#but seriously y’all just have some common decency | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sockablock · 5 years ago

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I’ve had a small idea for a little while now, so I’m testing the waters with a first chapter! It’s a bit long, so excuse me there, but hopefully y’all enjoy reading! :3

—

It began with a letter that arrived one morning as Essek sat alone in the kitchen.

The courier himself had seemed just as surprised to be delivering a message to the reclusive Shadowhand, but a cursory glance at the carefully-folded envelope and a less-cursory casting of Detect Magic had signaled no foul play. So Essek took the letter, settled back beside the dining table, and floated over a glass of chilled juice for the reading.

His eyes flicked over the return address, and though it did seem familiar, it did not immediately spark recognition. His first real impression of the message was simply that of crisp, neatly-printed handwriting and the faintest whiff of…hmm. Lavender.

The letter began with a standard greeting.

To Shadowhand Essek Thelyss—

I hope you have been keeping well since we spoke. It has been some time, and I admit it is strange for me also as I realize this is likely the first letter I have sent you since our meeting.

He sipped the juice.

You are a busy man, and I would not intrude on your time if my request is unwelcome or unfeasible. But you see, in the time since we have ended the war and sealed away the Chained Oblivion—

Essek nearly spat out his drink.

He managed, in the proceeding moments, to weakly swallow, and shakily set his glass back onto the table. He cleared his throat once or twice. He gently coughed.

He picked up the envelope he had discarded earlier and quickly, the pieces fit together.

The Firmaments. Eastern district. The neighborhood where once, Den Thelyss had provided a house for a ragtag group of outsiders…

He snatched the letter back into the air.

—and semi-accidentally, though certainly also purposefully toppled the Cerberus Assembly.

Essek had to pause and re-read that sentence. It still didn’t sink in until nearly a minute later. He rubbed his temples, and resumed.

As such, it has befallen on I, and by extension the rest of the Mighty Nein to rebuild some of the arcane infrastructure of the Empire. To be more specific, in our meeting with King Dwendal’s court, a lord accused us of trying to cripple the nation by eliminating a powerful institution of magic and Beauregard volunteered that I would be the best candidate to replace it. One comment led to another, and perhaps it was our past efforts in politicking, or our recent defeat of the Maw of Eternal Darkness—

Essek wondered if he had any alcohol.

—but the court ultimately, shockingly, decided that I should be put in charge of creating and overseeing a new arcane academy for the Dwendalian Empire. And so, at the time in which I am writing you this letter, I have been appointed the Headmaster of a new Soltryce Academy, though I certainly will not be keeping that name.

It is with this in mind that I am writing to you now, my friend. For you see, despite the apparent confidence of my friends and my “superiors,” I do not believe I am capable of running a school on my own. Certainly not implementing the necessary infrastructure to have a school of any repute by the next century as well. And though I have my friends, and some resources, and an idea of where to start, the destruction of the Assembly and the Cobalt Soul’s anti-corruption efforts have left our nation in a sorry state regarding reputable mages. So, my dear friend, as we have worked together in the past, I have quite a large favor to ask.

And as Essek’s eyes continued scanning further down the page, the sinking sensation gripping his stomach was not helped by the decanter of plum wine that floated over to his table.

—

Meanwhile, beneath a shining sun on what seemed like the opposite side of the world, Caleb Widogast, the appointed head of a yet-to-be-named-academy was being berated by one of his closest friends.

Beau at least had possessed the decency to shut the tent flap so the army of woodworkers outside would not hear this.

“—suspicious! Caleb, there’s no way it’ll work. And not just because he’s the Shadowhand of the Bright Queen, also because…because…well…everything!”

“I think if he carried an umbrella during the day—”

“Not what I’m talking about,” Beau said. “I’m talking about literally every other problem that asking Essek to teach will cause, good gods.”

Caleb leaned back on the small wooden crate that was currently serving as his favorite chair. The slightly-larger crate he was using for a desk said “Honigblumen Brewery” on it.

“Well, nobody will be teaching for quite some time yet,” he said, “so we will have plenty of chances to work out the kinks.”

Beau shook her head at him, then took a seat. “I’m so far down disbelief city that I’m not even going to talk about the fact that you just said kinks.”

“I meant—”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I know what you meant, and here’s what I mean. Caleb, as much as I know you like Essek, there’s no way any of this is gonna work. First of all, he’s already got a job as the Shadowhand, and I doubt he’d wanna give up a cushy position like that to come work for a nothing-at-all school in the middle of the Empire.”

“Ja, I know, I know, I’ve thought about that—”

“And did you think about the part where he’s the fucking Shadowhand and you’ve asked him to come to the middle of the Dwendalian Empire to teach a goddamn gen-ed course?!”

Caleb was quiet for a moment. And then he said:

“Actually, I was thinking of asking him to take the more advanced levels—”

Beau reached across the ale crate to flick Caleb in the head. “And you don’t see a problem with that, at all? Caleb, for the gods’ sake, use your stupidly big head to consider the fuckin’ political ramifications of that. If the Empire catches wind of this, they’re gonna hate it, war over or not over. And I don’t even mean that in a ‘there’s gonna be shitty racism’ way, which is something else you’ll probably have to deal with later, I meant that in a ‘think about his last job description way.” And speaking of that, I mean, on Essek’s side, really, are you really expecting him to really settle down and help teach after he’s spent a lifetime—a human lifetime—being a military spymaster? Not to mention the fact that he’s a power-hungry war criminal who betrayed his own nation to get ‘arcane secrets’ or whatever. Seriously, dude, there’s no scenario where this goes well for you or him.”

At Caleb’s expression, Beau’s tone eased just slightly and she added, as a peace offering, “Really, dude.”

Caleb sighed. He scratched at his head.

“I…look. I…I think you’re right, but…there are also good possibilities of having him around. He is knowledgeable, he is skilled, I know his magic firsthand, and he has always been trustworthy—”

“Ha!”

“—for us, Beauregard. I think he is one of our best potential candidates, especially as he is only one of three so far. Just…trust me on this one, alright?”

She studied his face intently. The sheerness of the tent walls let in quite a bit of light, giving both of their eyes a faint, sunny sparkle.

With these two, though, it was more of a manic glint.

“What’s this really about?”

“Was?”

Beau leaned closer. “I said, what’s this really about? I don’t think that’s your only motivation. And if I’m gonna trust you, you’ve gotta be straight with me. I know you’re not an idiot, so I believe you when you say you’ve thought about the risks. What’s made them all worth it? What do you really think, and don’t give me that crap about him being a good teacher. You’ve got good teachers. Two advanced ones anyway, and you said yourself yesterday that the rest can be trained. So what’s up? What’s your real game here?”

Caleb floundered only slightly under the intensity of her stare.

“How long have we known each other now? No, fuck that, I pulled you out of the mouth of a forsaken god. Tell me, dickwad. Come on, it’s me.”

And after a moment, Caleb pinched his nose.

“It’s…it’s… it’s partially selfish. And…”

This, Beau understood. She nodded. “And…?”

“And…well, I…was thinking last night, after dinner, about who I want on this project. Aside from you all. And I realized…thinking about everything we have been through, that…for the most part, especially after our…revelations at sea, Essek is one of the people I want around. Largely because, well…”

He gave another sigh.

“Because I want to see what has become of our Xhorhastian friend. More importantly, I want to see if he has…or…could, ah, change.”

“Change,” she said flatly.

“Ja. I…I think I need to seem him change.”

“Because?”

“Because...” Caleb exhaled. “After everything we have been through, what we have seen, after fighting against the Assembly and watching so many mages crumble, I find myself searching for…assurance. Assurance that not every wizard is bad. Assurance that we even deserve this second change. And…if at all possible, what I most would like is to know that anyone, even the most driven and ambitious, the most ruthless, cutthroat, power—as you said, power-hungry—wizard can be shown that there is another way. That…ultimately, all of us can be redeemed.”

He looked back up, and raised an eyebrow. “I want to make this school a force for change. And I want to make it a place where we change, too. I said once before, and I still believe it is so, that Essek and I have a lot of things in common. It is time to see how much we can be changed.”

Beau did not answer for a drawn-out moment, but neither did she look away.

“I think you’re pretty changed, Caleb. That should be a point in your corner already.”

“That’s true,” and this time his smile was a little brighter, “but that is largely due to our group. I think Essek has gotten some of the Mighty Nein treatment, but probably not enough.”

“So…so is he your pet project now, or something?”

“Ach, no, nothing so…no. It is more of a…the thing is, Beauregard, I do consider him a friend. And we got so caught up with the Angel in Irons cult and then the Assembly that, well…it is just, before all that happened, I did like spending time with him.”

“Me too,” she waved a hand, “he had good wine, and when we got him in the hot-tub, he wasn’t that bad. Still don’t know if he’s worth all this. He’s a war criminal—yeah, I know what you and Jester think, but that’s what I think, and Veth agrees. Seriously, you never know, he could be too far gone, and I don’t want him near this school and project if it’ll put you in danger or risk anything.”

“We are no strangers to danger,” Caleb murmured. “And I…would like to think that with enough effort, nobody could be so far gone.”

Beau sighed. She leaned across the crate again, but this time it was to put an arm on Caleb’s shoulder.

“You’re really fucking stubborn, you know that?”

“Ja, so I have been told.”

“Essek has betrayed people before. His people, before.”

“Yes, but…” Caleb shrugged. “He also will probably be betraying his own nation to join this school.”

“Oh, good,” Beau grunted. “So at least he’s had some practice.”

—

By the time Essek had managed to re-arrange his thoughts into something even mildly resembling order, the letter in his hands was so thoroughly crumpled that all its corners were bent.

He attempted to smooth them back out. When this failed to be satisfactory, he put it back on the kitchen table.

A…teaching position at Caleb’s school. Well not Caleb’s school, but a new Empire Academy that Caleb would oversee. And they needed instructors, as well as mages to help build it, and he thought Essek would be a good fit…

Idly, he wondered if Caleb wanted a teleportation network, as many of the finest institutions had. He wondered if this was something he would have to organize.

Apparently, the Mighty Nein had defeated the Chained Oblivion in some obscure corner of the world, without most of civilization even noticing. But Essek remembered the readings that morning, remembered the clamor and panic in the Cathedral, remembered the theurgists in the Conservatory practically tearing themselves apart to understand what was happening. If their claims were true, and this wasn’t an elaborate prank on the Mighty Nein’s end, a large part of Essek vowed he would draw chalk circles for them forever, if they asked.

But a small part of Essek had the needling thought: why didn’t they tell me it was happening? I could have helped them.

He glanced back at the note.

Well, they were asking for help now, weren’t they? And if nothing else had changed, it was the simple fact that Essek would still do his best to help his friends.

There were just some minor complications to be dealt with.

Namely, what to tell the Bright Queen. And his—

He made a face.

��and his mother.

—

A few days later, Essek stood in front of his bathroom mirror.

It was a beautiful piece, made from polished volcanic glass and set into an ornately-twisted frame of dark metal. It was the perfect gift for someone who regularly floated around Rosohna being called the Shadowhand, but as far as mirrors actually went it left some details lacking.

Still, it served Essek well enough, and he’d never really gotten around to replacing it.

He stared into his dim reflection and slid a hand over his chin.

—

Elsewhere, another wizard stared too, but not into any reflective surface.

Veth’s eyes hadn’t refracted light like that for nearly two years, now. But Caleb could still feel the weight of her gaze boring into his skull as she searched for answers.

Eventually, she sat back.

“Alright. How?”

“Yes, I know it’s—was?”

“How?” she repeated, and steepled her fingers. “How are we gonna do it? He’ll need a disguise, right?”

There was a long pause as Caleb processed this. He managed, “You are…not mad?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m happy, but I trust you, Caleb. You have a reason?”

“Er…yes. I quite do.”

“So…alright, then.” There was a pause, then she added, “I am kind of annoyed you already sent the letter without asking, though.”

“Sorry.”

“I feel like I should ground you.”

“That, er…you can, if that makes you feel better.”

Veth genuinely seemed to consider this. Behind them, through the thin tent-walls of the office, they could hear a delighted child running circles around adults. They were, respectively, Luc Brenatto, having the time of his life shooting the Mighty Nein with wooden darts.

They were rounded off, of course. Yeza had seen to that with great care.

“No,” Veth sighed eventually. “No, that probably sets a bad example. I don’t think a professor can ground the Headmaster.”

“Head Professor, do not forget. I trust you the most out of everyone on this project. Not just because you are my friend, but you are qualified. And you really understand our mission.”

His tone of voice suggested that this was a conversation they had had many times. The way Veth’s face colored just slightly suggested she was still having trouble with the ‘qualified’ part.

Nevertheless, years of trained suspicion broke through the treacle-sweet flattery.

“But you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you were planning to ask Essek to come earlier,” she pointed out. “What did you think I was going to do?”

Caleb winced. “No, Veth, I…scheisse. That was…I was being impulsive that night. I…the idea occurred to me and I did not even hesitate to contact him. I…in retrospect, I should have.”

At least, to his relief, Veth nodded in response. “I get that,” she shrugged. “And like I said before, I am on board. You’re lucky I like you so much, Caleb. I don’t…care for Essek, but if this is what you want, I’ll…deal with having him around.”

“I am sorry again,” he said. “And, er…if it helps, you will also be his boss.”

Veth hadn’t been a goblin for years, but her eyes gleamed.

“Please be nice to him,” Caleb added.

“Nice?” Veth scoffed. “He’s not exactly nice.”

“He was nice to us—”

“Not Yeza.”

At the tortured grimace that passed across Caleb’s face, Veth sighed.

“Look, don’t worry, seriously. I was mostly kidding—I’m kidding! I just…you know that I have complicated feelings about Essek. In a…in a sort of way, I understand what he did. And I know where he’s coming from, I do. Lots of us are...well, we were pretty sketchy too. He really reminds me of the things we’ve done. But…he hasn’t shown nearly as much remorse as I’d like. And some of the things he’s done are—” She risked a glance up into Caleb’s impassive expression, “—I don’t like that he still doesn’t seem to care. But…he is a wizard, and I guess he’s our friend. So…if you can keep him from doing anything, I don’t know, very sketchy, then I’m on board. I trust you.”

Caleb’s expression went soft. He nodded.

“Thank you, Veth. I appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And I do hope that…well, I hope we can stop him from ‘sketchy’ things. In fact, ah…a small part of me is hoping that eventually, he will want to stop doing sketchy things all by himself.”

“Really?” Veth sounded more than skeptical. “How?”

Caleb shrugged. “The same way you and I did, no?”

—

Now Essek stood before the iron wrought gates that led into the expansive manor grounds of his family home. He could see, high above and a bit back, the five towers that made up the domain of the Umavi of Den Thelyss, long empty after all her children had moved on.

And, Essek recalled with a grimace, after his father had most probably, definitely, died.

It was a lonely castle. A feeling he could commiserate with, even in his smaller manor.

He straightened his collar. He knocked twice.

—

“By getting rich as adventurers.”

“By getting friends.”

—

“It is a surprise to see you here,” said Umavi Deirta Thelyss, Denmother of Den Thelyss and also Essek’s actual mother. “You rarely visit outside formal events and holidays.”

She did not add that Essek had totally missed the last two get-togethers, and thus must have been in a charitable mood. The rare—albeit leftover—tea blend that Essek had brought might have tipped the scale.

“I know, Mother.”

“I worry about you, of course.”

“I know, Mother.”

“And I’m certainly proud of what you’ve accomplished thus far.” At this, she took a sip of the Blooming Grove’s best. “I trust you are finding ways to keep yourself busy even during these times of peace?”

“Of course, Mother. Er…actually, it is partially that subject which I wish to address with you.”

His mother lowered her cup.

“Ah. So this is not purely a social call.”

“Er…no.”

She dabbed at the corner of her mouth, but Essek could have sworn she’d just smiled. Or, he backpedaled, at least tactfully smirked.

“Is this about access to the Beacons again, dear? As I always say, I can try to put in a word, but we have never been the den as involved in religious matters.” She paused, and tilted her head at him. “Is this about Consecution?”

“Er…no.”

“Oh. Well, then? Speak your mind.”

Under the table, Essek twisted at the hem of his sleeve.

“I, ah…well, that is…I’ve received a letter, Mother. An offer of…professorship. From…an Academy.”

This seemed to genuinely surprise the Umavi.

“Professorship? But…why?”

“Someone out there believes in my arcane prowess, apparently.” With the first sentence out of the way, Essek managed to sip his tea. Only a true observer would have noticed it falter slightly in its trajectory.

“Well,” said his Mother, trying to meet his gaze, “what a strange request to make of one already so gainfully employed. As the Bright Queen’s master of…let us call them the more obscure matters of state.”

When Essek did not match her eyes, she continued, “What sort of Academy is this, dear? Surely none in the Marble Tomes would write you in this way, and I find difficulty imagining you taking up permanent residence in Asarius. Which must mean…”

Essek sighed. His mother certainly was a true observer.

“Yes, Mother. It is outside the Dynasty.”

“Worse than that, I am sure.”

“Er…”

There was a sweeping of long robes as his mother leaned. She wasn’t wearing her headdress, but could loom without height, her sheer imposing presence doing the work just fine.

“Essek?”

He sighed again.

“Inside the Empire, Mother.” And because they had gotten this far, and he didn’t have much else to lose, he added, “Run by Widogast. Caleb Widogast, if you remember him, as well as a number of his friends, I gather. It is the…replacement institution currently being built to fill the void—”

“That the Assembly left, yes, I assumed.” She settled back, and a shifting of fabric indicated that she had crossed her arms. “And our dearly departed hero Widogast wants you to teach there?”

“And to assist him in establishing some of its curriculum and facilities, yes.” He tactfully ignored the ‘dearly departed’ bit.

“That would certainly be an odd career move for you, Essek. And surely, foreigner or no, he has spent enough time in our country to be aware of the implications of what he is asking.”

“Surely, Mother.”

“And as we all know, he has had training in Dunamancy these last years. I do hope his teacher had impressed upon him how vitally important it is to keep such training and knowledge a secret.”

For the first time since reading the letter, Essek paused.

In all his…well, excitement was not a word ever ascribed to the Shadowhand, but certainly in his anticipation to consider his offer, it had never actually crossed his mind that he might be asked to teach Dunamancy.

A small but very significant part of him riled.

Across the table, his mother drank some more tea. She was watching her son, who to his credit, had mastered the art of freezing his micro-expressions so swiftly that they could not be read. But without his mantle on, sitting in his mother’s tearoom, his hands were fidgeting up a storm across the table.

He probably hadn’t even noticed. She took another sip.

In a matter of seconds, Essek was back. He shook his head, and reached for a dry cookie.

“I think he is aware of the gravity of the situation. And I trust him to have already, ah…weighed the pros and cons.”

“And have you?” asked Deirta Thelyss, knowing the answer.

Essek bit down.

“I believe I have.”

—

“So…that’s it? We just wait for an answer, now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?”

“Well, I certainly hope so.”

“How’s he supposed to tell you?” This one was Jester, leaning across a stack of milk crates. “He doesn’t have Sending, I’m pretty sure.”

There was a pause in the air as the Mighty Nein watched Caleb consider, and realize this.

“Oh,” he said eventually. “I, er…I had assumed he did.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Beau said. “How did you think he was going to answer back? You didn’t think Xhorhas had a postal service to Felderwin, did you?”

“I, ah, admit that—”

“Maybe you should check our mailbox in Rosohna,” said Fjord kindly. “He probably just sent it to the Xhorhouse, or something.”

