#as long as that hole involves paying no taxes

[elumish]

Hello American friends! Reminder to do your taxes if you have taxes that need to be done!

[claire-starsword]

Landstalker Guide Book - Prologue, Geography and Characters

Original scans here

What about the treasures of King Nole? What is the truth behind the tyrant who once ruled this world, King Nole? This is a story from around a hundred years ago. There was a single man who attained full authority and control over the continent. His name was King Nole… He went down in history as a once-in-a-lifetime tyrant, who knew no limits to his extravagance and built a magnificent palace. The royal family and the nobles lived as they pleased within this palace. In a hall lined up with treasures gathered from all across the world, they'd have balls almost every night, the tables filled with splendid foods and drinks the likes of which a peasant would never lay eyes on. Meanwhile, said peasants lived miserably due to huge taxes. They were extorted out of everything save for a portion of grains to eat, and the oppression was so harsh, that those who could not pay could even end up killed. Yet as they continued to suffer, King Nole's palace prospered, and it is said that eventually half of all the world's wealth was gathered there. This nightmarish era continued for decades, but a single hope came by. Three heroes appeared, and encouraged the people to form an army of resistance. Many revolts began to occur, but their power was small. They suffered many defeats against King Nole's forces. Yet they didn't give up in the slightest. They moved past the fallen bodies of friends and relatives, and continued to fight. And perhaps their prayers reached heaven, for at the end of their long struggle, their resistance defeated the king's army, and they reached the depths of the palace. But there they found no trace of King Nole nor of the great wizard Kufir, said to be his advisor. The huge treasures that should be filling the palace were also gone, not a single jewel piece left behind. People tried everything to find the king and the treasures after that. But no one found out where they had gone. And now, a hundred years later, the story surrounding King Nole and his treasures comes to Mercator Island, away from the mainland, once again causing strife among the people.

Mercator Island - What is the mystery of the treasures hidden there…? When the resistance army had greatly expanded its force, and King Nole's army was about done for… an incident happened in Mercator Island, away from the mainland. All of a sudden, soldiers came from the continent to the island, and pushed the natives into working on some mysterious construction. The soldiers were merciless, and killed anyone who disobeyed so as to make an example out of them. The construction began by digging a massive hole. It was big enough to engulf a whole town, and took years to be completed. Next began the actual construction, with stones taken from the mountains. King Nole had accepted his own defeat, and wanted to build a huge palace underground, to hide his huge treasures. Once the construction was done, he had all those involved in it killed to keep it a secret. Friday, the succubus who goes on the current adventure with Nigel, had her village burned to the ground, and her whole family killed, including her parents. Only she escaped the village along with elder Succubi who took care of her at the time, fleeing from the disaster with great pain. But that was certainly the start of a hard journey for her, being the only one left in this world who knew of the secret behind King Nole's treasures… In the present time, Mercator Island is ruled by the country of Gamul, one of the three countries that rule the continent. However, the secret of the underground palace was kept for this long time, due to the harsh measures taken during its construction. And recently, there are unsettling rumors about Duke Mercator, the local governor sent from Gamul. Not much is known, but he seems to have got hold of some information about the underground palace, and is aggressively gathering more information. A certain treasure hunter called Nigel has sneaked into Mercator Island while it is engulfed in this uneasy atmosphere. He is aiming for the treasures of King Nole as well. Proof of that is that some have seen, peeking through the bag on his back, the face of Friday, the only one to know the secret of the treasures. Will he reach his goal in the end? And will Duke Mercator allow him to keep going? Countless questions remain open.

Notes on this prologue:

The timeline here is slightly different than on the manual, with King Nole's era being a single century ago instead of many. Of course, given that Friday is 120 years old, her backstory here wouldn't make sense with the manual's timeline. I don't remember any dates being mentioned in the game itself. I have however seen this backstory in pre release coverage of the game, so it's not a case of spicing up a character for the guide book (also the guide books are credited in game, so they were made during game production).

In the game, Friday doesn't show much knowledge on the treasure. She and Nigel do land in the correct place on the start of the game, but it's unclear if Friday gave the directions or if the bird just landed there by luck. After Nigel falls from the trap, she makes no effort on getting them back there. When the sage in the waterfall dungeon talks about the king's soldiers having come to the island a long time ago, she immediately connects it to the treasure, but shows no signs of recognizing the event. She is also surprised when learning about the jewels during the adventure, so I don't think she knew much about things besides "it's in a palace underground", which is still more than anyone else knew I guess, but I don't think she even told Nigel that. When going through the final dungeon she does get excited from being close to it, and Nigel accuses her of knowing all along, which she denies, saying it's just a feeling.

Granted, Friday wasn't really aiming for the treasure. She was in the mainland first which means she clearly didn't wanna investigate the island by herself, and despite running her mouth on the treasure to them, denied help to both Kayla and Nigel, only helping the latter when he leveraged being her savior at that moment. She does get excited on the hunt as soon as the game starts, but frets over them separating once the adventure is over and seems overall content in hanging back and just pushing Nigel to do stuff, so it's possible that she was in no rush to give useful information and just wanted to have fun.

In all this Friday stanning I forgot another important note. The great wizard mentioned to be Nole's advisor? Yeah I have no clue, don't remember any mentions in game and even here the mention doesn't go anywhere. Weird.

Explaining the geography of Mercator Island Around 100070000 years in the past, the Fonmel Sea that bathes the eastern coast of the Old World is believed to have been just a narrow water channel between land masses. Eventually it gave origin to a gulf, and around 65000000 years ago, due to huge seismic activity, became a part of the wide ocean that we see in the present. The bottom of this sea is remarkable for being where two tectonic plates meet. According to academic research teams in Lanpart, even in recent years it can be noted that the two continents are drifting apart a couple dozens of centimeters per year. The trigger for the earth movements causing this separation was an eruption from Mercator Volcano. The volcano was underwater in those times, but the huge amounts of highly viscous lava spewed formed Mercator Island. Nowadays it is no longer active, but it is the greatest volcano in the northern hemisphere, and it is believed that should it become active again, the land of both continents would be significantly impacted. The academics of Lanpart have dubbed it "Continental Keyhole", and it is a huge topic of interest for geologists. Mercator Island is very isolated, around 2000 kilometers away from the Old World's southeastern coast and 3500 kilometers away from the New World's northwestern coast. Its natural characteristics are intricate. Its latitude is low so the climate is temperate, but being a volcanic area, the temperature of the ocean floor is high, and the water heats up with ease. Because of that, the island is noted to have very unstable weather.

How the people live in Mercator Island Ratio of species in Mercator Island Others: 4% Bearlings: 13% Gnomes: 7% Dwarves: 9% Elves: 15% Humans: 52% Immigration to Mercator Island began around 70 years ago. The island had been ignored for more than 200 years when found by the former dynasty, but the country of Gamul annexed it, interested in turning it into a port of call for their shipments. The primitive tribes of the time were scattered through the land, and the people of Gamul built a capital to administrate the colony, which stands to this day. The natives such as Massans, Gumis and elves are far older tribes, thought to have arrived through the sea from the south around 600 years ago. The now extinct Succubi were a tribe that had been in the island since far older times. The temperature climate suits the people's lifestyle, but the lack of flat terrain hinders their development. Their main economic activity remains the same as before Gamul's colonization, and doesn't make much profit. To develop its economy, it should organize plantations of its local specialties such as the EkeEke fruit. The surroundings of Mercator Island Following the fall of the former dynasty, the continent was split into three countries. From west to east those are Maple, Gamul, and Lanpart. Due to the treaty signed at Jimudo at their time of foundation, the three countries have to this day not attempted to conquer each other, and have developed each their own unique characteristics. Maple is a farming country blessed with temperate climate and fertile soil. Lanpart is a great economic power supported by their expertise on marine transportation. Gamul is a country focused on manufacturing, using of its plentiful mineral resources. However, while this structure of production succeeded in restoring the continent after the fall of the previous dynasty, the economy continued to grow, and the amassing of wealth led to corruption. In recent years, Gamul has shown jawdropping development, but much of it came from inequality created by the system itself. Many countries like Gamul, whose economy is not enough to sustain itself, harbor intentions to conquer other territories. One can only hope this economic disparity isn't an omen of further catastrophe.

Notes:

My grasp on the final lines here is a bit shaky, my bad.

Jimudo isn't a name I recognize from anywhere.

Also, there's no need for me to translate the map since the one from the manual has the same information and more, I'm just reposting that.

Nigel Species: Forest Elf A young elf, 88 years old (elves are said to live for around 400 years). He was born in an inland village of the continent, and became a treasure hunter still very young. He usually works alone, having braved many dangers and obstacles with only his wits and his sword. Before going to Mercator Island, he had already gone on plenty of adventures, and obtained countless treasures on them. Despite elves being known to be stuck-up, he's full of curiosity and sticks his nose on any sort of situation, as you can guess by his adventurous nature. He's okay with any result as long as it satisfies his thirst for adventure. That's how Nigel lives. Friday Species: Succubus A resident of Mercator Island, where the story takes place. When she was still very young, soldiers came from the mainland with overwhelming force to hide King Nole's treasures. At the end of that, many of her succubus race were killed. She's 120 years old, but given her species' lifespan, she can be seen as a bit younger than Nigel. She knows the secret of King Nole's treasures, and thus became a target of Kayla's gang. Rescued from them by Nigel, the two set off for adventure. She saves Nigel's life with the EkeEke fruits, but her flaw is being super jealous.

Duke Mercator The administrator sent to rule over the island by the great military nation of Gamul in the mainland. He is a noble with authority over all of Mercator. He has a great reputation in the castle town of Mercator, but in reality has evil ambitions to go after King Nole's treasures. For that he plans on using Kayla's trio, the bounty hunter Zak, and even Nigel. Not only is he cunning, but his skill with the rapier on his waist is just as great… or so he says. You'll find through the adventure how true that is. Princess Lara Princess of the region of Shurel in the country of Maple in the mainland. She came to the island to have music lessons with the composer Ludwig. But, because she has some secret related to King Nole's treasures, she was locked up by the duke in a tower of the palace. In contrast with these tragic circumstances, she's pretty cheerful. While Nigel rescues her by accident, she takes him to be her dreamy knight in shining armor, and gets really hyped. Even after the events in Mercator palace, she continues to get wrapped up in the conspiracy surrounding the treasures, but her cheerfulness doesn't change a bit. A love rival for Friday? Kayla, Ink and Wally A trio of treasure hunters, rivals of Nigel. That said, their skills aren't great, and they pride themselves in their talent for evil schemes. The boss is Kayla Kozwalski. An expert with the whip, and of a beauty that drives men crazy all around the world… those are her own claims, though… Her goons are Ink, the one with a lance, and Wally, with a round iron ball body. Both have swore loyalty to Kayla at all costs, and are idiots deserving of the misfortune that often befalls them. They have the mutual problem of not being very useful to their boss.

There are all the proper character profiles at the start of the guide, but the strategy parts later on have two more.

Wizard Mir A wizard who frightens the townspeople of Mercator. Has quite a lot of magic power. Because few have seen him in person, little is known about him. In the late game, he'll give you a delightful power.

Zak A bounty hunter from the country of Gamul. He doesn't hunt people worth less than 5000 gold. He was invited by the duke for the expedition against Mir. After that he was employed by the duke, but doesn't like him very much.

Notes:

Ludwig's name in the original version is Churro, like the snack. For whatever reason the word mutated into having an "e" sound in japanese so I didn't notice at all while playing.

Nigel not caring for results is a lot clearer in the original ending. I'm just mentioning it as an excuse to retranslate that i still can't believe they changed it holy crap

(didn't have the patience to screenshot it all either, just go watch it to see the gold numbers NOT go up)

Friday: "The, the treasure… It sank to the bottom… Even, even though we finally made it here…" "…There was like fifty million gold there! And a bunch of jewels! Maybe some fell around here?" Friday flies around the screen Friday: "Nothing! Not a single coin!" Nigel: "Hey, enough of that!" Friday: "Ah! …But I'm mad! We didn't get the treasure after all!" Nigel: "It's nothing to get mad about! This happens a lot when you're a treasure hunter! Geez, get a grip!" Friday: "Well, well, fine! …Then, I'm gonna give you something way, way better than treasure!" Friday flies around Nigel making a heart shape multiple times Friday: "Ehehe…" "So? Happy?" Nigel: "…Well, now that the mood is lifted I gotta go on another hunt!" Friday: "…What! What! Nigel, you're mean! I hate you! You! Argh, you…!" "Without me you're gonna get beaten up in a second! …You're gonna die!" Nigel: "So let's go together? …I mean, won't you come with me?" Friday: "…Fine, I'm coming!"

[concoctionboy]

@unexpectedly-wizardposting: You should probably get out, maybe re-explore the skull room and beyond?

(Given that this update involves a lot of drawing including a new room (well, a room I've been to before, but that was before I started including drawings of everything), it's going to be a two-parter; I'll post the first half tonight and then I'll try to get the rest up tomorrow morning.)

Okay, well, first of all, we've spent a long time in this room, so now that we're finally leaving it, I may as well show the map again:

So there are only two places on this level I haven't been (that I know of): behind the secret door in the symbol (northern) room, and in the room to the southeast where something's making an electronic crackling noise. Well, I guess technically there's also the small hole in the wall in the southern room, but while I could easily get through that hole myself, the shapeshifting powers that Xil got when he, uh, ingested part of me have worn off by now, so he wouldn't be able to get through there, and I don't think Flocsle could either.

I've only been in one room in the level above this, though, and I haven't been in the level below this one at all, and I have no idea how many levels this place has, so even if I've explored most of this level it doesn't mean there's not a lot of the tower I haven't seen.

But anyway, yeah, I guess my exploration of the skull room was kind of interrupted when the skeleton woke up and chased me out, so I may as well start by going back there and see what else is there that I missed.

Since we're leaving this room now, I guess it's time to give the man-eating plant my other arm like I promised. The plant argues that we ended up staying there and demanding its services a lot longer than it had initially expected, and demands to eat part of Xil and Flocsle too. That's not an option, because I don't think they can grow their parts back, but I eventually talk the plant into settling for getting one of my legs thrown in.

(And because somebody's bound to make this joke, yes, I guess that means paying off the man-eating plant is going to cost me an arm and a leg. Sure.)

So fine, I remove my left leg and I throw it to the man-eating plant and then… I can't really throw it my arm if I don't have any arms to throw it with. I mean, yes, I can grow more arms, but I don't want the plant to know that. I guess maybe it already knows that from reading my mind—I'm not really sure how powerful its telepathic powers are now—but in case it doesn't know about my abilities, I'd rather keep it that way. Xil offers to throw my arm for me, but the plant says if I walk up to it it'll just bite my arm off and leave the rest of me, so okay, I guess that works.

Yes, I know, I absolutely should have seen this coming. I think I may be too trusting.

Okay, I guess I can't totally blame the man-eating plant for this. We did kind of end up using its services a lot longer than initially agreed, and besides I'm not sure it was sentient until recently so maybe it hasn't really had a chance to develop a sense of morality. Oh well.

Xil says if it's getting too taxing to keep changing my shape, I can just stay like this for a while and he'll carry me. Honestly, it doesn't really take a lot of energy to change shape, but I've lost enough material by now that if I did form back into a humanoid shape I'd be a much smaller version of me and would probably have to be carried anyway to not slow everyone else down, and I kind of get the impression Xil sort of wants me to stay like this, so whatever, I guess I'll just be a leg and a… bottom for now.

Okay, so, back to the skull room.

(Like I said, the rest of this update coming tomorrow morning, since I have to draw the skull room, although if anyone has any ideas in advance for what I should do when I get there you can go ahead and suggest them now.)

[oasis-makcr]

Yeah. I mean, I'm still mostly paying attention to make sure I'm not missing anything! Because if I stopped paying attention altogether, I think Jamil would be a little disappointed in me. Of course, he might be disappointed to know I'm blogging instead of taking notes anyway, but. 🤫 He doesn't know I have a blog yet.

Oh! Right! Sorry, I keep forgetting sometimes that not everyone knows what blot is. Blot is the natural side effect of casting magic; the more powerful and taxing the spell, the more blot a mage generates! The point of a magestone is that it will siphon the blot from your body, which gives you more room to cast spells, and it lets you have a visual indicator on how much blot you've generated, because the stone will dim in color the more you do. Blot creation is sped up when you're more stressed and upset, so it's very important to have a handle on your emotions when casting!

On the upside, blot naturally dissipates so long as you're taking care of yourself and not pushing yourself past your limits! That's why it's best that you don't cast magic without a magestone; you don't know how much blot is being generated without one, and not being careful with that can lead to overblotting, which... is bad for just about everyone involved. It makes you more powerful at spellcasting and changes how you look, oozing caustic ink, but once you've overblotted, you burn through your magical reserves, and if you aren't knocked out before that happens... you'll die. It isn't supposed to happen very often, but... we've been having a lot more cases of overblots lately in just this year than in say... I want to say the past century, maybe?

Yeah, I think so too! I might have to ask the juniors about it, I'm positive that I've got a lot of juniors in Scarabia (our dorm!) that I could ask about it!

That's true... I'm sure there are a few censuses I could look at for better statistics, but I know I'll forget about doing that in a few hours. That doesn't particularly surprise me, though! I'm sure I probably have a biased view on mages because I went to Royal Sword Academy for a little while before transferring to Night Raven College, which are two of the most prestigious schools for mages, so I know I'm definitely used to being around people who are REALLY powerful mages. I'm sure there are plenty more mages who probably don't have the natural reserves for stronger magic and I just haven't... thought about that until now.

Hmmm... no, I think there are some magical batteries! If I were in Ignihyde, I'd definitely have a better answer; Ignihyde's whole dorm thing is that they're all really skilled with making magitek and being genius inventors and that sort of thing, at least a lot of the time! I know Idia made himself an android brother and he's capable of casting magic and existing on his own! Idia's one of the smartest mages and inventors I know, he can make just about anything if he puts his mind to it!

Not that I know him that well... he's usually holed up in his room and tries to avoid physically going to class or housewarden meetings or anything... I've been slowly convincing him to join some of my movie nights though!

I think so, too. I think it's better to be compassionate more than anything else, but I know a lot of the founding families disagree with that... though I think part of it is because we all have a lot of power and are more or less part of the government, so a lot of them probably see compassion as a threat. I think... if I had to choose... I'd like to meet the Vipers! Jamil's ancestors! They've worked for my family forever, and... I'd like to know why. The real reason why. Depending on how far back I went, though... it'd be incredible to meet the Sorcerer of the Sands! Wanting to meet one of the Great Seven in person might be pretty obvious, but I think it'd be really interesting! Especially since you only hear about him but you don't hear as much about say... the Sultan, or the Princess? Or even the Djinni?

I guess it comes down to "I think sometimes our knowledge of history is lacking and I'd love to see things as they were actually happening"!

And since you're ahead, the class becomes boring. I think I get it. And I can't complain since that means I have someone to talk to now aha.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡

I guess my first question is "What's blot?" since that sounds sorta fundamental to whatever magic you're using - and I guess that must be the "modern magic" in your Abbreviated Spellcasting Long Name class haha. I dunno. Certainly evolution of language sounds like it might be related given the class name, but I've never been able to use magic myself, so I can't really tell you. .·°՞(≧□≦)՞°·.

I feel 1-2 out of 70 is still a lot. Then again, people who can use special powers in my world probably amount to close to 1 in 10000-100000 people? And most of them only have powers equivalent to lighting a tiny candle or bending a spoon.

Oh, so Magitek still relies on personal reserves. So there's no way to replace a personal reserve with something like a magical battery or something?

Niceness is a virtue, I think. The world would be a better place if there were more nice people. Ohhh, whose family's ancestors do you want to meet - like what sort of things would you want to learn?

