral skies and big fat shunshine emerging. meanwhile, it’s going bonkers right here:

the skeleton = you! i’m not kidding. it’s crazy. DEATH is the best self-insert as it’s a skeleton. it could be anybody. now think of what a good position you’re in. you got this badass horse, you got the flag with the rose of life cycles on it, you command the sea to rise and fall, you got an armor to protect yourself. you’ve likely been a knight. you’re about to make a clean sweep with this annoying bishop who thinks he’s god. because you literally rule life. pretty good position you’re finding yourself in. the DEATH card ascribes superpowers to the one receiving it, as exaggerated as that sounds. if you realize that DEATH is you, that’s a whole new dimension of interpreting.

#tarot #tarot ed #learning tarot #tarot reading #reference #tarot cards

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pilot-boi · 5 years ago

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Shouting in Cafes: Chapter Seven

Highway Skyline

They’re burning down the highway skyline, on the back of a hurricane that started turning when they were young.

AO3 LINK

Neptune made a point to carefully open the car door and get inside. The car was… Nice. Surprisingly nice. The seats were clean and smelled like lemons, the floor mats were spotless. No trash. No stains. Sun was checking his hair in the rearview mirror.

“Huh,” Neptune said, not fast enough to hide the surprise in his voice.

“What?” Sun asked, freezing.

“It’s nice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No beer bottles.”

“Wow, dude. I’m hurt, truly,” Sun said, pressing a hand to his chest in a facsimile of hurt. Or maybe it was real hurt. He could never tell with this guy.

Neptune supressed a laugh at his performance. He couldn’t afford to let Sun see him be happy. That would mean he was winning, and they weren’t friends. Nope. Totally not.

“Ready to ride?” Sun asked with a smile that said danger.

“Just… here? We’re going way over the speed limit here?”

“It’s fine!” Sun waved him off, adjusting his mirror and shooting himself a grin in the reflection. “There are never any cops or pedestrians here. Don’t worry so much, Neptune!”

“I have to worry. That’s the only way you won’t freaking kill yourself.”

Sun laughed, and he did have a nice laugh dammit. A laugh that made you want to laugh along with him. Neptune barely restrained himself from doing just that.

“Okay! Here we go!”

Sun was out of that parking space so fast, Neptune thought he might get whiplash. He stopped the car just as quickly, then started it up again before either one of them could get their bearings.

“Su- Su-” Neptune stuttered out between the breaks, his nails digging into the leather and his glasses threatening to fly off his face.

“Aw, see? We are good friends!” Sun called over the purring engine. “We’re already giving each other nicknames!”

“Shut up!”

The pavement screamed underneath them and Neptune watched his life zoom past. Oh, look, there went the time Scarlet knocked his head into the terrible birthday cupcake he got him and Neptune had sprinkles dropping out of his hair for at least a week.

Sun bucked the car onto the empty street and took off, wind tangling in his hair and eyes open wide. The trees turned into green blurs, the buildings into only smudges of paint on a blue backdrop.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Neptune yelled and promptly sealed his mouth closed. Air poured down his throat at top speeds and with it most likely a million bugs. No thank you, this was terrifying enough all ready, he didn’t need that.

The road bumped and threatened to make him bite his tongue off. And he needed that, thank you very much. For screaming, if nothing else.

“You know, you sure do take the Lord’s name in vain a whole lot,” Sun said as casually as if they were out for lunch. He pulled out some sunglasses and tucked them into Neptune’s hair without even asking. Yellow reflective aviators. What had he really been expecting?

“I’m already Catholic! It’s fine!”

“I’m not really sure that’s how it works,” he said conversationally as he pulled on a pair of honest-to-God fingerless driving gloves. He was going to die. Forget getting in a crash, his heart was going to stop.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Neptune screamed. Sun had started fishing around in the space between the cupholders, and his face was turned completely away from the road to do it. Neptune’s heart raced. Street signs smeared. Sun’s speed neared one hundred.

“It’s fine, it’s fine! Cool your jets, dude! I’m just grabbing some tunes!”

“We’re going to die!”

“Oh, so now we’re a we?” Sun quipped, winking at Neptune and still not even glancing at the road that his car was practically devouring.

“What the hell are you talking about?! Just keep your fucking eyes on the road, you absolute maniac, or I’m going to have an actual stroke!!” Neptune screamed, his lungs in his throat and his heart hammering in his chest. He was going to tear the leather upholstery with how hard he was gripping it.

Sun laughed. Laughed! Like they weren’t doing something highly illegal and could die at any second! “We’re not gonna hit anyone! Hey, dude, do you dare me to beat one-fifteen?”

“No!”

More laughter. That laughter was going to be the last thing he ever heard.

Sun finally got what he was looking for. He wiped the CD (who still used CDs?) off on his tank top and popped it into the player. Big band jazz music blew from the speakers, the bass cranked up because of course it was. Still. Jazz? Trumpetey, 1920s, New Orleans jazz?

“What the fuck is this?!”

“You really lose your censor when you’re out of work,” Sun said, leaning casually back into his seat, seemingly ignoring his hair flying in every direction from the wind, and facing directly towards Neptune to speak.

“No, I don’t! I think it’s the life or death situation I’m currently facing!”

“My driving isn’t that bad,” Sun pouted, his eyes wide again. Damn those eyes, how dare they look like they’d been plucked straight from a noon day sky.

“Shut the fuck up and stop giving me those puppy eyes! Keep your goddamn eyes on the- You almost hit that sign watchoutwatchoutwatchoutwatchout holy fucking shit!!”

Neptune’s face was suddenly freezing, what with all the blood draining out of it and all. His hand had made its way to his heart somehow, bunching up in the fabric, while his other arm pressed up against the car door as if that would help if they hit something. If he had a heart monitor on, it would read well over one hundred.

“Puppy eyes?” Sun asked, said eyes lighting up once again and that fucking grin spreading across his face.

No. Oh God no.

“It’s a thing you do, Shut up a-”

“You noticed a thing I do?” He sounded delighted. God fucking dammit, what the hell?! Neptune was having a fever dream. That was it. He was dying of a horrible sickness, and this was the torture his brain had conjured up for him.

“Dumbass! Holy shit! Please just focus on the road!”

Sun sped up.

“No. No no no nononono!!”

“Yes yes hell fucking yes!!”

Neptune glanced over. Sun was grinning from ear to ear. A spot light that split the darkness. A smile for punching the sun, for setting off illegal fireworks just to have some color in the sky. A smile for street racing at unimaginable speeds just to bond with a barista he barely knew.

“You’re actually planning on killing me,” Neptune panicked, at whatever could pass for a normal tone of voice in this death trap. “If this was a trick to kill me, congratulations, it’s fucking working!”

Sun had the audacity to laugh. “I’m actually going to die in this neon blue convertible with a maniac at the steering wheel!” Neptune yelped, the calm demeanor his horrified realization had brought gone in an instant.

“Wow, you’re morbid!” Sun laughed. “Chill out, dude! I just want to get a little air!” His grip tightened on the steering wheel and he leaned forward as if that would make them go faster.

“A little…?!”

Neptune un-squinted his eyes and focused on the road up ahead. Sure enough, there lay a steep hill that Neptune had somehow managed to forget about. How could he? He drove up it every morning and back down it every night. It made your stomach fly up into your throat even at regular speeds.

“This is suicide!” Neptune cried, gripping his seat belt tight enough to snap it right in two.

“Not if we don’t die!”

“If we don’t die, we get arrested! That’s not better! You get how that’s not better, right?!”

“How is dying better than getting arrested? Besides, there are never any cops here!”

“You’re insane!”

“We’re almost there!”

“I’m going to vomit! Seriously, I swear to Go-”

“Hold on!” Sun yelled, teeth bared in a face splitting grin and eyes bright with manic fire.

Everything in the car went flying, including its passengers. Miraculously, that flight was only an inch or so out of their seat and not through the windshield. Still, the experience of rocketing over a hill at hundred of miles per hour speeds while bass-boosted jazz blared out of the speakers was a unique experience that Neptune never wanted to repeat.

Neptune’s seat belt caught him as he threatened to fly overboard. Sun was cheering his head off, Neptune was too terrified for any sound to escape his throat. His voice seemed to have been left on the pavement below.

There was a split second where he could have sworn that time froze and he was able to watch Sun’s huge eyes crackle with electricity and excitement. The red leaves of the trees on either side of the road swished with the new wind. The road beneath them blurred, the center lines losing all meaning. All within half a second.

But then their tires bounced once, then twice, and finally they were on the road again.

And Sun was grinding to a halt.

And swerving into a ditch.

He let the car turn completely sideways, pressing down hard into the brake. Dirt flew up around them along with clumps of grass and a few pieces of Neptune’s remaining sanity.

They lurched forward, then stilled.

And Sun hollered. “Holy shit that was awesome!!”

Neptune’s voice returned. “Am I dead?” he asked, frozen stock still in his seat, too scared to move.

“Not yet, bro!”

There was silence for a moment. Then a laugh bubbled out of Neptune. And another. And he was grabbing at his stomach in an effort to control them.

“I’ve never heard you laugh before,” Sun chuckled.

“I guess,” -a laugh break- “I save them for near-death experiences!”

Sun giggled a little. Then he joined, too.

Both of them clutched their sides with the laughing, and the more Sun laughed the more Neptune laughed because his laugh was so infectious it was annoying, but Neptune couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed. It faded in and out from high pitched snickers through his teeth and tongue to deep roaring claps of thunder. Woodland pixie. Hearty ship captain.

“Why the hell do you have bright yellow aviators, dumbass? That’s so lame!” Neptune cackled, pulling them off his head and wiping tears from behind his glasses.

“Why the hell do you have blue freaking hair? Like, more blue than my car! What the fuck?!” Sun pointed out before sputtering into more indistinguishable laughing.

They both slid down further and further into the leather seats, their shoes resting on the dashboard, the occasional putter of laughter from one of them sending both back into a laughing competition that their sides couldn’t handle anymore.

The wind messed up Sun’s hair. Bad. All that gel helped when it was styled correctly, but when Mother Nature had her way with it, it turned into a hot mess. Or just a mess. It splayed out around his head, combining with the straw yellow color and making his head look like he’d jumped into a haystack and a fan at the same time. The back just stood off his neck, straight up in the air like someone had just ordered it to attention.

He kept running his hands all through it. Like it helped. Neptune probably didn’t look that great either.

Sun’s chest was heaving with laughter and adrenaline, and there were bright pink spots high on his cheeks. His sparse freckles dotted under his flush and speckled like constellations across the arms brushing back his hair. Bright yellow hair framing eyes like drops of sky.

“Do you want me to take you back to your car?”

Neptune opened his eyes. Woozily, he addressed his surroundings. Sun was inches away from his face, eyebrows pressed together, one hand climbing through his messy hair. Had they been…? No. No stop. Neptune had just passed out from exhaustion and Sun was waking him up. That was all that had happened.

How late was it? The orange and pink shades of sunset scraped against the tops of the red-leaved trees that closed in around them. It shone through the gaps of the trunks in slats that blinded Neptune momentarily and lit up the flecks of gold in Sun’s blue eyes.

What was happening?

Sun just asked him a question. Focus Neptune.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure.” He thought for a second. Sun was still really close to his face, and for some reason his thoughts were moving more slowly than normal. He could count the individual freckles speckling his cheeks. “I won the bet.”

“It wasn’t really a bet. Just an agreement,” Sun murmured, his eyes flicking over Neptune’s face as if trying to memorize it.

“Sure, sure, but I survived.” He was too close. Why was he so close?

“Yeah,” Sun said, finally leaning back and rubbing the back of his neck almost sheepishly. “Am I really that bad of a driver?”

“Don’t make me start laughing again.”

Sun smiled bright enough to light up a dark room and clapped a hand on Neptune’s shoulder before starting up the car.

His hand was warm. Calloused and huge, and warm. Neptune definitely did not glance down at it.

Nope. Totally did not do that.

#rwby #neptune vasilias #sun wukong #seamonkeys #mine #my writing #coffee shop rwby #writing wednesday #chapter 7 #shouting in cafes

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meanwhileinthebroomcloset · 5 years ago

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Mhm... This post was meant to be much shorter, honestly. Not to mention it got super personal, which was not my intention. It actually made me a bit teary-eyed and I’m usually an emotional constipated dumbass.

Am I ready for the potential backlash this is going to cause? Eh, probably not. Am I going to engage in the discourse this can cause? Ah, you wished. I have more to waste my energy on. I didn’t write this post to argument with anyone, anyway.

Gonna risk it, still.

-----------------------------------------

Isn’t it kind of ironic that it was witchcraft that made me fully return to Catholicism?

I mean, I kind of never left, hence the ‘’fully’’ in that sentence. But now I really know who I am. Although I don’t think Catholicism is the most accurate label (Christo-pagan, perhaps?) it’s the one I grew up with, and the one that comes more naturally to me.

Studying the beginning of it all, the commentaries of Pagans and Jewish writers at the time are just so fascinating and honestly beautiful.

