#but squash is.... unsatisfactory

[mountainficss]

hii oomf (its hannieehaee hii<3) i think u rlly wanna write some subby vernon blurb/oneshot 🌀🌀🌀 anyways ilu love ur writing hope u have a nice day<33

!! mentions of: sub!vernon, oral sex, marking, overstimulation

omg hi hannieehaeee!!! i love you so badddd omg i’m so sorry it took me so long!

i would looove to write sub vernonnnn 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 i honestly think vernon is so cute ughhh. honestly i’ve been thinking about taking care of vernon after he’s had a bad day. he just deserves to be taken care of he’s so precious.

he’d send you little texts throughout the day, telling you how much he misses you and how today isn’t really his day. he spilled his drink all over his clothes on his way to work, and he had sent you a picture of the huge stain on his shirt. then he had managed to lose his wallet, but thankfully someone had found it on the ground and returned it to him (with $20 stolen from it). to add insult to injury, his shift ended a bit later than usual, causing him to get home later than he would like. by the time he arrived to your apartment, he was tired and hungry and fed up, wanting nothing but to see you and forget about his unsatisfactory day.

and luckily for him, you just make everything better :) you could tell from the tone of his texts that he wasn’t himself today, and you never fail to jump into protective mode when vernon is feeling a bit vulnerable. you had just finished cooking his favorite meal by the time he arrived home, seating him down at the table and placing a plate of warm food in front of him. he’d feel so grateful, thanking you with the sweetest smile ever as he eats quietly. you’d scoot your chair close to his, running your fingers through his hair as he ate. he loves it when you play with his hair :) he finds it so soothing. after he finishes his meal, you’d clear his dishes for him and usher him to the couch, making him plop down and sitting right next to him. you’d turn on the tv as he stretched against the cushions, turning on a random movie just to help him wind down. you’d scoot closer, snaking your arms around his body to massage his tense shoulders. he’d immediately lean into your touch, letting out a relieved sigh as you release the tension from his muscles.

as the sounds from the tv lull him into a peaceful state, vernon can’t help but wonder how he got so lucky with you. you had squashed all of his gloom at the door as you dragged him inside; he swears it all evaporated the moment he laid eyes on you. on top of that, you were thoughtful enough to make his favorite meal when you knew he wasn’t having the best day. filling his stomach after a long day, especially with a warm meal made with love, always made him feel better. and now you’re sitting next to him, rubbing his aching shoulders as you hum quietly to yourself. he’d feel so loved, so cared for underneath you, and he couldn’t help but want more. you’re so good to him, and thinking about it would make him restless. he’d squirm a bit beneath you, leaning into your touch a bit more. he needed you, and he’d hope you take the hint. “feeling okay?” you’d ask gently next to his ear, your soft voice sending a chill down his spine. he’d only be able to respond with a rushed “mhm,” his eyes shut tightly as he focuses on your touch. even though he never vocalizes it, you could tell when vernon was needy. his cute clinginess is one of your favorite things about him.

vernon would feel your hands straying away from his shoulders, instead traveling down his arms languidly. the sensation of your hands exploring his body never fails to excite him, and he’d become restless under your touch. your fingers would graze the skin of his stomach as you reach around, toying with the bottom hem of his shirt. “can i take care of you, vernon?” you’d question, leaning in to press a little peck to his cheek. he’d crane his head back in an attempt to chase your lips, only nodding after receiving a kiss from you <3 you’d litter kisses down his neck and jawline, savoring the tiny sounds vernon is trying so hard to hide from you. you’d find his sweet spot immediately, sucking lightly on the skin when he whimpers louder than usual. leaving pretty marks on vernon was one of your favorite pastimes; decorating his skin like your own personal canvas is something you’d never get tired of. and he’d love it, always whimpering when he feels your lips and tongue on his flushed skin. and of course, your other favorite pastime was having vernon’s length in your mouth, feeling the weight of his erection on your tongue and tasting the saltiness of his arousal. so that’s what you’d do :)