[missmaxime]

HOW DOES THE LAUNDERING SCHEME WORK?

In 4x14 Dave and Phoebe explained to the girls how Nick and Rio’s system works. Which left the girls looking like:

And maybe some of you too.

Dave already gives the TL;DR explanation. What starts with street crime like drug dealings, petty theft and carjacking, moves up to counterfeiting and extortion. From there it goes to washing, laundering and contracts. Those contracts come from shell companies Nick owns, that get distributed to the legit companies to realize projects he gets approved by the city council. Easy enough right? 1. Stripper Heel: Street crime: Petty theft, drug deals, carjacking. 2. Cutlet: Counterfeit and washing through Sweet P’s. 3. Bills: Counterfeit Canadian money goes to Canada, and comes back clean (Dave uses a physical bill, but that doesn’t have to be the case.) 4. Nipple pasties: Laundering through companies like construction, electrics, materials. So the IRS wont drop by and ask any questions. 5. The Banker: Additional money comes in through those companies paying a monthly fee for protection. - This is where Rio’s work stops and Nick’s begins - 6. Body glitter and thongs: Laundering from point 4 happens because those companies get contracts from shell companies which are owned by Nick (or likely a patsy). 7. These shell companies are hired by the city for projects Nick gets approved. With these projects Nick can make money by undervaluing the construction, or he can bribe someone (say, a politician – likely if he intends to move up his political career) by overvaluing the project. Let’s break that down: 1. Street crimes, drug deals, carjacking, etc. We know Rio deals pills aside from the counterfeit business. Does he still do that? Ehh, lets just assume he does. Maybe he has some other shady businesses running too, we don’t know. Point is, this is the stage where money and goods come in that are needed for the girls to create the counterfeit. For the American money this is the source for the one dollar bills the girls mushed up to create the bigger bills. For the Canadian money this cash is likely used to pay legit suppliers under the table that legally place larger orders than they need for bleach, nail polish, and whatever else they need to make those bills.

2. Counterfeiting and washing through Sweet P’s. These are two different things that happen in the same physical place. We know that the girls use the back room to create counterfeit, I don’t think any of us need any explanation for that. Supplies are delivered by Rio and his boys, the girls create the counterfeit, and they exchange these and their cuts on set times during their drops. And, finally, finally, bless us all, the girls own a service-based business. Unlike Boland Motors and Boland Bubbles, that work with buying in goods and selling those directly to customers – Sweet P’s delivers a service to a customer. The big difference is that in both BM and BB there is a physical trail for law enforcement to follow (cars and hot tubs), while in Sweet P’s one cannot suddenly uncover a fake lap dance, because those are obviously intangible. There’s a reason a lot of real life washing goes through massage salons, barbers, phone repair stores, tanning salons, car repair shops – service-based with lots of cash payments. Those stores should be legit, because they act like a front. Sweet P’s is a legit business; it has employees, taxes are paid, all the works. But because it delivers a service there’s a few loop holes, I’ll get back to that in a sec. Because, what is the money that they are washing and how do they do it? First of all, it’s not the counterfeit Canadian money. But The Banker receives a lot of unexplainable money every month from extortion, money that one can’t deposit on a bank account, because what will the IRS think of that? In comes a business like Sweet P’s. One that can easily say that on a night they had 10 private rooms booked, even if in reality it was only five. It’s all paid in cash, so there’s no trace. So now the dirty crime money sits all white and clean on Sweet P’s bank account. That’s of no use to Nick as it is, because he can’t hire Sweet P’s to get back his money, that’s the opposite cashflow that he wants. In this case Sweet P’s will need to get a contract from one of Nick’s shell companies from point 6, so they pay him the money. Judging by Dave’s examples these shell companies are likely building constructors, so in theory the girls would “hire” one of those to “remodel” the bathroom. But the construction never happens, only they still pay the bill. Washing can obviously not go through Sweet P’s alone, I can imagine Nick and Rio manage a lot of different businesses that work through a similar construction. 3. Counterfeit Canadian money goes to Canada, and comes back clean. Okay, so we’ve seen one way this goes down: The girls drive the money over the border themselves, delivering (or, well, intending to) it to some kinds of middle-man over there. For the sake of that episode it looks like a lot of trouble, but I can imagine if you have customs officer in your pocket it will go a whole lot easier. Lets not pretend there’s no one working there that could use a bit of extra cash to let them pass without a search. We know how Rio had the American cash washed from how it went at Fine & Frugal. His boys delivered Boomer with a bag of fake cash (and a fee for Boomer himself for his troubles), and he switched out the real cash that came in for fake cash. The fake cash goes to the bank, the real cash goes back to Rio. It’s a swap, easy as that. Whoever receives the counterfeit from the girls must run a similar scheme in Canada, so the fake cash becomes real cash. Now we made real Canadian money, but it’s still across the border, so how does it come back? There’s three ways the money can come back: cash, digital or exchanged for materials. If it’s cash the legit Canadian money must be exchanged for legit American money. Which, honestly, sounds like a lot of labor. I doubt this is how it comes back because it takes a lot of time, people, various exchange points, and is the most liable from all the options. If it’s digital Nick must have shell companies and/or legit companies based in Canada to hire his American shell companies so they can digitally transfer the money. The cash will get washed like the example I gave for Sweet P’s, wiring that cash ‘legally’ to the Canadian companies account. So they can safely pay the contract they have with the American shell company. If it’s goods I can imagine Nick uses his shell companies, or more likely legit companies. For example, if Nick owns a tile-store in America, and washes trough a Kitchen & Bathroom store in Canada – he can have the latter overpay the former (The worth of the tiles he sends is below the worth on the contract) so the cash flows back to him. But! There’s also another option. If he buys property in Canada with cash, and resells that for digital money, it can flow back to the shell company too. And if he doesn’t need the money right away he could buy property in cash, rent it out, and wash the money like that – this even creates a steady cash flow. !! 5. The Banker: Additional money comes in through those companies paying a monthly fee for protection. I’ll tackle this point first before I start 4, 6 and 7. So, from the episode The Banker we can get a good impression what kind of businesses pay for protection. Many if not all are warehouses, looking like they are companies like in point 4 (see below). Or, like the one Penny’s mom owns, an electrical company. All kinds of companies Nick’s shell companies might use for various projects (point 6). Another thing that might be going on is that these companies are involved with other parts of the crime system. Like Boland Motors wasn’t just a way to launder money, but they also received the cars with the drugs. Paying the protection secures the warehouse from retaliating from law enforcement or other gangs that might try to steal this (both Nick and Rio can put their network on that). And secures them contracts for doing work tied to the City. 4. Laundering through companies like construction, electrics, materials. So the IRS won’t drop by and ask any questions. 6. Body glitter and thongs: Laundering from point 4 happens because those companies get contracts from shell companies* which are owned by Nick (or likely a patsy). 7. These shell companies are hired by the city for projects Nick gets approved. With these projects Nick can make money by undervaluing the construction, or he can bribe someone (say, a politician – likely if he intends to move up his political career) by overvaluing the project. Point 4, 6 and 7 are very closely connected, so I will try to explain this for the outcome of Nick earning money himself. For example, say Nick proposes a new project to the council: Building a new school. (He needs at least four votes in favor, including his own. Having Beth on the council obviously increases his chances of getting a project through, because he assumes she’ll sway towards his choices.) If the project gets a go the City of Detroit will need to hire a company to do the building plans and construction – Nick will make it happen that this goes through his shell company. And the shell company will hand out contracts to the companies listed under point 4. From what we know from Dave’s examples these companies are all ties to construction: electrics, plumbing, materials, and so on. As long as Nick is on the council getting his projects, these businesses have a work guarantee – it’s another reason they pay The Banker. How does Nick make money from that? His shell company will have to present the City with a quotation for the work (before the vote). Lets say this school would cost 30 million to built if it was legit. But that’s not what the shell company will say, they will say it costs 35 million. While 30 million from the city will flow back to all the contracted legit businesses, 5 million will stay with the shell company. Although, it won’t exactly stay there. Nick will have ways to move the money around, invest it, bounce between money mules etc. until it will get lost or find its way back to another shell company. What matters is that he’s using this whole system to rob the city to fund his own career (which, if he has the ambition to maybe become senator or more, which I think is a dead given, he will need a lot of money for in terms of campaigning and whatnot).

Any questions?  

[spidercakes]

hey there! hope you're having a good day. was wondering if you could write something involving blackmail — tony comes across something shameful the young, up and coming, idealistic politician peter parker has done in the past, and holds it over his head in exchange for a dirty, nice blowjob when he feels like being in power bc his life is shit? hope none of that makes you uncomfortable!

I changed the prompt some mostly because I find blowies so damn tedious to write (shoutout to people who manage!). Instead I went with sex, which in light of the rest of the prompt, I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non con, blackmail- seriously, heed the warning: ⚠️ disturbing content ahead ⚠️

*

Tony has Peter pinned against the wall lightly, a hand loosely settled on Peter’s hip. He’s already hard and he knows Peter knows that too. “What do you want?” he asks, going for brave but his voice falters. Tony presses in closer, dick twitching when Peter makes a soft noise of distress in the back of his throat.

“You’re gunna give up that tight little ass of yours, no complaints,” Tony tells him.

Peter makes a noise akin to a sob, “I just paid my uncle Ben’s medical bills, I was gunna pay it back,” he says, stuggling for a moment but Tony presses in closer, pinning him tighter.

“Mhm, doesn’t really matter if it’s tax dollars, sweet cheeks. Let me fuck that pretty little ass and I’ll keep my mouth shut.” They both know he has no choice, not being the wholesome for the people candidate that he is.

When he doesn’t respond Tony doesn’t bother wasting time. He grabs Peter’s belt and pulls at it, ignoring Peter’s half hearted struggles. They both know he’s going to let Tony fuck him. He pulls Peter’s pants open after he conquers the belt, shoving them down under his ass. He presses up against Peter, hard cock rubbing against his ass as Tony grabs his lube. No need to make this uncomfortable for him- a slick hole feels better.

Peter makes a small, choked noise as Tony presses two fingers into him. “You’re a tight little hole, aren’t you?” he all but growls. “You ever had your ass fucked?” Peter doesn’t respond so Tony grabs ahold of his throat and squeezes. Peter tried to swallow uselessly against his hand before whimpering. “Answer my question,” Tony tells him.

He lets Peter go and he gasps wildly for breath but he nods a little. “Good boy,” Tony tells him, fucking in and out of his hole with his fingers. “Did you like it?” Peter whimpers again, staying silent until Tony starts fucking his ass harder.

“Yes,” Peter whispers finally.

Tony grins, pinning Peter up against the wall while he pulls his cock out. He doesn’t have the patience to make it good, it took him long enough to find something on Peter Parker to blackmail him with. He’s almost as innocent as he looks and Tony has wanted a taste of it since the moment he saw Peter.

When he fucks Peter it’s rough and hard, fucking into him to make himself feel good and Peter’s ass is tight. He moans, hands curled around Peter’s hips as he fucks him deep. Peter occasionally makes small noises of discontent or sniffles but mostly stays quiet while Tony fucks him. “Mm your hot little ass is gunna make me cum,” he tells Peter.

He struggles a little against Tony but he ignores that, fucking into him faster. Peter’s small struggles almost make it better as Peter’s muscles clench and move around him. “Please,” Peter whispers, tears streaking his pretty face. Tony reaches between Peter’s legs and strokes him.

“Don’t act like you aren’t enjoying yourself,” Tony all but growls in his ear before he lets Peter go and pins his hip to the wall harshly, fucking into Peter desperately as his pleasure increases. “You’re gunna make me cum,” Tony tells him again, moaning softly as he fucks himself deep into Peter.

It’s the soft, broken noise Peter makes that sends him over the edge. He cums inside Peter, cock throbbing as he buries his cum deep in Peter’s hole. It takes him a moment to gather himself after cumming that hard but when he does he pulls out. “Your secret’s safe with me, baby. I won’t tell tell anyone if you don’t,” he tells Peter as he tucks himself back into his pants.

Peter hasn’t moved from his spot pinned against the wall but he gives Tony a slow nod. “Good,” Tony murmurs, “because I’d hate to have to force you to keep quiet.” Peter doesn’t respond but he doesn’t need to either, they both know they have an understanding.

[the-ace-with-spades]

(5/6) the best is yet to be

five times someone realized Ronan and Adam were basically married and one time they actually were

Part 1 │Part 2 │Part 3 │Part 4 │Part 6

Read on ao3

Declan wasn't surprised when Ronan told him he was gay, in fact, he didn't react at all, just shrugged and asked if Ronan would eat dinner with him and Matthew.

Declan wasn't surprised easily.

There was no big deal. Declan wasn't one of those Catholics and Ronan wasn't on the way to become a saint, if not for the obvious faith in God,  Declan would say he was closer to becoming a satanist, really. If anything, this was less explicit and less worrying than picking him from the police station again or finding out he was dropping out to become a farmer. And it wasn't like Ronan was hiding it — Declan confirmed the suspicions the moment he moved in with Gansey but he suspected long before that.

He supposed this was what happened when your little brother leaves gay porn magazines just out in the open on his bed and you're the one hiding them from your homophobic father. Not that he would tell Ronan that, the experience would be equally traumatising and embarrassing to both of them and Declan didn't like to share the burden.

Adam Parrish was a fucking surprise.

Declan knew of Adam Parrish because of school, first. He was the quiet scholarship kid that didn't attract much attention except for his obvious poorness. Well, he was quiet until he was destroying Declan in the debate club. He still didn't talk much about himself, not like every Aglionby guy who thought he was the best thing since sliced bread, but Declan could understand that. He could understand that because he knew that sometimes you hide so many things that you no longer know who you are.

But that didn't make him less suspicious. Parrish joined the merry Gansey gang of traumatised misfits suddenly and without trying — so Declan did a background check on him.

His suspicion became deeper. He didn't like Ronan to think this was a friendship and not a transaction — Parrish had to have ulterior motives. He seemed to be a person that would definitely have less to give and more to take.

But then he didn't take anything.

The night Declan went to the police station with the knowledge that Ronan bit Robert Parrish, he thought it was the end, that this was the final charge that money won't be able to drop and that Ronan will have to be bailed out and smuggled out to Canada to not go to jail.

And then Declan came in and the police officer told him that Robert Parrish is being charged and they needed Ronan to testify to make the charge stick and he couldn't testify without a legal guardian present.

No one said anything about Ronan getting arrested because Adam Parrish admitted to his deepest secret.

And Declan was sure this was the end of niceties from Parrish, that he was going to use it as an excuse to move into that warehouse Ronan called home and sponge off on Gansey's kindness and Ronan's guilt.

And then he fucking didn't. So Declan gave him the pass.

And then, months later, Ronan told them he was gay.

The next Sunday, Parrish came to the Mass with him, wearing a secondhand suit and Ronan's tie.

"This is my fucking boyfriend," Ronan told him and Matthew on the steps to St. Agnes. "Deal with it."

Declan rolled his eyes. Adam rolled his eyes fondly. Declan frowned. Adam raised an eyebrow.

Matty asked if Adam was Catholic. Declan raised an eyebrow — he knew he wasn't.

"No," Adam answered. "I'm the emotional support."

True to his word, Parrish didn't pray, didn't kneel and didn't move during the sign of peace offering. Instead, whenever Ronan sat down next to him, his hand would wander to Ronan's on its own, like it was natural for him, and Ronan wouldn't oppose, just curl his fingers over his knuckles and caress it with his thumb.

There was, Declan found out over time, a huge amount of hands involving the two.

They walked out of the church holding hands too and held them together when Declan drove them all to the cheap diner Ronan insisted on. Parrish insisted on paying for his food an hour later and it became obvious why Ronan wanted to go to this exact place.

It was strange to see Ronan care about somebody and care enough to think about this kind of details — he knew Ronan did care, even if never about Declan, but it felt strange on another level. Like he had seen it before but didn't realize.

Declan tended to erasure Adam Parrish from his mind most of the time — if anything, he was safe for the Lynch family.

Parrish was a good influence if one compared being smitten to being influenced. Declan tended to use it to his own advantage — although Ronan would often refuse for the sake of refusing, he refused Parrish less than anyone else. He encouraged Ronan to modernise the farm — with a promise that he'll fix anything that breaks for him, or so Matty had heard — and actually, somehow convinced him to pay taxes, which was in itself a miracle — Declan felt like buying him a car just for that. He had to cover up enough tax fraud thanks to their dad and he wasn't going to do it again.

So Parrish was a good influence and when Declan didn't feel like dealing with Ronan's snark, he would text or call Parrish.

Not gonna be in church tomorrow, was a text Declan got one Saturday, waiting for Matty to get back from an outing with his lacrosse buddies.

He had to blink a couple of times because he hadn't had an unprompted text from Ronan in over two years. He wondered whether Parrish wrote it out of courtesy — or because he didn't want to deal with Declan either.

He called Parrish. He didn't pick up. He called Ronan. He didn't pick up. He called again.

A text came.

Fuck off

It was definitely Ronan.

The next day, Declan considered the option that Ronan was joking. Out of all the things, Ronan would never miss church, he couldn't recall even one time — Ronan would sooner come drunk or hangover to church than not come at all.

He didn't show up. So Declan left Matthew in a restaurant and drove to the Barns.

No one came out even when the Wolvo roared in front of the house. Declan left the car, ready for a disaster.

He hesitated before coming in.

He didn't visit the Barns that often but it was often enough that he had seen Ronan and Adam in enough compromising positions that made him wish he could burn a hole in place of those memories. He was never to see the kitchen counter the same and definitely never again prepare food on it. Knocking was safer.

He knocked. No one answered. He knocked louder.

There was a terribly loud screech behind him and Ronan's awful bird from hell landed on the balustrade of the porch, staring at him in the same way Ronan would if he was pissed. This was another reason why he never visited the Barns — everything, including his brother and his brother's boyfriend, crept him out.

He knocked again, louder and longer. No one opened.

He looked around, ignoring more screeching. Both Parrish's fugly car and Ronan's BMW are tucked behind the closest barn.

He banged on the door. Shouted, "Ronan, open up. For fuck's sake, I know you're inside," and banged again.

The door opened and Ronan, looking more pissed off than he had seen him in a long time.

"You fuckface," he said, which in Ronan-language meant a greeting. "Shut up."

Declan opened his mouth but articulated nothing before the cries came out from the inside of the kitchen. He frowned.

"What was that?"

Ronan groaned and went back inside, not bothering to close the door in Declan's face, which was a red flag in itself.

Declan went after him, straight to the living room.

The cries were Opal's. She was currently tucked into Parrish's arm, her head curled under his chin and bailing her eyes out. Parrish wasn't just holding her — he was making shushing noises and rocking her back and forth.

"It's alright, sugarplum," he was saying, in the sweetest tone that sounded so out of place on him. "It'll go away, I promise."

Ronan's whole body softened with every step he took towards Parrish. He reached out and brushed Opal's curls in a gesture that Declan often, as a child, would seek from their mom.

"Did you get it?" Adam asked over Opal's sniffling.

His eyes moved around Ronan's face and noticed Declan, standing a couple of feet away.

"No, got sidetracked," he said. When Parrish sent him a look, he added, "But I'm going to, right away."

"Grab the baby Tylenol while you are at it."

Ronan went without a word, disappearing behind the corner to the foyer and the stairs.

"How is your toothache, baby?" Adam asked. "Any better?"

Opal answered him with a sob and buried a snotty nose into his t-shirt.

Parrish looked up at him like he expected Declan to say something.

Kids weren't Declan's thing.

Parrish adjusted Opal in his arms, rocking back and forth again, until Ronan came back downstairs, holding a tube of tooth gum gel and liquid Tylenol.