Then everybody started chasing and killing each order, and it sure wasn’t fascinating anymore.... ‘’Stop being murderous revenge-driven assholes’’ I angrily mutter into my book, while frying my brains for High Middle Ages exams.

And then it split into Catholicism and Arianism (not that Arianism! The no-holy-trinity-on-my-watch one), and that was a totally different can of worms. Then Rome got pissy and the Orthodox Church officially became a thing that existed.

Man, why is religion so messy?

Faith is such a strange thing. So much power, so much potential for good and evil and everything in between. I started losing mine some years ago.

Contrary to some horror stories you may hear, especially from people who are now no longer Christian, I was raised in a pretty open environment.

‘’Don’t be mean, have faith, give second chances... Here are the commandments. They’re perfectly acceptable, see?’’

‘’Yes, there are different religions, but you should always respect them and the people that believe in them. Remember, Jesus was Jewish. Here’s some historical context... ‘’

‘’What the hell kid, nobody here is going to hell. Also, you’re five, there are no children in hell. No, the cops also won’t... Lord give me patience... Are you sorry? Did you apologize? Are you going to try to not repeat it? Great! Then it’s all fine and dandy!’’

‘‘Man, we are definitely all going to hell... At least since we’re all gonna be there, we could form a basketball team. The devil can be the referee. He will be an awful one, but hey, we’re in hell’‘

‘’I know the bible says the earth was created in seven days, but when that story was written, people didn’t know dinosaurs were a thing. Science is cool, and we are not in the middle ages. ‘’

‘’Blind faith is dangerous, kid.’’

‘’Thinking thoughts and acting upon them are two very different things.’’

‘’Yes, the second mom in that Solomon story was willing to see another kid die for the sake of an argument... sometimes people are that bad.’’

‘’God is perfect. People aren’t. That’s the world we live in and it’s okay.’’

‘’There are people who do terrible things in name of religion or say they’re doing it because the bible says so. Don’t believe them. There’s no excuse for murder and abuse.’’

‘’Yeah, Portugal is very enthusiastic when it comes to Catholicism... ’’

Pretty good summary of religion in my childhood.

Still, I found my faith waning. I didn’t really know why and I’m still a bit iffy talking about that.

‘’What did witchcraft do, then?’’

Well for once, it reinforced my ideas on how faith worked, and how strangely powerful it can be. Being skeptical is healthy but completely closing yourself off because something isn’t completely clear is too radical and you're just doing the equivalent of closing your eyes to the less brighter lights.

My god, I can hear the hardcore atheists coming...

Can I remind you there are more things in life that will not provide the proof you want, but that won’t mean they aren’t there? Relationships. Relationships are too complicated to have straight answers, a lot of the times. People hide their feelings, they fake them, express them and react to them differently. There are so many things we don’t understand or know about yet, like space and organisms that live on this Earth.

Sometimes what you need is a different approach to see they exist! It’s one of the things I learned with witchcraft.

There was also the religion itself. As I worked on my magic, I started seeing magic around me again. Not just with gods I had never considered and the one I was leaving behind, but with the faith I had always known.

The affection when someone says ‘’Our Lady’’ when talking about the Virgin Mary, my family calling upon Saint Barbara when thunder comes, children screeching excitedly because the Compasso has arrived to give us the news that Jesus has come to life again in Easter, the marble cemeteries, the comforting prayers, the masses I couldn’t ear because the local church’s echo is terrible, those boring long-ass weddings (oh my god, how many blessings do two people need?!), the loving dedication I see in every saint carved, my church's priest’s good humor... I never owned a rosary, but I always like the ones my aunts and grandparents keep.

I found Christian and Catholic witches on this site and I finally got to my conclusion. It’s really there. I just needed a different approach to it!

These things made me believe again, but also in new things.

‘‘But you can’t do that! You can’t combine magic and christianity’‘

Oh, watch me. And also watch the centuries of cunning women and witches in European history and those still alive today. The women that make ‘’mezinhas’’ and other types of favors in Portugal sure as hell are doing witchcraft, but you can bet your ass they don’t think they’re any less Catholic than anyone else. They don’t care about your opinions and I will hopefully do the same.

Relationships with deities are personal, and my relationship with God, Jesus and all of them is no different in that regard. I am a witch, I am human, I am catholic. I’m a follower, not a fucking mindless sheep.

You know what? I always compared God to Aslan. The lion wasn’t always there for Narnia, he wanted his people to solve their problems on their own. Get their independence, as a good parent does. They both don’t come up all mighty, that’s a posture reserved for evil and people who need a good slap in the face. They come to your level. God may come through one of the less eldritch abomination looking angels, though...

‘‘Well, if you have god, you shouldn’t need anything more. He's everthing. Why are you also a witch?’‘

Excuse me, do I look like a goddamned saint to you?! What part of human did you not understand?

And before you bitterly start quoting the Old Testament, let me remind you that it’s Old for a reason. Christ came to this earth to give us new rules since he technically saved us and things became different. That’s why Jewish people follow the Old Testament, for them, the messiah hasn’t arrived yet. Not to mention that to them that testament is not Old, it’s just the Torah.

You can keep quoting the bible to me all you want. But in my short twenty years of life, I was thankfully able to learn a few things. One of them is that the world isn’t black and white. Yes, I know this sounds obvious but there are some really dumb people out there. Also, this is the hellscape that we call tumblr.

Anyway, as I have mentioned several times before, I’m a never-ending knowledge seeker I found the world beneath my feet is not pure myth and I want to explore it. Look at me go.

I keep a critical mind with everything. Faith and religion are not an exception. I’m not overly skeptic about faith itself, but I am of its writings, interpretations, translations and etc... I study history, it’s a skill you naturally develop.

And there’s quite a few plot-holes, characterization differences and much more. It was written by humans that couldn’t do a cohesive collaboration even if their lives depended on it. Godphones sometimes don’t get a good reception. There’s a ton of cultural context to unpack. I hear people saying all the time that taking the bible’s words literally is one of the most stupid things you can do.

And when I say people, I mean priests, clergy, theology students, etc... I didn’t hear this from my drug dealer in the street corner..

...... I don’t have a drug dealer.....

Anyway...

There are many problems with the catholic church. There are many problems with a ton of catholic and christians out there. I will never deny that. Shit needs to get fixed and maybe even chucked into the trash.

But I still believe in God, I still believe in the saints but I also still believe there are more gods and spirits out there. And those things are separate.

I have no interest in converting you. I’m just yelling into the void.

If you are one of those that no longer is a christian, or catholic because some dipshits banged self-hate onto your head, I’m really sorry. I hope you heal well and get the help you need in your new faith or lack of it. Banging the ten commandments back onto their heads repetiedly and tell them to actually read the damn book is optional, though.

In the end, if you are (or are trying) to be good, you deserve respect and freedom to worship whoever or whatever you want. You don’t need to be perfect, you can just strive to be the best you can be in your situation.

--------------------------------------------

And now back to our schedueled programing.

#well #that was a thing #rant #christian witch #catholic witch

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queernuck · 5 years ago

Note

Op can you clarify/elaborate on that last post a little bit please?

so, Beto O’Rourke said that he has talked to cops wrt rifles like AKs and ARs, two common “assault weapons”, and said that they are afraid of them, that they do not want to be facing them. the right, at least, some parts of it, have seized upon that remark (understandably so, given the easiest reading of it) as being the exact point of the 2nd Amendment and evidence that Dems are looking to establish a police state and want to disarm them because they pose a genuine threat to cops.

and the thing is, if someone wants to shoot a cop? an AK or an AR is a good way to do it, all things considered!! 5.56x45 has a lot of shit talked about it but is a round with a pretty good amount of energy and low recoil in a long enough barrel and has a wound profile that will really ruin your day, regardless of if you are wearing armor or not. even the highest-rated body armor will only do so much against 5.56, and that’s not even what you would find an average cop wearing a vest for, and a cop will most of the time only be wearing a vest at best so torso, pelvic area, sides, arms, legs, head? all unprotected, and what armor they do have is going to stop 5.56 only if theyre lucky.

and 7.62x39? that round is not perfect, but it hits real hard, it can get through body armor, it’ll fuck up a car if need be. GIGN, a well-known French “counterterror” unit, has procured CZ BREN rifles chambered in 7.62x39, specifically because of the ballistics of such a round are good enough to warrant purchasing an entirely new weapon system, albeit one with a form factor relatively close to most other Western European/American designs. The Sig MCX, an AR-pattern rifle, has shown up in at least one police armory with a stock design intended to go on the shoulder while the shooter has a riot helmet with the mask lowered, chambered in 7.62x39. It’s a good round, and while there are reasons that a customer looking for new rifles would go American or Czech over Russian or Bulgarian or Polish or whatever, a Yugo AK or an SKS or any other rifle shooting it is going to fuck shit up.

to make that kinda short? an “assault weapon” is indeed a threat to police, and i honestly think thats kinda a good thing lol

the features that make an “assault weapon” what it is are not simply the round it fires: the Mini-14, M14/M1A, and SKS are great demonstrations of this principle, as are things like Saiga or Vepr or other AK-pattern rifles that had thumbhole/“sporter”/Dragunov-esque stocks for import reasons which are still capable of fucking your day up. there are rifles popular in states like NY, CA, and so on which have similar ballistics while not having the same features that would make them “assault weapons” while there are also weapons with weaker ballistics than the ones Beto is evoking that look more or less the same, like AR-pattern rifles in .22 LR.

Also, just generally the whole thing with AR and AK rifles is that there are a lot of them. They are incredibly common, ARs especially, and most will never be pointed at a person. the share of gun ownership in this country is relatively small in a lot of places, and includes a lot of people who own a whole lot of guns just because they have the money to and they enjoy having guns. overwhelmingly, this leads to gun culture being white and rich and full of “law-abiding citizens” who are fucking fascists in ideological position, but who are on the good side of law enforcement, on the good side of most conventional standards of citizenship, and as a result are given a pass for the most part. And theyre the ones who run gun stores, start gun companies, who manufacture more and more of these ARs every day for their other well-off gun-loving friends.

So, there are a lot of guns out there that fit the square peg into the round hole of what Beto is trying to get at, and if aimed at a cop they can indeed kill said cop. i know that, the people who own these guns know that, and while some of them are owned by people involved in crimes like dealing drugs or other things that are going to get them in trouble with the cops, the thing is? a lot of these guns are owned by the right-wing, who notably pointed out that the idea of a cop being scared of a gun being pointed at them for imposing unjust rule is something that appeals to them.

However, it carries a very...Ruby Ridge feeling, if you will. Fuck the FBI, fuck the Marshals, but damn if it isn’t a bad taste in your mouth when you have to say that while talking about a white supremacist. The militarized, oppressive, awful cops that are talked about by “right-anarchists” on here are ones that act on behalf of their own fascist desires, are the ones who enforce the War on Drugs, who are disappearing refugees at the border, who are killing black activists in the South, who are responsible for protecting the careers of cops that kill. The same is true of Veterans who join the “intelligence community” and end up in the CIA or as Private Military Contractors doing the dirty work of the US that is a bit too boring, distasteful, or too bad of a look for even the US Military to be doing. They’re the ones who want to topple Maduro and who think the sanctions and politicization of aid are justified, who joke about Pinochet’s helicopter rides, who call things “based” and post memes about Israel while being raging antisemites and ALSO raging islamophobes. theyre the ones driving a lot of public discourses about pedophilia away from, say, the Catholic Church and toward “billionaire satanists” that they will or will not name as Jewish depending on the approach you come at them with. Theyre the ones who talk about “black-on-black” crime while ignoring that the guns involved in most crimes are entirely legally manufactured and were then either sold illegally or stolen in a break-in, who are collectively talking about the spectre of black-on-white crime while ignoring that across just about every sort of crime both people involved usually share the same skin color.

you know, FASCISTS.

Beto gave them an incredibly juicy talking point on gun violence, and they get to use it to superficially stand against police while they also lick those very same boots, talk about Blue Lives Mattering, when if they really want to be as edgy and cool and revolutionary as they say, they’d probably try to start running some of the guns they buy or something.

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ariadnelives · 6 years ago

Text

Chapter 17 -- The Pros and Cons

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3”]

“Your objections have been noted, Sweettalk,” Ariadne addressed the crew about 25 minutes later, give or take, in front of the whiteboard once again, “and none of us likes having to work with this slimeball—”

“—Can I raise an objection?” Prescott cut in.

“All objections have been noted,” Ariadne spat back, “but the information Prescott’s carrying is too valuable to our cause to pass up.”

“And what is our cause, exactly?” Sweettalk asked, “because, I mean, I get that this cult is bad news, but, why is that still our business?”

“Would your conscience allow you to let Vi’s sisters stay locked up?” Ariadne replied casually.

Sweettalk considered this. “It… ugh, it would not…”

“Besides,” Ariadne continued, “and this is a totally selfish reason, but as long as they’ve got one of the impostors, they can keep posing as me and ruining my good name.”

“Your good name as… a wanted criminal…?” Prescott interjected.

“This is now the fifth time someone has told you to cram it,” Sasha pointed out. “I’ve been counting.”