you’d sink to your knees beneath him, nestling onto the carpet and staring up at him lovingly. he always looked so pretty, but tonight he’d look different. he looked spent, worn from an exhausting day of mishaps, yet his eyes were so full of desire. his excitement did nothing but fuel your ego, and his disheveled state made you want to take care of him even more. you’d toy with the buckle of his belt, finally undoing it and tugging his pants and boxers down in one go. his cock would smack against his stomach, a string of precum connecting to the fabric of his button up. he’d let out a small exhale as he gazes down at you, watching as you lick a teasingly slow stripe up the underside of his cock. he’d throw his head back at the feeling, a loud whimper clawing up his throat as you repeat the action. “i’ll make you feel so good,” you’d reassure him, landing a small kiss on his leaking tip. “i—i know,” he’d choke out, groaning as you completely envelop him in response. you’d swallow his length, your mouth completely full of him as you try to relax your throat. vernon wasn’t the vocal type, but tonight he must’ve been feeling extra sensitive. quiet whimpers and moans would tumble from his lips mindlessly as he throws his head back, free hand traveling to your face to settle on your hollowed cheek. you could tell he was close already, his eyes cutely rolling back into his skull before he squeezes them shut. you loved when vernon got like this, loved when he lost himself in the pleasure you give him. he’d be restless too, legs squirming slightly as you fuck him with your mouth. vernon wouldn’t be able to hold back. you were bringing him to a blissful high, and he’d be so far gone by the time he even gets a word out. “i c-can’t. gonna—” he’d splutter, only feeling your bobbing head increase the pace. your hands would grasp his inner thighs, squeezing slightly as you feel his hips buck up into your mouth. the lewd squelching sounds and your lustful gaze combined would tip him over the edge, a needy moan escaping as he spills into your mouth.

you’d keep sucking, swallowing down all of his release and helping him ride out his orgasm. he’d twitch above you, letting out a whine as he grabs your hair. wouldn’t pull you off or push you down, he’d just settle there, taking everything you’re giving him despite the overstimulation. you’d let up after a little while, not wanting the pleasure to border on pain. after releasing him with a satisfying pop, you’d gaze up at vernon with a grin. and he’d give you a blissed out smile in return, a cute little breathy laugh slipping from him. “thank you,” he’d whisper, eyes following your form as you clamber back onto the couch. “you really know how to make a bad day a good one.” you wouldn’t answer, would just go back to running your fingers through his hair as he dozes off in your arms </3

taglist: @jeonghanpill , @bangantokchy , @caratboy , @bewoyewo , @luvseungcheol , @wonvsmile , @haolovre , @aaniag , @writingbarnes , @dokyeomkyeom , @allieyaaa

[respectthepetty]

Addicted Heroin (Th) Cut Scenes and Colors - Episode 5

I'm reporting on the missing scenes from YouTube's version of Addicted Heroin [episode: one, two, three, four], so here I am with episode five!

First cut scene:

After Blue Boy Hero realizes that he tied Green Guy Pop up with color-coded green rope for nothing because Pop was planning to apologize to him before he kidnapped him and forced a kiss on him, Hero goes to Pop's house to eat dinner and stay the night; however, as usual, they argue.

Pop divides the food up but gives his father more and Hero the least. Hero gets upsets and says Pop can't divide properly, and Pop tells him he divided right (implying Hero was meant to get less). Hero tells PopPY he is being childish. Pop is upset that Hero is calling him Poppy, so Hero responds that since they are brothers now and Hero is the oldest brother, it's fine.

But that's lies! They bring out their IDs and learn Pop is older by two days, so even though Hero is taller (which is something he points out), Pop is the Phi in this house! So as the older brother, he kicks Hero out of the room, and sleeps on Hero's side of their color-coded beds.

Second cut scene:

I'm going off vibes here, but the next day after kicking Hero out of the room, Pop seems to be thinking about the kidnap kiss at school when Hero walks up. Hero notices and asks Pop to look at his face for . . . something on it(?), but it really is just to get Pop to look at his lips.

Pop gets upsets and leaves.

Third cut scene:

Hero doesn't just buy Pop a make-up New Year's gift; he buys the entire family gifts. Grandma gets a neck massager, the dad gets Nike shoes, auntie gets a gift, and the future little brother gets a painting/drawing set. Everyone resists, but eventually gives in, yet Poppy is still displeased, so the green color-coded ruler comes in handy.

Fourth cut scene:

After the teacher announces the students have to work as pairs for the next assignment, Pink Person Only immediately approaches Pop stating they will be partners, which upsets Hero, and Hero and Pop start to argue. Both keep suggesting Yellow Yal Tiger as the other's partner and both keep rejecting him WHILE HE SITS RIGHT THERE! Finally, Pop says HE will be Tiger's partner, and Hero and Only can be partners.

The two girls who like Hero and Only immediately step up to offer themselves as volunteers for a partnership, but the boys quickly reject them because this is a BL and they understand the queer agenda.

Pop is worried they might not have a good idea but learns that Tiger is more than prepared for their assignment as Tiger shows him all the research he has already done on his product for nose strips that ~help people with runny noses~

Hero and Only lurk from a small distance trying to figure out how to remedy this unsatisfactory situation. Hero discloses that he is designing a robot, to which Only questions why he needs Pop then when he already has a plan in mind. Hero does what he does best and threatens Only to go partner up with Tiger or he will squash him like a disposable cup.

So my color-coded OTP sails the shipping seas another day.

Because it's clear that Tiger designed the product with needs-eighty-million-tisssues-to-get-through-the-day Only.