Parrish adjusted Opal again, this time holding her under legs so she was sitting up more in his arms. Ronan didn't even stop, just unscrewed the Tylenol and gave her a spoonful — she opposed a little, hiding under Adam's chin, but gave in easily enough after he shushed her again.

Parrish rocked her some more when Ronan went to the sink and washed his hands and put some of the gel on his finger.

"Come on, you little gremlin," Ronan said, calm. "You know that's going to help."

Parrish caressed her hair but she still shook her head, whimpering.

"Open up, munchkin," Ronan added.

She did, after three or so tries, and Ronan actually managed to coat her gum in the gel.

As soon as he was done, she flattered in Parrish's arms and Ronan brushed her hair again.

Opal, for most of the time, wasn't exactly a normal child — she didn't need the constant attention, could eat a lot of weird stuff without a trip to ER or could be left alone for long periods of time. She wasn't a baby, so she couldn't be anyone's baby.

But for some of the time, she was an actual child, living with Ronan and his boyfriend, being partially dependant on them. She wasn't a baby but they were parenting her.

"You could give her some ice cubes," he said because nothing else came to mind. His common sense screamed, You're nineteen, you can't parent a child together, but he said instead, "That's what mom used to do."

Ronan went to the fridge immediately.

Opal fell asleep fifteen minutes later.

After Ronan took her from Adam's hands and carried upstairs, Adam, in shortly, explained.

Opal bit something, yesterday's evening, and ruined two of her teeth, which for a creature that hadn't felt any major pain yet was traumatising. Ronan went to get a baby Tylenol and tooth gel from the closest open pharmacy while Adam stayed with her. She just fell asleep when Declan came by.

"Ronan called every dentist within twenty miles but no one had any appointments left for today," he said. "So we're taking her to the dentist tomorrow morning."

We.

Declan probably should be protesting, should be intervening, should be doing something. But somehow, he just felt proud.

Ronan was impulsive, greedy and selfish. Probably shouldn't be trusted with himself, not to mention a kid.

But he wasn't screwing up, yet, and Declan hoped he would never screw this up. Whatever this was.

[qqueenofhades]

First of all thanks so much for all your TOG history posts! I have a question specifically about the one where you explained the continuity errors with Nicky being a priest. I like your "second son of a nobleman" Nicky that you use in your fics a lot. But I also really like the idea of a lower-class Nicky; TOG already has wealthy merchant scion Joe and literal queen Andy--i love the idea that Nicky comes from humbler origins. Is there any way to make that make sense in a historical context?

I mean, pretty much anything is possible in history? If it can happen, it probably has happened at some point, and even the broad categories and generalizations that historians apply to things are never always right in all cases, even if they represent the major trends. I obviously don’t want to shoot down people’s headcanons or ideas, even and indeed especially from my soapbox of “cranky historian complains about things on the internet.” I have personally tweaked some aspects of Joe and Nicky’s backstories that I use in my fics, since I came up with DVLA before I knew anything about the comics or any bonus content that had been released about the characters. My feeling is that since a) it’s film-verse, not comics, and b) their backstories haven’t been shown on screen and may be subject to change in adaptation, I can, while engaging in transformative fanworks, create them to suit myself. I obviously keep the broad parameters of what canon establishes, but within that space, I do occasionally nip and tuck and move things around. For example in my new AU fic, I DID make Nicky a priest as in graphic-novel canon, but that’s long since changed by the time he arrives in Jerusalem. For the fics I write for them in canon-verse, I tend to use the backstory I established in DVLA, just because... well, I like it a lot, obviously, and that was what I wrote it for. This is just because I am the aforementioned cranky historian and I rearrange the toys when I am playing with them, but my interpretations don’t necessarily have to be everyone else’s.

On that note, since you did ask for some historical context/plausibility for this headcanon, it depends (again) on how much extra story you want to invent for Nicky and how many gaps you want to fill in. Which is totally fine either way! I talked in this ask about the People’s Crusade of 1096, the involvement of unarmed/unskilled commoners in the crusades more generally, and how that would have impacted on Nicky if he didn’t have any previous training in arms. Once again, as with him being a priest, him being a low-class peasant/freeman of humble status runs into some (not insurmountable, but still extant) problems with where he would have learned how to use a sword and weapons more generally. I also obviously approve of the idea of bringing some class diversity into our historical immortals, but the son of a very poor bondsman (the stereotypical peasant in a cottage or a serf working a lord’s land) is, alas, going to have gotten into trouble in his community if he is training with a sword. (Or at least definitely raised some eyebrows, as well as questions about where he got it and how he paid for it.) As I’ve mentioned, the sword is a knight’s weapon, so if Nicky has been using it at all, he has at least enough status to qualify for that.

Happily, however, there are plenty of ways to make him not be from a rich family. As late as the end of the 11th century, aka around the time of the First Crusade, knights could still be distinguished as “free” or “not free,” and since this was before the rise of chivalry as a major social force, knights and men-at-arms were often (and indeed could be throughout the medieval era) from humble families, minor gentry, or even the working class. Chivalry made knighthood into an especial aspiration for the nobility, but not every man on a battlefield was a nobleman -- far from it. Indeed, the nobleman would call up the families who owed allegiance to him, and they could call up the families who owed allegiance to them, and so on. The definition of “knight” in the pre-chivalry landscape is a little muddy; does it convey prestige or social status, or just that someone was trained in arms? Is there a difference between that and just “man at arms” or “armed man?” For instance, at the battle of Hastings in 1066, the English army under King Harold II was composed of fyrdmen, aka regular working stiffs who had been summoned from the land (and indeed, we know they were of humble status because they had to go back and help their families with the harvest after William the soon-to-be-Conqueror had still not arrived in September), and housecarls, the professional/lifelong soldiers who served in the army as a career and were paid for their service. But we don’t always have the luxury of clear terminology for the many, many kinds of armed men who existed in various social strata in the Middle Ages.

That means, therefore, that Nicky can very easily be a poor knight, a man-at-arms of humble status who has just his sword and his armor and is subject to the vassal-of-a-vassal-of-a-vassal-of-a-lord, or other armed man of unclear rank who definitely doesn’t have money or come from a rich family. Despite the unavoidably classist nature of many medieval history chronicles, the ranks of society weren’t only king, duke, earl, and nobleman. It was a patron-and-client society, and while the king was the ultimate patron, plenty of lords of middling rank or lower would have vassals who owed allegiance to them, and vassals who owed allegiance to those vassals in turn. The word feudal, which has been so misused and turned into an (incorrect) shorthand for constant petty territorial violence, basically just means this hierarchical society of mutual rights and obligations, where (unless you were the king) you both owed fealty to someone higher in rank than you and had people lower in rank who owed fealty to you. That would only end with the serf/bondsman, who wasn’t patron to anyone. But within that, there is plenty of wiggle room to make Nicky non-noble.

This would raise the question, however, of how he was going to pay for his journey to Jerusalem. Crusade financing was a perennial problem even for kings and lords with deep pockets, and the cost of a journey to the Middle East was far, far beyond most ordinary people’s ability to cover, which is why the commoners’ crusades kept ending in disaster. (That and obviously the fact that they weren’t trained in war.) When you are traveling for months and months and have to provide all your own food, shelter, arms and armor, transportation, upkeep, etc., you would either have to have a wealthy lord paying your maintenance, have substantial private financing of your own, have sold most of your property to go (which then implies that you had property to sell), made good with a religious house who had advanced you the cash, etc. We can really go down a rabbit hole here about Duke Hugh of Burgundy making a deal with Genoa in 1192 to provision King Philip and the French army on the Third Crusade. (This is helpful since it deals with Genoa, i.e. Nicky, even if not for the First Crusade.) This covered 650 French knights and their squires and came out to nine marks a knight, which is about £6, for an overall bill of 5,850 marks.

To give you an idea of how much this is in comparative terms: in 1380, a poll tax of twelve pence per person was considered so extortionate that it helped kick off the 1381 Peasants’ Revolt. And this was two hundred years later, when wages had risen and exchange rates had increased. One pound was worth 240 pence, so if twelve pence was an exaction for your average laborer, you can see that they’d get nowhere close even to one pound. A gift of £4 to William the Conqueror in 1066 was also considered a wildly high sum. And this was all on the extremely cheap end of crusading ventures. Frederick Barbarossa, who went on the Third Crusade at the same time as Philip and the French, had expenses coming close to 100,000 marks. Crusading, in other words, was wildly expensive (often ruinously so), and either Nicky would have a wealthy patron (meaning that he was somewhat closer to the top of the heap, even if below the first rank of noblemen) or money of his own or some way to finance his journey. Which again means that he has to have some kind of background that enables him to do it. The issue with the ordinary people who went on crusade (and they absolutely did, despite various attempts to forbid them as not militarily useful) is that, as noted, they weren’t trained in arms and they didn’t have money, and when you’re trying to travel from Europe to the Holy Land under 11th-century conditions, that becomes a big problem.

So yes. Basically: you can absolutely make Nicky a person of lower rank, down to a humble man-at-arms, who doesn’t have a rich family and doesn’t come from money. But if he’s going on crusade all the way to Jerusalem -- and if he’s successful at it, i.e. we’re assuming he didn’t get killed until Joe did it the first time -- then he has to have at least enough social status that he is the direct vassal of a wealthy lord or can make some financial arrangements on his own, has been able to train with a sword, knows what he’s doing with it, etc. You are obviously welcome to invent whatever details or backstory you want for him, but alas, crusading was often the provenance of knights, noblemen, and kings for brutally practical reasons, whether economic, social, military, or pragmatic. So the further you go down the social rankings, the more logistical details you’ll have to think up for him (at least if you want to be historically nitpicky, and it’s fantasy, so you frankly don’t even have to, but hey, what do you people come to me for if not historical nitpicking?) as to how he would have trained in arms, paid for his journey, been able to go on crusade in the first place, etc. So yes.

Thanks so much for this question! It was a lot of fun.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

The Buy In

Chapter 3: Puzzle Wrapped in an Enigma 

by @dracusfyre

On the way back home after the brothel closed, Bucky logged into Discord and dropped into a channel labeled only with random numbers and letters. First day of work was :thumbs up:  but there were two dudebros who tried to jam up my shit. Wish they would back off, he wrote. The channel was monitored 24/7 in case of emergency or actionable intel.

He waited as the dots danced, then his police handler wrote, that sucks. who are they?

Bucky typed the last four of Rumlow and Rollins’ badge numbers and put his phone back in his pocket. This operation was way more important than those two swinging dicks; between the video from tonight, which was going to be a PR nightmare for the department, and his request, Rumlow and Rollins better be manning a desk for the foreseeable future.

He was pulling out his keys to his apartment building when he heard a car door opening nearby. His head whipped around and his other hand was already on the pistol in the holster at the small of his back when he heard, “Whoa there Blue Eyes,” in a familiar voice. The figure that stepped out of the car held his hands up and stepped into the light.  “Hard day at the office?”

“I’ve had worse,” Bucky said warily.

“How’d everything go today?” Stark shoved his hands in his pocket and leaned against his car, the streetlight casting harsh shadows on his face.

“Fine. Didn’t KT give you a debrief?”

“Yeah, I heard his side. I wanna hear your side.”

Bucky thought about it, wondering if he should put a shine on it or be honest. “KT and Hawkeye’s play tonight was clever and would have worked perfectly against a different set of cops. But I think those two won’t give up until they get back at the person who embarrassed them. Might have made more problems than they solved.”

“Yeah?” Stark tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. “You sure about that? KT's been on the job for a few years now and thought it was a good call. It's your first day and you saw the cops for all of fifteen minutes.”

Bucky shrugged. “I’ve met guys like them before. Don't strike me as the type to know when they're beat. Best thing would be for them to be encouraged to take a long walk off a short pier.”

Stark made a thoughtful noise. “But KT explained office policy on that?”

“Yeah. Only as a last resort.” Bucky tried to sound neutral, but something of his skepticism must have bled through.

“You don’t agree?”

The note in Stark’s voice put Bucky on high alert. Higher alert, since his heart was still racing from before. “I get the logic, it’s just…different,” Bucky said. “Makes sense though. Bodies attract attention.”

“Is that the only reason you think it's a good policy?” Stark asked neutrally.

Bucky hesitated. He got the feeling there was a right and wrong answer to this and wished this conversation had happened six hours ago when he was less tired. “Killing people changes things,” he said finally - honestly - hoping he wasn’t about to touchy-feely himself out of this operation. Between the military, the police, and then undercover work with organized crime, he had been so steeped in machismo that it had become second nature – to those guys, life was one big dick measuring contest - but Stark didn’t seem to work like that. Or at least, he didn't want people to think he worked like that. “Not just changes people, but like…it sends a message to everyone else. ‘This is what a life is worth.’” Bucky took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with Stark.  “People respond to that. Makes them…mean. Hard. So if you can avoid that...” He ran a hand over the back of his neck, feeling like an idiot. He probably sounded ridiculous. “So, yeah. Anyway. Guess if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, right? Seems to be working for you.”

“We do alright,” Stark said slowly, and Bucky figured he must have said the right thing because he straightened and held out a hand for Bucky to shake. Bucky looked at it with surprise and took it, feeling acutely aware of the strength of Stark’s grip and the callouses on his palms. “Welcome aboard.”

                                               ***

Tony got back in his car as Blue Eyes continued into his building, cranking it and pulling away from the curb on autopilot. If Blue Eyes hadn’t been a cop, Tony would have told himself that he was too good to be true; as it was, Tony wondered if it was possible that the police or feds or whoever had profiled him well enough to give “Brooks” a gold plated script to work from. But it hadn’t felt like the new guy was playing him tonight; his comments had been too rambling and inarticulate to have been prepared in advance. Rhodey was going to think he was an idiot, but he really though Brooks was being honest with him tonight, which had the potential to change things.

At the first stoplight, he pulled out his phone and texted Rhodey.

I like him.

Rhodey sent a rolling eyes emoji almost immediately. Blue Eyes?

Yeah I want to keep him. he’s wasted as a cop.

The three dots must have started and stopped a dozen times; Tony was almost back to his own place when he finally got a response. You’re playing with fire.

Tony smirked. I know, he wrote back. It’s what I do.

Yeah, but this time, if you get burnt, we all do. Tony pulled into his private garage and turned off the car, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. Rhodey was right. As much as he was intrigued by Blue Eyes, he couldn’t put his people at risk by tugging on that thread. “Dammit,” he said out loud, scowling as he got out of the car. “Ten years ago I wouldn't have thought twice.”

                                             ***

A few weeks into the operation Bucky and KT were making the rounds, checking in with the businesses and people on their beat, and Bucky was suddenly struck by two things: one, just how much this gig felt like being a street cop, walking the sidewalks just observing the neighborhood; and two, how no one was ever this happy to see him when he was a street cop. People saw KT and more often than not, they were smiling, chatty about business and local gossip. Most of them greeted Bucky (“Oh, this must be Blue Eyes,” which had yet to stop making Bucky’s ears burn) and were happy to introduce themselves. The ones that weren’t smiling were the ones that had something to complain about: permit not going through, shipment delayed, broken equipment that insurance wasn’t paying out for. KT took notes, nodded and commiserated, and when they left almost everyone looked at least mollified, if not cheered.

“You know, for us playing the bag men today, we sure aren’t picking up any money,” Bucky commented. A couple of times KT had taken a store owner to the side and Bucky, straining his ears, heard something about loans; these people always had the look of someone explaining why they couldn’t pay but it wasn’t their fault, honest. Like everything else, KT made notes and listened politely.

“That’s not what we’re doing,” KT said. “This is check in. We do it every two weeks or so. Money stuff is all handled online.”

“Yeah?” Bucky knew for a fact that the FBI had been working with the Treasury to trace Stark’s money, and, failing to find any signs of dirty money or money laundering, had concluded he must be operating with cash only.

“Yeah. Boss didn’t want to tempt anyone or make them a target.” That was smart, Bucky reflected. Ripping off other gangs was an art form in organized crime. Still, he had to wonder how Stark kept the money transfers so well hidden from the best financial analysts in the US government.

“No targets except his accountant,” Bucky joked, fishing for info. “Like with Al Capone.”

KT just shrugged at that, like he didn’t know and didn’t care, so Bucky left it alone. “So what do we do with that stuff?” Bucky said, gesturing at the notebook KT had been writing in all morning.

“We take care of it.” He took the notebook out and flipped through it. “Not too much stuff this time.”

Bucky turned that over in his head. “So under the Mechanic, fixers actually…fix things,” he said. “You’re really going to call a shipping company and an insurance office and everything?”

“Yep. Well, we are.”

Made sense; if businesses were paying Stark for protection, he could also throw in other services to sweeten the pot and keep people from rolling on him. Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets and was lost in thought while he mostly followed KT around the neighborhood. Granted he’d only been here for less than a week, but so far nothing was adding up to what he’d read in the case files on Stark and his organization. It was making him uneasy. He’d come here with a picture in his head, and a goal of filling in the holes so they could make a case against an organized crime boss; but now he was increasingly realizing that something was wrong with the picture. So when KT told him one night that they had the next two days off, Bucky sent another message on the Discord channel and when he got a confirmation, he went to the New York Library, the big one with the stone lions and millions of tourists. He went to the adult services desk and asked for a laptop. The librarian studied his ID, went to a safe, and handed him a laptop from inside. Bucky found a study carrell in a quiet spot and logged on with an 8 character name and 16 character password, established and memorized before he’d started this operation, and opened up the case files on Stark.

Scrolling through, Bucky felt some of his disquiet ease as he re-read the laundry list of crimes Stark was reportedly involved in: racketeering, tax fraud, illegal gambling, high-end car theft. Armed obberies; he opened up the file on robberies and realized with morbid amusement that even while Stark protected his own people from being targeted, he had no problem targeting bagmen from other gangs, making off with hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time. Tax fraud, obviously; if Tony was hiding all of his income from the FBI, he was definitely hiding it from the IRS. Though as he opened up Stark’s tax statements, gotten from a subpoena to the IRS, and noticed that the document for just one year was hundreds of pages long, Bucky reflected that a good accountant could hide a lot of money in his legitimate businesses and all the assets that Stark had inherited from his parents.

At the back of the file was sex trafficking, which was based on a handful of reports that said that prostitutes were disappearing from other parts of the city and showing up working for Stark. Bucky put a note next to that one recommending the line of investigation be dropped. After spending hours and hours at the brothel chatting to the Widow and the ladies there, waiting to see if Rumlow returned, he knew none of the men or women there were being forced to stay, not even for lack of other work. Widow recruited from all around the city, helping people get out of the business if they wanted to and offering others a chance to work for her. Turns out, most of that building was devoted to the people who worked in the brothel: everyone got their own apartment, which was separate from the suites they entertained clients, and there was an in-house doctor and even childcare in the basement. All the money went straight back to the sex workers, except for this mysterious buy-in that no one had explained yet, and they were using it for a bewildering array of side projects that the women were more than happy to talk about during their down time.

After a few hours, which included writing up his reports from the past few weeks of working for Stark, Bucky sat back and closed the laptop. It was his first month, he reminded himself. No one was going to let him close to the real work of the organization after just a few weeks. He sent another message to his handler on Discord, and when he got a confirmation back, he stood up and walked away from the carrell; when he was about twenty feet away, he saw his police contact, dressed like a soccer mom, come by and spirit the laptop away.