“Do you want our help or not?” Ariadne offered in assent.

“I’m getting your help regardless,” Prescott smirked, “remember, my information is ‘too valuable to pass up.’”

“What information do you have?” Pilar snapped, “God, sorry, it’s hard to keep this group focused sometimes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Pilar,” Prescott smiled at her.

“Don’t get friendly. I still hate you. Keep talking.”

“Must have been raised in a barn, I swear,” Prescott muttered. “No matter. I have extensive information on the cult leader known as The Zealot. I’ve already told your captain enough independently verifiable information to prove that I’m not full of shit, but given our track record thus far, I understand if you still don’t exactly trust me, and believe me, the feeling’s mutual.”

“Prescott and I have worked out a deal,” Ariadne explained. “He needs our help retrieving some valuable artifacts from a casino in Lohnausfall where he believes his girlfriend—”

“—ex-girlfriend,” Prescott snapped.

“Shock,” Ariadne replied sarcastically, then continued, “a casino where he believes his ex-girlfriend fled to with the bag of church artifacts he stole from the Red God compound.”

“Church artifacts are valuable?” Alicia chimed in from the crowd.

“These ones are,” Prescott explained, “The Zealot, see, he’s bartered, stolen, and even killed to get just about every ancient text, every holy artifact, basically anything the Catholic Church wanted to keep under wraps. He learned how to establish a religion using primary sources on some of the most powerful churches of all time. I’ve got nothing against people of faith, but, he took something good and twisted it to his own ends, which obviously I appreciate. One of the reasons my security company never sold those compounds out is because we knew they were sitting on a fortune bigger than any sticker price we could’ve given a buyer, and we could just quietly slip in any time, take one document, sell it to fund our operation for a year, and if they ever noticed it was gone, they’d just chalk it up to an archaic and confusing filing system. In that duffel bag alone, among other things, there was an original manuscript of the Gospel of Judas, one of the nails purportedly used to hang Jesus on the cross, the true shroud used to cover his body, and enough documentation to prove the authenticity of every bit. In the right hands, each artifact is worth millions, maybe more.”

“Okay, so, it’s obvious Prescott is a slimeball who’s attempting to exploit humanity’s cultural heritage for his own profit,” Ariadne began, “I think we can all agree on that—”

“I can’t!” Prescott scoffed.

“Everyone whose opinion matters can agree on that, but, given his history, I wasn’t exactly comfortable helping him out with no guarantee that he won’t throw us under the bus and make a mad dash to save himself. So, we came up with a little arrangement. Prescott wrote everything he knows about the Zealot on a tablet which will be entrusted to Sweettalk, the least likely person in the universe to ever help Prescott—”

“Yo,” Sweettalk said, making a thumbs-up to indicate that she was absolutely game to be unhelpful where Prescott is concerned.

“—and, to ensure that we don’t just take the information and drop him out the airlock on the way to Lohnausfall,” Ariadne continued, holding up two small memory drives, “these are the two decryption keys. I coded them myself. Even I can’t hack my way into that tablet without both of these, so if either of them are missing, the tablet is useless. One will be on Prescott’s person, the other in Pilar’s. Both of them need to return for this to work.”

Sweettalk raised her hand.

“We’ve established that this is not a classroom, Sweettalk, ask your question.” Pilar sighed.

“What’s to stop him from taking his key and booking it once he has what he wants?” Sweettalk asked.

“I hate that she makes such a good point,” Pilar asked.

“Oh, you’re gonna like this,” Ariadne grinned, and, without warning, quickly tackled Prescott to the ground.

There was a quick scuffle, the sort you might expect when one person abruptly throws their entire weight onto another person and knocks them to the floor, but after a few seconds it resolved itself into Ariadne twisting Prescott’s arm behind his back and attaching a heavy-looking black manacle to his wrist.

“THERE.” Ariadne said, slotting one of the drives into a small notch in the manacle, which closed behind it.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Prescott bellowed.

“I like it already,” Sweettalk laughed. “What is it?”

“I call it The Jumper,” Ariadne said, “I invented it a few months back and I’ve always wanted a chance to use it. It’s got a small, long-range teleporter inside it, hardwired to our receiving pad. Only I can unlock it, although I have no manual control over it. It activates automatically if it leaves a 1-kilometer range of my person, or if any of our crew’s vitals go critical for more than 30 seconds. If he attempts to flee, or harms any of us, the Jumper will automatically return to our station.”

“And what’s stopping him from leaving Spacebreather in the back of some cop car, so having his key back doesn’t do us any good?” Sweettalk asked, “Sorry, Spacebreather, I’m not doubting you, but we can’t afford to underestimate how much of a snake in the grass this guy is.”

Ariadne released her hold on him. “I’m right here, you know,” Prescott said, sounding somewhat offended.

“OH, ARE YOU?” Sweettalk asked, “I WASN’T SURE, I WOULD’VE SAID SOMETHING MORE INSULTING.”

Ariadne jumped in at this point, hoping to keep the crew focused, “the Jumper is programmed to return to our station. It is also designed to take the wrist it’s attached to with it, and do so in such a way that ensures the wearer will bleed out within minutes.”

“So, we know he can’t screw us over again,” Sasha started.

“Don’t count on that,” Sweettalk interjected.

“But, do we have a plan to actually extract the target?” Sasha finished.

“The security at the casino is lax,” Ariadne explained. “Big Top Casino is owned by the Rizzo crime family. Now, I’m told they used to be a big deal, and the head honcho Harry ‘Big Top’ Rizzo is a force to contend with, but their wealth has waned in recent years, which I’d bet is why they wanted these artifacts in the first place. They’ll have a lot of goons on the ground, but the main threat they’re there to guard against is hit jobs by rival families. They don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try to steal something out of the safe in Big Top’s office, which is where the target will undoubtedly be.”

“Can you crack the safe?” Pilar asked.

“I’ve never met a safe I couldn’t,” Ariadne said, “all I need is to make sure I don’t get caught cracking it. So, we’re going to need to divide into two teams. Diamond Team, that’s Spacebreather, Deathsbane, Sweettalk, and any available Whiptals, your job will be to stage a robbery on the casino floor. Make a big show of it. You don’t actually need to get anything out of the robbery, just make it believable enough that security thinks you’re the threat and comes running, and most importantly, don’t get killed.”

“Do we really think that Deathsbane—” Pilar began.

“I don’t want to hear any arguments on this,” Ariadne cut in, “we need a field medic on site for any dangerous missions from here on out. If you’d like Deathsbane to take on an apprentice, we can talk about that when we get back, but in the meantime, we’ve only got one medic and we can’t afford to be away from her.”

Pilar let out a somewhat angry-sounding sigh. “Fine, whatever.” Sasha smiled and Sweettalk smiled wider.

“Easy enough,” Sasha shrugged, “I’ll prep a few auto-capsules for the regen serum that’ll monitor our vitals and inject us in the event of any sort of trauma. They’re one-use only, though, so try not to get hit, and if you do, go down and play dead so they don’t shoot you again.”

“So, we’re the diversion,” Sweettalk mused, “but what happens when you’ve got the safe? Do we have an exit strategy?”

“Fastwing will keep the shuttle cloaked nearby with a receiving pad idling. As soon as I give her the signal, we flee as quickly as we can and she flies us the hell out of there.”

“What will I be doing during all of this?” Prescott asked.

“Other than cramming it?” Sasha proposed, and Sweettalk quietly high-fived her.

“You’ll be with me,” Ariadne said flatly. “If you’re seen on the casino floor this ex-girlfriend of yours will know what we’re there for and the diversion will be blown. For all your faults, you’re a pretty good liar, and that’s going to work to our advantage. You’ll be our lookout, wearing your security guard getup. If anyone catches us red-handed, your job is to get us out of trouble.”

“You’d trust him to do that?” Sweettalk asked incredulously.

“I’d trust him as far as I could throw his grubby little severed hand and a bag full of blasphemous goodies,” Ariadne replied casually.

“Fair,” Sweettalk nodded.

“So, anything else we need to know?”

“One thing,” Prescott interjected, “Don’t underestimate my ex, Nicks. She may look harmless, but she might be the most dangerous person I’ve ever met.”

Pilar looked moderately offended.

“Ego still a little bruised from the breakup?” Sweettalk offered.

“I’m not kidding,” Prescott insisted, “maybe it’s from growing up with the rest of the Rizzos, but she has this, like, Bonnie and Clyde thing, she lives for danger and that’s more important to her than her own safety or anyone she loves. There is no risk she’s unwilling to take, and no consequence great enough to give her pause. Call me biased or jilted or whatever, but if she confronts you, don’t bother firing a warning shot. She can’t be intimidated, if anything, it’ll just encourage her. Shoot to kill.”

“Noted.” Ariadne rolled her eyes. She was sure they could handle whatever squeaky-voiced rich brat who was airheaded enough to find Prescott attractive, and she didn’t need to know him for very long to know you couldn’t trust a word out of his mouth. “If there’s nothing else, let’s saddle up and get this heist underway. I don’t want to spend any more valuable time helping Prescott, whom I hate, than we need to.”

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stedes-black-bonnet · 6 years ago

Text

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 30

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: life, guys; sorry this took longer than expected.

Warnings: Swearing? Bad driving?

Abstract: The Apartment, Some Like It Hot, The Seven Year Itch, Sabrina...

-------------------------

Jim Hutton had always wanted to drive Roger’s Alfa Romeo. But, when the cards were down on the table, who didn’t? Jim wouldn’t have described himself as a gear-head. He might have said he was a good Catholic boy from Ireland who had a perchance for good bar-tending skills, barber-y, and cater-waitering. He wasn’t into cars as a hobby, and for Jim there was a clear class divide between people who drove cars for necessity and people who collected cars. Collecting cars was something people with money did. For fun. Purely for fun; this wasn’t always a concept Jim easily wrapped his head around: spending money for fun. And, until Freddie, Jim had never been in possession of having enough money to really peruse the finer things in life. A car for Jim had always been a means to get to and from work and never as an instrument of enjoyment. And Freddie, generous to a fault, never ceased to shower Jim with everything he had been denied or had denied himself through strict duty of survival. Roger, who maybe had seven cars all told (that Jim knew about), had names for each of them, claimed they all had personalities, different capabilities, and loyalties, saw cars companions.

“Roger?” Jim said, living his best life, top down, having really opened up the goddess in red. They were doing about 80 mph.

Roger moaned. His blond hair was whipping in the breeze, his head hung over the side of his door; he had already vomited once. His blazer had been abandoned. Come to think of it, he was feeling abandoned himself. Abandoned by his own abilities of perception and common sense. He kept thinking about Deacy. What he had said. And why. And that he’d give anything to fix it; he’d give anything to fix Deacy, and had. He had been the one to see her body, after all. And he’d do it again, if the choice came his way again. He was always willing to torture himself at the expense of others. And boy, he had really outdone himself this time. He knew exactly the right words to say to destroy his best friend, and he had said them, without a second thought, without caring, with the desire to harm. It hadn’t been his finest moment. I mean, he had dazzled; the audience had been captivated, and he had always loved that unique feeling, the feeling of holding a group of people in the palm of his hand. It was a rush like no other. It was one thing to do it how Freddie did it, with his vocals and his acrobatics, but it was an entirely different enterprise to do it with the tone of your voice, the flick of a wrist, and a well placed designer suit. So, in a very real sense, it had been one of his finer moments, but in an entirely different sense, it had been his worst. What have I done? He couldn’t dance around it any longer.

“Hey, Roger?!” Jim repeated, ready to perform, trying his hardest to reach Roger.

“Not again...” Roger sighed.

Doing his best John Travolta, Jim said, “Why it could be Greased Lightnin’!”

“Jim, no; not again, mate; I’m begging you.” Roger said, swallowing hard. “If you sing that song again, I’ll throw up on you--I swear. I’m putting my foot down.”

“Rog—it’s my prime jive.”

“Never. Ever. Say that again.” He wasn’t finding the humor in any of it.

This was their fifth or sixth time around the roundabout. And there was no end in sight. Jim could keep this carousel going all night. He had nowhere else he’d rather be, and nothing else better to do in this moment than to bring Roger back from whatever precipice he was currently gazing into. The void was calling Roger’s name, and it would be quite simply over Jim’s dead body for Roger to reach it.

“Can we please get off this thing?” Roger shouted over the sounds of skidding rubber. “I think you’ve made your point.”

“You know very well I’m not taking us off until you laugh--a real, honest to God laugh. Those were the rules. I can play games, too.” Jim, grinning, kept driving. He hoped he was also driving his point home. He wasn’t so sure, though. And he was terrible at playing games, but that’s what Freddie loved most about him. He was pure, well-lived, hard-worked, and entirely devoted to people.

“I don’t think you’re understanding my predicament here.” Roger moved with gravity and speed, leaning into Jim, leaning out of his mind.

“Oh, I understand it perfectly; you’re the one that isn’t understanding it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Roger hated it when someone presumed to know him better than he knew himself.

“You’re being a child for starters.” Jim said, checking for cops.