Caleb faltered, and scratched the back of his head. “…scheisse. You don’t think he has been waiting all this time to answer already, has he? I had not even considered—”

“I would not worry about that.”

All of them turned as a voice outside the door drifted in through the thin walls of the tent.

Then the voice added:

“How do I…oh, there is a latch—”

But he did not manage to finish the assessment before Jester ran over, threw the flap open, and tackled Essek bodily in a hug.

—

“In that case, there is only one last thing to say.” The Umavi of Den Thelyss sat back in her seat. A thin trail of steam curled up from her cup.

“I forbid you from going.”

“Thank—you what?”

She steepled her fingers. “I say ‘no,’ Essek. I will not let you chase this Empire wizard across the continent to teach at his school.”

“I…but…that is not…Mother, why?”

The swiftness of his outburst answered the question for both of them.

She studied his gaze.

“Essek, you have a purpose here. You have a bright future, and a reputation, and glowing prospects and I will not let you squander that to go off spilling our nation’s secrets.”

Essek managed to bite his tongue just in time. His mother would not have liked his instinctual answer.

Instead, he choked out the words, “I’ll quit, then. I’ll defect. I want to do this. More than I have ever wanted anything else in my life.”

Later, he would wonder why he said that. Even later, later, he would wonder if that were true.

The oldest and nearly-youngest souls of Den Thelyss stared at each other across the tea table. Their drinks cooled, and somewhere high above, the sun began to rise over the city of Rosohna.

But down here, beneath the blanket of perpetual stars, the only light was from the low, flickering lamps along the wall.

“I would do anything,” one said.

“…is that so?” said the other.

—

He was released after the impact knocked his parasol aside and his skin very quickly, visibly, began to redden. They immediately ushered him into the tent, shouting and laughing and clapping him on the back all the way, though he noticed that despite the friendly reception from Jester, Caduceus, Fjord, and even Yasha, Veth seemed somewhat frozen in her smile, and Beau even less warm.

That was…probably to be expected, actually. He wondered if this might present an issue and was about to open his mouth, say something, until he noticed a figure striding across the tent floor, side-stepping a stack of crates, and taking him by the hand.

Essek met his eyes. It had been some time, since he saw those eyes. Then he blinked.

“By the light, Caleb, you have grown a beard.”

There was a pause, and then Caleb laughed, and that was new too. Essek always forgot how quickly humans could change.

“I had meant to shave it before you arrived,” Caleb admitted. “It is, ah, a product of sleepless nights overseeing the construction of a new school.”

“It’s terrible,” Jester said. “It makes you look old.”

“I can fix this now if needed,” said a voice, followed by the sound of an unsheathing sword.

“Er…maybe…later, bitte?”

And Essek couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “I nearly forgot how boisterous all of you are, all the time. I have…” He turned, faced the Mighty Nein. “My life has not been nearly as interesting without you in it.”

“Well then, welcome back,” Caduceus gave a smile.

And even Veth, despite their…history, stepped forward.

“I said it once before, didn’t I? Welcome to the Mighty Nein, Essek.”

She even stuck out a hand for him to shake.

—

“I want you to report back everything to me. And when the time comes, when your Headmaster is summoned to the castle, I want you to go with him.”

“But…Mother, why?”

Her voice was nothing but gentle as she addressed her son.

“It is well-known that King Bertrand Dwendal has no heirs. And rules over quite a…combative court, with an iron fist.”

She leaned in even closer.

“What would happen to the Empire, do you think, if he was removed from that picture?”

—

And somewhere else, on what felt like the opposite side of the world, Caleb put an arm around Essek’s shoulder, and grinned.

“It is good to see you again, my friend.”

Essek’s lip twitched into what could approximately be called a smile.

“Good to see you as well,” he said.

#to be continued...?#critical role #critfic #shadowgast #critrole #cr2 #the mighty nein #fanfiction #fanfic #jay writes #long post #LONG ASS POST #SUCH A LONG POST IM SO SORRY #for later #i dont have a tag for this yet so let's call it #time to build a magic school #text #fic

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honorable-wanderings · 4 years ago

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Word of Honor - Episode 2 Part 2 - Mirror Lake has more Fire than expected

In an interesting twist of fate Zhou Zishu decides to take the nice munchkin up on his offer to crash at his place for a while.

Thumbs up my dood

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Now the fuck are these guys?

Oh cool. Thanks.

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See? Children chants are creepy! Always!

But especially when driven by plort! (plort was a typo but I’m Keeping it.)

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Finally people treating our man with common decency and respect! Who knew he just needed a fancy bookmark?

Oop. Nevermind

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I have discovered the joys of fucking with people and I’m never going back again

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A fuck this guy again. I’m assuming we’re not supposed to like him? But I don’t like him either way. He has no... je ne sais quoi

He boring. Basic. Bland.

It ain’t good.

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Oh and also you know how you wanted us to keep tabs on Zhou ZiShu? Oh well um.. it’s going great! Great! Yeah... except for... we can’t find him.

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Well if this ain’t a whole ass mood?

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Midnight already? Time for the pain pins to poke me painfully!

This sure is a weird version of Cinderella

gross

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Okay okay so normally the 7 torture nails block your chi? I’m understanding? So you can no longer do martial arts. And he would rather die than lose all his martial arts so he put the nails in slowly so that he could still have SOME of his martial arts. But the point of the nails is still that he wants to die and feels he deserves to be punished as well? Right? So having his martial arts helps mediate the pain which lessons the punishment

and if it weren’t for the punishment aspect couldn’t he have just like... faked the nails? Or would they have been able to tell? I mean this is all dramatic and all but where are your motivations Zhou ZiShu?

work with me here

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Hey?! That’s not sunlight?!?

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Love me a good silhouette shot

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And suddenly everything is on fire???

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Rude

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After watching like 4 people get killed in front of him and a lot of fire and ransacking our protragonists finally thinks perhaps he should get himself involved.

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How is everything a fucking boomerang???

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Pffffff I love it

Tunk thunk

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In another interesting development, the boat man from before is important?????

Also our boy is doing his best with that hat

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Okay I know he’s like a master of disguise and all but like he doesn’t seem to be doing much to actually... hide? Still love his wiggly sword style

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Um take the kid and fucking run maybe????

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*stalks you from a not very inconspicuous distance*

Didja miss me?

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Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go

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Fuck I hate being disarmed.

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This place looks strangely similar to the woodshed...

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The fuck are you?

Wouldn’t you like to know?

Yes I would. That’s why I asked

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There’s just nothing quite like a near death experience to bring people together.

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Take this kid and run!

But sir, you don’t seem to understand! I am the Best Boy! I simply cannot just leave you to die.

----------

Don’t worry kid! You can’t get in trouble anymore! Your dad is fuckin dead! Surely that’ll bring you some comfort!

----------

Random Local Boatman is surprisingly honorable and happens to be in debt to the father of the kid who was nice to you that morning.

Life sure is weird.

----------

He doing him best

---------

Though it is absolutely understandable, he reacts to being touched by that paper the way I react to walking into a spider web.

-------

Gramps is a badass

-----------

I do have to say these guys do seem to be much better trained than the usual evil henchmen. And you have to appreciate their aesthetic.

----------

Seriously!! The best boy!!!!!

This man has helped in a little bit exactly once to repay him for his own kindness an this little teenager is willing to just die for him without hesitation.

Like no, son, the two old men are doing this so that YOU live. You have it backwards.

----------

Surpriiiiise I’m stalking you too!

----------

Oh no the henchmen are falling into the drawing things out to emotionally torture their prey thing. Don’t y’all know that giving the protagonist time to recover and/or study your moves is how you die? Did you even GO to henchman school?

----------

ahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Just.. omg. The noise he made. “Dwaaah!!!”

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

Okay kid I know you’re young and under a lot of stress and never really got into the whole martial arts training thing but grandpa is doing better than you literally laying down and covered in cuts. Just sayin

----------

Aw nuts

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

*ding*

Please take your protagonist out of the oven as cooktime has been completed.

----------

The fighting editing style seems to be a weird splice of nice crisp slowmotion view of the action and spliced together jump cuts and zooms that make for an odd kinda hard to follow combination. But at least I guess they tend to end on ‘cool pose x”

----------

“Hey, Beggar! You’re good at martial arts. Somehow this surprises me even though I already knew that???”

----------

Unexpected trust fall ends better than anticipated

----------

Das gaee

----------

He’s bendin’ over backwards for you!!

--------

Unexpected but definitely varied emotional investments on the fact that Gramps is dying.

----------

Look at him being all humble.

----------

Ooh he could be in a medical drama. That is the perfect like sad close your eyes and head shake no I’m sorry he’s not gonna make it. Bravo.

Very delicate.

----------

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me”

----------

I’m guilt tripping you into a found family and you’re gonna like it punk

---------

Sick dude, whats your name? Shit no one’s asked me that before somehow I’m not ready..

Uh.uh... Zhou Xu.

Nailed it.

“Zhou Xu? Naw that doesn’t sound right.”

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

May you learn from this never to underestimate, rob, and otherwise harass your local old boat man for you never know when he may force you through guilt and honor into taking on a ward and a quest under penalty of being haunted by his old ass ghost forever

----------

Uncle Li has died and most of the group is much more upset about it than they would have anticipated that morning.

Poor ChenLing is having a rough day.

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

RIP Uncle Li. So much for living a carefree couple of years lying drunk in the sun.

It looks like even now you can’t escape your responsibilities Zhou Xu.

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

Group of hereto-unknown men arrive in poor time to stop the bonfire

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

“What’s wrong?” Um... maybe... fire??

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

I say again, thank you for labeling the people I’m supposed to remember.

Also, why did y’all have to wait for orders before checking out the fuckin boats?

Y’all dumb.

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

Hey, Wen KeXing, Not trying to throw off your groove or anything but maybe a funeral isn’t the best time for flirting? Perhaps? Maybe?

I know you don’t have an ‘off’ switch but maybe a pause button?

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

“are you done?”

“Never.”

----------

It deadass took y’all this long to introduce yourself? You’ve been stalking him all this time and you never thought to go “btw my name Wen KeXing? Comment t’appelles tu?” Come on man

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

Our best boy is having his not best day. D:

Don’t worry. Your new family will stalk/care for you.

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

“A-Xiang! Make some food!” “No shit Sherlock I already did.” “My ideas are the best. :D”

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

Eat your food!

Eat your food!!

Eat your FOOD!!!

EAT YOUR FOOD!!!!

WILL SOMEONE PLEASE EAT YOUR GODDAMN FOOD?

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

“Oh my GOD we get it you can fucking read! Oh my god.”

---------

If I prove I can read too will you pass me a damn pancake?

Fuck yeah.

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

GOD DAMN IT SOMEONE EAT FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK

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

Um excuse you this group only has room for one little bitch and it ain’t fuckin you, you hear me little girl?

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

I am very sorry. Thank you for saving my life. I would like to re-assert my status as “best boy”.

HEY WHAT THE FUCK????

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

Wen KeXing: 👀

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

Please increase your friendship level before asking personal questions.

---------

Nya Nya you were useless when your home was burned to the ground and your family was killed waaaaah how pathetic are you!!

Can you fucking not?

My B.

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

BEST BOY INJURED THIS IS NOT A DRILL

----------

Our Man Zhou ZiShu respects bodily autonomy!

Do not touch my fuckin’ boy or I will fight you!

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

And we end the episode with Wen KeXing being horny on main!

Sir, keep it together. There are children present.

#Word of honor #Shanhe Ling #zhou zishu #Wen Kexing #zhang chengling #Gu Xiang #Writing WoH #spoilers #Episode 2

41 notes · View notes

hskrealm · 5 years ago

Text

memories. (m)

pairing: min yoongi x reader

genre: angst, smut, a liiittle bit of fluff in some places

word count: 6.2k (it wasn’t supposed to be this LONG IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A DRABBLE)

warnings: eh where do i start... reader is VERY traumatized, she’s kinda crazy too (just a little) mentions of major character death, familial issues, this fic is just very dark for like the first 2k words lol, yoongi loves his fucking sword, commoner!yoongi, king!yoongi, criminal!reader, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, hair pulling, dom!yoongi, etc.

summary: “We can save the details for later. I accept your apology, and I really want to fucking kiss you.”

notes: inspired by @dontaskshhhhh and the daechwita mv. there’s probably many typos as usual y’all—

Even though you were a lowlife, you couldn’t stand being handled roughly.

It wasn’t your fault that you had an unfortunate upbringing. Your parents were very wealthy when you were born, but after the family business failed due to illegal scamming and falsifying of information, you were left to support yourself.

Literally. They didn’t give you a single thing to live off of after the age of five, which was fine. Your grandparents took after you, and once you were able to have a say in it, you decided to never set foot in the presence of your mother and father again if you could help it.

All was fine up for the next twelve years after that, until your grandparents bailed out on you too. Something about not having the funds to support all three of you financially, although they had several beach houses to their names, and enormous retirement checks to rely on.

You had gotten used to being given up on by this point, so you weren’t as emotionally devastated as you should’ve been when you’d come home from school one day, and your grandparents had all of your belongings packed up by the front door with a nice little note on top to let you know that you’d have to find somewhere else to lay your head.

They didn’t even have the decency to tell you to fuck off in person. You laugh sometimes thinking about it, since that’s all you could do now. The past was behind you, and you can’t change it. You didn’t really want to, either, because you learned quite a bit from your younger self.

For starters, you learned from your previous encounters to never lay your trust in anyone ever again, even if they were to offer you everything you needed and more. You’d made this mistake too many times to make it again. Besides, if you couldn’t trust your own parents, then you’d be setting yourself up for failure if you decided to seek assurance in a stranger... no matter the relationship you may have developed with them.

Although you knew you couldn’t trust anyone, you quickly learned that it was okay to take advantage of help when it was given to you.

That is how you got back on your feet, after all.

You met a good group of people.

Well, good to you, but not to the law, or outsiders.

You didn’t trust them, but you allowed them to take you in. They were just like you; lost and traumatized, but they confided in one another. They didn’t really have a choice, since they only had each other.

You had an amazing run with them. They made you laugh, cry, and they supported you. Just like family, you supposed. You never had a stable family to compare the kind of love they gave you to, but you figured it’d be something similar.

You never had an abundance of anything, but you had just enough, and that was okay. You were never the type of girl who desired to live lavishly anyway.

It was remarkably easy for you to pick up on their habits. You had become keen on cheating, lying, and stealing after only two months of being in their company. It came easily to you, and you used your newly developed skills to wiggle your way in and out of certain situations.

You couldn’t wiggle your way out of this one, though. The cuffs on your wrists wouldn’t allow for that.

You sucked in a breath as you were thrown to the ground, your knees scraping against the material of your jeans as you made impact.

“Be any fucking rougher, could you?” You hissed toward the guard over your shoulder, although you wiggled your fingers nervously behind your back.

He smirked at you, stifling a laugh as he carried his muscular frame toward the large double doors that you were forced through moments prior to being manhandled toward the ground.

“Enjoy your last few moments of life, honey.” He spit, his face falling expressionless afterward as he allowed the doors to slam shut behind himself, leaving you to your thoughts. You couldn’t see his face, but you were certain that he was sporting a shit eating grin. If you could, you’d slap it off of his face.

You couldn’t see a thing in the room that you were in, and you began to grow anxious as the anticipation began to eat away at you, your heartbeat thudding loudly in your chest.

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and held back a loud cry, your eyes watering as the realization finally settled upon you. You couldn’t keep up your tough girl exterior anymore, and you were going to die in this pitch black room at any moment.

What if this was part of the execution? What if the room was this dark purposefully? To add to the shock factor? That would be sure get someone shaken up, knowing they could be taken out by a gunshot, a quick slice of a sword, something hanging from the ceiling—

You paused, sniffing the tears away quickly. You knew your eyes would get puffy if you cried for any more than a few seconds, and you wanted to be remembered for being strong, not a wimp. News would spread quickly after your death, and you knew it would. It always did.

You evaluated your position for a moment. You were crying because you were afraid of death.

Seriously, you were afraid of something that was inevitable?

You choked back a laugh, a small smile cracking on your face before you burst out into a full on fit of giggles.

You wouldn’t be tortured to death, and you knew that for sure. That sort of punishment was only allowed for sexual crimes, acts of severe hatred, domestic abuse, or murder.

You’d be killed quickly, and you were crying because of that? You’d have lost all of your street credit if word got back to your little gang.

You looked like a lunatic. Knees pressed into the ground, hands behind your back, and laughing wildly as strands of your hair flew onto your face from the occasional draft that would flow through the room.

You knew it, too, but you picked up this tip from a certain black haired boy with a scar over his eye. He used to be involved with your group of criminals.

He told you to laugh in any situation where you were put under extreme pressure. You told him that he was crazy for giving you such shitty advice, but once you tried it after being taken into custody for the first crime, you realized that he may have given you some valuable information.

“You’ll either relax a bit and take some of the stress off, or they’ll think you’re crazy and let you go. Win win, right?”

You smiled as your laughter began to die out.

You’d always remember Yoongi, but he was dead to you now.

He was the only person in that group that you connected with. Still, you didn’t trust him, but you could rely on him to help you every now and then if you needed to.

He left without a word, something about wanting to better himself. He’d mentioned that a few times before he actually left, but you didn’t think he’d follow through.

That was the first time that you’d been physically hurt when someone important to you left.

You didn’t speak for a few weeks, laugh for months, or manage to take care of yourself properly for quite some time.

He was so important to you, and he knew it. He didn’t care though, because he still left. Why did you care then?

You didn’t.

You wouldn’t have to care about anything in a few more minutes.

You rolled your neck from side to side, shaking yourself free from any final thoughts as you waited patiently for your execution.

You considered begging for your life, but there was no reason to. You didn’t have anything to lose anymore.

You sat quietly for another minute or so.

Every muscle inside of your body tensed at the sound of leisurely paced footsteps striking against the ground. You felt like you were going to explode, but you managed to keep yourself together.

“Lift your head.”

You immediately obeyed the request, fearful that you’d be tortured immensely if you hadn’t.

You took a deep breath, stopping midway through it as you felt the cool metal of a sword press right under your chin.

The panic began to settle in again, and you began to fidget around like a fish out of water as the sword grazed the skin of your neck.

“Luckily for you, ________, stealing isn’t punishable by execution.” Your eyes ballooned out of your skull, and your mouth dried instantly as you fell into a coughing fit.

“You’d better hold your breath if you want to keep your life.” The person with the sword against your windpipe teased, and you shrieked in terror and disbelief as you confirmed that the voice belonged to who you thought was the rightful owner.

“YOONGI!” You screamed so loudly that your voice bounced off of the walls in the room and echoed back, possibly louder than the scream itself.

You weren’t sure if you screamed because he was the one threatening you with a weapon, or that there was still a very large sword pressed to your jugular even though he just said that stealing isn’t punishable by execution.

How would he know that, anyway?

The room began to lighten up at the same time the sword did against your neck. You were vaguely able to make out Yoongi’s figure in front of you.

You winced slightly as the lights brightened fully, and you came face to face with the sack of ass that left you to suffer years ago.

You checked your surroundings immediately afterward, confused to find that you were in the aisle of what you knew to be a temple.

Was this a fucking joke?

You weren’t sure of what to say. You had questions, obviously, but you also wanted to scream at him for being an asshat and playing such a dumb prank on you.