His next stop was the gym; by the time he was done, shirt soaked wet with sweat and muscles aching, his head felt clearer.  He didn’t know why Stark was trying so hard to seem like a good guy, but if Bucky was patient enough he’d scrape past all the pseudo-philanthropy and get to the real man underneath. Stark wasn’t the first guy to be handsome and charming and charismatic while hiding a dark side.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Light Fingers (The Umbrella Academy)

Diego’s vigilantism brings him repeatedly across the path of a young cat burglar. But as he finds himself developing feelings for the thief, he begins to wonder if there’s more to her than meets the eye, and whether they’re really on opposite sides. And as their relationship deepens, it brings with it a plot involving his estranged adopted father, and threatens to destroy all of them.

CHAPTER 6: LAID BARE

Word Count: 4970 Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x Reader Rating: M Content Warnings: childhood poverty, discussion of theft/thievery, discussion of death, discussion of childhood illness Cross-posted to AO3: here

Previous Chapter: Revelations || Masterlist

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Your eyes traced the flicker of headlights through the narrow half-window as you tried to gather your thoughts into some sort of sense. You wanted to tell him everything. But what did that even mean anymore?

“So what is it you want to talk about?” Diego asked finally, cutting through the waiting silence. 

“Actually,” you looked down at your fingers where they rested on the tabletop, tracing anxious shapes against the laminate. “I know a lot more about you, by virtue of your very public childhood, than you know about me. Which I think, is part of the problem here. So the better question is, where do you want to start?”

“Alright,” he was silent for a moment, jaw twitching as if he was working the words over in his mouth before he said them. “Why do you get so defensive when I say you could do more with your powers, and your skills?”

“Because it’s judgmental, it relies on untrue assumptions, and I don’t like having other people’s will imposed on me,” you explained, face twisting wryly.

“Tell me the truth then.”

“What?”

“If my assumptions aren’t true, set the record straight.”

“You aren’t going to like what I have to say.”

“Now who’s the one making assumptions?”

You sighed. “It’s a long story, especially if I start at the beginning. So you might want to make yourself comfortable.”

He shifted in the hard plastic chair across from you, leaning back with his arms folded across his chest, waiting expectantly.

“Your ‘father’ tried to buy me too, when we were babies,” you couldn’t help throwing air quotes around the word and he smiled at the gesture. “But my parents were stable. They both had jobs; they already had one child and were thinking about trying for another anyway. So they said no. And then my dad died, in a workplace accident, because his boss cut corners to save time and money, and things got hard. And the bastard never got punished for it, or even had the decency to pay for the funeral.”

He looked like he was going to say something, some comment of pity or sympathy and you held up a hand to stop him, knowing that if he did, you would fall apart and never finish telling him what he needed to know, what you needed him to know.

“Your dad showed up again, offered her literal millions to let him have me. At least twice that I know of, but there could have been more. But she was as stubborn as they come. I was her daughter and he wasn’t getting me over her dead body. But a florist’s salary really isn’t enough to raise two kids on. Eventually, I realized that my abilities were things no one else could do, and figured out that I could use them to get things. So when money was skint, Daniel and I could still eat properly; rice and beans can only get a kid so far you know. Or we could have clothes that fit and didn’t have holes without bothering her.”

You shrugged, looking away from the growing ache on his face to stare at some spot on the wall. It had just been the facts of your reality. 

“And then I found that bigger risks meant bigger rewards. I could give her money or things, nice things like she deserved. She would cry and get so mad at me, but she always took them and life seemed to get better.”

“Y/N….” he reached out across the table to take one of your hands, which you hadn’t noticed was getting more and more fidgety as you spoke. 

“I grew up. I realized it wasn’t just us. I figured out how to take care of myself, got a job that let me keep a roof over my head and food in the cupboard. Daniel had his own shit figured out, so I didn’t have to worry about anyone else. But all those other people needed someone to look out for them. And if the people I happen to take things from are the kind that exploit their workers or cheat their taxes instead of paying their fair share, who…cut corners and skimp on safety, who’s it hurting?”

You finally turned your eyes back to him, a challenge sparking in them to tell you that you were wrong.

“So it’s what? Karma with you as it’s righteous deliverer?” He asked.

You pursed your lips. He still wasn’t getting it. 

“Even with what I take, those people have more than they need. And now, kids get proper care; families don’t have to decide between going hungry and getting the lights turned off.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to put it any simpler than that.”

He frowned. “I don’t...get it. I’m sorry, I’m trying to understand but…”

“Okay, how about an example then. When I stole from that museum, you know the one…”

He smirked at the memory.

“There was this kid. Rare terminal something, something. I don’t remember the details of it. Just that I was able to anonymously pay for the experimental treatment that he needed and he got to live to see twelve. His foster parents and the social worker didn’t have to worry about going bankrupt or applying to the state and praying they’d get funds. And all it cost was one less shiny rock, that some exploited worker probably died to fish out of the ground, wasting space on display.”

“You know,” he said off-handedly as if it wasn’t an obvious attempt to deflect, “the kinds of people that can afford to buy those things aren’t any better than the people you’re stealing from. In fact, they’re probably worse if they’re willing to buy from a fence.”

You rolled your eyes. “So? I’ll just rob them blind to fund a school or whatever later.”

“There’s got to be a better way,” he sighed. “One that isn’t criminal.”

“You find it for me then, Diego,” you snapped. “I’m doing the best I can to help as many people as possible with what I’ve got. And sure maybe there’s a little bit of a revenge angle but who cares? Every one of those assholes deserves it.” 

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, certain that you were losing him, that even after you had ripped your chest open and exposed your bleeding heart for the taking, he was going to ask for you to choose between him and your morals, your passions, things that made up the very fiber of your being.

He stood up, circling the table to kneel in front of you again. His hands came up to cup your face and he brushed away the moisture that leaked down your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“Okay,” he said softly, eyes boring into yours. 

 “Okay? What does that mean, ‘okay’?”

“I still don’t like it,” he started and you growled in frustration before he stared you down. “But...I understand. And I’ll try to stop fighting you on it, judging you for it.”

“Do you actually?” you asked.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he pulled back, not moving away completely, but enough that his hands were no longer on you and you felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“I don’t know. It’s just this feeling I have. Like I can say whatever I want and tell you my life story in every explicit detail, but…I’m scared that you’re just saying those things to placate me. And that doubt is going to eat me alive.”

“What do you want me to do then, Y/N?”

“Work with me?” you suggested.

“I’m trying,” he countered, frustration leaching into his tone now. 

“No. I mean….Work one job with me, start to finish. Let me show you.”

“You want me to help you steal something?”

“Steal it. Sell it. Put it to good use. Together, as a team, the whole way through.”

“I…” he swallowed before nodding. “Alright.”

Plowing onward, not even registering his answer, you rambled, explaining that you weren’t expecting him to give up being a vigilante or go rogue and that if at any point he wanted out you’d let him, that you would even let him turn you over to the cops, as long as it wasn’t Eudora, if that was what he wanted, you just couldn’t take the doubt anymore. And then your mind caught up to reality and came to a screeching halt.

“Wait, really?” you asked incredulously. 

You had been expecting him not only to say no, but to get angry at the suggestion, bracing yourself for the inevitable complete rejection of it, maybe even of you, and trying to counter it preemptively.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “If you come with me for a night in return. Try things my way too. I…I want there to be an us, and if this is what it takes for there to even be a chance of that, I’m willing to do it.”

You stared, stunned.

“Sounds like a fair trade,” you murmured eventually. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about…this…” you gestured between the two of you, indicating what you meant.

“Of course I do, I l—“ he cut himself off, looking away with a clenched jaw, nervous tension practically vibrating his whole body.

“One other thing?” you said, biting your lip.

“What?”

“We’re both terrible at communication, and trust,” you observed. “I don’t want it to be like that anymore.”

He caressed your cheek once more, smiling softly. “I’ll try to be better if you will.”

You leaned in. “Deal.”

He closed the last gap of centimeters between you, pressing his lips to yours. You slowly sat back up, guiding him into a position hovering over you in the chair as his mouth chased where yours led, refusing to be parted from you. His tongue trailed hesitantly over your bottom lip, and you parted eagerly for him, losing yourself for a blissful moment in the kiss. 

“What time is it?” you mumbled reluctantly between kisses. 

“Why does it matter?” he countered, trying to shift you into a position more comfortable for you both.

“I have work. And you have streets to patrol. Although I know that’s far less exciting without your ravishing nemesis about,” you teased, breaking the kiss completely now.

“Mm...ravishing…” he muttered, eyes closed and face dazed. “I’d like that.”

You laughed. “You weren’t listening at all were you?”

He shook himself, blushing slightly as he opened his eyes to look at you.

“I appreciate your careful nursing, and this talk was...good, necessary, important. I don’t know. But I really do have to go.”

He sighed, sulking. “I know. Fine. I...I’ll see you later?”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you smirked. “Maybe we can revisit the whole, ravishing idea.”

~

Several days later, Diego came over to your apartment. You had suggested it under the guise of, at least partially true, a need to start planning for your heist together. But really, you just wanted to see him again, to spend some time with him now that there was, properly, something between you. 

Your stomach twisted nervously in anticipation, realizing that this was another big step, one quickly after the other, letting him into your home. It had always been your safe place to hide, your sanctum, and you were disrupting that with a new presence. 

But, you reminded yourself, he wasn’t the first (though the total number was incredibly small), and he had already let you into his, even so far as to let you stay there. And you trusted him. More than anyone, save maybe your brother. So it wouldn’t be so bad. 

You were just putting the finishing touches on the pot of cheesy mashed potatoes you had made when the intercom buzzed, indicating someone was at the building’s outer door and wanted to be let in. You hastily crossed the room to press the unlock button and the talk button at the same time.

“It’s open,” you called through the speaker.

There was no response but you heard the odd echo of the door opening and shutting and clicked off the box. A few moments later, someone knocked on your door. Despite knowing there was only one person it could be, you stood on your toes to look through the little peephole before sliding the chain aside and letting Diego in.

“Do you always just unlock your door for strangers?” he asked.

“Hmmm, no. Only the tall, dark and handsome ones.” 

You threaded your arms around his neck to greet him with a quick kiss, shaking your head and laughing when he responded with a hand on your backside.

“Something smells amazing,” he said as you pulled away and returned to the stove to finish the rest of dinner.

“Well, I figured since you were coming over, and our little...project was probably going to take a while, I should make food.” You shrugged, placing two steaming plates on your coffee table and gesturing for him to come sit beside you on the couch. “It’s not Michelin star or anything…”

He shoveled up a bite of the garlic-roasted vegetables and groaned in satisfaction.

“It’s perfect,” he countered around the mouthful.

“You eat raw eggs, so I think the bar’s pretty low,” you countered jokingly, "but thank you.”

~

After you had eaten and cleaned up from dinner, you decided it was time to get down to business. You led him over to one corner of the broad, open space that served as your ‘office’ of sorts, drawing the thick curtains shut as you passed, just in case any of the neighbors were out smoking on the fire escape tonight. 

“So, you said, planting your hands on the work table dramatically and looking across to him. “Any initial thoughts?”

His eyes grew wide, like a panicked deer. He opened his mouth and then closed it again several times, but no words came out.

“Relax,” you said, smiling reassuringly, eyes sparkling. “It’s not like I expected you to do any homework. It was just a question. I have a few ideas, but we’re supposed to be partners, so I didn’t want to launch into them without giving you a shot first.”

‘Partners.’ He thought he liked the sound of that, but he still found himself wishing it was doing what he was used to, instead of this. It felt wrong, like he was going against everything he’d been taught. But then, he supposed he had been taught by a man so rigid and set in his ways that he would never have even considered that there might be other options. And the last thing he wanted to do was be like Reginald Hargreeves. Besides, it was a one for one deal, and there was still a chance to change your mind.

He smiled at you. “You lead, I’ll follow. For this one.”

“I like the sound of that,” you muttered, smiling back, before settling back into a more serious mode.

“Some oil tycoon’s private collection is being temporarily hosted and displayed at the art museum. It’s a pretty soft target at night, easy to get in and out. Shockingly minimal security in general, and paintings are easy to move,” you offered. 

Diego nodded vaguely, wanting to hear everything you set out before agreeing to anything.

“Or, there’s another place I’ve been staking out for a while. A warehouse. Owned by D.S. Umbrella Manufacturing Co. Nothing to do with actual umbrellas, or manufacturing from what I can tell.”

Diego flinched, but you didn’t notice, having turned around to pull out a file of information you had been gathering. 

“It’s all shipping and receiving. Mostly receiving. Some stuff I think is probably stolen antiques; I think I saw a couple guys opening crates of straight cash at one point, and there’s definitely stuff labeled with shit like ‘caution: explosive’ which usually means weapons or some kind of chemicals and either way is bad news. Those don’t stay in the warehouse long, and I don’t tend to mess with that shit anyway…” you trailed off, noticing Diego’s strange expression. “What? Why are you staring?”

“That…that’s my father’s company.”

“Wait what? Really?” you couldn’t help the shock on your face. 

You knew that Hargreeves was a very rich man but somehow it had never occurred to you that he might actually own anything, other than the massive Academy. And you supposed in theory the seven babies he had bought. You bit the inside of your cheek to distract yourself, cutting off that train of thought before it went to dark places.

“Do you know what specifically he’s got there?” you asked hopefully.

“No. I...sorry I don’t.”

“Nah, that’s alright. And you’re sure it’s his? Not just a similar name or coincidence?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s definitely Dad’s company.”

“All the better then,” you smiled wolfishly, all teeth. “Vengeance and helping people. If you want? I mean, I’m not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. We could always hit the museum. Or start listing some other options...”

He hesitated a moment. Then he nodded resolutely. “Let’s do it.”

You grinned. Maybe this would turn out even better than you’d hoped. 

~

The two of you spent the next several hours working out the details of your plan, pouring over warehouse blueprints (that he didn’t ask where you’d gotten them from) and road maps, talking entry and exit strategies, rendezvous points, likely potential pitfalls, including the possibility that Hargreeves would send in his brother, Number One to try and stop you if he got wind of the break-in. Diego assured you that he was prepared to fight Luther if it came to it, and you frowned, heart clenching at his cold acquiescence to the idea. 

Exhausted, heads drooping and necks and shoulders aching, you finally decided to call it quits for the night. There was still more to go over, but you had time, and tonight you weren’t going to get anywhere useful with the fog that was settling into your minds. 

“I guess I should go,” he murmured as you both turned toward the door.

“Do you want to?” your face felt hot with a blush and you looked away from him as you asked. 

“What else would I do?” he stepped in front of you, turning your head to look at him again. 

You knew that he knew what you were offering, but he wanted to hear you say it anyway, to make sure the invitation was explicitly there. God, just when you thought he couldn’t get more perfect, he went and did a thing like that. 

You bit your lip, the words feeling heavy in your throat, every nerve suddenly hyper-aware.

“You could stay?” you offered, tilting your head slightly to one side. 

He cocked an eyebrow.

“I mean, I spent a week freeloading off you at your place. The least I can do is offer tonight, especially with how late it’s gotten. It’s dangerous out in the city alone at night you know.” You chuckled, trying to break the tension that crackled between you.

“Y/N…”

“It’s a really nice couch to sleep on,” you continued nervously. “I’ve fallen asleep on it before, pretty often actually when I come home and I’m just too tired. Or if I’m watching a movie or something.”

“Is that what you want?” his voice was soft and he was so close that his breath ghosted over your face.

“Is what?”

“For me to stay, and sleep on your couch?” He made sure you were making complete eye-contact with him, voice serious. “Be honest, and don’t just say something out of feeling like you’re obligated.”

“It’s not an obligation, Diego,” you assured him, hand cupping his face in counterpoint to the one he still had resting on your face. “I want you to stay.”

“On the couch?”

You shook your head. “Not unless you want to sleep on the couch.”

He opened his mouth to ask again if you were sure, to try and get you to say instead of dance around the invitation you were making. You rolled your eyes, kissing him fiercely. 

“Christ Diego,” you groaned against his lips. “I am trying to say I want you, as much of you as you’re willing to let me have.”

That seemed to finally be good enough for him, as he kissed you back with just as much ferocity as you had used. Your lips parted eagerly before he'd even had the chance to act, and your tongues danced together. The hand you had on his cheek slid back to grasp his short-cropped hair, raking your nails across his scalp in a way that made him shiver. Your other gripped tightly to his shoulder to hold yourself steady. He continued to cup your face, his thumb running slowly back and forth over your cheekbone in tender circles, his other arm wrapping around you to hold you close to him. 

Carefully, without breaking contact between you, you led him in a sort of dance, crossing the apartment, circling the edge of the dividing screens that formed your bed“room”, stepping over laundry piles, and finally tumbling backward onto the already rumpled sheets. 

Pulling back to give you both a moment to breathe, Diego shifted, taking off his boots and socks. He bit his lip, staring down at you, your hair splayed around you like a halo, lips reddened from his kisses, skin practically glowing in the dim light (or was that just you?). 

“What?” you asked teasingly. “Have I got something on my face?”

“You’re just…” he found himself at a loss for words, every one he could come up with seeming insufficient.

“Beautiful,” he finally breathed, brushing a finger reverently across your cheek once more, continuing on to trace up your temple before threading back, into your hair. 

“Diego,” you sighed, reaching again to draw him close, needy and wanting. 

He leaned down, tugging lightly on your hair, to expose your neck, placing teasing kisses along the column of your throat. You pressed your lips together to stifle a moan as his teeth grazed over the sensitive skin of your pulse point. You felt him smirk against your skin and had only a few seconds before he redoubled his efforts, biting down harder on the same spot and causing you to cry out. He glided his tongue over the mark he made and his free hand trailed over your stomach, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, shockingly cold against your heated skin. You gasped at the contact, melting into his touch and moving like a marionette for him as he released your hair and lifted your arms above your head to pull the offending garment off, tossing it aside. You thought you heard the clatter of something being knocked over by it, but you couldn’t be bothered to care as his lips reconnected with your own. 

The next kiss was languid and tender, his arms pulling you close, yours curling around his shoulders, fingers dancing mindless patterns over his bicep. You tugged unceremoniously at his own shirt which he was quick to shuck off. A shiver ran through you at the feel of his skin on yours.

His lips continued their journey downward and you arched into him as they found the swell of your breast. You couldn’t help the whine that slipped out of you, hand dropping from where you clung to him to clutch the sheets beside you as he sucked an obvious mark there, just above the line of your bra. 

Your chest heaved as you struggled to regain your breath or senses when he suddenly withdrew. Your face flushed hotly as you caught his eye and he flashed you a wink, swiftly kicking off his pants. He crawled back up the mattress to you and you pulled him into another kiss, your tongues tangling together almost immediately, as if you were made for it. 

As his hand slipped down to your waistband, deftly undoing the button there, you couldn’t help trembling under his touch, gasping when he slipped inside to run teasing fingers over the soft cotton of your panties. 

Suddenly, the reality of what was happening crashed over you like an icy wave and you felt like you were suffocating. It was too much. Everything was too much.

Planting your hands firmly, you pushed his shoulders to put some space between you.

“Diego, wait,” you said softly.

Immediately he froze. Seconds ticked by, somehow agonizingly slowly and impossibly fast all at once, before he moved again, drawing his hand away and shifting his weight off of you completely. He locked eyes with yours, fear and misery staining his face as you both sat up. You reached for him, and he flinched away. You let your hand drop.

“I-I’mmmm,” his breath hitched painfully and he closed his eyes. “I’mm s-sorry.”

“Diego,” you sighed. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Why would you think…”

Your brow creased in confusion and distress that he was so upset.

“I...w-ww-went too far o-or hurt you or…”

You couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that slipped out. 

“No you didn’t. You have been nothing but good to me, and you’ve done nothing that I didn’t absolutely want you to do. I’m just...not sure I’m ready to take things any further. Not tonight at least. Let’s just take it slow, okay?”