“A child?!” His voice was higher than usual; this was a good sign; it meant Roger knew he was being a child, but was trying to hide it from everyone--including, and most importantly, from himself.

“Yes.” Jim confirmed. “Causing all this drama because you fell in love and couldn’t handle it.”

“But Jim--!”

“But Jim nothing. Childish! That’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard; causing a scene worthy of Billy Wilder in the restaurant back there; breaking my heart and breaking poor Johnny’s, too. Not to mention the meat grinder you’ve put your own through. And for what?” Jim was shaking his head, irritated beyond belief; he took the goddess in red up to 85 mph. “Love is a gift, you fucking idiot.”

“Jim, listen--!” Roger was holding on for dear life in more ways than one.

“No, you listen here Roger Meddows Taylor; grow the fuck up. And stop telling me what to do or say; if I want to sing every God-blessed song from Grease, I bloody well will.”

“But--!”

“I solve my problems and the see the light!”

Roger groaned loudly and melodramatically; this was, perhaps, for a singer himself, the most perfect torture to endure. Jim’s voice wasn’t perhaps the best suited to belt the Frankie Valli hit, but he was enthusiastic and determined, which was really half the battle when singing any song. A talented singer, though, Jim was not. Not that it would ever stop him. Nor should it. Freddie always told him it didn’t matter how he sounded, but what he felt. Jim always held that in his heart, and applied it confidently throughout his life.

“We’ve got a lovin’ thing, we gotta feed it right.”

“Jim, you’re killing me.” Roger didn’t want to see the light; color was light after all, only reflected light; he didn’t want to see the truth, he didn’t want to feed his love, he didn’t want Lydia. Not really. Maybe. Fine, he wanted her. He loved her. But. Well. The unavoidable fact here. The one undisputed fact traipsing through his mind was this: What if Lydia ended up like Veronica? What if she died? Terribly? Suddenly? And Without rhyme or reason? It could happen to anyone. It had to Deacy, and it had completely ruined him. For years. What if Lydia died like Veronica had?

This fear was keen, deep-set, and so ingrained at this point it had driven him to a life of perpetual bachelorhood and luxurious cad-ing around. It was perhaps so hidden in his heart and mind he didn’t even know it was there until now.

“No--you’re killing yourself; love is a gift, and it won’t be wasted on you if you accept it.” Jim took a deep breath and continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “There ain’t no danger we can go too far; we start believing now that we can be what we are. Grease is the word!”

Laughing, Roger said, “I will give you this car if you stop singing.” He had laughed. It was the sound of thin ice breaking in early March. It was the sound of coffee. The sound of velvet.

Jim immediately switched gears and slowed the goddess in red. The laugh had been genuine and light; accidentally won when Roger had least expected it. Roger hated losing. Usually to a fault. Something about this didn’t entirely feel like losing, though. He still wasn’t sure he liked it. Jim did seem rather proud of himself, very smiling, very pleased, maybe a little too pleased.

“I’ve always wanted this car; thank you, Roger.”

“I was joking.” Roger smiled at Jim. “I was joking! There’s no way I’m giving you her.”

“Oh, I think this will be fine payment for saving your life, reuniting you with Lydia, and helping you fix this mess with the band.” Jim wasn’t giving an inch.

“I don’t deserve your help.”

“Not more of that; I can open her up again if you’re going to just slip back into that bollocks.” His eyebrows danced, hand on the gear shaft, ready to pounce.

“No, no!” Roger yelled. “I just mean...I don’t know what I mean.”

Roger was a loquacious kind of fellow. He wasn’t often in the position of not knowing how to express himself or what to say. Words were failing him, like the colors had. Like he had failed himself. What if he said it out loud? What would happen? If he gave song to his fear? What would go down? Would Jim understand? Probably. Would the world end? Probably not? Roger wasn’t sure he could trust logic anymore; he wasn’t seeing colors, and logic couldn’t explain that. Maybe there were some things that logic couldn’t explain. The heart has reasons the mind knows not. Some French dude said that once, and Roger really felt those words. He hoped he lived by them. He wanted to live by them. He used to think if he could trust anything, it would be his heart, and recently, he had really failed himself on this account. He had been doing anything and everything to not listen to it. And now, he had to find his way back to it, if he could.

“Let me do for you what you did for Johnny once.” Jim said. He let the words hang in the air for a bit, because they were important; Roger needed to remember he was oddly noble and desperately loyal. Or that he had been. And that he could be again. Jim hadn’t been lying before: when he had first been introduced to the band and met Roger, he had been somewhat disappointed by this seemingly vacuous and vainglorious blond trash. Over time, Jim saw how much of it was an act of sorts; yes, Roger was emotional, yes he was volatile, yes he said what was on his mind no matter what it was; but, Roger was also the most caring person he had ever met, the most perceptive, and the most unwilling to admit he was a good person.

“Y/N tried to save you, too. In her own way, I’m guessing. But she tried. She stood up for Deacy and for you.”

“About that--How did she know?” Roger asked. His heart rate had increased just thinking about what you had said. “She scared the shit out of me; I’m not ashamed to admit it. She was the last person I was expecting to punch me out. But she did, and with more than her fists. There’s no way Deacy told her about Veronica already. Just no fucking way, mate.”

Taking the deep breath of truth-telling, Jim admitted, “I told her.”

He finally turned off the roundabout and headed towards Garden Lodge. He slowed drastically so he could safely look at Roger’s reaction. Trying to gauge anything flashing on Roger’s face wasn’t the easiest task while driving, or while he was in his current condition. His blue eyes were streaming with tears, whether from wind, his excess of emotions, or from being sick--it was hard to tell. Jim didn’t like to speculate, but he had a feeling it was all three. “Someone had to tell her. And I don’t regret doing it, just as I don’t regret wanting to punch you out earlier, just as I don’t regret coming after you, and saving you now. Though the hell I’m going to take for all it isn’t something I’m looking forward to reckoning with.”

Roger nodded, taking it all in. “I would have told her myself if…” he couldn’t find the words any more than he could find the colors. All he could see was Veronica’s blue Mercedes-Benz. That one had come back; maybe the others could too?

“You would have yourself if you hadn’t been burying your head up your arse?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So...the colors?” Jim asked, trying to peel the onion that was Roger’s psyche.

“I don’t know, Jim.”

Jim loudly rolled his eyes. “I don’t buy that. The conditions were clear: you need to level with me, Roger.”

Roger knew Jim was right.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself, and he started leveling.

-------------------------------------

Tag List: @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love@partydulce @richiethotzierz @sophierobisonartfoundationblr @psychostarkid@teathymewithben@smittyjaws@just-ladyme@botinstqueen @mydogisthebest@little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty@deakysdiscos@yourealegendroger@marvellouspengwing@molethemollie@deakysgirl@arrowswithwifi@tardisgrump

#john deacon x reader #roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy #jim hutton #aaron mccusker #bohemian rhapsody #queen #queen x reader

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bugsrepellsgant · 6 years ago

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OKIE ive been kicking this au around my brain for months so here’s an outline or whatever

WORKING TITLE: toki and pickles travel cross country to california like kermit and fozzie in the muppet movie OR toki and pickles do america

TL;DR toki and pickles are both 17-ish, the year is 199X, theyre hauling ass to socal to audition for SnB, but instead they accidentally get dethklok together and fall in love :-)

pickles has freshly stepped out and couch surfed his way to greenbay, and just managed to scrape together enough cash for a bus ride to minneapolis (going east to go west is counterintuitive and dumb but so is american public transport) BUT THEN

toki’s one-ish year out of home, has scraped together enough money working for runke to apply for a passport but once he gets to the offices oh no!!! he doesn’t have any proof of citizenship! and he’s a minor! aw fuck now he’s gotta stow away on an oil tanker cus staying isnt an option (yes this is paddington now)

he lands in boston harbor, gets far enough inland on foot and by ferry until he reaches GREEN BAY, WI and he’s a day or two of panhandling away from meeting the ticket fee BUT THEN

its friday night which means its fucking college football night which means SHITTY COLLEGE BROS HAVE DESCENDED UPON THE CITY!

pickles gets briefly needled for being short and ginger but u know he Lives hes been getting this kind of shit forever. HOWEVER toki is immediately singled out as a funny lookin, high voiced, gnome hat weirdo with an accent and he’s trying to laugh along ??? ha ha?? but its so Bad and pickles feels Bad but he’s gotta get outta here-

Oh God one of the bros tried to to take toki’s guitar away and toki flipped shit and its a fight now!! he’s outnumbered but our boy pickles intervenes!!! they’re winning? OH GOD SOMEONE CALLED THE FUCKING COPS

escape! safe; breathless in an alley; “hey whats yooooour name???” “toki!” “heheheheh toke-ki >B-)” “?????” “im pickles” “you namesed pickle???? ‘,:-/“ bla bla bla oh u play guitar? i play drums but i like guitar too there’s a band in LA i wanna play for ya wanna come with???

a car is obtained at... some point

and OH BOY DOES HE!

a long series of shenanigans occur! our boys get stopped, turned around, detoured, misdirected, all kinds of classic farce bullshit, later on we make and pick up friends at pitstops! a fellow highschool dropout with a killer voice in kissimmee, the best guitarist youve heard in your life dodging swedish mandatory service in chicago, a dude with the stankiest bassline (and feet) that side of the mississippi in the texas panhandle, a TOTAL buzzkill geek of a harvard freshman on summering at his family villa near denver, a cool headed, smart as hell, fuckin julliard composer in training who produces music FOR FUN visiting her family in downtown phoenix.

oh my GOD what is seth fucking DOING HERE is that lady his GIRLFRIEND is she PREGNANT what the HELL GO HOME IF YOU TELL MOM WHERE WE ARE ILL KILL YOU DEAD

seth’s also hanging out with this other guy who seems...... cool? you think? fun, talented, good at guitar like both our boys, pickles’ kinda guy to be honest? there’s something about him thats hard to trust though.

sharing hotel rooms, sleeping in truck beds, they get curious about each others lives? pickles clocked toki as a weird hick at first blush, and tbh he was right but? he went to highschool with farm kids and knows farm kid-weird from weird-weird and toki’s WEIRD-weird. and sweet. and funny. the polaroid in toki keeps of a man and a woman, the man in a reverend’s hat, makes pickles scared to ask. especially since toki’s been cool enough to mind his own business.

toki’s fascinated by pickles’ bouts of righteous anger. unlike runke, his rage has energy and intent, and the stunt he pulled in green bay was so nice and so COOL! he’s one such real cool guy with a cool leather jacket and cool hair... but Why is he so mad all the time? why does he drink so much, it doesnt even taste good? why does he STEAL drinks when they have no money? what happened to toki’s nice, cool, brand new friend pickle? something like what happened to toki? but? pickles is so Cool and Nice and NORMAL and toki is so Weird and Stupid and Wrong in ways toki’s horrified to let him discover. its better not to ask him, he guesses.

feelings get stronger as all the bad things come to light. crying hugs are had. pickles drops what was going to be bus money on a replacement V for toki and toki drops his panhandling dough on a goldtop for pickles.

WE FINALLY GET TO LA AND......? what the fuck

the glam/hair scene is dead in the water. Snakes n Barrels supernova’ed. no more audition. no more career. shit shit shit.

but all the friends weve made along the way are here for our boys! they’ll just start their OWN BAND!!!! TAMPA! MORDHAUS! DETHKLOK’S A-GO!! everythings comin up milhouse!

our boys are Officially *an item* and they ride into the sunset together, stirrup to stirrup, side by side. big gay kiss. the end :-)

OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPEN:

amber goes into labor during one of seth’s drop in visits and everyone gets emo about family as a concept, pickles and seth gave a heart to heart, no one is too metal for feelings when the baby comes bc life is beautiful

magnus pulls some scary/mean bs but its nothing too awful and theres forgiveness and lessons learnt and stuff.

the duel! but theres THREE GUITARISTS?????!!!!!!!!!! MAYBE FOUR?

toki and pickles will both have religious drama but pickles’ drama is more of a sidenote in his list of Issues (pickles’ family is probably catholic and i was raised catholic and i GOTTA project. i GOTTA)

lgbt themes because IM GAY and THEYRE GAY PRRRRBBBBT

murderface? finds love?? GAY LOVE???

this post is too long g-g-g’byeeeee!

#tickles #toki wartooth #pickles the drummer #LOOOOOONG POST OH MY GOD #4 AM????? HELLO?????

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cchellacat · 6 years ago

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Fornication (part 4 of It’s Not A Cuddle)

Love All The Marvel Ships Challenge

Day Eighteen ~ Fighting Side By Side

The rain was coming down hard and fast, sheets of water reducing the already terrible visibility even more. The sun had set hours ago but the sound of guns and rockets continued, now mixing with the crashing of the thunder in the skies above.

They’d been pinned down in the trench for most of the day. The German tanks blocking off their only escape route back to where the allied lines had reformed. The 107th was in trouble. They all knew it. Knew that even if they survived much longer, the way things were going, the way the Germans were successfully pushing back their lines that by the time help might come, they’d either be dead or captured.