How are you supposed to start a conversation with someone that you hadn’t talked to in years, though?

Yoongi could read your confusion, a sadistic smile on his face as he walked toward you as if he had achieved something great.

He leaned down in front of you, a few pieces of his blonde hair brushing against your forehead. You thrashed around in the cuffs as he placed a light peck to your forehead, just as he did when the two of you were on good terms.

“Get the fuck off of me.” You threatened, and he hummed at your attitude.

“Still as gorgeous as ever, ________.” You bit down on the insides of your cheeks as he angled himself away from you.

He was as gorgeous as ever himself, the scar still perfectly etched into his skin as if it’d never heal, his face a bit more mature since the last time you saw him, and his hair a bright blonde instead of the shiny black it was a few years back.

You hated him.

“I hate you.” You voiced your thoughts, and Yoongi simply shrugged while taking a few steps backwards, maintaining his eye contact with you.

“You wouldn’t hate me if you knew what I’ve done for you.” He responded simply, his chocolate colored eyes squinted in distaste as he turned around on his heels, walking cooly to a chair that would’ve resembled a King’s throne.

It actually was a throne, but you didn’t understand why he was sitting on it. Min Yoongi was certainly no King. He was a rude and inconsiderate excuse of a friend.

Er, acquaintance, rather. You never really had friends, and you’d like to keep it that way.

“What are you talking about?” You asked, nose turned up in skepticism. Yoongi smiled a bit, licking his lips as he reminisced upon the events that happened a bit earlier today.

He saw you being dragged into the temple by one of his guards, struggling to keep your footsteps aligned due to the inability to control the pace of your walking.

He watched as the doors of the temple swung open and you were thrown to the ground harshly. He was hidden in the shadows as he observed the scene, immediately knowing that feisty voice of yours like the sword that he carried with him daily.

It was one of the things he loved most about you. After all, he was the one that practically made that part of you, and he didn’t regret it one bit.

It pained him to know that you were brought to him under terms of execution, but he assumed this would be the way you’d turn out if you continued to involve yourself with that group of people. That’s why he left you on your own.

Plus, the road to becoming King didn’t require the help of anyone else, and it certainly didn’t require yours. This was a task that he needed to complete on his own, and now that he had, his goal was simply to remain in power.

That’d be easy. People feared tyrants.

Yoongi was no tyrant, but he had tyrannical tendencies, one of them being participating in the execution of prisoners. Now, it was strictly prohibited for a King to execute a commoner, but he didn’t mind. Plus, he did sit back and watch most times as he was supposed to, so what was the harm?

He was the highest form of authority there was anyway, so who’d complain to him about what he could and couldn’t do?

He battled with himself to figure out a proper way to ease you out of this. He couldn’t outright call the execution off, and he knew that. No one would fear a King who spared the life of some measly village girl, and Yoongi craved the fear of his people.

Perhaps he could drag you elsewhere once the guard left. If he was to be questioned about it, he could mention something about needing to speak to you privately before your execution.

No, that’s dumb. Who’d believe that?

Maybe he could wait just until your execution was to take place, and halt it, saying that you were wrongly convicted of your crimes?

He couldn’t do that either. You’d been caught stealing multiple times before, and your criminal record was long enough to prove that you were the right person sentenced to death.

So, Yoongi lost about half of his dignity when he marched right up to the guard that dragged you inside, and asked him to let you be.

Of course, the guard agreed, but Yoongi’s ego had faltered momentarily.

He gained all of that dignity back, though, when he heard you scream his name while kneeling with your hands cuffed behind your back.

What a sight to see.

Yoongi glanced back down at you from his throne, a cocky smile on his face as he shifted his position in the gigantic chair, turning his body slightly sideways as he threw his legs over the side of it.

“Nothing, so I guess you’re right. I haven’t done a thing to help you.” He shrugged, bending over onto the ground to grab his scabbard. He slid the sword into it with practiced ease and dropped it to the ground.

The sound of the weapon scraping against the sides of the holder caused you to cringe, and you jumped as the sound of it hitting the floor bounced off of the walls a few times, just as your scream did earlier.

You gulped at the thought, wondering if he really would have killed you if he had gotten the chance.

“What’s your deal with them anyway?” Yoongi questioned after a few moments of thick silence. Your head snapped up to meet his eyes the moment he began to speak.

“I don’t have to answer anything you ask me, and it’s none of your business.” You responded, and Yoongi quirked an eyebrow.

“I would’ve assumed that you’d catch on a little earlier. You have always been a smart girl, but I suppose all of the thieving and lying caught up with you after a few years.” You said nothing, suddenly feeling overwhelming guilt.

“You do have to answer everything I ask you, actually. I can’t kill you for stealing, but I can kill you for treason.” You scoffed. There he was, playing the royalty card again.

“Treason? Yoongi, give it up. You can’t be executed for treason toward a commoner. Have you lost your mind?” He narrowed his eyes at you and stood up, taking the short walk toward you again.

“You are a commoner, ________. I am not.” You were tired of his dumb breakdowns.

“What are you supposed to be then?” You smirked, and Yoongi returned the smirk with a lick of his lips.

You watched with furrowed eyebrows as he shrugged the thick black jacket he was wearing off of his slim shoulders, and you inhaled a shaky breath as you vaguely made out the emblem of the kingdom on both of his shoulders in the dim lighting of the temple.

“Oh my fucking God.” Your voice cracked as you whispered, your bottom lip trembling in defeat as you realized your humongous fuck up.

You slowly lifted your head, immediately meeting Yoongi’s eye contact. He jutted his bottom lip out to mock you, before quickly twisting his lips into a sly smile.

“You know what to do.” You nodded, lowering your upper body to the ground slowly.

You weren’t low enough to the ground for his liking, so he grabbed his sword and retrieved it from its covering, and pressed the dull side of it against the back of your head to force you lower. Your forehead was touching the ground.

“Better.” He sighed, holding you there for a few seconds before placing the sword back at his side. When you no longer felt the pressure of it on your head, you deemed it okay to lift yourself up.

Your mind was pooling with questions.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He joked, placing the sword in front of him as he stacked both of his hands onto its handle.

“How?” You asked weakly, and he feigned confusion.

“How are you King? You can’t be King with that scar over your eye.” You wanted to find any plausible fault to the idea that he was King.

“Why can’t I?” He asked with a cock of his head. The question was meant to be unanswered, but you stupidly responded anyway.

“The scar symbolizes impuriti—“

“Then I must be pretty powerful, hm?” He laughed, swinging the sword off of the ground to rest on top of his shoulder. He gave you a pity glance as he took a few steps to land himself behind you.

“I’m not going to put you in prison.” He sighed heavily, as if the admittance of him allowing you freedom hurt his conscious dearly.

“Why not?” You asked eagerly, trying desperately not to show how excited you were as your fingers twitched behind your back.

“I’m not going to imprison you, but I need you to make me a promise.” He said, removing the sword from his shoulder as he slid it in the space between your back and the chain of the handcuffs.

You stood deathly still.

“Anything.” You responded instantaneously. You’d regret it later.

Or maybe you wouldn’t.

“Don’t let me see your face around here again.” What?

Around the temple? In the village? Where were you supposed to go?

“I—“ He placed his foot against your lower back, digging his shoe into your skin through the fabric as he tugged the sword forcefully toward himself, successfully breaking the chain of the cuffs and sending it flying backward.

You moaned at the feeling, bringing your wrists in front of you as you twisted each of them around a few times to rid yourself of any stiff muscles.

“Get out.”

•••

“You called me back here?” You sighed, leaning your head against the opened doors as Yoongi hummed with a small nod.

“Yes, I did. Come in, and close the doors behind you.” You raised an eyebrow, although you shut the temple doors and walked down the aisle that would lead you to Yoongi’s throne.

He stood up from his royal seat, walking halfway down the aisle to meet you. You took the time to notice his appearance. He was dressed just like he was when you saw him a few years ago before he completely vanished. Baggy clothes, low rise sneakers, and a few chains dangling from his neck.

You held an unimpressed expression as you stood face to face with him, but seeing him dressed like this gave you a small bit of satisfaction. Of course, you wouldn’t tell him that though.

Unknown to you, Yoongi chose to dress like this to keep you comfortable with him. He needed you to be a bit vulnerable if you are going to hear him out, and he knew this would be one step closer to achieving that vulnerability.

Plus, he was taking you out today. Yes, to explain everything that’s happened during the past couple of years while he wasn’t around, but also for his personal satisfaction.

He missed you just as much as you missed him.

“We’re going to that little spot a few minutes away from here. The one we always used to—“

“I know, Yoongi. I really don’t want to bring up the past anymore.” You stopped him, holding your hand up as you cut him off in the middle of his sentence. You didn’t mean to come off so harshly, but the years of emotional trauma didn’t make that easy for you.

Yoongi nodded once, although he felt a little pang in his chest in you basically admitting that you didn’t want to go to the special place the two of you created a few years back, and you probably didn’t even want to be with him right now.

“Sure, okay.” He sighed, clearing his throat as he walked toward a hidden back entrance that he used at times to leave the temple.

You watched as he took his first few steps, before turning over his shoulder to stare at you with annoyance written all over his features.

“Are you going to follow me, or are you just going to stand there and look stupid?” You rolled your eyes and began to follow after him, Yoongi turning back toward the front once you caught up with him.

He continued to walk, and you desperately tried to fight the smile that was tugging at your lips as bits and pieces of the Yoongi you knew were starting to shine through.

•••

The walk to the secluded spot by that small river that you remember so fondly was uncomfortable and stuffy.

Neither of you said a word, simply letting the leaves crunching under the both of your shoes fill the silence.

The sun was beginning to set, and the rays cast a beautiful shadow over the river. It looked just as it did the last time you were here.

That day… that day was the happiest you’d been in years.

That was also the day Yoongi got his scar.

“Where the fuck did you go?” Yoongi asked, laughing loudly as he stumbled over a few branches while searching for you behind the trees and shrubs near the river.

“I’m never playing hide and seek with you again. You’re an asshole for this.” You chuckled, immediately clasping your hand over your mouth as you hoped desperately that he hadn’t heard.

But, it was Yoongi. Of course he’d heard.

“Your cute little laugh is going to get you in trouble.” You ducked lower behind the shrub in front of you, peering out over the edge to see if you could see his shadow approaching.

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion when you couldn’t see him anymore, squinting and leaning forward a bit to see if your eyes were playing tricks on you.

Yoongi snuck up behind you, cursing under his breath when you snapped your head in his direction.

You hadn’t fully processed that it was Yoongi when he finally came into view and attempted to scare you, so you pushed him backward roughly. This sent him tumbling over a rock, and his face smashed against the forest floor.

“Oh my God!” You screamed, running over to him, your black combat boots seeming to be too heavy at that moment.

He was breathing heavily and holding one side of his face, and when you rolled him onto his back, the sight of the blood creeping between his fingers was enough to make you pull him up to his feet, and you dragged him all the way back to the village within a handful of minutes.

You had ripped off a piece of your oversized shirt and wrapped it over his eyes sometime during this process.

The two of you were spotted by a group of people as you neared the village again, and they helped you pull Yoongi to the home of a medic who would sew his skin together.

He had the stitches for two months, and even after they removed, he still had the scar.

You felt terrible, but you never got the chance to apologize.

He left the day after his stitches were removed.

“________.”

You gnawed on your bottom lip.

“________!” Yoongi shouted, and you came to with a small jolt.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled from your lips effortlessly, and it felt so, so good after all these years.

You walked quickly to meet Yoongi as he sat near the edge of the river, the wind blowing lightly which made his hair a disheveled mess.

“I’m so sorry, Yoongi.” You repeated, clearly this time as you sat down next to him, keeping a few feet between the two of you because you weren’t sure where your emotions were at the moment, and you certainly weren’t sure what he was feeling.

There was an awkward silence.

“What?” He laughed, the confusion evident on his face.

“What are you talking about?” You scratched nervously at your arm as he scooted a bit closer to you.

A part of you wanted to condemn him, but a larger part of you wanted him to stay right next to you.

“I’m really sorry about the scar. You left before I could apologize, and it’s been making me feel so guilty for the past couple of years, but—“ Yoongi shook his head, taking your hand into his as he intertwined your fingers with his, just like he used to back then.

You let your hand flop loosely in his.

“Isn’t it a little obvious that I don’t mind it? If anything, I’m happy that you fucked my face up.” He joked, his gummy smile slowly fading as he looked from the river to your paling face.

“Why’d you leave?” You asked, the light mood falling. Yoongi took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He knew he couldn’t avoid this question, but he hoped that you’d at least wait a bit before bringing up this topic.

“I told you, I need to better myself.” You let go of his hand.

“Bullshit!” You exclaimed, Yoongi simply turning his head to look at you as your face began to heat in anger.

“It had something to do with me, and I know it does. Why lie now? Why bring me to this special spot to lie, Yoongi?” He took a small gulp, looking away from you and out toward the landscape. He couldn’t utter these next few words while staring at your face.

“I wouldn’t have become King if I was in love with a criminal.” He stated nonchalantly. You froze.

“What the hell are you talking about?” You stood up, and Yoongi stood up as well, just in case you were planning to run away and get yourself into trouble as you usually did when you couldn’t handle your emotions.

“I had to let you go if I wanted to change, ________. You’re not good for me, and I’m not good for you.” His voice began to thin out the longer he spoke, fighting back a sob.

“Are you trying to say that I’m a bad influence?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“Are you seriously trying to say that I am not good for you , when you’re the person that I got into the most trouble with in that entire fucking group?” You shook your head as you spoke, refusing to believe that he was saying you weren’t good for him.

“Why don’t you tell me the real reason that you left, hm? I can handle the truth, and I deserve to know after waiting for so long. Believe me, you won’t have to worry about seeing me again after this.” Yoongi was seething, his hands clenched into fists by his sides as he tried to steady his breathing.

He wasn’t going to get angry.

He was going to explain himself to you calmly.

“Did you not just hear me fucking say that I’m in love with you?” His voice dropped to a whisper, as he began to take slow strides toward you.

You’d seemed to have forgotten that in the midst of your yelling at him.

“I taught you a handful of things back then, but I’m fairly sure that knowing when to shut up was one of them.” You looked over your shoulder as you took a step backward whenever he took one forward, but if you continued like this then you’d end up with your back against a tree.

This was not some cliche love story, and you weren’t the main character.

You stepped to the side to avoid bumping into the tree.

Yoongi took a side step as well, standing still for a few seconds before he grabbed you by the collar of your shirt and pressed you up against the tree by his arm.

“You were going to hinder me from my goal, ________. There’s no way in hell I’d be able to focus while having you by my side.” His grip on you loosened as he continued to speak.

“I thought if I was away from you that I’d forget about everything, but that made it worse. There wasn’t a single day that came where you wouldn’t pass my mind.” You pressed your head backwards against the tree in exasperation.

“Why couldn’t you take me with you?” You asked, sadness evident in your voice. Yoongi’s heart clenched as he read you like his favorite book.

“I wanted you to be there for the result, not the work that it took to get there. I’d come back for you when I was better off, but I didn’t have to. You came to me.” Yoongi leaned in closer toward you.

“Well, you didn’t come to me, per say. I brought you to me.” You scoffed.

“You did what?” Dealing with him was an emotional roller coaster, but you still wanted the first seat on the ride.

“We can save the details for later. I accept your apology, and I really want to fucking kiss you.” You opened your mouth to respond, but Yoongi leaned in for this kiss anyway.

He molded his soft lips against yours with ease. You awkwardly left your eyes open, but upon seeing him with his closed as the passion radiated in the way he kissed you, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to slip into his embrace.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, the kiss quickly shifting from pure and energetic love to uncontrollable and messy lust for one another.

Yoongi broke the kiss first, and you chased his lips as he pulled away. You whimpered in defeat as he used his grip on your waist to turn you around, your hands pressed against the bark of the tree.

He roughly tugged your jeans down your legs, not having the patience to unbutton them fully. You flinched as you heard a twig snap somewhere in the distance, and you looked over your shoulder at Yoongi with fear etched onto your features.

“We’re going to get fucking caught.” You laughed, although you were deathly afraid of being found with the King’s dick buried snuggly inside of your pulsing cunt.

“I’m a King, baby. I’m the boss. I don’t give a fuck about someone stumbling back here.” He spoke, while working quickly at the zipper of his jeans.

“Besides, I’ll be quick.” He moaned out in satisfaction as he finally freed his cock from its confines. He tugged your panties to the side with one of his fingers, slapping his length against your throbbing clit a handful of times before lining himself up with your inviting warmth.

“Kind of difficult—oh shit,” He paused in the middle of his sentence as he slid his cock into you, a shiver running down your spine at the feeling of being so full after so, so long.

“Kind of difficult to wait for something that you’ve been wanting for a—for a while, especially when it’s right in front of you.” He huffed into your ear, gathering your hair up in one of his hands to force you to arch you back more.

“Fuck. You okay, baby girl? I know this is a tight fit, cause you’re squeezing the shit out of my dick.” Yoongi waited patiently for your okay, although that didn’t stop him from rocking his hips against you slowly to offer himself some sort of relief.

“‘m okay. Just fuck me, please.” You begged, and Yoongi hastily obliged. He kept his hand tangled between your locks, as he brought his free hand down to your hip.

He set a gut-destroying pace instantly, the sound of his balls slapping against your ass somehow louder than they’d be if the two of you were in a secluded room.

“You can consider this your punishment for giving me so much shit talk yesterday. Look at you now, huh? Can’t get a single fucking word out, can you?” You whined as he dug his fingernails into your hip, his thrusts so vigorous and powerful that you would scrape the skin of your thighs against the tree every now and then.

Your legs twitched as you neared your high, a noise sounding like somewhat of a feminine growl climbing its way out from the back of your throat as you held your breasts in your hands, flicking your nipples between your fingers to coax yourself closer to the edge.

“Good girl. Lose yourself on my cock.” Yoongi was near his climax as well, the way your pussy was sucking him in combined with his cock grazing the material of your panties every few thrusts enough to send him straight toward that euphoric feeling.

There was something so primal about him taking you up against a tree, where seemingly anyone could find the two of you. No strings attached (yet), just pure, sexual need.

“Cum with me. I want that.” Yoongi snarled into your ear, and you nodded eagerly as he slid his hand across your stomach and down toward your clit.

He only managed to rub a few quick circles against the sensitive nub before you began to thrash wildly underneath him.

“Stay still.” He warned you, and you tried desperately to obey him as hot bliss took over momentarily, and your muscles spasmed beneath Yoongi as he used your pussy to chase his high as well, pulling out to cum on your back.

He slid your pants back up, before turning you around to try and button them. You were shaking too much, though, and it was starting to frustrate him.

“________, stay st—SHIT!”

Yoongi yelled as he began to tumble backward, making sure to pull you with him this time.

Your intense shaking caused Yoongi to trip over himself and fall backward, causing the both of you to end up plummeting into the cold river water.

“Damnit!” You cursed, and Yoongi just laughed as he rubbed his eyes free of the water that managed to seep into them.

“You’re quite the klutz.” He commented, running his hand through his hair as he slyly noticed the way your shirt began to grow more and more sheer as it soaked in the water.

“You’re quite the asshole.” You playfully rolled your eyes, squealing when Yoongi snagged your shirt into his hands and pulled you into his hold once more.

“Accidents just seem to happen at this river, don’t they?” You asked, and Yoongi shrugged, wrapping his arms around your waist as he tucked your head underneath his chin.