He nodded, finally opening his eyes, looking down at you again and letting you brush a light caress against his face. There was still some hesitation, like he didn’t quite believe that you weren’t hurt or upset, so you curled your fingers against the corner of his jaw, pulling him to meet you. Your lips moved slowly against his, watching carefully for any sign that he wanted to withdraw.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, if anything,” you said reluctantly.

“What?” his eyebrows knitted in confusion. “What for?”

“Leading you on?” you said, stating what you thought was obvious. 

He pressed his forehead to yours tenderly. “Sure, if you had done that.”

“I did. I mean what else would you call inviting you to stay the night like this and then...not following through…” you bit your lip, trying to look away from his earnest gaze.

“Y/N,” he said seriously. “Setting a boundary, or changing your mind, is not the same thing as leading me on.”

“But--”

He sighed heavily, the sound cutting you short.

“I’d be lying if I said there’s not a little disappointment. But you’re more important to me than sex. And I don’t want to do anything that you’re not comfortable with, that you don’t want just as much.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, relief and love mingling with embarrassment and guilt, no matter what he said. 

“I’d have even been fine if you really had, or do, ask me to sleep on the couch, Y/N.” He brushed away a stray tear that rolled down toward your chin. “As long as I still have you, in my life.”

“You only have to move to the couch if you want to,” you said, trying to fight down the small smile that threatened to break out on your face. “I’d like it if you stayed. We could maybe keep kissing? Or just, sleep together? Actual sleep…”

He chuckled. “Sleep sounds pretty nice. It is late. And I can’t remember the last time I got a full night.”

“Well in that case, make yourself comfortable,” you laughed, awkwardly extracting an arm to gesture at the rest of the bed. 

Diego returned the laugh and flopped over to the side, stretching out on his back as he settled in for sleep. Briefly he marveled at the softness of the way the mattress sank around him. It was like sleeping on a cloud compared to his lumpy old thing.

His eyes followed you as you moved around the space, shimmying out of your jeans and trading your bra for an overstretched and faded t-shirt, stamped with some university logo. He watched one hand reach behind you to quickly undo the clasp, the two sides practically springing away from each other when you did. You slid the garment off and for a brief moment you were naked, or nearly so - the soft smooth expanse of your skin even from behind making his pulse race with desire again - before you pulled the soft fabric down over your head, the hem trailing across the tops of your thighs, and hid yourself from view again.

You quickly flicked off the lights throughout the little studio apartment.

Any lingering thought, any regret that all he'd gotten was that brief peek, was immediately wiped from his mind as you padded back over to the bed and crawled into it with him. Curling up in almost a ball, you tucked yourself into the hollow of his side, head brushing against his arm as you nestled further down into the bedding, trying to get as comfortable as possible. You breathed in deeply, the scent of him - sharp and spicy and mingled with leather and the cleaning oil he used on his knives, so oft exposed that they had become a natural part of his smell - filling your lungs and spirit with comfort. 

“Goodnight Diego,” you whispered, breath tickling his skin.

He brought his arm down, drawing you closer against him.

“Goodnight.”

You brushed your lips across his cheek in a fleeting kiss that he thought he might have imagined before settling back in your original position. He smiled, the feeling of your warmth lulling him into the best sleep he’d had in ages.

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

@mysterydisposition I think you said that you wanted to be tagged in new chapters?

[handeaux]

Green Beer Came Later: Cincinnati’s Original, Old-Time, Irish Saloons

So ubiquitous are the photographs of mustachioed men, feet up on the brass rail, plug hats screwed firmly upon their noggins, that you might be forgiven if you concluded that all Queen City saloons were identical. This is not the case.

For evidence, let us turn to a meeting of the General Protective Association of Saloon-Keepers convened on Tuesday, 24 April 1883, to discuss a new state law taxing dispensaries of alcoholic potations. Although the meeting convened at a German hall, the president, J.J. Abbihl, introduced the agenda in English. According to the next day’s Commercial Tribune:

“As Mr. Abbihl spoke in the English language, Mr. Albert Springer made a motion that the German language be used in the discussion, but it was agreed to make the explanations in English on account of the importance of the meeting.”

Although the German beer garden holds a sacred place in the gilded memories of Cincinnati, a fair number of local pubs were helmed by Irish and American barkeeps. Any discussion of group meetings involving saloon keepers is clear to distinguish between “German saloon keepers” and “American and Irish saloon keepers.” (Of course, in their segregated neighborhoods, there were also Black saloon-keepers, but they were not allowed to join the protective associations.)

In general, the Irish saloons hewed closer to the river, and you can see this among the watering holes listed in the city directories. You find O’Brien’s at Third & Ludlow, O’Herron’s at Plum & Ann, McCoy’s on Front Street, McSweeney’s at the southern end of John and Connor’s way down on Central.

While the Germans colonized Over-the-Rhine, that was not always the case. The WPA Guide to Cincinnati relates that O’Bryonville, with its Irish namesake but early nickname as “Dutchtown,” accommodated Germans and Irish in (not always happy) comity:

“Thenceforth the name Dutchtown also was applied to the community, and many arguments were started over the bars between Irish and German customers who were constantly striving for social supremacy in the little community.”

This distinction was underlined in 1877 when saloon-keepers throughout the city gathered to pressure Cincinnati’s brewers into maintaining standard prices. Throughout Cincinnati, you paid 5 cents for a tall glass of beer, except in a few disreputable dives where suds were dispensed at two glasses for a nickel. The saloon-keepers realized that there was only one way the dives could afford two beers at that price – some brewery was selling stock at a discount. In those confrontations, the German saloonists met at one location and the Irish and American barkeeps met at another. Although they endorsed the viewpoint of the German proprietors, the Irish and Americans elected their own delegation to confront the brewers.

It is clear, from newspaper coverage that the menus differed between German saloons and American and Irish saloons.  William C. Smith, in his wonderful little book, “Queen City Yesterdays: Sketches of Cincinnati In The Eighties,” makes a distinction between the beer-centered German establishments and the Irish and America saloons that purveyed mostly the harder stuff. Smith avers there ought to be a strict differentiation between beer saloons and what he calls “boozing kens.” His description offers a physiological excuse for Irish and American drinking patterns:

“On a shelf next to the wall various brands of liquor were in evidence, some labeled and others in plain bottles, the quality of the latter known only to God and the proprietor. These emporiums were patronized by the Irish and American inhabitants who believed their stomachs to be lined with a substance that beer might corrode, whereas whiskey apparently acted only as a preservative and polishing agent.”

That distinction is fortified by a joke that, according to the Cincinnati Enquirer [23 September 1917], was so old it caused Cain to slay Abel:

“An Irish saloon keeper hired a new bartender. A man came in and got a drink of whisky and then said: ‘I’ll pay for this Saturday. My name is Murphy. The boss knows me.’

“’Wait and I’ll ask the boss,’ said the bartender. ‘Oh. boss,’ yelled the bartender up the stairs. ‘Is Murphy good for a drink?’

“’Has he had it?’ asked the boss.

“’He has,’ replied the bartender.

“’He is,’ replied the boss.”

It is not the case that all Irish and American saloons sold whiskey exclusively. Perhaps the premier Irish saloon in Cincinnati was Andy Gilligan’s Café on Vine Street directly opposite the Enquirer building between Sixth and Seventh streets. For nearly thirty years, Gilligan was famous for his luxurious beard, extending from his chin to his belt buckle. On warm days he was a living Vine Street landmark, basking in the afternoon sun as he stood outside his café enjoying a good 15-cent cigar. Gilligan ran book on local prizefights, but the cops usually looked the other way. He was known as an easy touch for actors down on their luck and a frequent host to heavy-weight champ (and prodigious drinker) John L. Sullivan. Despite his largesse, Gilligan left an estate worth a respectable $75,000 in 1905 dollars. Decades after his death, the Cincinnati Post printed a remembrance:

“Do you remember when no St. Patrick’s Day was complete without a peek at Colonel Andy Gilligan and his long whiskers resting on a great green sash in the Hibernians’ annual March 17 parade?”

During World War I, as Prohibition loomed, evidence accumulated that all of Cincinnati’s saloon-keepers were in the same, sinking, boat. As anti-German hysteria swept the city, nationalist firebrands were quick to point out Irish saloons catering to a German clientele. According to the Cincinnati Post [14 September 1917]:

“James J. Dolan runs a saloon at Richmond-st. and Central-av., which he calls ‘Zum Guten Happen.’ Now that German has nearly been put out of the schools, somebody, no doubt, will start a movement to put it out of Irish saloons.”

A similar situation obtained at an Oakley saloon managed by Patrick J. McHugh, called “Auf Wiedersehen.”

No discussion of Irish saloons can conclude without a mention of green beer. Now, before 1917, “green beer” meant improperly aged suds. A 1908 Wiedemann advertisement advised against drinking green beer because “it has practically no flavor and will cause biliousness.”

As for the annual emerald-hued St. Patrick’s Day quaff, blame the Elks. In 1917, in honor of the patron saint of Ireland, Cincinnati’s Elks lodges consumed green beer in abundant quantities. According to the Cincinnati Post, the verdant libation was concocted by a German brewer.

[hanadolphieron]

WE HIT 200 EVERYBODY!!!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 200 FOLLOWERS!!! I LOVE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU!!!!!

and you guys know what i promised whenever i reached this milestone...

MY EIGHTH GRADE STORY ABOUT A MONGOOSE!

it’s not 2.6k words what are you talking about

@sarahbkwl i know you’ll love this and @kaepopsicle i think you will too <3

The Demonic Mongoose of the Wild West

Bert the Bird, the demonic mongoose of the Wild West, roamed through the underbrush, searching for ants to eat. A tumbleweed ran across the bland terrain, hit Bert up the side of the head, and sent him flying. After a few long seconds, Bert slapped the ground with a resounding squeal. A big thwack echoed across the desert. A frog ribbeted. Bert sneezed.  

Unfazed, Bert continued his search for ants. He sniffled and snuffled along the ground, dancing to a nonexistent tune. His overly small paws bounced in rhythm, doing kicks so high they would give the Rockettes a run for their money. A few stumbles added variety to the dance. Completely calculated, I assure you.  

After a while, Bert forgot what he was doing and decided to head into town. The ants were spared another day. The saloon was not. Bert the Bird threw his whole body weight into the doors of the tavern, a meager attempt at forcing them open. The doors unsurprisingly didn’t budge, as the demonic mongoose only weighs half a gallon. Luckily, a cowboy-hatted, blue-jeaned, spur-wearing, collared-shirted and dusty faced yeehaw man came strutting through the doors.  

Bert the Bird took his chance and scrambled after the male yeehaw. He stopped, waiting for the perfect time to reveal his identity. Everyone in the saloon was peacefully (except for the two hoodlums brawling in the corner) engulfing liquid bread.  

Letting out an astounding yowl, Bert the Bird silenced the room. Heads turned, watching as Bert stood there, threatening them with his not-so-mere existence.

“Is it really him?”

“Don’t shoot- I got two kids!”

“Big Ol’ Bert Bird!”

“It’s the demonic mongoose!”

Whispers, gasps, yells, and one nervous bark filled the room. The mongoose smirked to himself.

Bert mobilized. Moving south, the mongoose headed towards the snake in the corner. His reptilian lawyer, who was currently playing cards with a yeehaw female, hissed in greeting.  

Bert squeaked out a snarl. The room gasped as he continued advancing towards the vertebrate.  

“Where are your federal income taxes, Bert?” the snake wheezed (she’s old.)

“Don’t have job,” Bert replies, edging closer.

“Oh yes you do, you’re tasked with eliminating my kin, aren’t you?”

“Huh.”  

Desktop App (the snake) sighs. Bert remains confused at the word choice beyond his vocabulary (he barely managed to graduate Childhood.)

“You,” she motioned to Bert, “Fight,” she imitated punching using her tail, “Snake,” she slithers.

“No.”

“Bert, fighting snakes is your entire livelihood, you can’t deny it.”

“No!” yells Bert, as he jumps in for the kill, attacking Desktop App’s neck. He misses and consumes a mouthful of table leg.

Desktop App lunges for Bert but doesn’t manage to take a chunk out of his arm as intended.  

Instead, she falls to the floor as Bert stumbles out of the way on accident after his head h                                                                                 hit the table and he careened into the floorboards, away from Desktop App.

Hissing, the reptile flops back around to face the mongoose, but Bert is already gone. He has seemingly vanished, but if you had looked closer, you would have seen a small, fluffy tail disappearing around the corner.  

Panting, Bert bounds across the rough terrain. His stubby legs aren’t used to moving at such accelerated speeds, and collapse after a few minutes. However, he’s far enough away from the town that he can’t see the outline of it. Belly heaving on the floor, limbs splayed out around him, head resting on the ground- Bert takes a cat nap.

He wakes up three hours later. Squeaking and jumping up, Bert continues to run. He has no idea what he’s doing or what he’s escaping, but he vaguely remembers that something dangerous was about to happen. To let loose his panic, the poor mongoose screams repetitively.

The surrounding life forms are irritated by such disturbance and one decides to stop him.  

Eduardo, The Valiant Frog of the Wild West, stands in front of Bert as the mongoose propels towards him. Bert shows no sign of stopping, because when he sees an obstacle, he gets scared, and his first reaction is to run, which involves speeding towards the obstacle at Mongoose Mach I.

However, Eduardo stands his ground. Suddenly, Bert stops, sniffing the air. Frog. Leaning closer, he gets close to Eduardo. “Frog,” he says.

Eduardo stares. “Is that all you have to say, young mammal?”

Bert The Bird says nothing.

“I have heard you are seeking sanctuary from the snakes. You will find none until you banish them all from these lands. Otherwise, they will always be lurking, slithering under your feet, watching you.”

Bert hiccups, and lets out another scream. He clumsily poises to run again, but Eduardo yells out, “Stop!”

Bert does exactly that and lays down on the ground. Eduardo shakes his head. “This is hopeless,” he mutters.  

“Go north,” Eduardo says slowly.

“Who?” Bert asks.

“North is not a life form, it’s the direction you are facing right now,” Eduardo points his walking stick to help Bert understand, “The snakes’ base is there. It’s hard to miss. Go find it and save us all!”

Bert squawks and starts bouncing north like a kangaroo. Shaking his head, Eduardo retreats to his spot under the sand.

After a while, Bert sees a structure like a laboratory, and stops. Settling down near the side of it, the mongoose burrows into the sand. It’s nice and shady next to the metal wall with a snake drawn on it, and it’s even out of the sun! A perfect place to spend the night. He curls up, wraps his tail around his small body, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.

He awakens fifteen hours later, yawns, and stretches, gripping the ground with his claws. But, instead of the ground, he feels something slimy and scaly. Too frightened to utter a sound, Bert the Bird lets go of the thing, then grabs it again. This time, he adds more force and crushes it. It makes no noise. Bert sniffs it. Danger.

Bert slowly hightails it around the corner. He finds himself inside the structure. He sniffs again. The air tastes different. Spicier. Cautiously, he pads forward, tiny paws making no sound.  

Hearing voices, he crouches low to the ground to camouflage himself. He doesn’t realize that the building is white-painted metal, and he is a furry brown mongoose. Bert slinks closer to the sound, not stopping. He wants to see who’s speaking.  

Suddenly, the floor drops out from under him. Bert meows loudly, scared out of his mind. He plummets five feet, and lands in some dirt. The air is knocked out of his lungs, and Bert sits on his buttocks like a human, wheezing. Shaking his head like a wet dog, Bert stands up and observes his surroundings. He’s in a dark room with no light. So, he’s unable to see anything.

Snorting, Bert decides to use his other four senses to get a feel of where he is. Bert’s never been this resourceful before.

He pats around at the dirt under him and slowly moves forward. He immediately hits a wall. Snorting again in contempt, he turns around and is met with another obstacle. Snorting even louder, Bert jumps five feet in the air in dissatisfaction and blasts straight through the roof of the dark hole.  

The surprise of his heroic and super-mongoose actions scares him, and Bert jumps again. However, this time he doesn’t snort. Mobilizing again, he trots down the hallway. The voices have stopped, but Bert hasn’t.  

A crossroads appears in front of him. He keeps moving and hits the middle dividing wall face first. Startled, he blinks twice in a row. Turning around almost completely, he takes the left path. He sees a door on his right as he moves down the path, and Bert turns quickly to enter the room.  

Four snakes stare at him. Bert recoils, barking at them. They seem unaffected by his terrifying show of terror and hiss at him, “Why are you here, mongoose?”

“Who?”

The snakes sigh.

“Where are your federal income taxes?” they inquire, just as Desktop App had. Bert doesn’t answer. “Bert, you have been in debt to us for years. Each time you fight us, we lose purposely so someday you will have to pay us back for all the victory we have given you.”

“I disagree.”

And with that, Bert runs away, hooning down the hall and bursting out the door. He feels different. His head feels heavier, less empty, like something’s in there. Brain cells, he thinks to himself! He’s finally found some! The chemicals in the snakes’ lair must have given him some.

The ground disappears under his paws as he runs ferociously towards town. He must inform them of the nonconsensual agreement between him and the snakes regarding debt. He doesn’t understand what federal income taxes have to do with it, so he decides to disregard those for now.

The low skyline appears on the horizon, but Bert has no energy left. Slowly, the mongoose begins to decrease speed until he drags himself to a stop. Being awake for three hours is too much for a mongoose. Bert falls asleep a mile out of town.

The next morning, Bert wakes up and sneezes forty-seven times. Immediately, despite the sleep in his eyes and mussed-up hair, the valiant mongoose bounds towards town, making it there within the span of ten minutes.

The people are hiding in their houses, frightened of poor, misunderstood Bert. He meows pathetically. Suddenly, his voice acts without him thinking about it, like he’s saying a prophecy. He says, “Humans! My name is Bert the Bird, The Demonic Mongoose of the Wild West! But I do not claim that title! I am just Bert!”  

He pauses, waiting for an answer. Silence.

Bert continues, “I need your help. The snakes have tricked me. My past lack of brain cells made me victim to a devious scheme- each time I fought a snake, the reptile would lose purposely, consequently indebting me to them. I never consented to this agreement or trade! I need your help defeating these reptiles, as the ferocious mongoose you know as Bert the Bird is not me, and I am just a mere mammal. I do not seek revenge, just justice.”

Bert the Bird looks around, partly perturbed by his voice acting on its own, and partly to see if there were any takers to his courageous call.  

A door creaked open. Bert looked hopefully towards it and saw a badger.

“BADGER!” He screeched. Perhaps not the wisest call, but it sufficed, as Badger came hurling out the door towards Bert. (in fear.)

However, once he saw the wide, hopeful smile spread across Bert’s face, all fear dissipated. A few other animals slowly left the security of their homes and Bert was soon surrounded by a kingdom of squawking, ribbeting, barking, meowing, mooing, squeaking, and aggressive flapping.

“We will help you!” a turkey said. Cornbread was his name.  

“YEAHHHHHHH!” came an overly loud yell from a rare blue land shrimp. (Her entire body consists of a voice box supposedly; Bert had heard stories.)

Resounding expressions of agreement echoed throughout the square. “I am unendingly grateful for your assistance. Do we have any weaponry in this town?”

“Cabbage catapults,” growled an ostrich named Oallllyieee (exact spelling.) Bert could barely hear the baritone bird.  

“Pitchforks!” squeaks a rare yellow land whale. (This is the Wild West we have some interesting species.)

No one else reported any items, so Bert assumed that cabbage catapults and pitchforks were the extent of their defense system.  

“Let us prepare! Up and at ‘em!” Bert inspired, moving to go follow the animals as everyone streaked (not that kind of streaked) towards the barn located on the outskirts of Editing Reference File, the town.  

Everyone grabbed pitchforks, except for the bears and tigers (and the cacophonous rare blue land shrimp) who prepared the cabbage catapults.  