He sat with his back against the wall of mud and dirt trying not to look too closely at the puddles of dark liquid filling the base of the trench. In the back of his mind he was screaming in horror and revulsion. How many of his fellows had been killed today? How many comrades in arms, men he had come to call friends had he watched die? Blown apart by shelling or just brutally cut to ribbons by the tank guns.

Bucky flicked his lighter absently, staring at the flame as it flickered and died with a sputter in the wet air. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, if death perhaps wouldn’t be a kindness, just to escape this hell he was living in. The Catholic in him raged against the notion of death by design but the practical man in him considered it. It would be so easy to step out into the no man’s land and just let it happen. No more running. No more hiding, like rats in a damn maze, being pushed further and further from safety into whatever trap the enemy had concocted for them.

Impossible as it seemed, it grew darker still, the rain continuing to fall, the sky throwing the occasional strike of lightening accompanied by the deafening roar of thunder. That’s when it happens, the sky above him cracks open, a whirling blaze of white striking down just yards away. At first, he can’t see a thing, the light has almost blinded him. Unlike the others who are quickly running from the sudden strike he stays put, too stunned at the event to do more than blink.

That’s when he hears them. Americans from their accents. A woman and a man.

“What the hell was that? I swear to Thor I am going to kill Jane! What was she thinking tinkering around with the Bifrost like that?”

“Calm down Doll, it’ll be fine. You know she never messes up for long, we’ll be back before we know it.”

“This was meant to be a nice vacation, a little trip to Xandar, meet up with Rocket for that pod race and go on a tiny little adventure with the Guardians. Instead we get rain and mud and….. Oh My Disney, fucking hell pugs!”

“Shit, Darcy, get down now, and keep quiet.” The mans voice dropped into a low growl and he could just make out the sound of gun being drawn and the wet sound of two bodies hitting dirt.

He stays put even as they crawl towards where he’s waiting, curious to see who the fuck has fallen outta the sky, because it’s the only explanation he can come up with for their sudden appearance.

A moment later a curvy body is dropped into his lap and he catches her without thought, a second later, a large form drops into the trench beside him. In the darkness he can’t make out their features but the girl squirming in his arms elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Quit wriggling sweetheart or I’ll drop you in the mud.” He tells her caustically. There’s a sharp intake of breath and she locks up tight, every line of her hard and still.

“You drop me in it and you’ll be sleeping on the couch for a month Barnes.” She hisses at him, digging tiny fingers into his shoulder.

It’s his turn to go still. How the hell does she know his name.

“Because we married her, Punk.”

Up close the man flicks a lighter and Bucky gapes as he is suddenly confronted by his own face looking back at him.

“What to hell is going on?”

The girl wiggles again and in his effort not to drop her his hand slips from her waist, up until he feels the soft brush of the underside of her bust.

“Classy Barnes, I should have known this version of you would cop a feel the first go round too.”

“I was not copping a feel Darcy, I was getting us both out of a bad situation.” The way he says it is fondly acerbic, like this is some running gag only they know the full story too.

“You still ended up with both hands on my ass.” She slings back, the feeling that this is a much-replayed argument increases. Since said ass is currently sitting on his thighs, he’s not sure he can blame the other guy for feeling her up, it’s a great ass.

“Pretty sure you weren’t complaining at the time Sugar.” The amused huff this draws from her pushes her softness more firmly into his hand and he quickly drops it back to her waist.

In the flickering light of the of the zippo he watches incredulous as the two bicker like and old married couple.

“We are an old married couple. I’m old and she’s married.”

“Yeah, married to you, you mook!” Bucky tries to ignore the way she’s snuggling into him now, not sure whether he should be offended by her sassy comeback to his doppleganger.

“Can you read minds?” He asks as he stares at the man with his face.

“Don’t be an idiot, of course I can’t read minds, I’m you, I remember this.”

The dame, Darcy, finally makes a grabby motion towards his counterpart and he lifts her away from Bucky and onto his own knee. Bucky lets her go with numb fingers.

Darcy flutters her hand at him in greeting. “Hi, I’m Darcy, sorry about dropping on you like that, but Barnesy here just tossed me in, guess he knew you were there. Speaking of knowing things, what the fuck babe, why didn’t you tell me about this?”

The guy shrugs and settles her more firmly in his lap rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on her thigh. Completely ignoring him and focusing instead on his girl.

“Was never really sure how good my memory of this was, seemed a bit trippy at the time, thought I’d hit my head or something.”

“When are we anyway?” There’s an undercurrent of something in her tone, like she’s asking something else along with it.

“Somewhere in Italy, 1943 a few days before Azzano.” The answer given is less teasing and more serious than those before and the two share a look of understanding as she nods before brightening up again.

“Shit, is this going to mess anything up?”

Bucky wonders how anything can be more messed up than this, trapped in a trench, a few hundred feet away from certain death.

“It’ll be fine Doll, it’s just the Germans.” He tells her with a tight grin. She rolls her eyes at him and sticks her tongue out.

Bucky stares at them, at himself, more specifically, with utter astonishment.

“Just the Germans? What the hell is wrong with you?”

They both look at him then, her with a guilty sorrow and him with a grim shrug.

“Chill my dude, I can totes give you some cuddles if you’re feeling upset.”

The way her eyes regard him make him uncomfortable, part of him thinks he would like nothing more than to take her up on the offer.

“Darcy gives the best cuddles.” His counterpart shares conspiratorially.

“Yes, I do!” Lifting her chin with pride in her statement leaves him with the urge to laugh. The playful air is back between the two now and all Bucky can do is watch as the two start making faces at each other.

“Are you two fucking insane?” If he could, he would have shouted it.

“Jury’s still out.” He’s told in a teasing manner. “But considering they found me not guilty on grounds of diminished responsibility I guess it’s possible.”

She’s quick to cut in again, ready in an instant to poke fun. “Oh shut up, there’s not a piece of you that’s diminished in any way!”

Bucky just stares. It’s finally happened, he’s flipped, had a screw loose, gone crazy, nut’s, insane, was no long in possession of his faculties, turned wako!

He begins to wheeze, hysterical laughter bubbling up.

“I’ve lost it, I’m losing my mind, I’ve finally cracked…”

The dame looks at him with a little concern and makes a shushing motion as his voice rises.

“Don’t worry Buckeroo, this will all be over before you know it.” She attempts to comfort him.

“You still got your taser Doll?”

“Sure I do, there’s four charges left in it, why?”

“Might have to knock him out if doesn’t calm down.” He drawls mockingly before frowning. “Wait, who did you tase today? What did I miss?”

“Who do you think?”

“Steve? What did he do this time?”

“He was laughing.”

“Again?”

“It’s bat shit crazy pants, I swear, ever since he and Carter came back from Russia he keeps smiling.”

“Better than the permeant scowl he’s had on his face since we met.”

“Yeah, nope. It’s unnatural is what it is. Rogers has always had a stick up his butt.”

“I Know, I’ve been a little concerned too about the sudden change, but did you have to tase him?”

“He was freaking me out!”

“Twice?”

“He was cackling…. And he winked at me”

“…………..”

“Wait, Steve Rogers?” Bucky pipes up, wondering if they’re talking about his friend.

“You know any other Steve’s?” Darcy asks with an eye roll.

“Who are you people?”

“We already told you, he’s you and I’m your wife….. we’re from the future.” She turns back to his counterpart and batts her eyes. “Aww Barnesy, you were super cute at this age! I just want to pinch your cheeks.”

“You do that and I’ll pinch your cheeks Doll-face” He tells her, running a hand over the curve of her ass threateningly as she giggles.

A loud explosion nearby has them all go quiet and he feels a stab of fear not for himself this time, but for the dame wrapped up in his future self’s arms.

Older him cocks his head to one side and gives him a considering look.

“You’ve got one job mini me, look after our Doll. Don’t fuck it up!” Then he finds himself with an armful of the dame again as he watches himself leave.

She pulls his head down to whisper to him as they try to stay quiet.

“Just so you know, you are getting shit for this stunt when we get home.”

“I didn’t do anything!” He exclaims lowly, while digging around in his pocket for the zippo since his other self has taken off with his.

“Don’t.” she tells him, placing her hand over his. “We’ll give away out position with the light. It’s why you’ve run off right now. I know you, you wouldn’t leave me behind unless there was a threat needing taking care of.”

He reluctantly repockets the lighter and tries to distract himself from how nice it feels to have her weight back in his lap. She’s a tiny little thing and strong too from the feel of her, but she has generous curves in all the right places and she smells like apples. When she tucks her head under his chin he relaxes a little and pulls her in close. The tiny snort he hears tells him she’s holding back from making a comment. He almost says something, but the noise of three sets of booted feet jumping into the trench a little way down stops him.

“Shit, I think we’ve got company.”

She motions for him to put her down which he does with reluctance, but she’s right, if they’ve got enemies incoming he has to be able to fight, he grabs his rifle as she settles into a crouch beside him, pulling out an odd looking device from a holster on her waist.

Three men come upon them then, pointing guns. Bucky gets ready to defend them, bringing up his rifle. It’s short and bloody, he kills the first, but before he can get the second one, Darcy pulls the trigger on her little device and it shoots out a tiny metal projectile that digs into the skin on the soldiers neck, lighting up a little as he gurgles and drops, eyes growing glassy. Then she does the same to the second. Stunned, he watches as this one too, drops down dead. Before he can say anything, there’s a noise behind him and he swings the gun round, firing immediately. Another four German soldier have snuck up on them. The gun jams and he goes for his knife, throwing himself in front of the gun another enemy is bringing to bare on Darcy. Using him as cover, she shoots the one behind with her taser? Bucky makes quick work of the soldier he tackled and they both turn as one on the last enemy. He’s not sure who took him down first. Her or him, he falls to the ground dead, a knife lodged in his throat and the smell of ozone from the electrical device Darcy used filling the air.

They stand there panting, truthfully he thinks he’s the one more shaken by the sudden ambush. He acts out of desperation and pulls her into his arms, running his hands over her body, checking for injuries. She stands patently as though it’s nothing more than she would expect and when he’s satisfied she’s not hurt he wraps her against his chest and clings to her, burying his face In her hair and breathing in the scent of apples.

“Barnes…… are you cuddling me?”

“It’s not a fucking cuddle Doll.” He tells her stubbornly, his face still pressed into her hair.

“Lewis.”

“What?”

“When you do this, you say ‘S’not a cuddle Lewis.’. Lewis is my maiden name.”

“I do this a lot?” He asks sceptically.

She tips her head back and looks up at him.

“I really hope you remember this later…”

Darcy surges up and captures his lips in a hard, desperate kiss. At first he doesn’t know what to do, well he does, but he’s too shocked by the suddenness to do anything more than freeze.

It’s the look on her face that does it to him. He’s known her for all of maybe an hour, not once in all that time, has she looked anything more than strong and confident. But she’s still in his arms, her face now looking up at him half apologetic, half embarrassed and he can see clear as day the tiny sliver of hurt, of rejection in her eyes. It hurts him, deep in a place he didn’t know was still capable of feeling, it hurt.

He stares into her eyes and brings his hand up to cup her jaw, brushing his thumb under her eye and catching the tear that’s forming before it can fall. Then his lips are crashing into hers, it’s messy and hungry and urgent. All he can feel is her, pliant and willing as she encourages him, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging on the ends. He’s losing himself in her with each moan and whimper, his hands traveling over her body, pulling her in and then her hands are moving down, pulling his hips to grind into her and it’s him that gasps and suddenly this is more than just a kiss. There is a desire, a longing for more.

“Fuck… tell me stop Darcy, tell me to stop.” He whispers brokenly into her mouth.

“I want this too…. Please, I need you…. Don’t stop…”

He’s too gone to care as he lifts her and steps over the bodies of dead men, down the narrow trench until they find a dugout where the officers had worked. He has her inside quickly, pulling off his coat and laying it on the rickety table. She doesn’t protest as he lifts her up so she sits on the edge, she just invites him close, legs opening to him so he can push his hips flush with hers as they kiss eagerly, hands pulling at clothes, till they could touch each other’s skin. He grinds his hardness into the heat between her thighs, rutting into her as she shudders with each press.

There’s no finesse to it, no delicacy, just desperate desire and need driving them both. His shirt open as she kisses and licks at his chest, her teeth scraping and nipping. He’s never felt so much want for a woman before in his life. She kicks off her shoes, and loses no time in helping him pull her legging off, her hands reaching for his belt and making short work of unbuckling it.

Darcy doesn’t stop to think about what they’re about to do, only knows that she needs him, right now. She opens his trousers, shoving them and his boxers down far enough that she can take him in her hand, he’s hard and thick. The noise he makes as she strokes him firmly, twisting a finger over the head of his cock sends a flood of wetness from her core. His hands find their way between her legs, long fingers, sweeping between her folds and gathering the wetness, spreading it up until he finds her clit, carefully sliding over the swollen nub in tiny circles. She can’t think, pushing herself into his hand, needing more, inner muscles clutching uselessly as the ache builds and builds.