“Yeah, but they’re also the best memories.” You tilted your head up to look at Yoongi’s face, and his eyes were closed.

Why do you always miss the memo?

Just as you were about to close your eyes, Yoongi splashed your face with a bit of water from the river.

You gasped and pulled away from him, mustering up the most threatening glare you could give.

“Why would you do that when I’m already wet?” He smirked.

“Hell yeah you are.”

“YOONGI!”

tag list! (let me know if you wanna be on it!)

@bitchyaus @taesluttt @1-in-abillion @designjet @peachy-bhun @patpus @koracynthia120 @safi4x @lcnycto @someonewhowannadielol @dreamingsmile @rinastylesworld @fan-ati--c @sincemalik @bts-bay-bee @cestlaviecia @jeonjungkookiiee @bunny-kix03

#blkjmn #bts smut #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #min yoongi au #min yoongi smut #min yoongi angst #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi imagine #yoongi au

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localkpoprat · 4 years ago

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Dear Non-Shippers...

Can y’all literally take the fattest chill pill?

Like seriously.

I’ve never seen a group of people so hateful in fandoms and it’s so gross to see the comments and rants some of y’all make.

Do you all think that ALL shippers take shipping that seriously?

Yes, there are SOME delulus that do the extra most, but literally trolling and bullying people for harmless shipping inside of the fandom and not even towards the actual idols being shipped is a bitch move.

People have lives outside of shipping, and I sincerely hope you know that.

Yes, shippers will JOKE and say stuff like:

“Awe, they’re definitely married!”

“They’re so cute together!”

“They’re so gay for each other.”

That doesn’t mean we actually mean that shit.

And some of y’all are some hypocrites!

You would literally sit there and read a reader x fic about your fav railing you but when people ship them with other members you blow a gasket??

Make it make sense, please.

You would seriously take time out of your day to pick on people for their love of someone’s dynamics, and their relationship.

It makes me think if you’re actually homophobic.

If your fav was actually gay and in a relationship with another member, would you still support them?

Shippers have more common decency than to just completely dismiss an actual friendship the way some of you think.

To be honest, shippers probably support them more, always trying to find evidence that the idols may be together in every video they’re in lol.

Must you be so miserable to say to someone in the same fandom as you to “die,” or be ‘hunted for sport,’ like they’re not people too?

And I swear some of y’all are jealous you aren’t being shipped with your fav, like sis he ain’t fuckin’ you no time soon.

Anyway, just ignore shipping if it bothers you so deeply that you have to rage out against others.

We all love our favs so why be so pressed about shipping if it’s not affecting you personally.

Are you the fav?

Do you know how they think?

No, you’re just a spectator and a consumer of their art, don’t try to be more than that and try to police others.

If you see delulus being sasaeng-like then you should definitely speak up because that ain’t right.

But going out of your way to demean someone else over harmless shipping is nasty and you need to calm down and think of how you’d feel if someone came at you the way you do others.

Plus, some ships love their ships/ship names so choke on it ;)

#kpop ships #chanbaek #woosan #taekook #ships #baekyeol #vkook #sanwoo #kpop #delulu #shippers #exo #bts #ateez #got7 #jjp #markson #yugbam #nct

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just-another-hhazbin · 4 years ago

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Alright it is time to risk getting myself cancelled. Today we’re going to be talking about aspd, aka anti-social personality disorder. I’m making this post because I haven’t seen one that discusses everything I wanna talk about so here we are.

What is anti-social personality disorder? In the barest essentials, it is an emotional disorder where it is very difficult to empathize with other people and understand their emotions, have high levels of apathy, etc. Sometimes it also correlates with very low impulse control.

In other words, it’s what some of y’all like to call sociopathy and psychopathy.

Let’s get one thing clear first - sociopathy and psychopathy are not actual pscyhology-approved words. ASPD is. However, the media and culture (or at least American culture, which is what I have first-hand experience with) has villianized and exaggerated it into this common trend where every criminal or horror figure HAS to be a sociopath or psychopath.

Yeah, as one does with mental illnesses. Thanks, Hollywood + Government.

So right off the bat - please I beg of you to stop using psychopath and sociopath to describe someone “crazy” or “evil.” Stop that. (I’m not saying never ever use the word. Some characters are gonna say slurs cause they be like that. But you, personally, should know better. And also stop putting it in your story summaries and character descriptions, goddamn.)

You are perpetuating a false narrative. It is estimated that 1 in 100 people in America have ASPD. Someone you know probably has it, even if they haven’t been officially diagnosed or even know they have it. If they do know, they’re probably really damn sick of hearing that comparison.

ASPD is also not an aesthetic, and you know exactly who you are. If you want the edgy serial killer aesthetic I am certainly not going to judge you, but for the love of everything leave aspd out of it.

Someone with ASPD is not emotionless. That’s another false narrative we can chuck out the window. It is true that they might be quicker to temper or seem somewhat cold or analytical, but those are hardly traits limited to those with ASPD. Some people do have higher levels of apathy and/or narcissis than others, but none of us are robots so cut that generalizing shit out.

As with most things, ASPD is a spectrum with different levels of effect and functionality. Someone who is more affected by ASPD but has been to therapy may have a higher functionality than someone with a milder situation.

Personal experiences shape individuals, shocking, I know.

Also, just because someone has ASPD does not mean that they cannot form relationships or friendships. It may be difficult to understand empathy but sympathy can often be managed, and it is possible to feel affection and friendship in some form for even the most severe cases.

It also doesn’t mean that they can or will ever develop empathy. We are viewing the same world but with different lenses, and that is okay.

We might not see friendships or relationships the same but that doesn’t mean we can’t form attachments or feel a sort of acknowledged possessiveness that is the equivalent for some of us.

That there is a lack of empathy doesn’t make someone a bad person. It is still possible for someone without empathy to look at a bad thing and know it exists and not do it because they have A) their own moral code that may not make sense to the normative lense or B) they have self-preservation and/or a basic understanding of social norms and fucking decency.

“But I know someone who did [x bad thing] and THEY were diagnosed with sociopathy/psychopathy!”

First off, I’d like to see who made that diagnossis, since again, those aren’t considered valid terminology by the majority of the modern psychology world. Secondly, I bet I can fiind at least a hundred to a thousand to a million people who did [x bad thing] and don’t have aspd. Correlation does not equal causation, people.

You don’t have to understand something to still choose to do it. We might not understand why someone would be affected by x action, but we can choose what impact we make. There is no little sociopath/psychopath demon running around in our head laughing maniacally and pressing “evil” buttons. (This is a thing that therapy can help with though, especially for some people. For others it’s more a matter of socialization and exposure and it’s a learning process for everyone, aspd or not.)

I would also like to take a moment here to say that if someone tries to excuse their abusive behavior with “I have aspd/[x mental illness here]” it is just that - an excuse. If they are in a situation where they really cannot control themselves, then it is time to go to therapy or call counseling services and in any case you yourself are in no way indebted to helping them or staying in a dangerous relationship.

Anyway, disclaimer over, moving on.

A lot of this has been discussed around, so here’s onto something I’ve been seeing a lot of recently, especially in fandom and certain LGBTQ+ spaces, and am getting really sick of.

ASEXUALITY, AROMANTICISM, AND ASPD DO NOT HAVE TO BE LINKED

The ace =/= aro argument has already been said a thousand times, but I’ll say it again. Both asexuality and aromanticism are spectrums and they do not go hand in hand. People who want sex might not want love and people who want love might not want sex and, once again, that is OKAY.

Now, onto the aspd factor - lately I’ve been seeing a lot of people saying “oh, such and such character is ace/aro/acearo, they MUST have aspd [or other terms]” or “such and such is a psychopath/sociopath and SO, they’re aro.”

Stop that.

Seriously.

Someone may very well have aspd and be ace, or aro, or acearo. But once again, correlation does not equal causation. I do get that on some level it’s understandable to play someone with aspd as aromantic in particular, but the lense is far too narrow, especially when it turns into a “must” situation.

Maybe what you would consider “romantic love” isn’t the same as someone with aspd would consider “romantic love,” but that doesn’t mean that they don’t experience it. Individuals have their own individual identities and definitions.

There aren’t unbreakable chains attaching aspd, asexuality, and aromanticism together. It is perfectly okay to be all of those things at once or have a character that is all of those things, but please remember that they are all independent traits and are spectrums that show themselves in a variety of ways.

Also, don’t call being aromantic or asexuality a mental illness. Seen that one making the rounds again too and it’s fucking stupid. Stop it and just admit to being ace/arophobic so I can block you and move on.

~Disclaimer that I am NOT a psychologist, just a tired bastard.~

#replace they with we and y'all can see why I'm so fucking tired #and yes this was brought to you after I saw psychopath/sociopath in the summary of a fic one (thousand) too many times #looking at you both hp and hazbin fandoms #aspd #anti-social personality disorder #rant #long post #long text post #acephobia tw #arophobia tw #ace #aro #asexuality #aromantic #yes this was also born because I wanted to talk about aspd headcanons around alastor but then saw a million bad takes and got pissed #mental illness

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rpbetter · 4 years ago

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Hey there, check out this pinned post first!

Thanks for visiting Roleplay Better, where I believe that you can fucking do better! That kind of language, however, is why it is important for you to read this post before proceeding.

This blog and its posts are meant for an adult RPing audience; be over legal, adult age in the USA, 18+. Do not interact by submitting, asking, reblogging, commenting, or liking unless you are over eighteen years of age. By interacting with RPB or me, Vespertine, you are assumed to be following this rule. If you are breaking this rule, you will be blocked.

I have that rule because this blog can/will/does address topics inappropriate for a younger audience. Those can include, but are not limited to:

not safe for work - violence, injury, sexual language, smut, substance use

“dark topics” and themes like violence, unhealthy relationships, mental illness, trauma, graphic injury, dubious consent, substance use, and so forth addressed realistically

foul, sexual, and otherwise “Adult” language

unpopular opinions and approaches about writing, RP, fandoms

“negativity” since literally anything can be, and my whole point here isn’t about holding back; it is likely that, at some point, in some post or another, a shoe will fit you-you need to be mature enough to handle that without taking it as a personal attack on you

images and links that may contain things inappropriate for a younger audience

this blog is founded upon the idea that fiction has reflections in reality, but that fiction does not utterly equate to reality. You should write with realism, your characters should be people in their own right, and you should absolutely be addressing many popular topics responsibly, which is to say realistically. I do not support or otherwise condone purity culture, so while realism is a big deal here, fiction = reality arguments are a no

seriously, you have no idea how fucking salty I am! I try to be fair, reasonable, and mellow with everyone, but it can and does come out.

This blog tags for common, major triggers, but it is not for those easily triggered or particularly sensitive. By proceeding, you take responsibility for yourself...like a mature adult. I expect you to utilize blacklist, unfollow, and block. Tag format is simple, it is literally just the word in most cases, with “cw” and “tw” added to particularly common things. Example, a post containing a breakdown of forms of dubcon will be tagged #dubcon #dubious consent. If that was specifically of a sexual nature, since tumblr is unfriendly to using Not Safe For Work now, I will be using #notsafe for sexual topics. In the event that this needs to change, it will be posted about, the previous tag left intact, so that you may update your blacklist.

You are always welcome to send me an ask or private message requesting a particular trigger be tagged for you. I try to check blogs I see following, especially if I follow back, so that I can tag what you require. However, I’m a person, I’m an ND, ill, busy person though, I do make mistakes!

If you find yourself desirous of telling me to tag in a hateful way, don’t. You will not be responded to with an apology and kindness. Do not be rude, it’s uncalled for when informing someone of a problem or making a request.

I will run the blog largely on a queue, and will not be following many people back. This is not personal! I just like to try to provide content at many different times, have a life elsewhere, and I am so happy that you love your fandom, but it might not be something I’ve enough interest in to have on my dash.

Don’t tumblr message me. Use the inbox or submit.

Due to recent events, I am changing this rule. It’s hard for me to receive messages unexpectedly, and I hate to imply that I’ll be able to get to these quicker because it isn’t the truth. Quicker, better responses come from the inbox. However, there have been too many incidents lately in which people needed to speak privately and had to make that a request. If you’re having a problem and need to vent, request sensitive advice, etc.? It’s alright, go ahead and drop me a PM, y’all. I’ll get back to you as soon as I am able. Please, do not be angry with me if I respond to inbox things or my queue is running! You’re important to me, I just might not have the requisite social cognition and energy you deserve at that time.

Aggressive inbox messages will be responded to in kind. I don’t care if you are on anon or not, if you haven’t an ounce of polite communication skills, I won’t have them either. This is not a “we don’t publish anon hate” blog.

I highly encourage asks and submissions on any and all RP topics, and it’s perfectly alright to be salty as fuck in them, you can totally vent here, but don’t take out your frustration on me or be demanding of me. I am always happy to help with information, advice, or just a response to your venting-it’s important to know someone is listening. However, it may take me a few days to a week to get to you, be patient.

If you are going to vent, leave out usernames. This isn’t a callout or burnbook blog. It’s fine to state characters and fandoms, but if this becomes a problem, it’ll have to change. I don’t want this becoming a salt blog for one or two fandoms I very likely can’t even stand. Practice the fine art of alluding to things, its good experience for your writing! Besides, RPC problems are RPC problems, I promise. It might feel like it’s just your fandom, but there is something relatable in all corners.

I will not overly police comments. Keep the slurs and shit out of it, though. If there is an issue going on pertaining to a serious instance of hate speech, or behavior I, personally, deem as too inappropriate and/or immature to be taking place on my post, I will step in. Otherwise, I expect everyone to be adults in the comments and reblogs too. If you want to argue with each other, that’s your business. If you want to argue with me, I’m not sorry in advance.

Addition to the above: this is not a blog in which it will be tolerated that commentators or those submitting with the URLS are targeted for callouts, shaming, or other instances of bullying. No, I cannot make those people stop bothering you by blocking them, but the least I can do is address that by shutting down their access to this blog and it’s posts by blocking on the URLs I have for them. And I will. Fuck that “we can’t be responsible for” shit. It’s my blog, it’s my content I’m putting out there, I’m not going to just ignore shit like what went down over on COAR, thanks. Not. Cool.

This is definitely not a place for:

people who think giving muses labels, including top/bottom “dynamics,” is a good substitute for character traits, personality, and development

those with no reading comprehension skills

folks dependent upon aesthetics and aesthetics-based purple prose as filler for actual writing

anti-original character/just wants to fuck a FC or canon character club, get the fuck out immediately

y’all who see writing as an obstacle to getting down to action, be that smut, drama, or fight scenes...it’s literally a writing hobby

politics, any manner of phobe or ism, violent/non-inclusive feminists, purity/rpc/fandom/content police of any manner, and exactly any manner of racism, sexism, or religious intolerance - I give not a shit if it’s popular to hate the straights, for example, I neither believe in nor tolerate reactionary classifying of any group as blanket-statement evil

people who are going to tack onto my posts shit like, “it’s okay, OP, you can say x character.” Trust me, if I were talking about one character, I fucking would name drop them, don’t bring me into your fandom drama, I doubt I know or want to know who that anime guy is who looks like 12 other anime guys to me.

About Vespertine

You can call me that, Vespertine. I’d rather you didn’t go with Vesper, but as it is unfortunately so likely to happen, I won’t feed you to the dogs over it either. RPB Mun is also acceptable.

I’m alright with either she/her or he/him, they/them is also fine. Apparently, that was big enough clue-in for the poor reading comp crowd, so while I feel it is not of importance, I’m nonbinary, yes.

Late 30′s, chronically ill but still working adult with neurodivergence. I’m both busy and Busy, and always sick. This limits my brain power and ability to be here. I have an active RP blog that I won’t be sharing to keep responsible distance. That is always going to be my priority, it is my primary hobby.

Please, don’t tumblr message me totally random things if we don’t have that kind of relationship! I’m too ill and busy, and it really fucks my nerves to have a bunch of messages/have to suddenly interact socially with people. Don’t do it. Use my inbox, use the submit, comment on posts. I cannot do random messages of “hey” and so forth.

I only do written RP, don’t expect me to understand much of anything from tabletop. I’ve RPed for the last 23 years consistently, on every platform from AOL chats to forums to messengers and here. I also don’t do RP in discord, so I’m sorry, but I can’t advise you much on anything with a word count, except to stop it for serious RP. Other than that, I promise you that I’ve seen the trends, the drama, the fandoms. I can give a lot of advice and perspective on a wide range of topics, situations, and characters! When I don’t have a clue at all, I’ll try to do enough research to give you an answer.

Do I come off as a horrible, strict asshole? I do! I’m not going to say that I am just a shy bean who is more scared of you than you are me. I’m not. I’m honestly feral, but have common decency, compassion, and sense. All of which are lacking in the general RPC. So, if you can inbox/common/otherwise interact with anyone else on this site, you can totally handle me!

Honesty and openness are policies.

And in the spirit of that, I repeat; you can fucking do better, tumblr RPC!

#pinned post #tumblr rpc #rph #rp help #rp advice #rpbetter

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punkandsnacks · 4 years ago

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Sinnerman, Chapter One; Lions and Lambs.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: This is also - surprise surprise - another fairly slow burn story. With so many triggers and red flags I can’t even begin to tell you! I’ll tag each chapter of course. There is some language and violence and swearing in this chapter- hope y’all are ready to sin for this one... In this story there is knife play, violence, rough sex, dubcon, angst, and just a great great deal of, well, sin.

Synopsis: Prisoner!Killer!Kylo/OC AU

In which a sweet crime writer goes to question a convicted scarred murderer; what could possibly go wrong? (Oh! So many things)

He’d watched her pulse leap in her pale throat when he sat down. Watched her shrink in her seat. Saw how her pale blue eyes dilated when she saw him. He’d heard her gulp. Heard her breath hitch. That had been hard for him not to smirk wildly at. That he had such an effect upon her...

Seeing her in here after so many goddamn days and years limited purely to the bland familiar sights of fellow prison inmates and guards. Broad men of all sizes. So to suddenly walk in here, and see what little treat sat awaiting him, was like New Years Eve in Paris.

After all, he was a dangerously bored, violent sociopath.

~ ~ 🖤 ~ ~

Evelyn Winslow was the kind of woman no one ever saw.

Not that this was ever a detrimental feature. Matter of fact, she thrived happily behind this persona.

All her life she’d been the bookish one. The shy one. The bibliophile who hid herself away behind her self-constructed, unbreakable, fortress of comfort. Supported by books and her intelligence. Held up faithfully by her own proclivity to be first and foremost, who she was comfortable to be.

All for herself, and no one else. Which was just as well. She was a daughter to a single mother, and was raised by both her grandmother and mother alike. It had been many years since she’d lost her granny to cursed old age and her mother to a rotten illness.

She was entirely alone in her world. It was populated now by nothing other than her small corner of cherished hobbies, and her job to fulfil her. It kept her sane, and happy. Even if the loneliness did creep In sometimes… and she was hardly the type of girl to have legions of men fawning after her as lovers… She was a reserved, quiet person who was happy with her own set of well-loved interests.

This was obvious from the first glimpse of her.

Drab formal work-wear wrapped around her unremarkable, small, body, swathed in her trusty granny cardigan, with a patch sewn roughly over the worn elbow.

Her round, owl-like reading glasses perched happily on her pale face. Her plain hair, chestnut auburn, somewhat shiny, but somewhat straggly, was smoothed back into an artless bun at the back of her neck. Though despite her best efforts, wisps of it still managed to catch in her face, swinging in front of her glasses clad eyes and her ears.