Lining up along the northern edge, all the animals positioned their attention on the outline of the snake structure at the top of the hill and waited.  

Not for long though, as a thunderous kerplonking and whooshing resounds from the hill. Hundreds of slithering noodles rampage towards the rest of the Wild West’s animal kingdom, slapping their tails against the sand in an uncoordinated fashion. These reptiles don’t stand a chance.

“Catapults at the ready!” roars Bert. The tigers’ claws fortunately abstain from becoming stuck in the voluminous leaves of the green vegetable. One of the bears, however, is not so lucky and now has large, round, leafy hands. He uses this to his advantage and begins to beat up some slimy thugs.  

“Fire!” Bert triumphantly yells once the snakes are in range. The cabbages hit the snakes dead-on, and an estimated sixty-three of them remain motionless. Not dead, just unconscious, as cabbages are not deadly projectiles no matter how hard you shoot them.

The snakes keep heading for the opposing army, and Bert screams, “Charge!”

Shrimps, buffalos, common loons, rhinos, tamarins, cows, and more trample two-hundred-sixty-four reptilian noodles. The head snako calls for a retreat. Bert’s militia hesitates, letting them fall back and re-group. Bert’s army is considerate, unlike the scaly, legless bodies.  

Instead of asking for a surrender, the snakes turn around, screeching, and attack again. Bert charges at them. The chemicals in the snakes’ lair had not only given him knowledge, but also some speed.  

Using his stout legs, Bert kicks those floppy worms out of the park! None of the snakes get even close to hurting Bert, he is just too fast. Cheering erupts from the Southern side. The North deflates and retreats again.

This time, only one fishy noodle comes back. He is wearing a lop-sided top hat and looks like a prestigious pirate.  

Heaving, he goes up to Bert. Bert quirks up a hairy eyebrow.  

“We surrender,” the sophisticated mustache-having snake breathes.

“I accept,” Bert responds, “But you must promise to leave the South alone. Stay back in the North with your failure of a capitalist economy.”

Johnny Smith, the snako, snarls but retreats, saying, “To the North!” His army dejectedly follows, slithering slowly. A cloud of dust appears and hides their retreat. Bert watches to make sure it was not a mask to hide a second attack. It was not. The sand settled, showing the snake structure’s door opening to let all the reptiles in.  

The Southern crowd cheers. No one is hurt and all is well! Bert is named Bert The Bird the Speedy and Slick and is unanimously proclaimed sheriff of Editing Reference File. He is now free to live his life as he chooses, saving the world and making uplifting speeches to his fellow citizens.  

Sometimes he struggles to feel satisfied with all the stress on his shoulders and misses his easy life back on the plains. He goes back sometimes and reminisces about the times where his head was empty, and a brain did not disrupt his inner peace.

But he remains in Editing Reference File as a hero (who can pay his federal income taxes.)

*The directions have nothing to do with the Civil War, my brother is paranoid and is making me put this here.

[mamabearcatfanfics]

More Than Words - One

“Please, please, please, please, please Kagome!”

She looked up from her laptop to roll her eyes at the dark haired man leaning over her desk, his violet eyes beseeching, hands together as if in prayer.

“You would think by now Miroku, that you of all people would know that when a lady says no, she means no”, she said dryly, dropping her attention back to the computer screen in front of her. It was boring work, but if everything wasn’t just so, the tender documents could be rejected, and she really didn’t want to open that can of worms with her project manager.

“But Kagome”, he continued pleading. “She’s amazing, gorgeous, an angel!” His eyes misted over as he gazed off into the middle distance. “I think it’s her. I think I’ve finally found the love of my life.” Kagome snorted, and his eyes flicked back to hers. “You don’t believe me?” he said with a wounded expression.

“Miroku”, Kagome sighed, “you probably spoke to her for a maximum of what, two minutes, tops? And that was to order coffee. How is this girl any different from the temp secretary you took out on a date after the office Christmas party three weeks ago? Or that girl you abandoned me for last Friday night when we went out to karaoke? I’m not going to hound some poor woman minding her own business into giving you her number just because you have the unfortunate habit of falling for every pretty face you see!”

Miroku shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. This was different. When my fingers touched hers, it was, like, I don’t know, a spiritual connection.” He sighed, leaning against Kagome’s desk, his hand over his heart. “She owns me, body and soul.”

“Oh my god Miroku,” Kagome chortled, pushing his hip off her desk. “If you were any cheesier I’d need to run out and buy wine and crackers! You do realise that you sound like someone out of one of those trashy romance movies on daytime TV? Next you’ll be writing sonnets and saying you were struck by Cupid’s arrow.” She got up from her desk to move over to the filing cabinet, rifling through the files. “I still don’t see why I need to be involved anyway - just ask her for her number herself if you’re so desperate!”

Miroku sighed, hanging his head despondently. “I’ve been banned. By her guard dog.” Kagome looked at him questioningly. “The barista.”

“You got banned from a café by the barista? What on earth did you do!?” She held up her hands, the file in them covering her view of Miroku as he opened his mouth to explain. “No, don’t tell me, on second thoughts, I don’t want to know!”

“Kagome, I’m begging you! Just talk to her. If she doesn’t want to give her number to me, I’ll admit defeat. I just need to know! What if I did all your filing for the next week?”

Kagome shook her head. “No way! I’ve only just got all my files back in order from when you meddled with my stuff when I was on leave.”

“I’ll walk your dog.”

“I have a cat.”

“I’ll do your tax return for you.”

“I’d like to stay out of prison, thanks very much.”

“I’ll, I’ll… “ Miroku looked around the office, as if searching for inspiration, his eyes alighting on Kagome’s much loved pink coffee cup, sitting empty and forlorn on her desk. “I’ll buy you coffee for the next month!”

Kagome stared him. “You’re offering to buy me coffee for a whole month?” He nodded. “And this is whether she gives me her number or not?” Miroku nodded again. Kagome bumped the filing cabinet drawer shut with her hip, then placed the folders on her desk, turning back to him with a gleeful expression on her face.

Miroku’s face fell when he realised exactly how much that this might cost him in monetary terms. Kagome loved her coffee; she was rarely seen without her favourite coffee mug in her hand. And she did a lot of overtime, often working back late at the office, weekends too when a tender was due.

Kagome grinned even wider and slapped him on the shoulder. “Miroku, my lovestruck friend, you’ve got yourself a deal!”

 ☕💘☕

 Kagome walked towards the tiny hole in the wall coffee shop a few blocks away from the office. It was literally only a door and a window wide, the exterior painted in matte black, with a white awning shading the customers waiting outside in the hot Australian summer sun. The business name adorned the glass window, a simple red circle with black text in a strong block font - Black Dog Coffee.

There was a line of people heading out the door waiting patiently, some chatting quietly, but most looking down at their phones. As she got further forward in the line, she was amused to notice that everyone followed the same pattern – a step towards the woman taking orders, stating their name and order and paying, then two steps to the left while they waited for their coffee. The woman at the cash register didn’t take another order until the first one had been filled, yet no one complained. That was kind of odd, but the line was moving fairly swiftly, so she guessed it worked, even though it wasn’t how cafés usually took their coffee orders. It was hard to see what was going on from her position in the line, stuck behind a tall guy in a business suit. She decided to look up reviews for the coffee shop online while she was waiting.

‘This coffee is the absolute bomb, but don’t piss off the barista!’

‘Was recommended to me by a friend. Coffee is amazing.’

‘Kinda weird. They only sell coffee, roast their own beans I think. The barista is something else!’

‘Would wait in line all day for this coffee!!’

‘Worst experience ever. Got BANNED because I tried to order more than five things. And they have no food, just coffee. WTF! Pretty sure the barista was in the yakuza – that guy has tatts for days! 0/10 would recommend.’

‘Follow the ordering protocol and you’ll be sweet – best coffee in the downtown financial district.’

‘OMG – best coffee EVER! I’m now a daily customer.’

Hmmm. She tried to peer around the tall guy in front of her, but she couldn’t see anything; the afternoon sun was reflecting off the glass covered office building nearby, getting in her eyes and making her squint. She fanned her face with her hand. Man it was hot. You could fry an egg out here on the cement. She hoped the coffee was worth the freckles she was probably getting on her nose right now. The tall guy stepped forward to make his order, and she caught a glimpse of the woman behind the cash register.  

Long glossy brown hair with thick bangs, and a bright smile. Her brown eyes, highlighted by bright pink eyeshadow, sparkled with warmth; she was giving her total attention to the current person she was engaging with. She wasn’t much taller than Kagome herself and the tight black t-shirt she was wearing with the name Sango embroidered on the pocket accentuated her generous curves.

Kagome sighed. Miroku was nothing if not predictable – he loved curvy ladies. But how was she going to ask for this woman’s number without causing a disruption – everyone seemed to be on board with the ordering system, and if the coffee was as good as the reviews promised there was no way she was going to get herself banned from coming back.

She glanced down to the time on her phone, and then to the opening hours printed on the tiny shop window. It was almost closing time. Maybe if she hung back for a little while and caught the woman after they’d shut up shop? She groaned internally, trying not to think of the work still waiting for her on her desk. She should have held out for two months of coffee.

The tall man stepped to the side. Crap, she needed to order.

“Good afternoon ma’am. What would you like?” The woman’s smile was wide and welcoming.

“Uh, a large latte please, no sugar”, Kagome said, holding up her credit card ready to tap payment.

“Name please?”

“Kagome. That’s K – A…”

“That’s okay, I know how to spell it.” Kagome watched with interest as the woman wrote her name on the coffee lid in curving characters. Was that hirigana? She vaguely recognised it was her name being written from the two terms of Japanese she did in high school. A grunt came from her left, and she realised with a little start that she was meant to move to one side.

She stood in front of the gleaming commercial espresso machine, eyes closing as she savoured the rich coffee aroma. It smelt amazing, rich and full. Not burnt. It was a little hard to see the barista; her view was blocked by towers of takeaway coffee cups in various sizes. But those reviews that mentioned him had made her curious now. She stepped to the side a little more. Ah, there he was.

He was taller than her - she guessed she’d come up to just above his shoulder, but then she wasn’t exactly tall herself at 5’2”. He had long dark hair, looped back in a low ponytail, with a choppy fringe and slightly longer forelocks  on either side of his face, tanned skin that was complemented by the white collarless t-shirt he wore under a denim apron. His expression as he looked downward to make the coffee was stern, but she didn’t see what he had to be so grumpy about. Maybe he was just hot? Maybe he just took his job very seriously? He moved out from behind the coffee machine and her eyes widened at the sight of his forearms, revealed by the shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. They were covered in tattoos from the wrist; dark sleeves of swirling black water flowing up his arms, broken only by pink and red cherry blossoms, with a hint of green and yellow. Then he looked up.

His eyes. They were hazel, for want of a better description, but such a light hazel that they almost looked golden. With the late afternoon sun behind her, lighting his face, they almost sparkled like citrine quartz. He placed the lid on her coffee, then set it down in front of her.

“Kagome.”

He’d pronounced her name right. Ka-goh-meh. She was so used to the way most Australians butchered her Japanese name, a way for her parents to honour her Japanese grandfather, that she was immune to its mispronunciation, but he’d said it just right. Just. Right. His voice was deep and a little husky. He made that small grunting noise in the back of his throat again, his strong dark brows lowering a little, and she realised in embarrassment that she was staring at him.

“Uh, yes, I’m sorry, yeah that’s me! I’m Kagome.” Idiot. Of course he knew that, it’s not like there was anyone else standing right in front of him waiting! She reached out for her coffee where he’d placed it on the edge of the counter, and then backed away, pink cheeked, as another person stepped to the side to wait for their coffee.

She moved to stand in front of the shop next door, taking out her phone for something to do while she waited for closing time, slowly sipping her coffee, which was glorious by the way. But she couldn’t give herself over fully to her enjoyment of the taste, unable to control her wandering eyes.

‘Oh my god, he’s gorgeous! I’ve never seen anyone with eyes that colour before. And that’s so much ink on his arms - that must have hurt like a bitch! I never would have picked that a guy would get cherry blossom sleeves, but they don’t look girly on him at all - the exact opposite really. I wonder if they go all the way up his arms? God, now I’m imagining him with his shirt off - bad girl, Kagome! Maybe the cherry blossoms are a cultural thing? I think he’s Japanese, and I’m pretty sure that’s my name in hirigana on the coffee lid, but I don’t want to make an assumption just based on that and his looks. I wonder what he’s thinking about? He doesn’t look unhappy or angry exactly, just… determined? Maybe he just has resting bitch face.’ She snorted a little at that thought, then sighed. ‘His movements are so graceful and fluid, it’s like watching someone do tai chi or something. Oh, he has such nice hands - strong fingers. I could watch him make coffee aaaaall day.’

She gazed dreamily, sipping at her coffee slowly, the phone in her hand forgotten. Golden eyes suddenly met hers, one eyebrow raised in a puzzled expression. ‘Oh shit, he’s looking this way. He’s noticed that I’m looking at him. Abort! Abort! Oh fuck… This is all your fault Miroku!’

She turned tail and fled, almost running back to the office. The reviews had been right. The hot coffee was amazing, but the hot barista? Yeah, he was definitely something else. She knew she would be back first thing in the morning to get another coffee. And it wasn’t just because the coffee was amazing and that he was beautiful to look at. There was something about him. She wanted to get to know him better.

Miroku was waiting for her out the front of their office building. “So, did you get it?” he asked eagerly.

“What?”

“Did you get her number. Sango’s number?”

“Uh…” Shit. She’d been so flustered when he had suddenly looked up and met her gaze that she’d turned tail and fled without remembering why she was waiting there in the first place. Damn. Heat washed across her cheeks, and she flicked her gaze away from Miroku’s.

“Our calm and collected Kagome blushing? Oh, there must be a good story behind this – do tell!”

“No story. You’ve ordered coffee from there before – I didn’t want to do anything to upset the system and get banned like you did! There just wasn’t an opportunity today – I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Miroku poked her in the ribs. “But surely that wouldn’t make you blush Kags! C’mon, spill.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” she spluttered.

Suddenly Miroku burst out laughing. “Oh ho ho, I get it. You were so busy perving at the guard dog making the coffee that you forgot what you were there for.”

“Shut. Up.”

Miroku grinned at her. “Aw, little Kagome finally got a crush on someone. Were you struck by Cupid’s arrow?” he teased, throwing the phrase she’d used before back at her with a note of triumph in his voice. Kagome squirmed under his knowing gaze, and he chuckled. “Looks like Cupid’s been pretty busy with his arrows around that coffee shop, huh?”

Kagome made a growling noise in the back of her throat, then the corners of her lips curled up in a knowing smile. She blinked at him innocently, raising her takeaway cup.

“You may be right Miroku. You may be right. And I’m thinking the best way to get to know him will be to buy coffee. Lots of coffee. I hope you’re ready to pay up, buddy!” She sipped her coffee and patted him on his suddenly slumping shoulders as she walked past him into the foyer of the building and back to her desk full of filing, savouring every last drop.

  ☕💘☕

 Inuyasha pondered as he polished the already gleaming coffee maker. Sango had just left for the day, after balancing the till, and he was doing a final clean up, ensuring everything would be ready for 7am opening.

That girl. Kagome. She’d been staring at him. Usually that made him feel intensely uncomfortable. Growing up in an orphanage had internalised that being stared at was a bad thing, because pain caused by kids much larger and stronger than him usually followed close behind. That was until he’d been there so long that he was the large and strong one, handing out punches to anyone picking on the tiny ones. But he hadn’t got that uncomfortable feeling from her when she’d stared.

He knew he was considered attractive by some people. But her looking at him hadn’t given him that slimy creepy feeling that being ogled purely for looks gave him either. She had looked at him like he was a puzzle she wanted to work out.

He tried to picture her in his mind’s eye, but all he really remembered was dark shining hair like a corvid’s wing, and very blue eyes. She’d been small too, very petite. He rolled her name around in his head, as it tugged on a memory, and he suddenly thought of the rhyming game from his childhood about a bird caught in a cage. It was fitting – her mannerisms reminded him of a little bird - a wren, with bright inquisitive eyes. And when he’d looked up at her and caught her staring, she’d flapped her wings in fright and flown away. He chuckled. He hoped she wasn’t caught in a cage of some sort. No one deserved that.

He shut off the lights to the tiny shop, and walked into the studio behind it, flopping down on his bed with his laptop, ready to spend another evening struggling through his online English class. A little orange fluffball of a kitten jumped on to his lap, trying to sit on the keys, and he pushed it off.

“Shippou! Dame!”

The kitten settled down next to his thigh, snuggling against him and purring, and he turned his attention back to the screen. It was hard, learning a language this way, but he was determined. He had escaped his own cage, and he was never going back.

☕💘☕

PART TWO

[doctorslippery]

1 - A kamakaze ship filled with tnt runs directly into your port

2 - Cargo arrives with undocumented prostitutes hidden as stowaways.

3 - Political exiles arrive as stowaways, asking for asylum. The empire they fled demands their return, threatening to embargo your port.

4 - There are reports of a livestock disease going around overseas. You are asked to shut down imports of foreign livestock.

5 - A noble landowner imports high quality, yet highly explosive fertilizer. However, his plans to transport the fertilizer fell through, and he asks you to hold the fertilizer in your port for a few days in exchange for extra gold.

6 - Cargo filled with highly taxed luxury goods arrive. You are asked to count the cargo as "essential items" to avoid the associated taxes in exchange for gold.

7 - Banned books arrive in your port. Although you are not offered much to look the other way, looking the other way might be the right thing to do.

8 - Refugees seeking asylum arrive in your port.

9 - Weapons for an insurgent group in a neighboring kingdom arrive, you are asked to look the other way.

10 - Unregistered exotic pets arrive in your port. You are offered gold to look the other way.

11 - Diamond jewelry arrives in your port. The importer has exploited a legal loophole to import them tax free, but you may demand otherwise.

12 - A ship captain cant afford the docking fees. They request time to sell their cargo, so they will have the money to pay any taxes or fees.

13 - Brawl on the docks (ship crew, dock workers, city guard, merchant)

14 - Catch someone trying to smuggle items (onto / off of) a ship. d100 Smuggled Items

15 - Ship collides with another ship in your harbor. Now the two crews are involved in a large brawl on the docks.

16 - Ship comes in too fast and collides with the dock. (ship is damaged, dock is damaged, both ship and dock are damaged)

17 - One of the pilings has come loose and the dock is now sagging dangerously, threatening to dump everything and everyone into the water.

18 - All of the pilings have suddenly shifted, leaning the entire dock to one side.

19 - An enormous cast of crabs has climbed up onto the docks and is eating all of the fish they can find.

20 - A single enormous crab has climbed up onto the docks and is eating sailors, fishermen, and even the town guards.

21 - Local birds are crapping on literally everything and everyone.

22- A local magistrate is demanding the docks be closed unless an exorbitant fee is paid to keep them open.

23 - A local noble is blaming everyone in sight for a missing delivery and trying to open every sealed container to find it.

24 - A powerful storm out at sea, not too far away from your port, has ship wrecked many ships. Those who seek any survivors want to use your port as a base of operations, and its up to the Harbormaster to organize them.

25 - Rumors of a haunted ghost ship circulate around the port. Many of the more superstitious sailors take this as a bad omen, and now will not set sail. This is setting the entire port behind schedule, and now you, the harbormaster, have to think of a way to quell their fears.

26 - A special ship, unlike any you've seen before and claiming to be from a far away land, is carrying the most peculiar live cargo you've ever laid your eyes on. A live young dragon (can be any type depending on the alignment of the sailors) rests in the cargo hold, and its starting to cause many problems. From scaring the locals, to now destroying a house, you have to find a way to get the sailors to get a move on (or free the dragon if its good) but the sailors seem to be taking a liking to your port.