“I need you inside me….now.” It’s a command, one he’s happy to follow.

She guides him to her entrance and he sinks inside her slowly, his girth stretching her out, filling her, driving away the agonising ache. When he’s bottomed out, he stills above her and she wraps her arms around his shoulders as he rests her head against hers. Their eyes lock and she shudders at the raw emotion and need in them. She clenches around him and closes her eyes, unable to see the naked desperation there, he pulls back before slamming into her, she cries out at the surge of pleasure dancing up her spine, moving her hips to meet his as he angles his cock to drag against her clit. She digs her heels into his ass, as he sets a punishing rhythm, with each stoke he pushes deeper until all she can feel is him, deep inside her. She feels like he’s trying to leave his imprint behind.

“Look at me Doll, I want to see it, I want to see you fall apart.”

Darcy does as he asks, drowning in his eyes as he continues to thrust within her.

He wants to watch her come undone, she urges him on with her cries, his name a prayer on her lips as she tightens around him, he knows she close’s and he wont let go till she does, he wants to come inside her with her clenching around him. Wants them to die the little death together as they fuck each other back to life, a reminder that they didn’t die tonight. A memory for him to carry of this tantalising promise of a future they will share one day.

She’s right on the edge, he can feel it as her belly clenches and her legs tremble, on his next thrust he changes the angle, impaling her as she shatters, his name shouted brokenly into his neck. The feel of her walls clamping down drives him to his own peak and he surrenders to the pleasure, cock twitching violently as he fills her. She flutters around him, milking every drop, back arched, pulling him impossibly deeper. Her eyes are blown wide in bliss as he continues to rock against her, riding out the wave of orgasm. He kisses her softly, infusing as much feeling as he can into it. They don’t let go, continuing to cling to each other, he feels safe there, cradled between her hips. This feels like salvation, hope.

“I love you.” The softest whisper comes from her lips and he clutches her in close, bodies completely entwined, unable to say what he feels, unable to put it into words.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say it back.”

The reassurance in her tone doesn’t make him feel guilty as he thinks it should. He doesn’t want to leave her warmth, but they can’t stay like this forever. He eases out of her, choking back a sob at the loss. Darcy runs soothing hands over his arms and helps him re dress. He helps her too as she slips back into her clothes, kneeling down to slide her shoes back on while she stayes perched on the table he just fucked her on. Part of him feels ashamed for taking her like that, fast and hard in a dirty hole in the ground. She deserves better than that.

He’s still shaking from the adrenalin when he sits down on a low bench, near breathless from everything, the fight, the fucking… the words she’s said.

Darcy climbs onto his lap and he folds her into an embrace, holding her carefully, like the treasure he knows she is.

“Now this is a fucking cuddle.” He tells her with the barest hint of amusement, letting her tinkling laugh wash over him as they both calm down.

It’s near dawn when his counterpart shows up, covered in mud and blood and tells them it’s time to go.

He leads them back to where the light first struck last night, on the ground are glowing markings in a circle. They seem to brighten as they get closer. Darcy runs ahead a little, running round the emblem, inspecting it.

“There’s a safe line back towards last base now. I took out four tanks last night and two battalions. You can get your men back to Azzano safely.”

“How the hell…”

“Don’t ask.” He tells him shortly. “You got her for one night. Don’t forget it, you’re going to need that memory, it’s exactly the promise you think it is. And when you find her again? Pick her up and run.”

“Pick her up and run?”

“You know what she is to us.”

“She’s ours.”

“Just as much as we are hers. Take her and run and never look back, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Everything that happens, she makes it worth it.”

Bucky swallows thickly. The future looks a little less bright than it did. Figures, there’s nothing that comes for free in this life, it’s all bought with blood and pain.

Darcy darts up and hugs him, kissing him quickly with a shy smile and he squeezes her hand.

“I can’t wait to meet you Doll.”

Darcy grins at him and then joins his other self on the glowing marks.

“Hey! Bucky, it’s Lewis, Darcy Lewis, don’t forget me for too long!”

Then the sky opens up again and the whirl of colour whisks them away as though they were never there.

Bucky waits a few minutes, watching as the marks burned into the ground fade and are consumed by the mud. Then he walks away, back to find what’s left of his men and lead them back towards Azzano.

@captain-rogers-beard

#love all the marvel ships #love all the marvel ships challenge #wintershock #bucky/darcy #darcy/bucky #lemons #it's not a cuddle

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bodejustice · 6 years ago

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“What drives a man to kill another man?”

They both had work within an hour. Barely enough time to cram down a breakfast, chug some coffee, and get into the mindset of detective-ing. But perhaps Bobby was doing just that as he stayed in bed, watched them dress, and asked pseudo-philosophical questions.

They finished buttoning their pants and looked back at the detective, furrowing their brow. “Passion, greed, desperation, any combination of them,” they said.

Bobby crossed his arms and stared into space. He looked so different without his aviators. He seemed bare, rough, unfiltered. “I suppose I’ve just never been passionate, greedy, or desperate enough. I’ve never been able to understand. Maybe a fight or some bad decisions, sure, but taking a life--that’s the ultimate crime! The final one!”

They hummed in a tone that could be interpreted as agreement and began buttoning up their shirt. “You’ve been a cop for years and still don’t get it?”

The detective shook his head and finally untangled himself from the blankets.

“I’m not surprised you’ve never been greedy or desperate enough, but you’re a passionate man. You’ve never been impassioned and angry enough to do something you regret? Not even once?” They cast a smile over their shoulder, eyes half-lidded. Teasing. “Cop to cop. I won’t nark.”

Bobby huffed and slipped into some boxers with a couple surprisingly delicate steps. They had that heart pattern classically seen in cartoons or comedy. “No! I’m just not that sort of person! Well, maybe a fight or two in high school...”

“There you go. What about?”

Bobby picked out a pair of white slacks, furrowing his brow. Just a little. “A girl. My sexuality.”

“You probably had classmates harassing you, or maybe the girl humiliated you for some reason. Hormones run high.” They straightened their shirt, buttoned their cuffs, and walked over to Bobby to help him finish dressing.

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say humiliated...” he said with a doubtful catch in his voice.

“Definitely humiliated. Every typical high-schooler is out to get laid, get a kick out of something, or feel good about themselves by making someone feel worse.” They kept their eyes on Bobby’s shirt until it was buttoned up, then looked into the man’s eyes. “You’re a tender man. I bet it was hard in high school.”

Bobby sighed and pulled away. “Oh, high school is high school.”

“Someone too soft and gentle-”

“Teens are teens!”

“Teens are vulnerable and fucking cruel. And you don’t get it. You just wanted to be a nice guy. You just wanted to get with a nice girl, be straight, get your grades, all that--but no. Your crush thinks you’re a moron and your classmates know you are after what your girl did.”

Bobby began knotting his tie absently, sweeping brows knitted together.

“Jock or straight-A student?”

“I played soccer and liked biology, but I was bad at biology. And band--I was in band. And an Eagle Scout.”

“So a bad jock and goody-two-shoes.”

The detective looked tired. It clearly wasn’t the first time he heard such words carrying a mocking edge. “A Catholic Boy-Scout who played soccer and thought he was turning gay.”

They grabbed his shoulder. “You were stressed enough, trying to understand all that and make it through growing up. Even without other kids ripping into you for trying to be who you are and find someone you like. So things like fights, breakups, they happen sometimes.”

Bobby jerked his shoulder as if he disliked the grip. “A few times. I lashed out.”

“Because you were angry and couldn’t fix it.” They grabbed his other shoulder instead of letting go, facing him, head tilted close. “You’re being told you’re stupid, immature, and failing, and maybe they’re right.”

Bobby sighed.

“Imagine that ten times worse. Being so sick of everything and everyone that you’re going to push back and make or break things with how you are, failure or not. Whatever it takes.”

Bobby gently gripped their wrists and pushed them off. “I just cried.”

They let him push them away and tilted their head.

“I cried and tried to understand and looked for what was right to do. I was never angry for long. Just hurt and distressed. I cried a lot and hung on. Things changed over time and I cried less.” He straightened his tie and gazed into space, blinking. “Until I got it; I got that I didn’t need to get it to live my life and do what I need to.”

They looked at his face for a few long moments, searching out every little twitch and expression, until they finally said, “And that’s stopping it.”

“It?”

“That violence and wrongful passion and desperation.”

Bobby turned his gaze back to them, and a smile slowly lit his face. He grabbed their hands. “Yes, exactly! You get it! That’s it exactly!”

They chuckled and nodded, smiling. “Yeah.”

“That’s such a good way to look at it--I don’t have to ‘get it’ to know that it needs to be changed and stopped, and not getting it doesn’t make me lesser of a person or a cop! Perhaps it even makes me better that way!” The detective chuckled as well and put on his aviators along with his beaming, self-satisfied smile. “Nothing wrong with that!”

“Nothing wrong at all. You’re a good guy, Bobby.”

“Thank you! You are, too! Come on, I’ve got to get some coffee going before we go!” Bobby kissed their cheek before leaving the bedroom.

They stopped smiling as soon as he couldn’t see them.

#(ic)#i'm not sure how to tag this... it's just kind of a drabble #but also includes #phantombright

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rookisaknight · 7 years ago

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Deputy

Might as well introduce her before I ramble about my good ending aus and self-indulgent shit

This is a questionnaire whipped up by @dutchisland

The Basics

1. Give their full name, and describe them or post a picture! (Height, build, hair, eye, and skin color, etc.)

Molly Sofia Kriz. A lanky brunette, around 5′8″. Skin is covered with freckles, acne scars, and is usually sunburned. Big black eyes. Her father was Czech and her mother was Latinx. Her hair was fairly long before the helicopter crash, after which she chopped it off to just under her chin to get rid of the burnt edges. She rarely has time for a haircut and usually just chops it off with whatever’s readily available. On the rare occasions that she has down time Kim will usually menace her into sitting still long enough to give it a proper trim. Big forehead. Small hands

2. How old are they?

3. Sexuality and gender?

Pansexual, she/her.

Pre-Game

1. How did they end up at the Hope County Sheriff’s Department? How long have they worked there?

She’s not a Hope County native but he knew when she graduated from Police Academy that she had no interest in being a big city cop, and angled for a small town assignment. She lucked out with Hope County. Or at least, so she thought. If we was hoping for things to be less complicated out here....In any case, she’d been working there for just under a year before the raid on Eden’s Gate

2. Relationship with Pratt, Hudson, and Whitehorse?

Pratt: Staci was delighted to no longer be the lowest rung on the totem pole and enjoyed giving her as much hell as Hudson gave him when he was the Rook. Based on what little we see of him before Jacob gets a hold of him I’ve always imagined Pratt as just a bit of a prankster. To this day Molly doesn’t drink coffee or sit in a chair at the station without thoroughly examingin both for traps. Still, they have a certain rapport and had each other’s backs. Some possible romantic tension that might have gone somewhere, in a better world.

Hudson: they weren’t exactly having sleepovers and braiding each other’s hair, but they wre close enough to grab coffee a few times when they weren’t at work. Hudson isn’t known for being friendly but she was a little relieved to have another woman in the department. Joey took a few hits for Molly when she thought Pratt or the Sheriff were making life too hard for her, and in return Molly did her best to learn the lessons Joey taught her. A bit of an older sister relationship.

Whitehorse: He’s not a man to get chummy with his deputies but their relationship was amicable enough. Whitehorse has been in the game for a long time, and once she became aware of how bad things really were in Hope County she was a little in awe of him. He has a lot more respect for her than she thinks, but he rarely expresses it. Whitehorse thought she had potential, just no real call to action yet.

3. Do they have an education?

An unremarkable academic career in high school, a couple of years at a community college, and Police Academy. Not much of a scholar, although she does like to read. Or did. At this point she doubts she could relax enough to sit down with a novel.

4. Where are they from? Did they speak a different language there?

Eastern Washington. No, but she did pick up some Spanish from her mom.

5. Is there anyone outside the valley that might have come looking for them?

If she had kept her parents in the loop they might have come looking, but she’d never wanted them to worry.

6. Did they have a religious background of any kind?

Her parents wee Catholic enough to drag her to Mass every Sunday in childhood but not enough to kick up that much of a fuss when she slowly stopped going at 16. She knows enough to pass and would comfortably say that she believes in a God, but even before her time in Montana she was suspicious of organized religion.

Inside Hope County

1. What was going through their head when the helicopter went down and during the subsequent chase?

She was running on raw adrenaline the whole time and there wasn’t much room for coherent thought beyond “please don’t let me die” . The guilt came later

2. Were they afraid of Joseph and Eden’s Gate? Angry?

She was terrified by Eden’s Gate pre-game, but lately that’s shifted into just a reisgned anger. She can’t hate most of them, they’re simply too sad. Instead she’s just generally frustrated. And tired. So soooo tired.

3. Did they trust Dutch?

Not at first, but once the words “mostly it means we’re all fucked” left his mouth she kinda figured this was either a really elaborate roleplay or a guy she could trust. She bet on the latter.

4. How did they feel about their team being taken by the cult, did they count them as lost, did they want them back, did they not care?