She was perched on the edge of an unfathomably uncomfortable plastic chair. Her small form getting swallowed up into the artless frame the seat offered.

One that she couldn’t help but think didn’t mould to cradle the shape of anyone’s ass.

Her body was alight with nerves, she tried to absolve her trembling hands on the reliable paperback she’d sloped in her lap, hoping she could lose herself in the words, and they would provide her the usual succour of her favourite novel.

But the worn, water warped paper backed book did nothing to aid her. Not when she was in this place.

This great sprawling concrete building took up most of the horizon, like some ugly beast. She had hesitated getting out of the car three times before she bit the bullet and went inside.

Entering the place was a challenge in itself. Two forms of ID required, a security check, bag search and finally she was allowed inside this awful, cavernous setting.

She’d been escorted along the drab, cold halls by a broad, silent guard. The hallway she’d been led down filled full of the far off clamour of all male noise.

The musty air mingled with the stale stench of ancient sterile cleaning products that she was sure had been pasted over the peeling lino floors with a mop, in the not too distant past by some inmate.

The lumbering guard ahead of her didn’t even bat an eyelid when he led her down a walkway, high above what she could discern was a common room of sorts. Down below, she could see pool tables, and normal tables gathered in groups, surrounded by tall columns of orange clad men of all shapes and sizes mingled around them.

Heat flooded to her cheeks when came the first wolf whistle aimed up at her. She ignored the rising clamour of shouts and calls that were sent her way. Some voices more distinguishable than others- unfortunately.

Voices erupted from beside them too. They walked past rows of white barred cells.

She flinched out of her skin when one huge man thudded down from his top bunk and rattled the bars of his cell so loud it almost knocked her off her feet.

She tried to keep her eyes down as the guard had said, and not interact. But at his rough voice and even rougher words she made the mistake of flickering her eyes across to him.

“Come over here bitch, I wanna get a good look at you.” He all but spat at her. His hands braced on the bars, leaning closer.

She fixated on the scar that divided his face. The shaven crop of his hair, and the tattoos that marred his thick arms. By the time he dropped his head to clock her ass, his smile was a leer.

The guard seems to take notice of the prisoner and sends back a harsh bark of warning to him.

She found her courage, and her legs re-joined, and she moved off. Her cheeks pink, her shame broadcasting out of every pore.

Her fear and her anxiety palphable in the air. Almost as if she could reach out and touch the cloud of nerves surrounding her.

“Don’t let these scum know you’re scared. They’ll eat it up if you do.” The guard casually tossed over his shoulder as they came to another set of stairs, leading away from the commotion of the common room.

Evie frowned at his words. And gulped too.

It was obvious from the off, not as if she needed the confirmation, but it was clear this place didn’t welcome nor warm well to outsiders.

Eventually her silent bidder of doom led her to another waiting room, and told her to be patient and that the Prison shrink would be with her soon to debrief her about her visit.

So here she found herself. Jiggling with nervousness. Reeling from the rough words of the prisoner who’d gotten off from scaring her half to death. Feasting on her with no more than his eyes like she was a porterhouse steak.

Sickness and dread bubbled up in her stomach, cloying sour in her throat. She picked a stray thread off her drab grey skirt. Tucking her teal cardigan tighter around herself. She was feeling clammy and terrified. The dank air in here serving to make pimples raise on her exposed legs.

She’d taken the dress code very seriously. Her sensible grey skirt came to her knees. She wore simple kitten heels on her feet. Her white blouse and her cerulean blue wool cardigan were both buttoned modestly across her décolletage.

Nothing to invoke or enflame masculine attention. She was well versed in that rule.

Her makeup was practically non-existent. No lip colour, barely any blush. Nothing to conceal the bags under her eyes and only a sweep of mascara to darken her lashes.

She’d been scrupulous about everything. Only cursing herself when she lapsed, forgetting the dress code when she spritzed perfume on her wrists and dabbed some on her neck this morning.

Assured the guard opposite wasn’t watching, she lifted her wrist to her nose and inhaled. Nothing but the scent of her washing detergent and the soft scent of her skin. She flattered herself she might get away with it…

Nervously tapping her foot, she put her ineffective novel away and reached for the file in her bag. Reacquainting herself with the contents which she was sure she knew off heart by now.

She’d read over prisoner ID 623859’s profile numerous times. She’d gone over it time and time again, hoping it would make her feel more prepared. It was an odd thing; there she was, of an evening, curled up on her sunny front porch, in the porch swing, with a glass of white wine, going over the file of this perfect stranger.

This whole man in his entirety, having been consigned to a number, and a charge sheet...

The absurdity and callous nature of it had struck her as a very cold and brutal thing. To add insult, the file had lacked a mug shot. So she couldn’t even see what he looked like.

Her boss had shrugged when she bought it up. The photo had gotten lost or dropped out at some point perhaps… did it matter? To Evie it did. They could atleast give this man the decency of being treated like a human being.

And now she was here, and it was all so real. She’d be meeting the man behind this file in a mere matter of moments.

She’d interviewed a few prisoners before, all in the line of duty for her work as a crime writer. But they’d been in on minor charges such as breaking and entering, arson, car theft or fraud.

She’d never had to sit across the interrogation table from a killer before.

Because ID 623859 was a lifer, who’d been sent down for five counts of first degree murder four years ago.

A step up from her usual inmates doing 2 – 3 years for good behaviour and the district attorney arguing for whittling their case down to community service rather than jail time.

Out of her comfort zone couldn’t even begin to describe the place she found herself in right now-

She was so idly consumed in the file, the reverberating clang of bars in front of her echoed in her bones, startling her yet again out of her daze. Looking up she met the gaze of a very run down man who tiredly called out her name in confirmation.

“Winslow?” He asked morosely.

She darted up nervously. Pushing her glasses up her nose. Tucking hair behind her ear. Her anxious tick, she’d always been told by her granny.

The laminated name badge pinned to her chest earlier clattered against her arms when she stood. She nervously shut the file and stepped towards the man. Awkwardly jerking her hand out from under the coat folded over her arm.

“Hello. Yes. Uh, you must be Doctor Finch…” She greets politely. Finch assessed her with a fatigued flick, up and down, of his eyes.

“This way..” He greeted with little enthusiasm. Encouraging her to follow. He didn’t return her handshake.

He was a short, stout man. Dressed in a drab puce green shirt, with sweat stains at his armpits, and a bland brown tie knotted around his neck like a lifeless noose.

His trousers were wrinkled and his shoes looked unloved to say the least. Even with his olive skin, his salt and pepper balding hair and baggy eyes spoke volumes of his jaded despondency with his job.

As she followed him she noted the scent of stale sweat, bad coffee and awful cheap cologne followed him as he moved. Everything about this man seemed stale.

She trailed after him obediently in silence, the only sound they made was his lolloping steps from his heavy boots, and the dainty click of her heels hitting the lino floor. It wasn’t until they got to the second door that he spoke. His voice too, was fusty.

“So. You’re here to see Ren…” He lets his question hang in the air.

“Uh. Yes.” She speaks up. “I’m from Armstrong & Lowery Publishing. I was tasked along with a few in house authors to write criminal profiles for a memoir series. Very edgy. Uh, plenty of personal insight into life after conviction...” She explained. He replied with a less than impressed grunt.

“Lucky you.” He answered drily without looking back at her.

The pit of hope in her stomach dried up. She wouldn’t be making any friends in here, that was for certain.

“Now listen…” He breathes out blearily.

“This isn’t some tame convict whose serving time for joyriding…” He begins. For the first time since they’d met, he turned to her and stared her down deep with the depths of his dark eyes.

“This criminal is a violent, dangerous, sociopath who brutally attacked and killed five men, in cold blood.” He tells her. Each word punching out his mouth with heavy gravity. She nods.

“I read his file…” She offers weakly.

He scoffs.

“Then you’ve barely scratched the surface, girly.” He tells her with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Do you always make the outside visitors your entertainment? She wonders idly.

“Truthfully. I don’t know what warnings I can give you about Ren.” He starts as he unlocks a barred door from the keys clipped to his belt which strained under the size of his rotunda belly.

“One thing I can promise you is that you sure as hell might not get much out of him. He doesn’t tend to like being interrogated by journalists. Ask the last one who came to annoy him with questions.” He chuckles.

Evie froze. He turned around and met her gaze with the threat of his morbid promise glittering in his eyes.

“What happened to the last one?” She asks in a voice that was barely audible.

“They pushed him.” He says. “Ragged on him, dug into his weak points. Delved far too deep into his personal life for his liking…” Finch tells.

“Even handcuffed to the table, he managed to reach across and break their arm in three places. And he didn’t even work up a drop of sweat as he did it.” He warns. “...And don’t go thinking provoking him is the only way to set him off either...” He starts.

“Two years ago I was performing a routine eval of him, and he lunged across that table and stabbed my own pen through my hand when I tried to get him to finally open up about his childhood.” As he spoke, he held up his right hand, and she could see the uneven bump of a small jagged scar sat on his palm.

Evie blinks. Her spine felt frozen rigid in fear. It took an enormous portion of her courage to step through the barred door he held open for her.

“If you’ve talked to other prisoners before, then you’re up on the familiar protocol… No reaching over. Don’t pass them anything except paper. Keep your hands to yourself. Dress appropriately. Don’t rile them. And when times called, times up. Visitors and Prisoners both follow the rules, that clear? You stay seated until the prisoner is escorted out by the guards… the usual fuss…” He adds.

She thinks she may have nodded in response. She isn’t entirely sure.

He walks her down another long hallway. This one was much different to the one the other guard had led her down.

There were no bars. No open communal spaces. The doors here weren’t bars, they were solid heavy metal. With tiny shuttered windows on each one. She didn’t need to be told what kind of men were kept back behind these doors.

She soldiers on. Acutely aware of the clack of her heels that rung through the hallway with each step she took. How unfamiliar a sound like that must be in this miserable, rigid institution.

“What else can you tell me about him?” She braves to ask. “Something that isn’t in his file?”

Finch sighs and goes quiet for a moment, fiddling with the keys in his hands to find the next one for the interrogation room.

“You want my honest opinion?” He speaks up. Standing stiffly and regarding her for a moment. She waits patiently for his assessment.

“He ain’t seen or talked to a woman in three years. You want the truth, I think that’s gonna have a big effect in how he reacts to you. I don’t know if it’ll necessarily help you or hurt you. You may arouse his interest, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna give you answers.” He honestly informs her.

“He’s not gonna open up to you just cause you’re a woman. He won’t see you as some compassionate, kind, caring shoulder to lean on. For all I know, you going in there to question him could be putting you in serious danger.” He tells her seriously.

No sugar coating news around here, it seemed.

That was when he stepped closer and unashamedly took a deep breath next to the air surrounding her shoulder. She shrunk back a little, perturbed.

“Forgive my asking. But did you put perfume on this morning?” He asks her in a bored monotone.

Her cheeks heat. “Habit.” She tells him, embarrassed at having been caught out. His eyes turn to points

“Next time? Don’t. He’ll pick up on that.” He tells her off sharply. She bobbles a nod once again. He turns and continues their long walk to the interrogation room.

“Now. There’ll be guards posted outside the door. And I need to mention for safety all your conversations will be recorded.” He explains the usual procedure.

“I’ll be watching the two of you from the anteroom on the video monitor. If he tries anything. We’ll be there hopefully before anything can happen. We’ve learnt the hard way to step our measures when it comes to Ren, for both inmates and visitors.” He tells her.

“I read about his… uh injury… After his sentence here…” She tells Finch. “The altercation with the other prisoner, in the yard.”

“Nastiest thing I’ve seen in a long while.” He tells her.

Back to her as he punched a key code into the panel on the wall. A harsh blare opened to cell door, showing her the rows of silver tables and fixed chairs inside.

She’d read in the file about what happened not long after he was first incarcerated. Some gang set after Ren during yard time one day, and the leader took his shiv and carved a scar down from his forehead to his shoulder. Holding him down as he did to teach the new pretty boy who was top dog.

They had swaggered off, assured they’d cemented who was the alpha. When Ren, bleeding profusely, and in probably unfathomable amounts of pain, chased the guy down, beat him half to death, buried the guys own shiv in his thigh - and bit out a chunk of the leaders face for good measure.

It took four guards to get Ren off him before he killed the fellow prisoner. guards, prisoners and visitors gave him a wide berth after that. No one dare looked in his direction if they knew what was good for them.

“Since that day he’s been in solitary cell confinement for his sentence here. Can’t trust him to be the type to get along with a bunk mate.” Finch spoke under his breath, as if he was speaking disappointedly about an errant child who didn’t gel with other people.

He’d gone through two cell mates here in his first month. Both of whom barely escaped with their lives.

He waved his arm, indicating for her to take a seat at one of the tables.

“Standard procedure. The prisoner will be escorted in shortly, Ms Winslow. Take a seat…” He tells her.

She steps past. Clutching her coat in her arms as if it could protect her. She chose the table in the far corner. And spread her folded coat across the back of the chair. Nerves squirming in her belly like some rabid, wild animal was trying to burrow into her stomach.

She tucked a strand of her hair and took a seat. The worn and scratched metal chair under her making her skin thrash coolly as she lowered down onto it. Tainting her skin with goosebumps. The hair at the back of her neck was needled straight on end with terror.

“I’ll be in the monitor room watching. Try not to let him play too many of his games with you, and remember. Don’t antagonise him… Best of luck…” Finch sniped at her before he shuffled away out of sight.

She tried not to let herself think unpleasant thoughts about the insipid, embittered man who clearly despised his job and all those involved along with it.

She fiddled with her glasses, and withdrew her notebook and pen from the confines of her bag. Nervously nibbling on her lower lip. She flexed her cold hands as she flipped to an empty page. Making last minute, nervous adjustments, fixing her badge. Making sure she was still all buttoned up, and presentable.

She nervously crossed her legs, feeling that her sheer beige tights slid smoothly along her cold, goose pimpled skin. She wiggled her chilled toes in her shoes. Shamefully aware as she drew her cardigan over her chest, that she was suddenly freezing.

For good measure, she crossed her arms over her chest and hunched down in her seat, arms under the table and awaited her fate.

The first thing she heard, was the jangle of the keys scuffing the barred doors unlocking then clanging as they were slid open.

She was beginning to understand they were the standard noise to echo and signify movement about this prison.

The sound seemed to rattle through her, ringing through her skeleton. Making more dread creep through her. She swallows, her eyes darting to the door where she could hear a few sets of footsteps shuffle and clatter along the vapid lino floor.

There was something else too, along with the heavy sets of treads, she could hear a soft clinking noise shift in the air. It took her a second to come to realise that she could hear his shackles as the prisoner was being shifted along.

Cuffed at the ankles and the wrists – for her safety. She heard a door open and close, and Finch’s bored voice rang loud through the halls. They were just metres away, beyond the barred door.

“You be nice now, Ren.” Finch warns.

The clanking stopped for a moment.

“You know I don’t play well with others.” A deep baritone answered drily. The implication in his voice was dangerous. It made her blood run cold.

Evie suddenly wanted to shrink down to about three centimetres tall. She wanted to wither away into the chair like a dried up leaf curling in on itself.

She watches Finch unlock the door and then it is filled by the three figures the other side of it.

The tall column of orange prisoner is flanked by two guards. They, frankly, looked ineffective in comparison to the figure they were there to guard.

They seem more like ineffectual support than anything. Because the solid wall of tall man in the prison jumpsuit was entirely six feet four of fury, rage and danger hemmed into an orange uniform.

He may have been the incarcerated one, but power pulsed about his figure like a far off threat. Lingering in the distance. Always there, chiming gently.

He stands a foot above the two guards, superior, and the small curl of his lips suggests he knows this.

Under an unruly mane of inky hair, his eyes look darker than black zirconia’s. The harsh light of the room they’re in reflects in a glimmer back off his black, fathomless eyes.

Lifeless eyes, like sharks eyes, she thinks… dead eyes… the knowledge he was a killer made them more chilling- Those eyes had seen men die.

He cocks his head at her through the bars and surveys her. Something dark and terrible flares through her belly.

She wants to pull up her book, shield herself. Put something, any barrier really, between her and his burning eyes that were boring holes into her like flames scorching paper.

It was like looking at something grotesque, it unsettled her down in the very marrow of her bones – but her body just wouldn’t let her look away.

She hadn’t expected to find herself so entranced with his looks. He could definitely be classified as intoxicating.

She certainly felt under the influence. He was handsome in an unbelievable and impossible way. Strong, broad features, full lips.

A clean shaven chin. Face marred by a thick, jagged track of a vivid red scar running from the top of his forehead entirely down his right cheek, slicing its scarred trail deep into his skin. It told of what made him so dangerous, so brutal. The latticework of violence on his skin written with the tip of someone else’s crude knife.

It marred well with the tattoos that she could see covered every inch of his torso. The backs of his hands, twined along his large, thick fingers. Hidden at either side of his pale neck by long strands of his hair that fell in waves to his shoulders.

Down the front of his neck, by his clavicle and the exposed top buttons of the stark orange jumpsuit. There too shadowy patterns of ink are shouting their dark tales of his life from the surface of his alabaster skin. Appropriately, She can see teeth, bones, skulls, darkness and blood.

The door is slid open and with a final, resounding thunk, this odd entourage steps into the room.

The prisoner is walked across to the table. Evie’s hand itches. She wants to do something normal. She wants to rise to her feet, greet him hello, and shake his hand as if this was a business meeting over coffee. But she can’t. She won’t.

She stays with her ass firmly placed on her seat as if it was cemented there. Her wrist twitches and she fights the proclivity to reach across for a handshake. Rule 1 of prison etiquette; Don’t reach over – keep your hands at all times, to yourself.

Instead she can only sit there, pinned, under the gaze of the gigantic man being led towards her. She felt exposed like this.

A rabbit in headlights. Vulnerable. And she wasn’t even the one in shackles here… how was it he still harnessed all the power in the room?

She was convinced he managed it by the sheer size of his body alone. He was towering to say the least. She was sure he was a good two feet taller than her.

She watched him stride across the room, with the guards shuffling him in by his sides. She saw his long, powerful legs stride him forwards as if he wasn’t even in cuffs, or in this prison at all.

She is cursed to do nothing but watch, as he is led across to her. The guards go either side as he lowers that big body of his into the seat opposite. She fears that he wouldn’t fit onto it.

But he eases down and slides his hands forwards onto the metal table top. He unfolds his legs under the table and lets them stretch out, almost hitting hers. He arcs his back and shoulders forwards in the chair and lets his forearms rest on the surface.

She jumps back, flinching in her seat when he drags his shackles harshly across the tables surfaces. The metal whining and shrieking.

Oh, she was sweet. He’d scared the poor little lamb.

She watches the guards chain his joined hands to the metal bar secured on the table top. He sits there, suave, like a king, not even acknowledging the two people securing him. His eyes remained fixed on her.

She wets her lips, and tucks her hair behind her ear. His eyes don’t miss a thing. Evie gives the po-faced guards a wobbly smile, which they do not return, before they shuffle away out of the room. Leaving her all alone to the savage mercy of Kylo Ren.

“You know the rules...” One of them warns him as they shackle his left wrist. How many more warnings was he in for?

“Is that meant for me, or her, Henderson?” He asks. Looking her right in the eye. Appealing to the guard by name.

She gulps. Again. He spots it.