27 - The Young Dragon (mentioned above) was not forgotten by his/her kin. A group of dragons comes to rescue them, and they are hellbent on seeking vengeance. You need to find a way to stop the dragons from destroying the port, or convince them to let you go in peace.

28 - A boat owner in the port is operating an unlicensed houseboat AirBnB.

29 - Ship comes to port to resupply. It's clearly carrying slaves as cargo to sell in a different city.

30 - There's been rumors that slaughterships (ships that hunt whales, walruses, etc. Grueling, disgusting, and dangerous work) have been using charm/suggestion/sleep spells to trick people to come on board. The ship sails away before the magic wears off, forcing the person to be crew of they want to get back home.

31 - Ship arrives with a magically living figurehead. (Robin Hobb, Ship of Magic, anyone?)

32 - Gnomes/artificers arrive in a metal clad steam-powered ship. It could explode at anytime. Or they need some rare ingredient to power it they will pay big money for the heros to find.

33 - A very inconspicuous ship arrives towing the Black Skull, a infamous pirate ship. The pirate ship is deserted.

34 - Dragon turtle attacks. It craves treasure.

35 - The port mysteriously runs dry.

36 - An earthquake happens, expect a tsunami!

37 - Bunch of nobles arrive in yachts/pleasure vessels insisting this is the weekend of their regatta and they need the harbor cleared.

38 - Bioluminescent plankton moves into the harbor at night. It's strange and beautiful but otherwise has no significant effect.

39 - The harbor is fed by a river. The town upstream is dumping their trash, causing big problems for the port town.

40 - After an earthquake, the river mysteriously changes color one day. It becomes acidic, eating away at the hulls and injuring people and killing wildlife. It only happens for a short time before washing out to see but earthquakes could happen at anytime...

41 - Every night a strange green fog rolls in. Sailors have been going missing. The fog is a vaporized gelatinous cube that dissolves beings caught at a certain depth within it. (Or replace with a similar threat)

42 - Two very large cargo ships with expensive cargo have crash into one another. Littering the port with the cargo and attracting opportunists.

43 - A local noble is demanding that his yacht be given the most convenient priority docking position by reserve. He is not offering anything extra for it outside what anyone else would pay, maybe even less. His nobility is all he thinks is needed.

44 - A strange quake happened in the night. When you awoke the port was filled with large sharp rocks. A light house will be needed for this to continue to be a port. (The rocks are a family of large earth elementals. If someone climbs on them, the elementals attack.)

45 - A strange mold is rotting holes in the hulls of ships within a couple of days. It is beginning to spread throughout the port.

46 - A bloody and cut up being comes screaming for help from one of the docked ships. Obviously they have been attacked from something or someone inside the ship. Once boarded, the characters find a ship full of demonic paraphernalia, the being was being sacrificed by someone and escaped.

47 - A ship sails into port with no one on board. When boarded to be investigated they catch out of the corner of their eye a figure running down below deck. When further investigated they find no one, but as they turn to go back out they realize that this isn't a normal ship, this ship is alive, and they are in the belly of the beast. If not investigated, after the ship takes port, people start disappearing, and no one ever comes out of the ship which starts to get noticed.

48 - The port must brace for a large storm, expect flooding and wind damage

49 - There are rumors that the port workers are unionizing soon, demanding better pay and better working conditions

50 - An unexpected rogue wave comes out of nowhere, killing and damaging anyone unprepared in your port

51 - Humanitarian aid for a neighboring kingdom facing famine arrives, however they lack the proper import paperwork

52 - After a rough week of piracy near your waters, a larger kingdom's navy arrives to help stop the pirates, asking to use your port as a temporary base

53 - A snake-oil salesman carrying cargo with "alternative herbal remedies" arrive in response to a viral outbreak in a neighboring kingdom. Although they have the correct import paperwork and pay the proper taxes, you know that this cargo will likely cause the deaths of uninformed peasants.

54 - A prophet arrives in your port. Although peaceful, he risks radicalizing your portworkers into religious fanatics.

55 - A ship arrives in your port with cargo that is clearly stolen.

56 - A cruise ship arrives in your port carrying tourists. Tourism is unheard of in your city, and the citizenry is angered by obnoxious tourists wandering the city demanding things.

57 - An ordinary ship carrying barley arrives in your port. The captain made an honest mistake, forgetting to obtain the harbormaster's signature on his paperwork before departing from his home city. He begs you to make an exception to avoid the month long journey back.

58 - A ship of scientists arrives, asking to see your port's climate data and tide tables. They cannot pay you, but promise to return with gifts once their study is complete.

59 - An engineer arrives to your port, offering to expand your port and improve its efficiency in exchange for gold.

60 - A travel agent arrives, offering to make your port a destination city in exchange for gold. He also recommends that you build a tourist trap or make up a myth about the origin of your city or the peculiarity of its people.

61 - Fishermen arrive from a nearby village in your port's bay, complaining that sewer water from your port is destroying their ecosystem

62 - Three separate people happen to drown in one day in three separate incidents in your port. You must contain the rumor that your port is unsafe before your reputation is damaged.

63 - A nearby port is closed temporarily. Your port must deal with almost double the traffic until it is repaired.

64 - A polar vortex comes and goes, freezing over your harbor. All traffic is shut down until the ice is broken or melted.

65 - A traveling circus arrives. Residents complain that the carnies are stealing and pickpocketing, although these reports may or may not be exaggerated.

66 - A ship carrying highly explosive, yet legal, materials, arrive in your harbor, destined to a rebellious region in a neighboring kingdom. You must decide to warn the neighboring kingdom, or stop the import all-together.

67 - A ship carrying strong moonshine arrives. Your portworkers are known to be drunks, so you worry that the moonshine could hurt your port's efficiency for several weeks.

68 - Portworkers make a bad habit of skipping work. Today, over half of your workforce is missing, severely impacting your port's efficiency.

69 - A ship arrives carrying prisoners accused of piracy. You are, by international anti-piracy law, required to execute them.

70 - A disgruntled portworker comes to work with a dagger and starts massacring his peers.

71 - Gambling becomes popular at the port. Today, several portworkers gamble away their paychecks.

72 - Retirees move to the city. They make a habit of spending all day out on the water, getting drunk, and regularly getting in the way of ship traffic. However, these old people are wealthy and pay your city a lot in taxes.

73 - Reports of bombings at nearby harbors coincide with a high traffic day at the port. Increasing security measures may greatly harm your port's efficiency.

74 - A portworker falls in the water and is maimed by a shark. People blame the market salesmen who throw rotten food into the harbor for the increase in shark visits.

75 - A cargo container with dead prostitutes arrives at your port. The captain genuinely has no idea how they got there.

76 - Massive amounts of illegal drugs come to your port. You are given gold to look the other way.

77 - A shipment of grey market methamphetamines arrive. You are offered some to help the importer avoid trouble. They may help the productivity of your portworkers.

78 - You catch a portworker "in the act" with another portworker's wife.

79 - You noticed that your port's scale is broken, and you are slightly ripping off all your incoming ships. You can ignore and pocket the extra cash, but if someone notices it they will probably raise hell.

80 - A crane topples over in your port. D4 determines how many casualties, D2 decides if each lives or dies.

81 - Rumors are going around that portworkers are now trying to hurt themselves on the job in an effort to secure workman's comp.

82 - A portworker who has been on workman's comp all year is rumored to be faking his injury.

83- A group of people (some of whom you recognize) are dumping out all the contents of a shipment into the ocean. It blocks ship passageways but smells pretty good, so the residents gather to see the commotion.

84- Two ultra-rich businessmen arrive and are disgusted upon being received poorly by the busy unionmaster.

85 - A spillage of ultra slick syrup happens on one of your piers.

86 - Cargo filled with exotic spices ordered by a nobleman arrives. The ship lacks the proper import papers, but you are offered gold by the nobleman to look the other way.

100 - A ship loaded with gold arrives at your port. The ship has no captain or passengers. If you want to keep the money, it must be laundered in some way.

[edourado]

Warning - Part II

So I had an anxiety attack last night. What fun. 

And, since I was maybe twelve years old, writing is what actually calms me down, I finished this little piece that has been sitting on my drafts for AGES. 

Please note that I wrote 99% of it before the latest Avengers movies. So if you pick up any discrepancies, ignore them. It’s already an AU, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. 

Thanks for all the messages I got, supporting that I posted this. Honestly, I haven’t written anything since mid 2019, and September was the start of the worst time of my life, so I was very, very insecure going back to it. Still am. 

Let me know what you think. Tomorrow I think I’m gonna post a snippet of something else I was working on before all the mess, that I still feel excited about. 

Love you all. 

.:.

Son of a bitch.

Son of a motherfucking bitch, he can’t believe this guy’s luck. 

Or, maybe, it has nothing to do with luck at all. 

When he first met Frank Castle, Grotto knew he should be careful. Nothing about the guy said “friendly” or “willing to sway the rules”. They were both beat cops back then, but, honestly, Grotto was fooling no one. This decision of his to “go straight” was not gonna stick for long, no matter how many times his father threatened him or how many tears his mother shed. It was just in his blood.

And, right away, he knew Castle was not going to be one of his buddies. So best to keep a safe distance. 

Unsurprisingly, Frank, the condecorated Marine, started, you know, going places. Soon enough, Grotto - Officer Grote, now - was still in uniform while Castle was Detective. A blink of an eye and, what do you know. Sergeant Castle.

No grudges there, it’s not like Grotto had big dreams for himself with the police while he was still in bed with the… Wrong kind of crowd, to put it mildly. 

But he had always wondered about that one pesky thing. 

He is better looking than Frank. Yes he is, 100%. He doesn’t have any visible scars and a nose that has been broken about a thousand times, and he doesn’t frown so much. His eyes are a nice shade of greenish grayish blue, he has a nice smile. He can do pretty well for himself with the ladies, there should be no contest between him and Frank Sour-Face Castle.

And yet. 

He doesn’t get it. The guy is grumpy, the guy is broody, the guy is downright rude, but whenever he walks into a room, suddenly it’s all about him. 

Sure, he does have a nice physique, but you can’t even tell it when he’s wearing a suit, which he does everyday. Still. There should not be as many women following his every move wherever he goes. 

When he walks into the station, you can almost hear the collective sigh. From the hookers to the badges, everybody wants a piece of Castle, it seems. 

Not that it really matters. Grotto has his own thing going on with Sally Burnett from Chelsea, and also maybe a little something else with Tatiana Henry, from Williamsburg. He met this amazing nurse in Harlem the other day, Claire something, and he definitely would like to have something with her, but she knows Castle, and Turk tells him she’s involved with Luke Cage, so he’s not holding his breath. 

But then, just when he thinks he finally has the upper hand on the scowling bastard, he gets slapped on the face again. 

Frank lost the bet. Fair and square, he lost it. The one thing they were able to really talk about was basketball, and Grotto got to gloat for a whole weekend plus a Monday when his team won and Castle’s lost, spectacularly, and Frank had to cover traffic for him for a whole night while Grotto went out with Tatiana. 

He had been genuinely happy then. Not really because of the game, he didn’t really care that much about sports. Not even because he finally would get lucky with Tati. No. It was the thought of Castle sitting alone in the car, stopping stupid text-and-driving teenagers and chasing speeding assholes - or, better yet, too slow assholes - for an entire night. That made him almost tingle with petty excitement. 

But then, the bastard had walked in the coffee shop the next morning with a funny look on his face. And before Grotto could even say anything to him, before he could ask about his miserable night while gloating about the mediocre sex he had had with Tati - hey, sometimes you get a little too excited, you know? - the prick was, shit you not, smiling at someone. 

And yeah. Even Grotto could admit the guy was charming, with the kind of side smile that would look ridiculous on himself, but worked on Castle. 

And then, like a fucking slap on the face, Grotto saw that the pretty - gorgeous, so out of his league it was ridiculous - blonde that also got her coffee there everyday was smiling, too. Directly at Castle. 

God damn it. 

How the fuck does he do it? 

Grotto watched, flabbergasted- as his nana would say - as Frank walked confidently and almost leisurely towards the woman, the woman, the one woman nobody at the station ever had the balls to even try to chat up, because are you kidding?, and she was adjusting her hair and fuck this. Fuck this guy. What the fuck. 

“Gotta give it to the man”, Mahoney said from his side, finishing up his coffee. “He’s got it.”

“What the fuck he got that I don’t got?” Grotto asked, and he can admit that he sounded like a boy with his pride hurt. 

“Oh, my friend”, Mahoney laughed, and patted him on the shoulder while Grotto watched as the prick and the pretty lady struck up in hush hush conversation, all secret smiles and flirty eyes. “A whole lot.”

.:.

Well, that’s some predictable heteronormative crap, if you ask her. 

Not that they don’t look good together. They do, she admits it. Her angelic, ethereal good looks contrasts with his burly, hyper masculine vibe. It clashes but it also fits.

Ok. So maybe “predictable” wasn’t exactly the word, but still. 

Ava has been working on this coffee shop for almost a year, now. Her mom’s friend and neighbor, Sarah Lieberman, was nice enough to recommend her to Arlene, and what was supposed to have been a temporary job, just to get her shit together after high school and through the first semester of college, was becoming more and more like a nice career prospect. She was manager now, thank you very much, and Arlene was even talking about another shop, maybe uptown, closer to her dorm. 

But anyway. While the second location didn’t happen, Ava was managing this one, and learning about their patrons while doing it. 

Karen Page came in everyday, twice a day. Once in the morning, for a tall light roast Java and a croissant, and again in the evening, for a caramel latte, sometimes with syrup and whip cream. 

Frank Castle also came in everyday, but three times a day. In the morning - double espresso and a plain bagel -, during lunch - espresso and one single tiny donut hole - and in the evening, just before they closed, for an americano. Sometimes he brought his kids, who got hot chocolates and everything bagels (for the girl, his oldest) and grilled cheeses (for the boy, his youngest). 

She saw him looking at Karen sometimes, while she texted on her phone. She saw Karen looking at him while he talked on the phone or read the paper. 

And Ava sighed, her bisexual ass torn between fantasies of both of them, taking turns in her mind. 

Not that either one of them would ever consider going out with her 19 year old self. They were both officially grown ups, and she still took her laundry home, drove her dad’s old car, was panicking about having to deal with taxes and was intimidated by going to the bank alone. 

That didn’t stop her from flirting, though. 

“Morning, Frank”, she would say from behind the cashier, just to hear him say “Good morning, sweetheart” back at her, that usually scowling face of his making her toes curl inside her boots when he looked at her.

“Hi, Karen”, she would smile, opening the display window to fish the best looking croissant she had saved for the blonde that could have just as well been spat out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. 

“Hey, gorgeous” was the reply she got every time, which was certain to give her butterflies. 

That morning, though, Ava sighed, because, figures.

Karen had walked in and not walked straight to the line like she usually usually did, but lingered around the stools by the window. Five minutes later, she was about to ask Karen if she wanted her to prepare her order when Frank walked in and smiled at her. 

Not ‘Ava’ her. ‘Karen’ her. He opened the door, ran a hand over his hair and looked around for about a second before meeting Karen’s eyes, and then he smiled. Charming and still so big and burly, and Ava looked, and Karen was smiling right back, sweet and timid but with a hint of boldness and oh my God. Come on, now. 

They said something to each other, low and privately, and she saw the way Frank’s eyes roamed Karen’s face and hair, how his eyes glinted a little. 

Honestly, buddy. Same.

They walked to the counter then, and Ava squared her shoulders. 

“Hi, sweetie”, Karen greeted, and she smiled, because Jesus, how can you be this gorgeous and this nice? Looking like that, she ought to be a bitch, everyone would understand. 

“Hi, Karen”, she said, pretending not to notice anything unusual while Frank stood there by her side. “The usual?”

“Yes, please. And Mr. Castle’s order is on me, today.”

Shit. They’re totally doing it. 

Trying not to roll her eyes, she lifted her brows and punched in the order, stealing a quick glance at Frank, who winked at her, the beautiful bastard. With a grin, she moved to get the croissant, the bagel and prepare the drinks. 

Honestly. She could totally see it, they already looked so good together. 

Handing Karen’s croissant and Frank’s bagel to her and greeting the next customer, she hoped her own Frank or her own Karen hurried up and got there. She couldn’t wait to have this sort of sizzling chemistry with someone. 

.:.

Lisa Castle zipped up her backpack, sighing. 

She had payed zero attention to class today. Well, it was presentation day, and it had been Bobby Meyer and his group’s turn, so not much to miss there. It’s not like she hadn’t seen a potato lamp before. 

“Hey”, Leo called while they exited the classroom. “Your project is next week, right?”

“Yeah”, she said, sounding gloomy even to herself.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just…” they got to Leo’s locker and Lisa dropped her voice. “I think my dad is dating someone.”

Her friend and neighbor stopped right when the lock clicked open, and looked at her. 

“He is?”

“I think so. Don’t know for sure.”

“Did you, like… See him with someone?”

“No, but… We spent last week at his place, right, Frankie and I. And this morning I saw a text on his phone. I didn’t mean to do it, it was just sitting on the counter after breakfast, and it pinged, I thought it was mine, and I saw the text.”

“What did it say?” 

Leo closed her locker and they walked to Lisa’s.

“Something about a croissant and coffee. I didn’t get it. And then when he read it, his face got all… I don’t know, like silly? And he texted back right away, and he never does that. He drives my mom crazy, we usually have to call to reach him.”

“You don’t like that idea? Of him dating someone?”

Lisa sighed.

“The whole thing surprised me, but, to be honest, I think he should. It’s been over a year since the divorce, and he’s been working too hard, even mom says so. Maybe a girlfriend would help him relax. I’m not against that, I just… Wasn’t expecting it.”

“I can understand that.”

They walked towards the exit and Lisa mentioned that he was picking them up today. Maybe Leo and Zach would like a ride?

“Yeah, sure.”

“You’ll see for yourself, he’s all different.”

They sat on one of the benches by the front doors to wait, and she went on about her discovery.

“I saw the name when she texted. Karen Page.”

“Karen Page? Why does that sound familiar?”

“Right? I thought so, too. At first I thought maybe one of our neighbors, or someone’s mom from school, but I can’t figure it out.”

“Let’s Google her.”

In no time, they recognized the name. She was a reporter from The Bulletin, and they both liked her immediately. 

The lady was, to put it mildly, a boss. 

“Oh my God”, Leo said, scrolling through Karen’s Wikipedia page. “She interviewed the Black Widow once and now they’re friends.”

“Who’s that?”

“Only like, the best Avenger. Natasha something.”

“Oh, I know who she is! She kicks ass!”

By the time Frankie and Zach joined them, they were excited about her dad’s new maybe girlfriend. But they decided not to comment with the boys yet, because… you know. Boys. Ruin everything.

“Mr. Castle is coming to pick them up”, Leo said to her brother, putting her phone back in her pocket. “You wanna drive with him?”

The boy shrugged. 

“Beats the bus.”

When he arrived, Lisa and Leo exchanged a look. 

“Pay attention to him. He’s weird, you’ll see.”

“Hi dad”, Frankie greeted, opening the back door and getting in the car. 

“Hey buddy.”

“Is it ok if Leo and Zach ride with us?” Lisa asked, opening the front passenger door. 

“Sure it is”, he said, smiling at them. “Hop in.”

“Thanks, Mr. Castle” Leo said, getting in after Zach.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Seatbelts, seatbelts, everyone.”

The boys, being boys, were loud and spoke over each other during the drive, talking about that stupid game of theirs, and Lisa texted Leo on the back seat about how they could find out if he really was dating their new hero. 