Her team was the main reason she bothered to stick around instead of high-tailing out and hoping the National Guard could take care of it. Molly’s a good cop but she’s no hero. She didn’t have any high-minded ideas of resistance or revenge when she started out, she just wanted to find her team before it was too late. By the time she’d rescued all of them, though, she found she had other people to care for.

5. How did they take to the idea of being part of, if not leading, the resistance?

Pre-game she thought of the resistance as four or five gun-crazed survivalists who though dumping more bullets into the situation would somehow make it better. After she found herself on the outside of police protection, though, she gained a newfound repect for what they do. She condiers herself a solo act (more for convenince than for ideology), but she has a lot of loyalty to many many members of the resistance, and yes Virgil, she’ll wear the stupid button.

6. Which companions did they recruit, and who did they travel with the most?

Jess and Sharky are her usual partners in crime for general mayhem. When she’s inhHolland Valley and knows she won’t be pulling him far from his family she’ll call in Nick for air support (usually getting dinner at the Rye hous after). She adopted Boomer and loves him to death but is far too anxious to take him into battle, so he stays at the abndoned farmhouse she’s been camping out in. When Sharky’s laid up she calls Hurk, but that doesn’t usually go well.

7. Did they have time to find romance amidst the chaos? How did they do it?

Romance is a strong word. She ends up with a truly hopeless crush on Nick Rye. Not that she’d ever act on it. She loves Kim to death and honestly thinks they make a great couple. But she’d be lying if she said there weren’t a couple late nights in the Rye household where she looked over at Nick and thought “what if?” Still, she keeps it to herself and is pretty sure he doesn’t have a clue.

8. Feelings about Joseph?

Mostly fear. After that, probably anger. But.she understands the draw. The man has undeniable charisma. In her encounters with him it has honestly been a struggle not to find herself swallowed by those hypnotic voice and that voice. Sometimes, when no one’s around and she’s taking a day in her house...she turns the radio to the Project’s station and just listens to his sermons. Wondering how someone so monstrous and so unhinged could make it sound so wise.

9. Feelings about the other Seeds?

John: Hates his guts, but honestly he makes a good arch-nemsis. She loves doing things just to stick it to him. Right up until he started taking it out on Hudson.

Faith: she’s felt odd moments of pity for her, but mostly she’s just unnerved by her. Something about that flower child appearance mixed with the cold-blooded calculation that makes her feel very off-balance.

Jacob: despite all he did to Pratt, she has a hard time hating him. Jacob is what he is. She can understand every step that was taken to make him end up like this and on weird level she respects him. Part of this is teh process of conditioning, which requred them to spend a long time in close quarters while he tried to get in her head and turn it inside out. She doesn’t pity him, but she feels sympathy. Which doesn’’t mean she would hesitate to put a bullet through his brain. The best they could do for each other is the decency of a quick death. As befitted a fellow soldier.

10. How did they handle having to kill animals and other humans? Had they done it before?

Animals were fine, she used to hunt with her mom. People....well, eventually you get used to it.

11. Which canon ending did they choose in-game, and would you have changed the ending at all?

Resist. Absolutely not

Personal

1. Favorite weapon(s)?

She’s a simple gal with a sawed off shotgun and pistol. That’s all you need.

2. Stealth or firepower?

She’ll usually send in Sharky as the literal firepower while she and Jess pick off cultists drawn to his display.

3. How did they spend their time, when not fighting peggies?

She spends a lot of time at the Spread Eagle or hanging out with Jess and Sharky in her house, blasting music and playing cards. She loves when she has time for dinner with the Ryes, and sometimes she’ll go fishing with Jerome.

4. Where did they live during the events of the game?

A small, abandoned farmhouse nestled in a copse of woods between Holland Valley and the Whitetail Mountains.

5. Any other facts you want to share about your Deputy!

She swears up and down she saw Bigfoot in her front yard, but no one belives her.

#far cry 5 #far cry deputy #fc5 #deputies #oc: molly kriz #joseph seed #john seed #jacob seed #faith seed #nick rye #kim rye #sharky boshaw #jess black #staci pratt #joey hudson #earl whitehorse #long post

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ayearofpike · 6 years ago

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The Last Vampire 4: Phantom

Pocket Books, 1996 179 pages, 20 chapters + epilogue ISBN 0-671-55030-6 LOC: CPB Box no. 357 vol. 4 OCLC: 34651186 Released May 28, 1996 (per B&N)

Sita wakes up from her miraculous transformation ready to start a new life as a human. Even more miraculous: Ray, the resurrection of her long-passed husband, has somehow survived his terrible demise and is human again as well. She’s excited to be normal with him, renting a house, making friends, and having a baby. Only the baby progresses at a supernormal rate, and has the same powers and appetites Sita had as a vampire. They’ll soon find out she’s much more than that, though.

This was a storyline that I’d totally forgotten about until I read the back-of-the-book copy. Sita has a baby! The baby is a monster! The book ends on a realistic cliffhanger! Only reading all of these in one shot do I realize that here’s your goddamn Cold One II: Seedling right here. I mean, look at it: the lady is impregnated by an undead monster and gives birth to a precocious and beautiful dark-haired child named after the Hindu goddess of death, and what happens next? Pike claims he’s not going to tell us, but Last Vampire 4 and 5 got you, G.

Also, I neglected to mention this in the last entry, but you probably noticed: Not only have they done away with the horrible die-cut letters on the covers, but now they’re not even faking it anymore. I imagine that the cover artist (and maybe Pike too) got annoyed that they were hiding most of the artwork in an inside flap that people weren’t even inclined to flip to now that it didn’t peek through the letters. (The Lost Mind and The Visitor both had actual full cover art, hidden on another piece of cover stock just inside the front cover, with what would have previously peeked through printed on the letters. Maybe I should go back and shoot those, plus the ones inside the die-cut covers, for this blog. Let me try to catch up with the reading first, though.)

The story itself starts right where the last one left off, as has become par for the course in TLV so far. Yeah, dig it: since Sita first murdered a detective in Oregon, maybe six weeks have passed up to the beginning of this story. She’s awakened from her transformation nap by pounding on the door, along with a familiar sounding voice that is not Seymour (the only one living who is supposed to know who and where she is). She doesn’t answer, and the knocker goes away, but a little while later Seymour does show up. He’s bummed that Sita has given up her immortality, but excited at what it means that she’s a human about his age. Like, maybe she won’t make him a vampire, but maybe now they’ll get down. It’s not that far-fetched a wish, I guess, considering she is more truthful and thorough in talking to him than she is anyone else (and probably more than anyone else Seymour knows), but still. Dude.

They have to get out of Dodge, though, because Sita doesn’t know who’s still alive and trying to reach her. They drive to LA and set up in a hotel, and after Seymour falls asleep Sita goes for one of her customary nighttime walks. As per usual, she gets accosted by some scum of the earth who plan to rape and kill her, and as per usual she lets them catch her. Only — oh yeah! She doesn’t have her vampire powers and abilities anymore. What she does have is a pistol, and she uses it to cap both would-be attackers in the head. How is this better than crushing skulls and drinking blood? Sita doesn’t think it is. In fact, she has a breakdown walking back to the hotel and has to take a break in a coffee shop to try to get her wits.

And all of a sudden Ray walks in. How is this possible? Last time we saw Ray, he was lighting a stream of gasoline on fire — a stream that was pouring directly on him. He tells Sita that in the time between the explosion and when she murdered New Vampire, the latter had gathered up the scattered pieces of Ray and reassembled them, trying to bring him back to life by feeding him blood. Sounds fake, seeing as New Vampire would have only had two days to do this, yet here is Ray. He also tells Sita that it was him knocking on the door in Vegas, and after she left he went in and found the crystal setup and laid in it himself, so now he’s human again too. She tells him what just happened, and obviously he wants to get her out and clear of the area. But what about Seymour? Sita’s already told him to go home, and Ray says if she just bails maybe he’ll get the point.

So she gathers up her crap without waking him and goes with Ray all the way to ... Whitter. Yeah, almost 30 miles from where she killed two guys, that should be far enough, right? They build their normal life together, and it’s two months later that Sita discovers she’s pregnant. She meets another heavily pregnant woman while shopping for baby books, a single mom-to-be who works in a nearby Catholic church for whom Sita finds an instant affinity. But they can’t hang out too much right away, because Sita’s pregnancy goes way faster than it should. In fact, even though she wasn’t showing at all when they met in the bookstore, she has a full-term baby five days later, a baby with an unusual calmness and coldness. Sita names her Kalika without even thinking about it: “she who destroys.”

The baby grows fast, too. Two days later, she’s a year mature and biting open Sita’s nipples to drink blood instead of milk. Looks like two ex-vampires couldn’t help but give birth to a vampire after all. It’s not too long before Sita can’t handle it, and they’re not sure what to do. Ray suggests that Sita go lure in a source of food with her feminine wiles. Which is weird to her, because a) he was always the squeamish one about drinking blood and b) he flat-out refuses to even try to get someone himself. So Sita ends up at a nearby park, where she cons one of the basketball players into following her home and inside on the pretense that her violent ex sometimes breaks in. Once she’s got him inside, it’s a small matter to knock him out and tie him up, even though that fucker Ray still doesn’t show up to help.

She has to go out to get supplies to drain blood for Kalika, as it’s not so easy as ripping open a vein and healing it with a drop of her own blood anymore. While she’s out, she calls Seymour, who is pissed about being ditched but still listens as she tells him what’s been happening. He’s not sold on the ethical justification going on — is her child’s life, a potentially destructive new force, worth Sita messing with her new human karma to hunt food? Only problem: a daughter is the one thing in the world that Sita has wanted since she was taken from hers five thousand years ago, and she can’t just let her die. So they’re left at an impasse, and Sita goes home to drain a cup of B-Baller’s blood for Kalika, who chugs it and immediately wants more.

She has to leave the house after feeding the baby, but where to go? She first prays to Krishna at the spot where she sunk the original vampire in the ocean, then ends up at the Catholic church to pray some more. Her buddy shows up and accepts that Sita can’t talk about her problem right now, but promises to be an ear when she’s ready. Then she leaves, and Sita curls up in a pew, where she has the purple-spaceship dream again. This time Krishna tells her a parable of only doing what we’re asked by God, and not feeling like we have to sacrifice everything of ourselves to feel like we’re properly giving to our faith.

Three more days pass, and Kalika is now basically five. She wants to go find another source of food, as B-Baller is weaker by the day and not able to fully sate her hunger. She tells Sita to go pick up a dude at a nightclub and she’ll tag along in the backseat and do what needs to be done. At the club, she meets a lawyer who invites her back to his place, only when she gets there she smells the decay of death. Obviously this dude has had other victims. They get into a scrap, but Sita left her gun in the car and has to rely on her martial arts, which don’t help when Not-Laywer pulls his own gun and gains the upper hand. Lucky for Sita, Kalika walks in right at this moment, and totally ruins Not-Lawyer’s shit.

So now Kalika can hunt her own food, and five more days pass, by which time she’s the same apparent age as Sita (as in, they both look about twenty, not five thousand). So Sita wants to let B-Baller go, but she’s afraid he’s going to run straight to the cops. Neither Kalika nor Ray wants to leave where they are, as they are weirdly invested in New Friend’s coming baby. Ray says she should just kill B-Baller, which is more proof that whatever has made him alive now has drastically changed who he is. Conveniently, a pair of cops show up right at this moment looking for B-Baller, on a tip that he was seen here last. As Sita is trying to figure out how to non-suspiciously turn them away, Kalika says she saw him nearby and offers to show the cops where. And that’s two more bodies that will never be found.

The phone rings just then, and it’s New Friend, in serious labor. Sita takes her to a fancy hospital rather than the nearby one, I guess trying to hide the baby as much as possible, and eight hours later a boy is born — a boy with lots of hair and a peaceful demeanor and no name, as New Friend has never thought of one and doesn’t seem to think this is weird. And then! Sita. Calls. Home. If she’s trying to hide, she sure is doing a shitty job of it. Kalika answers and demands to know where the baby is. Sita says no, so Kalika gives the phone to B-Baller and lets Sita listen as she gruesomely murders him. Like this is going to make Sita more inclined to introduce Kalika to a BABY. But then! Kalika puts Seymour on the phone. What the fuck is Seymour doing here? Apparently Kalika called him and said he needed to come right away. This is an important person in Sita’s world, so she makes a deal: she’ll bring the baby to the end of Santa Monica Pier in 24 hours.

Obviously Sita has no intention of doing this. She does get the baby out of the nursery, and while the nurse’s back is turned she swipes his blood sample. Then she takes him to New Friend and asks for the circumstances of her friend’s pregnancy, because all signs are pointing to this not being a normal baby. It seems that New Friend was out praying in the desert one night, when a bright blue light shot out of the sky and overwhelmed all her senses until she blacked out and woke up in the morning, still in the desert, untouched but feeing larger. A god? Maybe, but it’s becoming more crucial that New Friend become scarce. Sita tells her to take the baby and a stack of money and run. Sita doesn’t want to know where they’re going, but she gives New Friend a phone number to call in a month. Meanwhile, she has to figure out how to face Kalika.