“None of your trouble here with the lady. Try not to get yourself thrown in the hole for a month this time…” The Guard bays back to Ren’s snappy mouth. Their conversation ends with the harsh clang of the cell door.

“No promises…” He mutters lowly. Growling lowly at her.

Her mouth gapes lightly. And his smile curls up more in the beginnings of a smirk. She felt her bravery deflate at the fact he was staring his piercing gaze into her soul.

Yet still referred to her in the third person. As if she wasn’t in the room. As if she wasn’t even here. To him, she supposed, she was an ineffectual, annoying spec. A fly he wished to swat to death with his very large, tattooed hands.

For what feels like the first time, she lets her frightened gaze meet his. She sits up a little straighter and shuffles in her seat, her eyes switch across to the door as the guards flank it and stand silently.

Arms crossed, backs ramrod straight. Eyes daggering into Ren’s back. She timidly reaches her hand out for her notebook. Feeling a little like she was dangerously reaching her hand into a lions enclosure at the zoo.

She wets her lips. Summoning the energy to speak.

Ren feels his temper simmering under his skin already. Was the damn girl a fucking mute or what?

“Um, Thank you, for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Ren…” She begins.

He merely narrows his eyes. Otherwise silent as the grave.

“I’m missing my yard time for this. And for what? So a Librarian can ask me the same fucking questions every journalists wants to ask me?” He all but spits out.

She can tell he doesn’t really require an answer on that one.

She shuffles. Tucks her hair behind her ear again. Clearly that outburst made her uncomfortable.

“I’m not a journalist…” She corrects weakly.

His impassive, handsome, face made no move to acknowledge her smidgeon of backbone.

She looked about as robust as that godawful fraying, fuzzy, granny cardigan she was wearing. He thought about how the heft of it rudely hid her body shape from his eyes.

“My names Evie Winslow. I’m a writer, actually. I’m from a publishing house that’s very interested in your story as a lifer in here. They’re doing a series of inmates personal memoirs to publish into a volume of…”

“Writer. Journalist. What’s the difference…” He lets out under his breath to himself, unamused.

To him, they were both annoying, pushy, arrogant suits who only seemed to swan into this place to grill him with personal and infuriatingly nosy questions.

“You look like you know your way around a book. You’ve doubtless read my file judging by that manila folder sticking out your bag… You’ll know my feelings about bossy journalists asking me their annoying questions….” He warns, his voice a dark purr.

His threat hanging around in the air. As he spoke, he leaned into the table. Pinning her under that dark gaze once again.

That gaze had kept him safe being locked up in here all these years. It made sure people left him-the-fuck alone. Made sure some of the fucking scum that co-inhabited this place knew not to antagonise him.

She bites at the inside of her lower lip. Mulling over his musings.

“Writers have the luxury of imagination.” She offers simply as an answer. Again, he is silent. But she can see activity at the back of those deep dark eyes as he assesses her.

She was meek. There was no doubting that. He somehow found himself giddy at the fact that she leapt out of her skin when she slowly scraped his shackles across the table.

He’d watched her pulse leap in her pale throat when he sat down. Watched her shrink down. Seen how her pale blue eyes dilated when she saw him. He’d heard her gulp. Heard her breath hitch. That had been hard for him not to smirk wildly at. That he had such an effect.

After all, he was a dangerously bored, violent sociopath. Seeing her in here after so many goddamn day and years limited purely to the bland sights of fellow inmates and guards.

Broad men of all sizes. So to suddenly walk in here and see what sweet, shapely little treat sat awaiting him was like New Years Eve in Paris.

A writer, was all he’d been told. British too, apparently. What the fuck does some prim suited, stuck- up writer want with him?

Visitor signed in as E. Winslow. He’d expected to walk in and see some balding, academic, authorial fat old man. Not a delectable, petite, shapely, dark haired woman.

When he saw her wet her lips as she looked nervously across, he swore to god his cock leapt up to attention under his jumpsuit. He tried to discern more of her figure as he sat, but her frumpy work wear made that a challenge.

He let his mind drift a little as he was shackled in. His eyes went to her chest for only a second.

The fuzzy cardigan did well to hide her shape from him. But he could see under those drab work clothes there most likely his a fine figure.

The sight of her buttoned over cleavage and the slight hint of her pale sternum made his mouth water. Aswell as the scent of her.

Her fucking scent he could smell all the way down the corridor.

Sweet honeysuckle or some natural shit like that. Lavender. Peonies. Something other than the scent of the paltry institution detergent they washed the prison suits in.

That something other was like ambrosia nectar to him.

He thanked the stars that she’d put on perfume too. Giving him something to fucking distract him from this fucking pit if for only a damn second.

He could trace warm notes of it in the air around her. Something so bright and floral it was all he could do to concentrate on ignoring it.

He wanted to lean across and find out with his lips where abouts she sprayed on her soft, silken neck. He wanted to vice her throat in one hand, squeeze, and feel her pulse go crazy under his palm. Crushing her windpipe lightly under his violent grip.

He can’t say he was familiar with her type. She had a lot of things she tried to hide herself away in.

Her messily arranged hair, the librarian owl-like glasses, the dull blouse and the boring cardigan; it all screamed ‘safe’ at him. Polar opposite to him, he thought.

His entire demeanour was centred off the fact he never hid a thing. Of course, he tried to blend into society’s norms into what was acceptable. But that was a different thing. He was big, tall, unabashed, broad, unashamed, confident.

He brazenly wore his temper, his tattoos, his wealth, his piercings – the few he had left. She was the complete photo negative. She seemed designed to take up as little space as was possible.

Her personality spoke of her living her quiet, shy life in exactly the way she pleased. No wedding ring visible on her slim finger. From that he could discern that meant she didn’t dress up her petite frame for anyone but herself. Never stepping out of her comfort zone.

Never doing anything brazen or risky. She looked like a woman who lived well within the parameters of her cosy, cushy, ineffectual little life.

So what was this nice, educated, girl doing in a place like this? Talking to a man like him?

“Call a spade a spade. You’re here to ask me questions. No matter what job you’ve got.” He grilled with a neutral expression. Piercing right to the point.

He’d got her there.

“Well. Yes, I am…” She adds.

He made no move except to harshly exhale. She could see he was still staring her down like he wanted to cut her into strips, simply for being here.

“What more, personally, can you tell me about your conviction? What was that like?” She begins, holding her notebook open. Her pen poised to take notes.

His jaw grit. Tight.

If she thought he was going to sit here like an obedient lapdog, and answer every personal question she wanted to pry into about his own damn personal life, she could think again.

“Long and boring.” He answers stiffly.

“The trial?” She asks.

No answer comes from him.

“Read. My. File.” He answers shortly.

She blinks, her pen poised over the paper, now blotting a large, sticky ink stain on the creamy lined notebook paper.

“How was it adjusting to prison life?” She ventures. But by now she knows not to get her hopes up for an answer.

“Painful.” Comes the reply with his similar deadpan expression.

“Uh..” She stumbled, trying to find the notes. Flicking through pages and feeling her cheeks glaring red with embarrassment.

Her throat was drying up. Her hand trembling. He was so big, and just so terrifying.

The veins in his neck were starting to strain up under his skin. Pulsing with the need to keep a foothold on his patience.

“What do you want me to talk about, huh?” He asks suddenly. Bursting forwards even more in his chair.

The scraping of the shackles on the table shrieked again. Once more, she jumped at the noise, and he felt his arousal bubbling up with his rage.

“You want me to describe in vivid detail what hurting all those men felt like? How it felt when I held the knife in my hand and ran it into them. Into their skin. Into their guts. How I slit one of their throats and how it felt fucking good to watch the blood pour?” He asks with a little twitch of his head, and morbid fascination in his voice.

“And with another one…. About how I cut his femoral artery, deep, and watched him die so slowly. People don’t reckon they know how much blood is in the human body. But, ohhh, I do, Kitten. And it’s a lot. I know because I watched a man fade slowly away in a pool of his own blood. By the end he was choking on it.” He explained.

She wanted to flinch at that pet name he’d assigned her in the middle of his murderous diatribe.

“I think you do want to hear it. On some twisted level. You want people to know how it feels. That’s why people will read your fucking memoirs, baby.” He says

“They want to read about it because they will never know how it feels to be like me. To be like any of the murderers in this place. They can never know. So, they do the next best thing.” He explains.

”They come in here and they poke and prod and dissect us with psych evals and dare to call us crazy. When really, they’d do anything to know what it feels like to be a killer. To fall over that edge.”

She felt somehow both sick and feverish. Frozen.

She said nothing, but looked at him with those big, blue, innocent, scared eyes of hers. And my god, the sight of that almost served to make him rock hard under the goddamn table.

“Is that what all you and your type want to hear? I enjoyed killing them. I glad I did it. No I wouldn’t take it back if I could. I’m glad I killed them all. Yes, I do curse every day I’m trapped in this miserable rotten hellhole, being shuffled around like a caged animal. Being told when to sleep. When to piss. When to shower. I miss my freedom.

She just stares for a second. She wasn’t hard hearted enough to scoff at him in derision.

No. She was too sweet, he thought. But he could sense her disappointment at him. She chews on the inside of her lower lip again. And then he watches as she lays her pen down…

“What else do you miss most from outside this place then?” She asks after a long moment of silence.

That made him cock his head. It startled him. She’d startled him. The petite, five foot three librarian had astonished the six foot four, gigantic killer.

“What?”

She wet her lips. His big thighs tensed under the table.

“What else do you miss-“

“I heard the goddamn question. Kitten.” He growls with little patience.

Her spine tingled at his oddly soft endearment once again. He knew. Of course he knew. Those pale cheeks went pink, that’s how he knew.

She idly stroked a fingertip over the spine of her closed notebook. He watched her do it.

Her hands looked soft. When she glanced over to his, she saw they were marred with scars, calluses, and toughened skin. She wondered how soft they’d feel pressed against hers…

She’d been warned about sharing private information. Warned against sharing anything that wasn’t pertinent to her enquires as a crime writer.

But she wanted to level with this dangerous man. As she imagined no one else had ever bothered to do. They took him at face value; a killer, an ID number of six letters. A last name. And that was all.

They didn’t look beyond, however hard that may be, and however tricky Ren made it for them, to see the man underneath the prison file.

He was still a human being. Sure, a damaged one. But still-

“I’d miss my garden.” She pipes up.

She flickers her eyes up, watching him as he shifts back to relax slightly into the cold metal cradle of his chair. His wavy hair caught the light, despite what she knew would be years of lax grooming and institution shampoo used on it, it still looked silky. Falling in gentle waves around that unforgettably beautiful face.

Most inmates she knew were only allowed bar soap, basic shaving necessities, and loveless bathing products to clean with.

He looked like the kind of hardcore man who’d stuck to a strict grooming routine before he came into this place. Cut-throat razor.

The finest shaving creams and expensive balms used, to sit lingering their fine fragrance on his skin. Cologne so expensive it was like a scent of the finest luxury with every whiff.

The thought of seeing hot, steamy water run over that broad tattooed figure she knew was lurking under that jumpsuit. Trickling over those rippling muscles in his back, over his shoulder blades, down across his divinely formed- she found herself flushing with longing.

She snapped back out of her sordid daydream...

He was clearly reluctant to speak. So she continued. “My Granny left us her house in her will. After my mother passed on also, it became mine. It’s small. Full of hand me downs, antiques, and various knick-knacks. It’s a cheap, dated house now. But it’s warm. Its clean. And it’s all mine.” She tells him.

”All I have left of my family exists in that house. My little dwelling in the middle of nowhere. One of my earliest memories is planting daisies into terracotta planters with my granny. I must’ve been about, five or six. As a kid I was always outside, playing in the garden. And my mother always roped me into help...” she chuckles.

”And that’s how I came to love it, I guess. I’m at my happiest up to my elbows in dirt putting in a new bed of tulips, or tending my hydrangeas, or seeing my hard labour come to fruition when my jasmine gardenias blossom in the first week of spring. It’s a lovely thing.” She explained.

“The smell of my lilac trees on a warm summers morning coming through on the breeze from my kitchen window. That’s what I’d miss.

Unless she was very much mistaken, that was a small curl of a smile turning up the corner of his lips. Barely visible. But she knew what she saw.

“Coffee.” Was the word that surprised her when it came sailing out of his lips. A short, staccato bark, really.

She nods.

“Italian coffee. Strong. No milk. Dark as ink. A triple espresso so strong it makes your teeth ache.” He lets out. “The instant shit you get in here tastes like mud.”

“That’s good…” She smiles lightly. Tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. She does that a lot, he noticed.

“I could do without being assaulted daily by Finch’s shitty cologne too. But there’s not a lot I can do to change that either.” He grumbles.

His eyes turned up to the corner to fix a dark glare into the camera that was pointed down at them. He knew the chubby man would have his arms crossed over his fat belly, watching him through the monitor. Probably picking his nose or reading a dirty magazine.

An unusual feeling spread warmth through his stomach when he saw her fight off a broad smile at that wish. She pushed her glasses back up her pixie like, upturned nose and tried her best not to laugh aloud.

“Some things are just, eternally, beyond our reach, I guess.” She mutters quietly.

”No accounting for taste.” Ren glares solidly at the camera. Making sure Finch heard it, and saw it.

“Time’s up.” Came a short outburst from the heavy set guard stood flanking the door.

Ren watched the prim Ms. Winslow turn her head, her mouth gaping as she blinked prettily at the two plodding guards who came over to release Ren’s shackles.

Once again, he watched her like a hawk, rather than paying attention to what was being done to his hands as they were jerked free of the table.

She wondered if his wrists hurt with the careless way they handled him. Tugging and pulling his hands about in the cuffs like he was a nerveless piece of meat.

She could see the raised red lines of irritation from the harsh cuffs about his pale, thick inked wrists that looked sore.

He could tell she was disappointed. She had hoped for more from him. Her boss would grill her for days about this. He already found her a thorn in his side.

Nothing she ever did was good enough. He proofed, edited and slaughtered her articles and writing proposals before he sent them to print. She didn’t like to reckon what he’d do if she’d go back tomorrow empty handed.

“Come see me again.” Came a baritone rumble from opposite the table.

“Up.” One of the guards instructed plainly. Yapping at him like a baying dog.

Evie blinked. Did he just…?

“Kitten.” He growled a crooked smirk in parting, rising to his full towering height again, eyes pinning her down again before he was tugged away.

Shackles clanking. Big broad frame filling the door as he moved through it. Out into the hall.

And she watched that tall column of orange flanked between two short navy pillars once more before he is out of her sight.

She’d never been more speechless. And somehow, oddly enthusiastic. He’d spent the first ten minutes glaring at her. Terrified her to the bone. Threatened her and made her shiver in her seat.

And still she felt motivated to come to this awful place again, merely by the way he’d growled his little pet name at her.

It was a few days later, and just gone past noon when a tall man strode his confident way into his corner office. His blushing blonde secretary had just handed him his schedule.

And he thanked her with a sultry wink. He hadn’t bedded this one yet. But he was going too, he could tell.

Another warning from HR about the mingling of personal and work relationships sent his way as a final warning; that he could easily ignore, just crumple and throw in the bin as he had done with the last four.

He strode into his office with all the poise of an Emperor. Surveying the expensive, sleek space he’d worked semi hard to earn.

His Brioni suit was flawless. His office was kitted out with some new, showy expensive Italian designers collection. Fresh calla lilies adorned the masterpiece of an art vase on his coffee table, and with the sun filtering through his blinded windows just right, he felt good that today was going to be glorious.

As most of his days usually were.

His coffee warming his hands, last nights lovers lipstick he was sure was still smeared its cloying kiss on his neck and his collar, and on the fly of his zipper.

And it didn’t hurt that the cute girl at Starbucks had scrawled her number onto his cup next to his name.

He hummed merrily as he crossed to his desk, just as his office phone blared to life. He slung down his cup and answered it. Checking the time on his flawless Panerai watch.

“It’s me.” A gruff greeting came, down the line.

His head shot up. He’d know the baritone match of his relatives voice any day. He smirked.

“He never calls, he never writes…” He chided with his typical grin, leaning back to perch on the edge of his desk.

“I need a favour…” He grunted.

He listened for more that was sure to follow.

“Someone came to see me recently. And I need to know who they are. What they want. I need information and you’re going to get it for me.” They instructed.

“Do you want the usual package of information or something a little…sexier?” He enquired.

“I don’t give a shit. Just come see me with what you know when you find it.”

“I might need some gentle persuading…” Came his playful answer. He didn’t. He just loved riling his twin.

They growled lowly down the other end. How long was it before he crushed the plastic handset to splinters, he wondered?

“Just do it, Ben.” Came a ferocious order. A threat. A promise. And then the line went sharply dead.

Ben Solo put the phone down, lifted his coffee to his lips, and smirked.

Today really was destined to be full of surprises after all.

~ ~ 🖤 ~ ~

#adam driver #kylo ren x oc #kylo ren #ben solo #sinnerman #killer kylo

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saintambrose · 4 years ago

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haha it’s US politics hours

listen, this tumblr has always been a fandom place since its inception and I’ve not really designated it as a space for political discussion because 1) I have several other avenues for that arena of discussion and 2) escapism was the theme here; but I’ve finally watched The Comey Rule and I have some THOUGHTS

and I’m not really sure how active anyone is here anymore anyway, because I’ve not really been around as regularly as I was before the nsfw-ban shitstorm, so. Diving right in.

Probably my favorite thing was how it painted the American right wing as this faux-centrist bastion of impartiality at first, the whole circus with HiLLaRy’S EmAiLs being about how they legitimately believed they could play the angle that the emails were a threat to national security all while they knew damn well it was a huge big nothingburger (with a side of hatred of women) while doing that thing that right wingers have done since the Reagan administration where they malign anything left of fascism as communism (including basic human rights) and then, predictably, you have all these very furrowed-browed old white men sitting around a conference table being VERY CONCERNED that precisely the thing they wanted to happen came true and they are completely unprepared to do damage control on the mess they engineered because WHITE MEN ARE INCAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING THE CONCEPT OF CONSEQUENCES OF THEIR OWN ACTIONS. 🤣😂🤣😂

In all seriousness. I wasn’t crazy about Hillary either. I don’t like dynasties of any kind, royal or political. I don’t like establishment dems who are really just center-right in the real world while masquerading as left in backwards-ass bizarro-world USA. But I’m an old motherfucker now, I’m well into my 30s, I’m boring and watch CSPAN for leisure and shit. I read the reports coming out of the DOJ. One of my degrees is in political science, though admittedly, that’s the least thing that matters, in the scope of everything else these days. But it’s safe to say Hillary was unfairly maligned while republicans committing atrocities exponentially worse have been treated with kid gloves for decades. A very distinct double standard has been applied here for....longer than I’ve been alive, that even the most educated people on the left have refused to acknowledge for far too long. I watched that entire BeNgHaZi hearing (which is easily accessible on youtube, so there’s literally no excuse not to know the facts on this), and everyone knew -- everyone knew it was a bullshit smear campaign.

So, this post isn’t so much a review of the miniseries more than it’s an indictment of the corruption of American politics. The most damning aspect being that, on principle, US politics has always had a problem with embracing progressive policy, and basic civil rights in general. That’s not news; people have known this for some time. But the thing that this miniseries really illustrated in a very cartoonish, yet succinct, way is that there are experienced professionals who hold the highest, most powerful seats of authority in this country who won’t bat an eye at dedicating their entire careers to denigrating common decency, basic human rights, and even constitutional law, while being absolutely incapable of conceiving the long-term consequences of these actions, who will then turn around and concern troll over the ashes of the empire they enthusiastically helped to burn down. It’s nauseating. It’s infuriating. It shows a pathological disregard for personal responsibility.