“Hold on, I’m gonna try something”, she wrote, and then turned to her left. 

“Hey dad?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Could we maybe get some Starbucks?”

“Starbucks?”

“Yeah. They got the new seasonal drinks, I haven’t tried them, yet.”

It was a long shot. Everybody knows dad doesn't like their stuff, he usually gets his coffee from a place near his work, and is always saying how Starbucks has too much sugar in everything and it’s not authentic and these chain restaurants are not as good as the local stuff, the places ran by families, with tradition, real heart, blah blah blah. 

So, everyone was surprised when he said,

“Sure.”

“What, really?” Frankie asked.

“Yeah. Why not?”

“OMG” she texted Leo. “If he orders a croissant”, she went on, after they exchanged surprised looks through the rearview mirror. “That confirms it. He doesn’t eat croissants.”

She thought they were going to the drive through, but he parked the car and they all walked into the Starbucks closest to their block. 

Frankie and Zach ordered venti Java Chips, and Frank made them change it to talls. Leo ordered a strawberry and cream, and Lisa went for the pumpkin spice.

“Just do me a favor and don’t get used to this, ok?” He told them after they were done ordering. “Go see if there are any seats.”

She and Leo lingered by the counter while the boys walked to the couch in the corner.

“No coffee in any of those, please” he instructed the barista.

“Sure thing. And for you, sir, anything?”

“I’ll have an espresso.”

“Ok. Anything else?”

There was a beat, a moment that stretched while he considered it. The girls watched him with bated breath. 

“Do you have croissants?”

Lisa and Leo looked at each other, and tried to hide their grins.

Busted.

“Yes, we have…” the barista leaned to check. “Butter, almond, chocolate and pistachio honey.”

They couldn’t contain the giggles while he thought about it for just a second before ordering.

“Yeah, one of each, please.”

“That’s a lot of croissants, dad”, Lisa said while he paid, trying to keep her tone casual. 

“Maybe I’m hungry”, he replied, a hand smoothing her hair. 

“You skipped lunch or something?”

He clicked his tongue at her and reached to pinch her cheek, which she evaded.

“Get some napkins.”

She let it slide, preferring not to comment that he never had pastries like these, especially not from Starbucks, that his story didn’t really make sense. 

Maybe he wanted some privacy. Her dad had never lied to them, so if he wasn’t telling her the truth about the croissants, maybe it was because he wasn’t ready yet. Lisa can understand that. 

And he seems happy. More than he had been this past year, so she can wait a little bit. 

He stopped the car in front of the Lieberman’s place and waited until Leo and Zach were inside before driving a few yards forward, to their place.

She missed having him home, everyday. His new house was just a block away, but still. Not the same. 

“Bye dad!” Frankie said, hopping off and walking towards the house - mom’s house.

“Bye, buddy. Math test tomorrow. Don’t play video games all night, ok? You have to study.”

“Yeah, ok!”

Lisa lingered a little longer. 

“Thanks for the drinks, dad.”

“Sure, baby. Just don’t get used to it, ok? Too much-“

“-sugar is bad for me. I know.”

She smiled up at him, suddenly very happy to see him looking not so heavy. There was something lighter about him, now that she was paying attention. 

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, you will.”

“Ok. Bye, dad.”

“Bye, honey”, he said, leaning to place a kiss on her forehead. “Do your homework.”

“Ok.”

“And get started on your presentation.”

“Ok.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Ok.”

“And maybe don’t tell mom about the Starbucks thing.”

“Ok”, she said again, this time smiling conspiratorially. 

He winked and honked when she waved at him from the living room window, driving away after she signaled she had locked the door. 

Finishing the last of her pumpkin spice, she made her way to her room, to get on her computer and find out more about Karen Page. 

Her presentation could wait.

.:.

His wife would say, when she was happy with him, that he was such a good reporter, he didn’t know how to not investigate stuff. 

“This clinical eye of yours, Ben, you see through everyone.”

When she was mad at him, she would say that he was nosy, meddled too much.

“Maybe you should learn how to separate work from the rest of your life, Ben”, that tone that gave him the chills. 

Either way, she was right. Not much got past him.

Not that these two were trying too hard to hide anything. 

Frank Castle was a good kid. Ben and Doris visited his mother at the hospital when she had Frank, they had watched him grow up right next door to him, went to his birthday parties, saw him off when he joined the Marines and flew off to protect the country, helped with the welcome party when he came back for the first time. 

Ben was there when Frank got married, he knew both his kids, was very good friends with his parents. 

He and Doris were there for Louisa when Frank’s father passed away, helped her along the grief, the bureaucracy of his will, his life insurance. 

Frank was like a son to him. 

Still, it was a surprise when he showed up at work, on a Monday. 

“Hey Mr. Urich”, he said from the door, knocking twice. Ben blinked at the sight of him. 

“Frankie! Hi!”

The man - taller than him, now - walked in and Ben got up from his desk to shake his hand. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting you, or…”

“No, no, come in. Can’t say I’m not surprised, though. Been here over twenty years, I think this is the first time you visit?”

Frank smiled, sitting on a chair in front of the desk. 

“I came to ask a favor, actually.”

Ben sat back down on his own chair, and looked at him. 

“I’ve been talking to my mom, and she mentioned a book she wanted to read, but can’t find anywhere. I got it for her.”

Frank showed him a bag from Barnes and Noble. 

“Knowing Louisa”, Ben said, reaching for the bag. “I’d say she only looked for it at Target and Walmart.”

“That’s what I said to her. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been busy with work, and the house, can’t really find the time to make it to Queens these days. And she doesn’t want to drive any further than five miles anymore, so it makes it kinda difficult.”

“I’ll deliver it to her, don’t worry.”

They talked a little longer, Ben asked about the kids, Frank asked about Doris, it was all very pleasant. 

But he couldn’t fool Ben. He was a bit restless, a bit awkward, there was something going on. 

“I met one of your reporters the other day”, he said, finally. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Karen Page?”

Ah. There it is. 

Ben tried not to smile too knowingly. Half his staff had a crush on her. He just raised his brows in recognition and nodded. 

“Karen’s my best asset.”

“That right?”

“Kid’s a natural. Almost too good. She’s sitting on my old chair, I predict she’ll sit on this one soon enough.”

Frank smiled, and Ben was surprised. The last time he saw him smile like that, he was still married to Maria.

“How did you meet?”

“I, uh… Almost gave her a ticket.”

Ben laughed. 

“And we get coffee at the same place, just around the corner.”

“Son, that is almost too cute. A coffee shop romance?”

Frank looked at him, as if he had been caught, and Ben saw that fire cracker of a kid again. 

“Romance, what are you-”

“Come on, kid. I’ve known you your whole life. Can’t lie to me.”

Sighing in defeat, but with a lopsided smile, Frank leaned back on his chair. 

“I haven’t had anything serious since the divorce”, he mused. 

“You think Karen could be something serious?”

Slowly, he nodded. 

“What d’you think?” he asked Ben, and he thought about his anwer. 

“I met her during a complicated time of her life. Came to know her well, I got her into writing.”

“She mentioned.”

“She’s a good one. She really is.”

Frank looked at him.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’d be a fool to pass this up.”

He looked towards Ben’s window, apparently thinking. 

But his mind was already made, it was more than obvious. 

“She around?”

Pointing out the door, Ben took a sip from his coffee. 

“Last office to the right.” 

He shook Frank’s hand before he left.

“You don’t disappear. Come visit your mother. And Doris misses you.”

“Yes, sir. You send them both my love.”

Ben watched as Frank walked out of his office and made his way to Karen’s.

Shaking his head, he adjusted in his chair, going back to the article he was revising.

These kids. 

Good for them. 

.:.

He really did like her hair. 

The first time they kissed, it was by the water, two days after she bought his coffee. 

It was a cold night, she was all wrapped up in a scarf, he had a hoodie on, a beanie that made her want to pinch his cheeks - which was absurd. He was not a man whose cheeks one simply pinches. Her hands were cold, she had them buried inside her coat’s pockets while he told her about his kids - his son, the time he drew a Marine on the wall and told him it was to keep the scary guys away while Frank was deployed, and how that had been what made him decide to stay for good - and she was smiling, more than a little bit hypnotized by him, by this man that was a whole different kind of handsome. 

Karen, as a fair skinned blue eyed blonde, usually dated… Well, pretty men. Men that were classically attractive, all right angles and no bad sides. 

Frank, though. Frank was inexplicably beautiful. That rugged kind of handsome that she could not for the life of her explain why it worked so well, but it did. Everything about him was so attractive, his face, his broken nose, his jaw, his resting face that looked like he was ready to bite someone’s head off. 

But God, he looked so good. 

And he looked back at her, that face of his actually doing a pretty job in warming her up. 

She doesn’t actually remember what they talked about after that, but she knows he made her smile, and she said something else that made him smile, and then he was closer, her nose was freezing, but she felt warm in her belly, and then he was kissing her, small at first, just a touch of his lips on hers, one that lingered, but then it was a bit bigger, he leaned a bit closer and she parted her lips slightly, which made him raise his hand and put it on the back of her neck, bringing her closer. 

They stayed there for a few minutes, pressed together against the chilly wind, kissing without any sort of hurry or agenda, in spite of how cold it was. 

“Wanna get a coffee or something?” he finally asked when the wind picked up, and she nodded, closing her eyes when he kissed her again, and that was the day she found out he really did like her hair. 

Everytime they kissed after that, and the first time he spent the night at her place, and all the other times following that first one, he would spend a good while caressing her hair. Twirling a lock around his fingers, smoothing it on her head, pushing it out of her face, pressing his nose against it while they sat on the couch, you name it. Frank would always pay attention to her hair and Karen loved it, felt beautiful and cherished when he did it.

Missed it when he was not there. 

It was a bit after seven when she decided to call him. She knew she shouldn’t, he was working, he would be there later, but she was all by herself, and it was ridiculous, but she missed him. 

Her bag was packed and waiting on the couch, full of things she would need for the weekend, the very first weekend she would spent at his place, the very first time she would actually stay over. His kids were in Chicago with their mother for the long weekend, so she would not be meeting them just yet. 

Which was good, she was nervous about meeting them. 

What if they didn’t like her? What if she said all the wrong things? What if she embarrassed herself in front of this guy’s kids and messed it up so bad she couldn’t see him anymore? 

Pushing those thoughts away from her mind, she pressed the call button, running a brush on her wet hair while it rang, fighting the silly smile when he answered. 

“Hey”.

.:.

He does love her hair. More than a little bit, if he’s being completely honest. 

It’s not even a thing for him, normally. Maybe because he never met someone who’s hair he found so alluring, that caught the light like that, or twisted at the ends like this, or that particular color he had never quite seen before. 

Well, he had seen it, Karen was not the first blonde woman he ever met in his life. 

But the way those particular strands looked on his pillowcases, and the gentle and subtle curl of it around his fingers, the baby hairs that kept out of the towel she wrapped around her head after the shower. 

Honestly, Frank lived for the smell of it, any given time. 

His favorite, though, might just be that contrast of it against his pillowcases. 

She was asleep, but almost waking up. The sun was out already, and the birds outside were chirping like their lives depended on it. He felt her feet flexing under the covers, and, granted, they haven’t been sleeping together long, but Frank was starting to know a few of her patterns. 

First were the feet, then the slight frown, and then she would stir, stretch and then open her eyes.

Karen frowned and Frank raised his hand. Slid his fingers over her ear and into that hair, the heel of his wrist by the corner of her mouth, her cheek warm on his palm. 

As expected, she stretched, and Frank felt a hand touching his chest under the covers. 

For three days, now, he had been watching her wake up, and he liked going through the whole process (a fascinating thing to watch, Karen Page). Today, though. 

Today he put his fingers through her hair, and brought he face to his. She let out a small whimper of residual sleep, and turned her face into his palm, and that hair, that hair slipped and moved, fine fine fine strands of gold, and Frank moved to lie on top of her, nose on the crook of her neck, her arms around his own neck, hands grabbing her legs and adjusting them around his hips. 

“Morning, officer”, she mumbled in his ear, so warm under him. 

“Morning, miss Page”.

“So rude, waking me up like this.”

One breath, deep, the scent of her shampoo filling his lungs. 

“You wanna go back to sleep?” 

“Hmm”. And that hair, working like liquid rope around his fingers. “Maybe.” 

“Ok”, he agreed, pressing one simple, lingering kiss on her lips before turning them, fitting her back to his chest. “Close your eyes, then.” 

He did the same, feeling as she adjusted his hand against her chest, his nose buried once again in the long strands of blonde hair. 

“The lengths we go to avoid a ticket”, she said suddenly, making him laugh, laughing herself, turning inside his arms to cuddle against him, the top of her head under his chin.

He should buy Grotto a coffee sometime. Preferably before he arrested his crooked ass, but the only reason he could bury his nose in Karen’s hair right now was because of the bet he lost, so the very least he could do was treat the stupidest corrupt police officer he had ever  to a cup of coffee.

But he would think about that later. For now he would enjoy the warmth of the woman against him, and not even ponder about the rapidly growing feelings inside him. 

Later. 

[threadvector]

The irony is that taxes were intended to lessen social polarity and friction

Moreover, these strata of society were most likely to use tax planning to minimize their tax payments. They wriggled their way around controversial subjects and the result was that every loophole cutting measure brought in its wake a growing host of others. Governments from Germany to the USA are working along the same lines. But they underwent a malignant transformation. In the lunatic fringes there were those who refused to pay taxes and served prison sentences as a result. But there is no way of preventing a tax evader from enjoying tax money paid by others. This way, more tax payers were supposed to be caught in "the net". The situation looked hopeless. Money is transferred from one group of citizens (law abiding taxpayers) - to other groups. It indirectly affects the purchasing power of those not knowledgeable enough, devoid of political clout, or not rich enough to protect themselves.. Suddenly, the fashion was to downsize government, minimize its disruptive involvement in the marketplace and reduce the total tax burden as part of the GNP. All these very dear prices might have been acceptable if taxes were to achieve their primary stated goals. Tax revenues were diverted to pay for urban renewal, to encourage foreign investments through tax breaks and tax incentives, to enhance social equality by evenly redistributing income and so on. 

These economic activities went unreported and totally deformed the processes of macroeconomic decision making, supposedly based on complete economic data. So, governments tried the next trick in their bag: they shifted from progressive taxes to regressive ones. This lack of transparency and even-handedness led to the frequent eruption of scandals which unseated governments more often than not. That they failed to do so is what sparked the latest rebellious thinking. At first, the governments of the world tried a few simple recipes: They tried to widen the tax base by better collection, processing, amalgamation and crossing of information. On the other, the number of tax rates and the magnitude of each rate will be pared down. This proved to be a much more efficient measure - albeit with grave social consequences. They began to be used to express social preferences. Monstrous black economies were formed by entrepreneuring souls. This was really a shift from taxes on income to taxes on consumption. The salaries of the lower strata of society are eroded by inflation and this has the exact same effect as a tax would. Regressive taxes were politically and socially costly. Research demonstrated that most tax money benefited the middle classes and the rich, in short: those who need it least. Still, it became so widespread and so socially accepted that no one dared challenge it seriously. The idea is aesthetically appealing: all tax concessions and loopholes will be eliminated, on the one hand. This failed dismally.To tax or not to tax - this question could have never been asked twenty years ago. 

They abolished on the one hand - and gave with the other. If they succeed, we may all inherit a better world. Moreover, VAT and other direct taxes on consumption were almost immediately reflected in higher inflation figures. This is why inflation is called the poor man's tax. Taxes are inherently unjust. Thus, governments were reduced to using the final, nuclear-like, weapon in their arsenal: the simplification of the tax system. Moreover, decades of progressive taxation did not reverse the trend of a growing gap between the rich and the poor. As economic theory goes, inflation is a tax. This apparent lack of macroeconomic control creates a second layer of mistrust between the citizen and his government (on top of the one related to the collection of taxes). This entailed conflicts with special interest groups whose interests were duly reflected in the tax loopholes. They are enforced, using state coercion. Progressive taxes resembled Swiss cheese: too many loopholes, not enough substances. Taxes are largely considered to be responsible for the following: They distorted business thinking; Encouraged the misallocation of economic resources; Diverted money to strange tax motivated investments; Absorbed unacceptably large chunks of the GDP; Deterred foreign investment; Morally corrupted the population, encouraging it to engage in massive illegal activities; Adversely influenced macroeconomic parameters such as unemployment, the money supply and interest rates; Deprived the business sector of capital needed for its development by spending it on non productive political ends; Caused the smuggling of capital outside the country; 

The formation of strong parallel, black economies and the falsification of economic records thus affecting the proper decision making processes; Facilitated the establishment of big, inefficient bureaucracies for the collection of taxes and data related to income and economic activity; Forced every member of society to - directly or indirectly - pay for professional services related to his tax obligations, or, at least to consume his own resources (time, money and energy) in communicating with authorities dealing with tax collection. The recipients are less savoury: they either do not pay taxes legally (low income populations, children, the elderly) - or avoid paying taxes illegally. They are trying to stem what is in effect a tax rebellion, a major case of civil disobedience. Marginal tax rates will go down considerably and so will the number of tax rates. Income distribution has remained inequitable (ever more so all the time) - despite gigantic unilateral transfers of money from the state to the poorer socio - economic strata of society. VAT rules around the world allow businesses to offset VAT that they paid from VAT that they were supposed to pay to the authorities. Historically, income tax is a novel invention. As long as this is the case, the eternal chase of the citizen by his government will continue. People found ways around this relatively unsophisticated approach and frequent and successive tax campaigns were to no avail. Governments, being political creatures, did a half hearted job. No wonder that tax planning is regarded as the rich man's shot at tax evasion. The government, on its part, will no longer use the tax system to express its (political) preferences. Recent studies clearly indicate that a reverse relationship exists between the growth of the economy and the extent of public spending. If they fail, the very fabric of societies will be affected. 

Many of them ended up receiving VAT funds paid the poorer population, to which these tax breaks were, obviously, not available. Knowing the propensities of human beings, the safe bet is that people will still hate to see their money wasted in unaccounted for ways on bizarre, pork barrel, projects. In economies where taxes gobble up to 60% of the GDP (France, Germany, to name a few) - taxes became THE major economic disincentive. When the social consequences of levying regressive taxes became fully evident, governments went back to the drawing board. The natural inclination was to try and plug the holes: disallow allowances, break tax breaks, abolish special preferences, eliminate loopholes, write-offs, reliefs and a host of other, special deductions. The poor subsidized the tax planning of the rich, so that they could pay less taxes. 

The irony is that taxes were intended to lessen social polarity and friction - but they achieved exactly the opposite. The same pattern was repeated: the powerful few were provided with legal loopholes. They are an infringement of the human age old right to property. Some of them tried to translate their platforms into political power and established parties, which failed dismally in the polls. As Big Government became more derided - so were taxes perceived to be its instrument and the tide turned. Thousands of laws, tax loopholes, breaks and incentives and seemingly arbitrary decision making, not open to judicial scrutiny eroded the trust that a member of the community should have in its institutions. So, people will feel less like core spun sewing threads Manufacturers cheating and they will spend less resources on the preparation of their tax returns. Why work for the taxman? Why finance the lavish lifestyle of numerous politicians and bloated bureaucracies through tax money? Why be a sucker when the rich and mighty play it safe? The results were socially and morally devastating: an avalanche of illegal activities, all intended to avoid paying taxes. It will propagate a simple, transparent, equitable, fair and non arbitrary system which will generate more income by virtue of these traits. But some of what they said made sense. Originally, taxes were levied to pay for government expenses. They could afford to pay professionals to help them to pay less taxes because their income was augmented by transfers of tax money paid by the less affluent and by the less fortunate