What if she was a vampire again? That’s stupid, there’s no more vampires. But there is an ice-cream truck around the block from the warehouse she burned down a couple months ago, one where Original Vampire was held captive and tortured. Miraculously, it’s still there, and a homeless dude has kept it running and freezing, seemingly knowing she was coming back for it. There’s a nice big glob of frozen blood just inside the door, and she sticks it in a thermos and drives back to Vegas, planning to use the old alchemist’s setup to reverse her transformation and be able to fight again.

Guess who followed her, though? It’s Ray! Although he didn’t so much “follow her” as he has “been a product of her human imagination and a wish-fulfillment fantasy.” Yep — Krishna’s teachings and concerns about being able to give up desires as illusion have manifested in this ghost that Sita has been so convinced is her love. But what is Kalika then? Apparently she did bang the alchemist that night in her hotel room (Pike does hint at this after all in TLV3 — I thought he specifically excluded it), and his lingering humanity mixed with what he got of her vampirism was enough to create the fetus. But now Sita knows that Ray isn’t what she wants, and she has to banish her illusion. She has to kill him. So he hands her a knife, and she stabs him through the heart, and there’s gore and anguish and screaming and then he’s gone, along with any blood, any body, any trace of him having been there.

There’s an unnecessary chapter where Sita tells B-Baller’s parents about his fate, but then we learn more about her transformation. Specifically: it worked, better than she could have expected. Now that she’s operating from purely the blood aura of Original Vampire, she’s even stronger and more aware than before. But beyond that — maybe because she impulsively dripped in a couple drops of the baby’s blood — she feels like fortune will turn things her way. Let’s find out.

She finds Seymour and Kalika at the pier and talk about the nature and necessity of killing. To Kalika, it doesn’t matter, because the soul will be reborn until it’s ready to reach nirvana. Sita doesn’t see it that way: if there’s no reason to kill, it’s cruel, never mind the ultimate end for the soul in question. The ideals are at odds, so Sita knows she has to act. She darts forward to kick her daughter into submission, but Kalika grabs Sita’s foot and breaks her ankle like nothing. Then she chucks Seymour off the pier, where he at least lands in deep water and starts swimming toward the shore. Kalika still wants to know where the baby is, and Sita obviously can’t tell her, but Kalika forces some kind of hypnosis onto her mother and gets her to give up the phone number and the plan.

As she leaves, Sita demands to know what’s so special about this baby. Kalika responds by ripping up a board from the pier and throwing it into the water — straight through Seymour’s back. Sita dives in, determined to save him, but by the time they get to shore it’s too late. He’s lost too much blood to even be able to be turned into a vampire. (At least, I guess, without the tools made handy by the creepy sociopath in TLV2 that allowed her to turn FBI Dude, who was similarly close to death.)

So she builds him a funeral pyre, but something stays her hand with the match. Instead, she gets out what’s left of the baby blood and pours half of it onto the wound and half of it down Seymour’s throat. Five minutes later, he’s alive and awake and alert and ready to move on. Only not right now, because this is the end of the book.

For the first time in this series, I actually don’t feel like Pike is forcing a cliffhanger ending. It seems like he genuinely had too much story and character-building to put into just one book, and did some pre-planning in spreading this story over two. (I don’t remember if it keeps on into the sixth, but I feel like it didn’t. Although these three Sita books popped out within five months of each other, so the plan was there even if the connection fades.) The tone and sensation here is more in keeping with what I came to expect from the first two, rather than the Matrix/Blade progenitor that was the third story.

And I’m not annoyed by “to be continued” this time! I’m even kind of looking forward to reading the next one. Let’s see if he can keep me invested through five more books about Sita. (Spoiler alert: I doubt it.)

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maxmundan · 7 years ago

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I didn’t want to come back. When I was a little kid, I was very religious, very Catholic. I believed with all my heart in heaven and hell, and used to spend a lot of time wondering where I was going to go when I died. I couldn’t really imagine heaven at all. I was told that heaven was just to be in the presence of God and that was all the soul would need. It didn’t seem so damn wonderful to me. I pictured praying and singing hymns night and day and those things were dreadfully boring only doing them once a week on Sunday. I had no problem picturing hell, though. I was terrified of it. I used to daydream about the fire and torment, the billions upon billions of methods of pain and torture. I would imagine myself trying to withstand the pain for all eternity and I would despair. I didn’t think I was good enough to go to heaven. I didn’t think I could be. I just wasn’t made that way. Of course, I had no idea at the time that the other place was nothing like what I imagined at all. I couldn’t have understood that heaven and hell are meaningless concepts when it finally comes down to it; that it would be both heaven and hell at the same time and that would be exactly as it was supposed to be and I couldn’t possibly imagine or want it to be anything else. I didn’t want to come back. My first day back, I had no idea what to do with myself. “You can do anything you want,” they had said to me, “Go anywhere you want. Eat anything you want. Enjoy yourself.” How was I supposed to make a decision like that, though? It was meaningless now. There was nothing that needed to be done or eaten. There was nowhere me, or anyone else for that matter, needed to go. None of it mattered in the slightest. I knew that now. Still, I had to do something. So I took the money they gave me and I bought a gun. I loaded all the chambers with the cold, metal bullets, I put the barrel to my head and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. But of course you know that. You know that death is impossible now. I didn’t know that at the time but I’ve since figured it out. I spent the next two weeks, every fucking minute of every day, trying to find a way out. There isn’t one. I get that now. It has sunk in. In those first couple of weeks back, though, I was desperate. There had to be a way out, I thought. I just have to find it. I walked in front of a bus and let it hit me head on. Nothing. I just got up and walked away. I jumped off an overpass onto the 405 freeway into oncoming traffic. It hurt like hell but the cars just kept rolling over me and I kept going. I felt every single one but after a couple of hours I realized I wasn’t getting out this way and pulled myself onto the shoulder of the road. I poisoned myself with strychnine and, later, drinking straight battery acid. I got sick as a dog but I was still here. I tried suicide by cop. I robbed a liquor store at gunpoint and, when the police arrived, engaged them in a fire fight. I think I was hit maybe a hundred times or more. Nada. After a while I just gave up and let them take me in. They said that was what happened all the time. They said that the only people who tried to do stuff like this anymore were those who had just come back and were looking for a way out. They told me that they understood and sympathized with me. One of them told me he was on his second round too and had tried to do something similar. He told me it was hopeless. He told me I should just give up. I asked him to find a way to kill me. He only laughed. I didn’t want to come back. I was in the sap of the tree, as it languidly rolled over the bark. I was in the dew as it dripped from the leaf onto the dog shit on the ground and I was in the shoe and the foot as it crushed the dog shit and felt the blissful cool as it spread all over me. I was in the fire as it consumed the little girl and I was the little girl and her screams and melting flesh and I was in the smoke and the foundation of the house and I was in her memories of the mother she wanted to see one more time. I was in the sound of your voice when you said my name with hatred and derision as you fucked Robert in our bed. I was in Robert’s shame that he was betraying a friend with a woman he didn’t really like. I was in the wicked smile you gave me on the night we met and I was in the less than puritan thoughts that were in your head. I was in the bird that lived outside your bedroom window and I was in the nest and the eggs and the bushes that provided the twigs. I was in your mom and dad and your grandparents and your nieces and nephews and everyone you have ever known. I was in the air you breathe and in the food you ate and I was in the farms that provided that food and the chemicals injected into the animals on that farm. I was in love. I was in love. I was in kisses and fucking and sperm and touching and holding and gripping as tightly as people can grip. I was in everything and I was in nothing. I didn’t want to come back. You gave it to me as a present. The cryogenic thing. You thought it was hilarious, so I played along and went to the intake session. Why not? It was just a bit of fun and was never going to mean anything, kind of like when you had me ordained as a minister for my 28th birthday. So, I went and filled out all their forms (in triplicate) and answered all their questions, even when they were slightly uncomfortable and invasive, like when they asked how often I masturbated or whether I preferred giving or receiving oral sex. What did any of that have to do with being frozen? I didn’t know then and I still don’t know. They showed us the tubes in the freezing room and I remember that we smirked at each other, having this little laugh together at their expense. Neither you nor I were ever the believer type and we weren’t going to start with this stupid, science fiction scenario. Afterwards, we made love at your parents’ house, that we were watching while they were in Paris. It was slow and tender and beautiful and funny. It was really fucking funny. We loved to laugh when we had sex, you and I, and this was one for the ages. We had really pulled the wool over those quacks’ eyes, hadn’t we? Going undercover like that and pretending to be customers. We could have been detectives, or reporters researching a story. The shared secret and the stifled laughter while we were in the office had made us so hot for each other, like we were the only two people in the world who were in on a special secret. You even went down on me, much more forcefully than usual. I guess you had been paying attention when I had answered that question. I didn’t want to come back. How many years has it been now? 16? 17? I can’t remember. About two and a half years in I started shooting fentanyl, like everybody else. The idea hadn’t appealed to me, as I couldn’t shake the old life knowledge that it was so deadly. Of course, that didn’t matter at all anymore, so once the drudgery and repetition became so unbearable, I decided to join the club. If I wasn’t going to get the big escape, I suppose I might as well indulge in the little one. Most of us live on the street. The houses and even the apartments are for the bosses. We just shoot dope all night and try to find whatever comfort and oblivion is possible to us. They’ve cordoned off our section of the city and just leave us to it. Their enforcers burst in every morning with their damnable cattle prods and get us all to the line. I assume it’s like this in every city, although I don’t really know. Nobody knows anything. There is no news or television or entertainment of any kind, aside from the occasional hallucination. That kind of stuff is only for the bosses. Sometimes, when I get close enough to one by accident or chance, I hear them talking about things but I don’t know what they mean. There’s no children here. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen a child since I’ve been back. That’s weird, isn’t it? Where did all the children go? We fuck, though. We can still do that, so we do it constantly, with anyone we can find. There’s really nothing else to do in our downtime. I mean, yeah, I can’t always get it up. Specially right after I shoot. Then I don’t want to, you know? I just want to lay on the ground and feel nothing. I cherish the tiny reminder…of the other place. When I’m coming down, though, I don’t want to do anything else. Most of the guys have trouble getting it up sometimes. There is always someone hard, though. We call it “erection frenzy,” when a whole crowd spots a hard-on at the same time and they all jump on it. People have been known to get really hurt that way. They still got to be on the line in the morning. I didn’t want to come back. It was about six months in I found out you were gone already. I wasn’t particularly surprised. It had been 50 years after all. Still I’d really hoped I’d get the chance to talk to you. I wanted to tell you that I understood and that it was all okay. I wanted you to know that I forgave you for cheating on me; for hating me so intensely in those last days. I realize what a disappointment I had been to you. I’m sorry I was too weak to fight for you. I get it now that this is what you wanted all along. It was the one thing I couldn’t give. I was a lover, not a fighter. Isn’t that funny? If you were here, you would think that was funny. But you’re not here. Robert’s not here either, or else I’d gift him with my forgiveness, whatever that’s worth. You’re in the other place. With him. I didn’t want to come back. I was my mother, as she was giving birth to me, and I was my father, watching her with the realization that I would never again be free. I was my sister Sue, who had the harelip and I felt what it was like to be pitied, and I was my brother Mark, winning another track and field award and knowing what it was like to be myself without a doubt. I was Chipper, our Border Collie when I was a kid, living to chase the ball and lavishing in the feeling of the hands on my back. Oh God, the hands on my back. I was Harry and Larry, the goldfish, gorging myselves on the food that had been spilled into the bowl by mistake until our tiny stomachs began to burst. I was Mahatma Gandhi, lying in bed with two gorgeous women and repeating to myself that I cannot have sex with them, but wanting to so badly, and I was Ed Gein, lovingly carving up a carcass and tenderly knitting the pieces together with thread. I was I was Vladimir Nabokov, believing I was about to shock and astonish the world, and I was John Ford, arguing, for the millionth time, with that bloated blowhard John Wayne. I was you, looking at me, with hesitation and disquiet and, yes, more than a little love and devotion. I was me, looking at you and wondering just how much of myself I was going to reveal. I was everyone and I was no one. I didn’t want to come back. I’ve tried to overdose. I just can’t do it. Oh, you fade away, just like you’d expect when you OD. The only problem is, you come back. You wake up in exactly the same place you started. I should have learned a long time ago that they won’t let you out. they’ll never let you out. One time I saved up my rations for a whole month and traded them for enough fenfen that I thought I could kill a horse with it. I shot it all in one massive dose and was gone within seconds. I was out for about four days that time, but I still came back. I had missed something like 60 hours on the line and had to be publically humiliated and flogged. They don’t like it when you try to get away, even for a bit. There’s no escape. You can’t get out. This is forever. I didn’t want to come back. When I was a little kid, I was very religious, very Catholic. I believed with all my heart in heaven and hell, and used to spend a lot of time wondering where I was going to go. I guess I can stop asking that question. I didn’t want to come back.

Max Mundan, Coming Back

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