Everyone was so preoccupied with their massive turgid erection for hating the Clintons (and women) that no one saw they were enthusiastically living in a henhouse built by fucking foxes. No one saw the genuine threat.

And, by extension, no one had the balls to acknowledge that age-old instinct of white men willing to engage in a scorched earth campaign simply to satisfy their worst impulses and entitlement complexes.

Can you fit “Who cares if we’re screwing over several generations with corrupt court-packing and a flagrant disregard for checks-and-balances predicated entirely on the honor system; we just don’t feel like doing domestic labor or respecting women and minorities so we’ll continue expediting reprehensible policies that exploit the most vulnerable people in this country because we can’t compete in an authentic meritocracy" onto a campaign slogan banner?

I sounded the alarms on this trend 20 years ago, meanwhile. My parents and I had just gotten US citizenship, luckily months before 9/11 and the patriot act; and as an outsider looking in, as someone who had risked their life escaping a dangerous regime at an incredibly young age, I saw the warning signs in the republican party even back then. Naturally, I was denigrated as an alarmist and a butthurt liberal.

You know, I’ll acknowledge that as a white person, I’m not the average American’s image of what an “immigrant” looks like. My experiences here over the past couple of decades have thrown into sharp relief how “immigrant” is just a dogwhistle for racist bullshit, because people who concern troll about us don’t seem to have many problems with us white ones. But I came out of a communist country. I’m straight outta the eastern bloc. And I don’t think there are any words in any spoken language that can do justice to how insulting it is when americans try to americasplain communism to me. Bitch. Y’all don’t fucking know. You just don’t.

The point is, even back then, I could see the slippery slope republicans were tumbling down, and I can't say I derive any pleasure from being vindicated in such an extreme fashion. Like. I told y’all motherfuckers. TWO DECADES AGO.

People who aren’t familiar with US politics, and even long-term US citizens who for some reason feel like it’s a waste to pay attention to your own shit, seem to spend a lot of time trying to unpack what precisely went wrong. My observations came up with 1) the manipulative aspect of US history in public schools glossing over, and even omitting, the most gruesome aspects of the revolutionary war, the holocaust, and the cold war (and oftentimes, the cold war is NEVER EVEN COVERED, which is especially insulting to me, for obvious reasons); 2) the manipulative aspect of US history in public schools teaching kids that the Declaration of independence and the Constitution are unassailable doctrines of freedom and liberty, and, as such, after independence was won, no further activism to maintain democracy was needed so we can all just smoke a bowl and be complacent because all those authoritarian third world regimes we constantly ridicule and criticize can NeVeR HaPPeN hErE 😒; and 3) how limpdick both-sidesism replaced civil, comprehensive political discussion because the right spent so long abusing, denigrating, and bullying the left that it was just easier to play it safe and take the milquetoast ~centrist~ stance, which always, always, always capitulates to the lowest common denominator, which is always the oppressor.

And generally just this age-old trend of holding the victims of systematic oppression to a higher moral and behavioral standard than the perpetrators of systematic oppression.

Guys, I’m tired. I’m so tired.

I’ve gotten a few questions over the years about why my writing is so angsty, why it always seems to follow the same themes; war crimes, PTSD, gore, torture.

I already escaped one authoritarian regime. The USA promised us one thing, and then once we got here, it started emulating the very tyrants we worked so hard to get away from. A lot of people have no idea what that feels like. How much of a betrayal that is. Especially considering all the financial and legal landmines one has to navigate just to do it, and then we’re punished for that, too.

I write about PTSD because I fucking have it. I write about war crimes because I’ve experienced them firsthand - just as a victim and not the perpetrator. I so often write about soldiers committing them because I want to roleplay what it’s like to not be a victim for once.

tbh writing a fucking Hamilton fanfiction is one of the most cathartic things I’ve ever done, but the extensive research I’ve had to do to be able to write this thing has been low-key traumatic. There’s a lot of historical material I’ve consumed that should have been covered at the most basic level of compulsory education, but conspicuously isn’t. And I know that’s a feature, not a bug. It’s by design.

Democracy - and independence, freedom, liberty, justice, civil rights in general - isn’t just some final xbox achievement that you unlock and then just shelve the game and forget about it for the rest of your life. You have to keep grinding to maintain it, because there will always be selfish, malicious people out there who will dedicate their entire lives playing a long con to ensure you don’t get the same opportunities as them. For the love of god, stop playing the both-sidesism game. From someone coming out of the eastern bloc, I can tell you with great confidence that that was part of the propaganda campaign you were fed to keep you from engaging so they could install a dictatorship under your nose. Do some self-guided historical research, guys. It can be very illuminating.

Anyway. I’ve gone on long enough here, but damn, don’t screw this up again, guys. Today is the first day of early voting in Texas, and I’m going to do my duty. When I first came to this country, after experiencing the rigorous vetting process and labyrinthine legal requirements of US citizenship, I was led to believe that in exchange for that privilege, I was personally responsible for my own civic self-education. It’s so much more important than you've been led to believe.

#uspol #long post #also uhhhh brendan gleeson really needs to win an award #i hope he's ok mentally after playing that role yikes yikes yikes #also 'why do your characters so often have alcohol abuse problems' uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

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spiders-hth-is-an-outlier · 5 years ago

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Four Reasons You Can Pry Cass Out of My Cold Dead Hands

Look, I kept my mouth shut for like three goddamn years of Tumblr. That’s a lot, for me. I’m not famous for keeping my mouth shut, so, you know. Accept that I tried, and even though I failed, An Effort Was Made. Take that for whatever it’s worth.

Cass is the better spelling. It’s not just the correct spelling (though it is the correct spelling), it’s the superior choice of spelling, and here is why.

1. The Phonetics Are Good, Not Bad

You may see people point out that in English, single-syllable words with an A in the middle are typically pronounced with a short A sound. Bat, rad, van, pal. Cool, true! This would be a point, except that--

It’s typically NOT true of words that rhyme with, uh, Cass.

Now, there aren’t a ton of those words in English. One-syllable words with a short A sound and an S at the end are relatively rare! Which is cool, because we can pretty much look at all of them, ready, here we go:

ass -- bass -- brass -- class -- crass -- gas -- glass -- grass -- lass -- mass -- pass -- sass

What do you notice?

Sure, I’ll give you “gas.” It’s short for gasoline, and nobody ever bothered to add an extra S to make it match the pattern. So there you go.

But now take the second S off of every other one of those words. Usually you get a word that doesn’t exist in English, with the exception of “as” and “bras” (if you’re allowing plurals into the conversation). But of those two exceptions, now *neither one* rhymes with Cass anymore -- either the consonant sound changes to a Z sound, or the vowel becomes that soft ah instead of a short A. That’s what Kripke was trying to say when he says he picked the spelling because “Cas might sound like Caz.” He meant that, reasonably enough, people might be prompted to think of the only other one-syllable word in common use English that matches this pattern, which is ass/as.

But what about the other words? If you drop the second S and allow people to *guess* how they think the word might be pronounced -- well, who’s to say. Would you automatically rhyme bas, clas, glas, las, and mas with gas? Maybe you would. More likely, in my opinion, your best guess would be to either rhyme them with as, or to pronounce them as the non-English words they are -- bas relief is from a French loan, glas is Irish, las and mas are common Spanish words. None of them are pronounced with a short A.

So yeah, if you were randomly reading a fantasy novel, as a native English speaker, these are the calculations you’d make about how to pronounce a name: Das would sound more like dahz, I bet, while Dass is definitely dass. Vas and Vass. Ras and Rass. Shas and Shass. You don’t look at those and pronounce them the same way in your head; not if you’re an English speaker. You just don’t. And without the cue of knowing the full name, you wouldn’t for Cas and Cass, either.

2. Cass Is a Human Name, and We Call That Themes

Cass is a real, live name. People have it. The majority of them are women, and it’s short for Cassandra, sure, but it’s also a real, live, human male name. Really! Here’s a list of people who have that name in real life and fiction alike. For some of them, it’s a diminutive of single-S names like Caspar and Casimir. That’s a thing! Sometimes it’s just a freestanding name; Cass Ballenger the politician just had it as his middle name. Sometimes it does come from double-S names like Cassian and Cassius. Regardless, it’s just -- a name that exists.

When you name a fictional character, sometimes you just pick one randomly, but sometimes the name reflects on or points up something thematically. I have no idea if that was the intention in this case, but even if it was accidentally, something pretty cool happened. The made-up fantasy-faux-angelic name “Castiel” tends to be used by other angels, particularly ones like Raphael and Naomi who are speaking to him as real or presumptive superiors in a hierarchy. “Castiel” is the designation he was given out of the gate, when he was made to be God’s enforcer. “Cass” is the name Dean gave him. Cass is what his friends call him, and it’s symbolic of his relationship to humanity, which he consistently chooses over his relationship with angels. When he fell, or jumped ship, or however you’d like to think about it, he was given a human name, which everyone who regards him with even the slightest affection at all now uses. It’s good! That’s good! It’s a good use of a small thing to point up how differently different characters see him, and whether they emphasize his familiarity or his alienness. You lose that if you insist that his name is only an abbreviated form of his given name. You lose something from the text if you imagine he’s being called Castiel-only-shorter, instead of becoming a real person named Cass.

3. Just Don’t Be A Jerk, People Are Named What They’re Named

This is just, like -- decency? I know he’s not a real person, but it’s -- rude, right? You don’t correct the spelling of someone else’s name. Who does that? Do you have beef with parents who call their daughter Catherine Katie, because only Catie is acceptable to you? People are allowed to just do, like, whatever with names, it’s literally fine. You know what’s not typically a nickname for Dimitri? MISHA. But that’s his name, because it just is.

Yeah, it’s fandom. You can change whatever you like. You can have whatever opinions you want about how you would have spelled it, if you were Eric Kripke, or Chuck Shurley, or Metatron, or Dean Winchester. I have opinions about Isaac Lahey’s name in Teen Wolf, because it’s spelled Lahey and pronounced Leahy, and that’s bonkers! But that is how it’s spelled, and I just -- go on with my life, unharmed. Castiel isn’t a real person who will have real feelings about however you prefer to spell his name.

But the standard rule for polite society in re: how to spell someone’s name is however they want you to spell it. Normally not obeying that rule reads as passive-aggressive at best. Which is how we come to....

4. Fandom Gatekeeping Is Shitty, Actually

The reality behind the fervor with which Cas-people not just defend their choice to use the non-canonical spelling, but regularly flood my goddamn dash with weird, angry screeds about the fact that 100% of the world doesn’t use the non-canonical spelling, is that they are using it as a shibboleth, a marker of who counts and who doesn’t. Who belongs here and who doesn’t. I’ve always known this, because I’m clever like that, but recently I’ve seen versions of the Weird, Angry Screed that spell it out directly: people who spell it Cass are either new around here and haven’t learned How We Do It yet, or by choosing not to do it How We Do It, they are signaling their contempt for pro-Castiel fandom.

And honestly I understand that my reaction to this isn’t the typical one. I know that most people find those little signs and signifiers of who’s Team Us and who’s Team Them Over There to be comforting. There’s something that people just like about wearing the jersey; it makes them feel safe among others like them. I get it.

But much as I love fandom, there’s something I have always hated, and always will hate, about that kind of expectation of groupthink within fandom. I know, rationally, that part of the socialization is that you’re supposed to learn lingo and references and in-jokes -- you’re supposed to join the fandom by speaking like the fandom speaks. But there’s something, I dunno, almost threatening? There’s something crazy-making about taking this random, essentially irrelevant detail, and turning it into something that proves if you belong here or not. At best, maybe you’re “new around here” (which is okay? It’s fine, actually, to be new in a fandom and not yet realize that you’re supposed to be ignoring eleven seasons of subtitles? Why are you yelling at newbies, please don’t?), but at worst, we know because you won’t make this mental change that we’ve all agreed to make, that actually you’re not just an outsider, but an opponent. If you weren’t, you’d do what we all do.

It’s the most literal, direct example of fandom gatekeeping. If you know the secrets of how we speak and what we accept as real and important, then you’re cool and you can stay. If you don’t know, or you disagree with what we all got together and accepted as real and important, based on -- watching the show? -- then we know to stay away from you because you’re the wrong kind of fan. Not our kind. Wearing the bad jersey.

It’s shitty. It’s mean-spirited. It’s the worst kind of cliquish fan posturing, casting people with legitimately different approaches to how and why to use, change, or discard canon in their art and conversation as opponents in a dumb, made-up turf war, and it serves to intentionally carve the fan community into narrower slices of self-siloed echo chambers of agreement and validation, rather than requiring people to just -- get cool with the fact that different opinions exist.

Sure, not all people who spell it Cas are like that. Some of you seem nice. But man, I see the knives come out all over every time the Cass spelling pops up in canon, because a lot of y’all really take this seriously, beyond just habit and aesthetic preference. And even when it’s not said out loud, it’s clear to me that it’s not an argument about how the word looks on the page. It’s clear to me that those who won’t conform don’t belong and aren’t wanted, and people are afraid someone somewhere might not realize they don’t belong and aren’t wanted until they conform.

There was a time in my life when I’d find that really hurtful, honestly. That time is not now, because I have real problems, and what Supernatural fandom thinks of me really, truly, deeply does not matter to my life.

But it does bother me enough to write all this out, I guess, and I know that’s because I remember a time when I was younger and more isolated and fandom was really a social and emotional home for me, and I still have an idealistic fondness for the idea of a big-tent, non-gatekeepy version of fandom where people can just, like, be cool to each other about things, even things they disagree intensely about. There are still people in the world who need and deserve that, and it always angries me up a little when I see people deliberately wrecking that version and replacing it with one where fans have to performatively prove that they aren’t on the wrong team through weird little random tics that have to be repeated just-so, just the way you learned them. So I don’t do that, out of love for my imaginary version of fandom where no one’s asked to do that.

So yeah, the combination of those four factors means that I am never, ever, ever going to mend my ways on this topic, which is a privilege I have, as a person with basically nothing invested in anyone in Supernatural fandom. (I mean, some of y’all seem really nice, but none of my actual friends live here.) That lack of being invested in the fandom also, I realize, means that I have no social capital to spend, and people are unlikely to give a fuck what I do or why I do it, so all of this has really been -- basically meaningless. Still, I’m not really good at thinking things and not saying them, although I’m getting slightly better. Really! In general!

#apparently i have opinions

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koszmar-zycie · 5 years ago

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All of the fun, random questions! Do it!

Oh lawdy! To quote Ace Ventura: “Aaaaaalrighty, then!” - Apologies for the janky post, since I can’t space them without the site making the numbers all screwy.

Do you have any “yeah I’m good at it but I hate it” kind of skills? - hmmmm. To be honest, leading. If you buy into horoscopes, I’m a Dragon. And maybe it’s natural, maybe it’s theatre experience. But when I apply myself as a leader, I do AMAZING. The issue is that I generally like to be a support. Sometimes I like leading, but usually I’m not into the idea of being this focus or figurehead guiding the way as the leader. Whether projects or even fun, I tend to fall into a like... intermediate leadership role at best.

If you could make one type of food cease to exist, what would you banish? - To be honest, I can’t do that. Even foods I’m not fond of are foods, and I would be remised if I were to remove any.

You’re allowed to know everything about one highly specific thing/topic. What would you choose? - Deep sea thermal based biology. The deep sea is my 100% very favorite place on Earth. If I die and there’s an afterlife, I want endless ocean of all kinds. If I’m reincarnated, I want to be a Dragonfish or something. At any rate, I would do anything to have such a wealth of knowledge. Especially about something as fascinating to me as the ins and out of how the deep sea creatures that survive and thrive around the *extreme* heat and pressure of the vents.

What’s a fictional character who you want to be like? In what way do you want to be like them? - I would love to be like Nathan Ford from Leverage. I want to be able to live my life as freely and wildly as he (though maybe not as illegally lol), and also pursue what I feel is right for me. Live through and persevere through hardship as well as he, even if he struggled.

If you had to live in and not leave a city for the rest of your life, what city would you choose? - That would be a VERY hard call between Avalon on Catalina Island USA, or Sedona, Arizona. While Sedona overall has more of what I love, Avalon has the sea. And I’d probably die without my ocean.

Do you tend to say what you’re thinking? What would people think of you if you did the opposite? - Usually, yes. But in a careful way. It WILL happen periodically, because I’m also an emotional hunk of waste. But in general I do a decent enough job of being honest without being harsh about it. When I’m provoked or something really gets to me, then I can just vent without thinking.

Is there anything that you’ve done/experienced so much you hate it now? Easiest to come up with are like, food or music. - Hmmm. Not really. Halloween got SEVERELY killed for me, though. I still like it, but Haunt people are by and large the most obnoxious and hypocritical. Since I adore haunt, I HAVE to deal with them. Hatred for Christmas and other holidays while spouting about Halloween has drained my interest in Halloween. So yes an no, because that’s really OTHER people killing it for me. But I’m also sort of involved because of my love of the haunt business.

Were you afraid of anything “silly”/irrational as a child that you’ve since outgrown? - Deep water. As a kid I HATED the deep end of pools. Now I’m obsessed with deep water and the dark, unknown, crushing depths. Funny how things work out! I used to hate going near the slope in a pool if it was even a little dark (lighted pools were fine). Now, the only thing stopping me from just continuing to swim down if I go diving is my tank limits.

If you were to impart one moral lesson (think Aesop’s fables, Golden Rule, etc) on the world, what would it be? - Treat others as you wish to be treated. It’s SO easy to say, and yet nobody does it.

If you were a DND character or a game character (or something like that) what would your highest stat be? What would you want your highest stat to be? What about the lowest, to both of those? - HA. I think about this way too much. I’d be a sea elf druid. STR 10 INT 12 CHA 16 DEX 12 END 18 WIS 18 - If I were to apply myself logically as an analog of myself, I’d have good durability and understanding and social capability (again, in specific regards), but my outward strength and dex would be kinda average. I like to think that I’m decently intelligent, as I LOVE books, learning, and figuring things out. But I’m also far from genius. Hence my focus on Wisdom. I’m also surprisingly dexterous, but in certain circumstances more than others, so that’s also pretty average. I don’t think I’ve really have any “bad” stats, but I’d definitely mix average with a couple high ones.

Is there anything you judge others for when you probably shouldn’t? - Probably. I have a huge mistake of expecting others to be courteous and offer a common decency/open perspective on things.

Who are “your kind” of people? - Goths and hippies, my friend. If you want to know my style? Goth Druid. lol

If you had to come up with your last words right now… what would they be? - “Don’t regret not accomplishing what you set out to accomplish. Regret having not tried. I do not regret trying, even if I did not succeed.”

Do you have any “weirdly strong” opinions about things that don’t really matter? - This is VERY obscure (I have others, but it’s late and this came to mind first) But if you play Fate Grand Order.... SET YOUR GOD DAMNED SUPPORTS.

Your goal is to completely confuse the people around you in as short a time as possible– what do you say/do? - Honestly, just start quoting Lorne from Season 5 of Angel. Or act like a Malkavian. One of my VTM characters was a Malkavian who got in a fight with a parachute he had. Her name was Kitten.

What’s the most comfy place you’ve been in? - I don’t know, actually. Maybe the Luxe Hotel in LA during Anime Expo?

Did you have any “silly” beliefs as a kid? Where did they come from (parents, friends, out of nowhere, etc)? - Not that I know of. At least in terms of anything that’d have changed or something. I’m sure there’s Something, but I honestly can’t dig anything up in my memories.

If you were to add or remove one physical feature to yourself… what would it be? Can be from animals, can be from imagination… whatever. - Hahaha, I ALWAYS think about this one. Right now, I’d want maybe the electro-vision of sharks.

What could you happily give a two hour lecture on? - Ocean conservation, and what’s correct and what isn’t.

What would a mirror opposite version of yourself be like? It doesn’t necessarily have to be an evil version– any feature can be reflected! - Someone who’s mostly optimistic. More bright colors than dark, short hair. Focused on socializing and extroverted. More than happy in one place forever, without an interest in travel.

What’s an occasion you’ve done a double take? - Anime Expo a number of times. Seeing weird or unexpected, or legendary cosplays.

If you could only see one color (and its varying shades– dark/light) for the rest of your life… what would you choose? - Blue. Guess that was probably obvious. But it’s a cool color and associated with calming. Between dark midnight and navy blues to vibrant aquamarines pressing towards green (without actually going into it), I feel like there’s a happy spectrum of all kinds that would be enough to get through without going too crazy.

Do your friends all share certain qualities? Major or minor! - Despite my.... unique personality, and preference towards quiet etc (INFJ), I have a lot of radically different kinds of friends. I honestly don’t think I could put any one thing down. Other than that I choose my friends carefully on who I think I can trust and is a good persona at heart. To a sufficient degree anyway. That’s also a huge part of my downsides, too. By being sensitive (and having certain conditions), when a friend does something that hurts me, it REALLY hurts.

How do you motivate yourself to do things? - Oh man, that’s funny. It is entirely circumstantial. As an artist/writer/creative (I use artist in the broad sense, but I figured I’d add that to help specify) I can VERY easily just have motivation on a moments notice. So it’s often pretty random. But if not, I jut need to think of why. I Looooooove gardening. Weeds need pulling? I think about what’ll happen if the roses or tomatos or lemon tree don’t get their water because of weeds sucking it up. Need to write? I’ll never leave my creation for *any*one if I don’t at least crack down on notes, and make slow and steady progress if nothing else. It’s usually just a small thing I think of to act as a spark, but it’s usually very effective.

What’s one of your favorite jokes? Tell it to us! - Okay, so this isn’t a joke, but it’s seriously STILL making me laugh just thinking about it. I was going to reference an old comedian in a previous post (I didn’t end up doing it, but still). Anyway, I was really confused as to why I couldn’t find him in google. It turns out, instead of looking up “Groucho Marx”, I was googling “Marco Grouch”. LOL That’s probably not quite as funny to y’all, but for some reason it’s killing me. XD

Hooooooeeee! Well, that was long, but actually really fun! Thank you @scatteredstoryteller! That was like... an essay. lol But definitely fun. I love asks. XD

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stardyng · 6 years ago

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Your top 5 personal favorite crack ship maybe 😋 if that's ok with you

1. Sansa Stark / Dickon Tarly

This ship is peak shallowness for me. The only reason why I care for it is because Dickon is decent, handsome, single, isn’t related to her, and seems the type to not mistreat anyone. If I had to read a Sansa fanfiction pairing her with one of the few decent men that she interacted with and the writer included a second love interest to make the main one jealous, I would that second love interest be Dickon instead any of the people who mistreated Sansa. I don’t really take this pairing seriously though. It’s just a fun pair to me.

2. Robb Stark / Margaery Tyrell

I follow someone on twitter who’s pretty ardent about this ship, and at this point, it became kinda appealing to me, especially if we do take what would have happened to Robb if he ended up with her and not Jeyne/Talysa. Also, I think their personalities would mesh quite well especially in the show where both of them are older and more mature. They probably would have electrifying chemistry.

3. Jon Snow / Satin

It’s probably not even a crackship but I’m still putting it here. The amount of times Jon mentions Satin being pretty…like…do y’all hear something? Because I sure as hell do. I know it should be common decency, but the fact that Jon doesn’t see Satin as any lesser because he used to be a sex worker made me respect him a little bit more. Not only that but he defends him against others who do make judgmental comments. Their relationship isn’t that developed, but it’s still really sweet, and I would be cool to see more of this dynamic in the next book.

4. Cersei Lannister / Melisandre Of Asshai

It’s because of ‘’ships’’ like this one that the term crackship was even invented. They would have some of the most wicked conversations, and it would just be interesting to see how such a relationship would develop. I don’t have any real particular feelings about this besides this slight intrigue on what would even happen if they did interact with each other.

5. Aenys Targaryen / Respect

The entire population of Westoros has done him dirty, his own brother didn’t give him the respect he deserves, GRRM didn’t even mention him in any of the books from the main series (he’s the only Targaryen king who didn’t get mentioned) and the whole fandom decided to collectively ignore him. He did nothing wrong to deserve this treatment. He was just this good person who didn’t want to continue the cycle that his father had started. He saw what happened to his mother due to war, and he didn’t want the same thing happening again. In general, all he really wanted was to be liked by others, satisfy them, and to not be a disappointment. He was indecisive and trusted easily and I get that was an issue for much of the population of Westoros, but at the end of the day, he was just a good person with a big heart. He tried to keep the kingdoms together through deals, contracts and by seeming like a likable person but no one appreciated his efforts. I respect him because he tried to break out of the Targaryen mold at least a little bit. It didn’t work out for him, but the facts are that he still tried. He better be mentioned at least once in TWOW/ADOS because he really deserves better.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #i struggled with this one for a long while #game of thrones #got #dicksa #robb x margaery #jon x satin #cersei x melisandre #aenys targaryen #aenys #it took weeks to come up with every single one of these #i had no idea what to answer #and by the fifth one...i decided to cheat bc i had no idea what else to pick #asks #fire and blood

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problematiq · 6 years ago

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@reneetaleenaisnotvicious it’s just a place full of assholes.

in the last couple of weeks, i had to explain to them why you can’t use the n-word when you’re not black, thinking it was common knowledge, only to be met with “well, it’s not universally agreed upon” (like, no shit, of course white people won’t agree that they can’t use it and since when does every single person have to agree that something is wrong in order for it to be wrong?) and “saying i can’t say the n-word is reverse racism”, causing me to dig into 2012 discourse on how reverse racism isn’t real.

people will defend the actions of every single human being billie joe has ever had contact with. the allegations of the former (jewish) employer against kat von d about her writing an antisemitic note to him are dismissed as “just a cry for attention from an unhappy employee” even though experts have concluded that it was 99% her handwriting - but yeah, kat von d never said she wrote it, so it must just be fake, since we all know and trust her??

in the discussion over billie’s collaboration with morrissey, people have defended that dude at every turn so they could feel better about their collaboration and completely dismissed everyone who showed concern or disappointment with it. i’m not gonna list everything morrissey has done and i’m not gonna debate it with anyone anymore since i’ve seriously had it up to here with that topic, but the gist of it is that morrissey is a racist UKIP supporter who said that “chinese people are a subspecies”. people have routinely and adamantly attempted to downplay the racism and rationalize his fucked up behavior, saying “well maybe billie just didn’t know about what he did, why should you research everything your collab partner has done” which turned to “morrissey not a racist, he’s just a dumb idiot with no influence who wants attention” which turned into “he’s not even a ukip supporter” which turned into “well actually ukip / nigel farage aren’t even xenophobic if you think about it”. then, a user on the forum who is half-chinese voiced her disappointment in the forum for defending that scumbag tooth and nail and said she was done with the forum and wouldn’t visit anymore. people backpedaled a bit but still tried to tell her that it’s “not really that bad” and “there are worse forms of racism you should focus on” like lmfao really? so that’s when i said “you know what fuck y’all” and left the forum too and with that, the green day fandom really because i am sick and tired of people worshipping the ground billie walks on like fucking catholics, incapable of criticising him or admitting any flaws or mistakes.

for some reason i decided to join the discord server for the old gdc people who used the chat a lot because i thought, maybe i don’t have to cut contact to everyone and can still enjoy talking to people about my favorite band?? and for a while we had fun and i really liked them.

so on april 1st, they announced that the forum would be shut down forever by the end of the week because it was too much work and too expensive to continue keeping it up or whatever. of course only gullible people believed it and nobody else really took it seriously while the mod team desperately tried to convince everyone that it was not an april fools joke like “omgz i’m so sad” and “i dont understand why everyone would think THIS IS A JOKE wow i am so UPSET” and it was ridiculous really because they tried so hard with the joke and nobody bought it.

so then someone posted the link to the discord server in the forum so more and more people joined and i was like “oh” because suddenly every person i hated on the forum and who was the reason I left gdc in the first place joined the discord server, even the gdc mods (who can all suck a fucking dick). those people don’t like me either so it already felt restricting to post there and i was getting pissed that i joined there first and then they all came and forced me to communicate with them again. and i’m serious, i’m fucking done with that place and i want nothing to do with these people either.

then on april 2nd (AFTER april fools) the site was down but some people still didn’t believe it was gone forever because WHY WOULD THEY? that april fools joke was a fucking pathetic attempt to upset the community who loved the forum, and they were salty nobody gave a shit so they had to take extreme measures. i would’ve been happy to believe it and see the forum fucking rot but other people who had found friends and loved the community were genuinely upset about this (one person even started a gofundme).

then, some minor mod joined the discord and complained about us “talking shit” about the mods because it was all the admin’s fault and he gave us some bullshit story about how he was angry with him too, that the admin had given the mods a chance to back up their shit before they closed or even gave them an opportunity to take over the forum but nobody wanted to blah blah blah and some shit about green day’s management wanting to restrict the forum because people were talking about their private lives or that they had planned a dookie tour but it was cancelled because of trés baby or some shit??? whatever. and i believed it because he was convincing and not someone who usually lies and trolls people but who put in a lot of work into the media section and would have been upset if it were gone, so i was actually sorta understanding towards him.

then a couple of hours later the site was back online, the admin made some stupid joke about “lololool i’m a mastermind you can go fuck yourselves i’m so happy with myself!111!!”, they made a social media post about it having just been an april fools joke while directly quoting something i said on the discord server, and that one unimportant mod who lied to us and some other dumbass mod i’ve always hated posted on the discord that they “had a lot of fun lying to us” and how fucking hilarious our reactions were or whatever and how good it was to see how many people cared about gdc like???

and i was fucking mad because I HAD LEFT THAT PLACE!!!!! i had literally left that place and they come to the place i kinda found refuge hin after leaving that shithole (a place i actually liked being on and where i had fun to communicate with the other members and could actually see myself staying and maybe not leaving the fandom entirely), infiltrate it with their fucking presence and make it my fucking business what happened to GDC, lie to me and everyone and laugh to themselves about the things i said or how they had fooled us. so they ruined everything for me again just so they could have a laugh and i’m not kidding when i say i hate every single fucking person who keeps this dumpsterfire running with a passion. and what’s almost more frustrating is how every single person who was mad at them for the joke now runs back to them like “oh wow that was a mean joke but now i’m just happy i can be back, i’m ready to put this behind me” lmfao.

i don’t give a shit about the forum, I. LEFT. i want nothing to do with them, i don’t want them around me, i don’t want them to talk to me or about me. i want them to ignore my fucking existence and leave me THE FUCK alone. and now i can’t even visit the discord anymore because they don’t even have the fucking decency to leave the server after their bullshit stunt. so thanks for fucking nothing you absolute dumbass fucking dick-eating pieces of horseshit.

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brianjacob · 5 years ago

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The Corona virus reality.

We're about 4 months in, Cases have skyrocketed, and a lot of people have died. It's about time people stopped the whole hoax BS. Numbers are from June 25th 2020.

1. Globally 9,808,267 have been listed as having the virus. 493,993 have died. That’s half a million loved ones that are no longer here y’all. That’s a 4.999% fatality rate. (For every 100 people you know that have it, 5 will die) 5,299,920 have recovered, and 4,014,354 are still active cases. Some of those folks will die, but many will get over it.

2. In Florida. 122,960 have been listed as having the virus. 3,366 have died. That’s a 2.74% fatally rate. (For every 100 people you know that have it...about 3 will die.) Only 21,651 have recovered. If you want to know the rate of death, and are smart enough to google… do the research yourself. (Deaths/Total Infected) x 100 = the % of death.

3. "The numbers are going up but deaths are going down.” That does not mean Floridians have somehow beat this. The sun’s only giving you a tan and some Vitamin D, not immunity…. It takes 1-4 weeks for folks to die or recover from this. You will only see the deaths increase in 2-4 weeks. And if we actually obey some mask and social distance rules, our infection rate will go down as well. So 4 weeks from now, the number of deaths could climb while cases are low. The variable of time needs to be accounted for in your assumption.

Ellie Murphy put it best. “What does lead time bias have to do with #COVID19? Well, we switched from only testing people who had really serious severe symptoms to testing a much wider group of people with milder or even no symptoms. Many of the new cases are much earlier in their disease process. Lead time bias tells us that we can expect to see a longer delay between detection & death because we are detecting people earlier in the disease process. This does not mean people are surviving longer! That’s the sneaky lead time bias talking!!“

4. It’s mislabeled, it’s not that serious, it’s like the flu.They are counting diabetes, heart attack, blah blah blah as Covid Deaths. Well it is a Covid death. Almost all those folks were doing fine with their conditions controlled with medication, healthy diets, and exercise. The disease exasperated their pre-existing conditions, and made their body unable to handle it, thus succumbing to their body’s deterioration resulting in their subsequent death. It is a Covid Death, because if they had not gotten it, it probably would have been business as usual. Also we don’t know much about this disease as it is evolving as fast as we are fighting it. We are seeing it attack 30–40 years olds at a much higher rate than before. Kids are facing weird symptoms, and we do not know the long term damage it may cause. NBA players are saying they are still dealing with the after affects months after recovery and a negative test result. There is lung scaring, and many many other things we still do not have a grasp of.

5. Almost all other nations whose citizens respected their scientists, and authority are almost fully recovered, and back to semi-normal. We seem to not care about our fellow citizens, or our scientists. That’s why it’s a FACT that we have the most cases, and most deaths in the USA. Non debatable. That’s why other states are not allowing Floridians to travel to theirs without a 2 week quarantine. That’s why other nations are looking into imposing a ban of US citizens traveling to their shores. We did not flatten the curve. We have created a new one. Facts.

6. The Protests raised the numbers. NO. People not wearing masks, and gathering inside for long periods of time did. Texas, Arizona, Florida… all states with low protesting, all states that opened up early 2–4 weeks ago with some citizens that don’t want to follow any decency rules, are showing the increase. In almost all the film you watch, you see the vast majority of protestors wearing masks. They have been diligent about this. Could some of them have spread it, but of course, we cannot rule that out. But being outdoors and wearing masks have all helped. Close proximity, heavy breathing, poor circulation/ventilation, all indoors is a recipe for disaster. Alcohol makes it worse. Let the politics go. This is a humanity thing now. We need to squash this for all of us, not to prove a president or governor is right or wrong. People shouldn’t die for political loyalty during a pandemic.

7. Masks work. There is science around this. Every nation that has seen a drop has it’s citizens masked up. You are wearing it mostly to not infect others if you are currently asymptomatic, but have the capability of spreading it. Like all things(consider seatbelts, airbags), can you still get sick & die. Possibly, but the risk is significantly reduced. And NO, you cannot faint or die from CO2 poisoning,. Tell that to the doctors that wear stronger masks, and do 12 hour surgeries. You can wear that mask for your grocery run. Calm down.

So what do we do… what can we do? Somethings are simple, and some we must rely on the experts to help. Social distancing, and masks are easy, but let’s also avoid enclosed places, time with our elderly relatives and friends, and large gatherings. As we maintain those guidelines, we wait for our incredibly gifted medical & scientific organizations to come up with solutions, medications and the vaccines needed to shield us from this long term. But that requires time. Like HIV, and other diseases that had high infection and death rates, we had to put a plan together to avoid getting the disease, testing ourselves and our loved ones, and being careful. Did we eradicate it? No. But are we getting closer and closer to beating it? Yes. One main difference is when we heard or saw stories about HIV/AIDS deaths, the pictures and the stories were gruesome. The media has kept away from showing how bad the body does with this disease, how it disfigures and scars your lungs, or how it constricts your blood flow, causes cardiac swelling and scarring, or even how it causes brain inflammation encephalitis, seizures, loss of consciousness or strokes. This is a scary disease, but doesn't sound so scary when compared to the “Common Flu.”

In addition, we have been here before. Referencing the CDC: The 1918 influenza pandemic was the most severe pandemic in recent history. It was caused by an H1N1 virus with genes of avian origin. Lasting February 1918 to April 1920, it infected 500 million people–about a third of the world's population at the time–in four successive waves. The death toll is typically estimated to have been somewhere between 17 million and 50 million, making it one of the deadliest pandemics in human history.

Mortality was high in people younger than 5 years old, 20-40 years old, and 65 years and older. The high mortality in healthy people, including those in the 20-40 year age group, was a unique feature of this pandemic. Control efforts worldwide were limited to non-pharmaceutical interventions such as isolation, quarantine, good personal hygiene, use of disinfectants, and limitations of public gatherings, which were applied unevenly. Social distancing measures were introduced, for example closing schools, theatres, and places of worship, limiting public transportation, and banning mass gatherings. Wearing face masks became common in some places, such as Japan, though there were debates over their efficacy. There was also some resistance to their use, as exemplified by the Anti-Mask League of San Francisco. Vaccines were also developed, but as these were based on bacteria and not the actual virus, they could only help with secondary infections. A later study found that measures such as banning mass gatherings and requiring the wearing of face masks could cut the death rate up to 50 percent, but this was dependent on them being imposed early in the outbreak and not being lifted prematurely. So we’ve been here before, and we have an outline of time, spread, and effective solutions till a vaccine/medication is made. We just need to listen to it, and follow through. We are significantly more educated, and our science has come a long way since 1918. If we take this seriously, and practice good habits, we will beat this thing. When it comes to work, this is a huge issue. For a large segment, working from home is available. But for many others, this simply does not exist. This is when we need an empathetic and properly functioning government to step in. All retail businesses and the like should have been granted immunity for the year from expenses, leases, and other fees. Emergency & Essential staff should have been provided the proper PPE and an upgrade in their pay. Unemployed folks should have had an easy time dealing with collecting unemployment benefits, and a new assessment program should have been created to teach them how to do work from home jobs to get them back in action sooner than later. These are just a few of my ideas, but many others can be found online that can easily be implemented. Forcing a parent to choose between their small business and feeding their family during this crisis is an impossible position to be in. Unfortunately we did not care, and chose to bail out billionaires, and Companies that should have been more diligent about saving for a rainy day or using the insurance they can afford to shield themselves from collapse.

We all get it. This is an emotional time, families are struggling stuck at home with each other or with homeschooling their kids, businesses are suffering or have shut down, our entire way of life has been dismantled. I know 13 people that have passed away from this. I’ve heard of over 100 stories in network that have had it, and are battling it. Some winning... some struggling. I have countless family and friends on the front line fighting this disease. Many in my immediate family circle. If we don’t ban together and beat this thing like other nations have by being unified... then the disease has won in more ways than one.

#coronavirus #covid #covid19 #masks

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