Fifth cut scene:

After the incident in the classroom between Only and Tiger when Only became super defensive out of nowhere then invited Tiger over to his house all in one breath (even though we know Only was actually trying to hide a picture he drew of Tiger), he threatens to haunt his "kitty cat" until he accepts the invite like the girl in Shudder who sits on people's shoulders.

Tiger leaves, but while washing his hands, Tiger's color-coded phones alerts him that Only is sending a text to hound him some more about coming over. Tiger ignores it, and BAM!

He sees Only sitting on his shoulders in the mirror being super creepy. Then, BAM!

He sees Only everywhere stalking him and haunting him around campus.

However, it's clear from Only's reaction after being questioned by Hero and Pop while getting his PINK MILK that not all of this is in Tiger's mind.

Sixth cut scene:

These scenes were in the edited version, but the colors were coloring, and I love that Pop was really going to be a BL boy who lets his love interest soak in the rain without any effs to give.

But the next day, while they are talking about the auntie and the dad flirting, the scene is longer and explains the auntie's situation. Her ex cheated on her and picked the other woman over her. She wanted their kid, so she kept him, yet the ex continues to come around asking for money and others things but never helps out.

Pop mentions how kind and motherly she has been to him, so Hero asks if she was married to someone else, would the ex finally get the hint that she has moved on and quit brothering her.

Hence why our Green Guy tells his dad to step up and be the guy the auntie needs in her life after the ex tries to rob his own son!

So it does make sense that Pop is still sad his dad is married even though it was his idea only because he just wanted to help out the auntie.

The boys end the episode in red, so I'm unsure if we are entering into the danger zone, the passion era, or both.

But either way, MY SHIP IS SAILING!

[magicalrocketships]

trying to spread a little joy on the dash this evening! Some questions, please answer any or all of them if you feel like it!

have you eaten anything nice recently?

have you had anything nice to drink?

have you written anything? (If you ever wanted to come back to that single dad Max tumblr fic or that girl Daniel and Max eating her out fic you posted then I for one would be SEATED)

have you bought anything cool lately?

anything else nice you'd like to share instead of or as well as this?

and if anyone else wants to answer these then please do!

Oh, an excellent and well-timed ask, anon, for I slept terribly last night and was feeling a little Sad capital S earlier. However! Questions!

I have just finished eating some bacon, squash, chili and sage tagliatelle, and it was fucking incredible and so easy. I haven't had the energy/been well enough to cook for over 18 months so I am gently exploring making things for me again, and I had FORGOTTEN how good this was/is, and how much I love it. Recipe available upon request but trust me when I say it's so fucking good.

WELL. I made some switchel this afternoon which is currently just infusing for later in the week, and I snuck a little taste as I was putting it in some tupperware, and it tasted SO NICE and ginger and spicy. BUT my favourite sainsbury's bedtime tea was discontinued a couple of years ago and I was whining to @andwegogreen about it earlier in the week as I was doing my supermarket order and I LOOKED IT UP and it is BACK. Camomile, lemon balm, lavender and valerian root infusion: back in my life.

I think I finished rewriting a scene from the end of chapter 11 of breaking every rule for you that has been unsatisfactory for me for weeks??? So that's good. And yes!! I actually have a couple of asks about single dad Max that I've been saving up for a day with some energy so I have THOUGHTS. Why isn't Max racing????? How did he end up with kids so young?????? How did Daniel's racing life go without Max in it???? Why did Max take the bus to the karting track????? ALL QUESTIONS I HAVE CONSIDERED THE ANSWERS TO. And girl Daniel continues to live rent free in my head.

Goddddd I've had to spend so much stupid money on household shit recently, like a new iron after my ironing disaster last weekend (NB not my fault, everyone I have told about this has said WHAT THE FUCK and I wholeheartedly agree) and MORE damp traps and TWO attempts at fixing the broken curtain rail in my bedroom, but I did get a pumpkin bourbon candle a few weeks ago which at some points is the only good thing in the room.

I'm rereading Emma and I like it more and more the older I get. Same with Mansfield Park. There you go. Thank you for this nice ask in the middle of a Sunday evening.

[somnicordia]

4 5

by TheHangedMan

XIII. Addicted To Pain

[[ chreon, aeon, past! chrisker, metaltango, rated e, 13/25, 8k ]]

“Are you not afraid to die?”

The question came from nowhere, harder than the punch in the gut he’d gotten earlier that night. No emotion was laced with the words, nor did his body language give anything away, but it was enough without that.

Leon inhaled, contemplating his answer. No matter how he thought about it, it would be unsatisfactory.

“No.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking. I want to reorganize your division— place you directly under my command.” A big smile stretched across his lips. “I don’t think the previous administration was aggressive enough in squashing the bio weapon threat. It’s festered for far too long.”

“What would that mean for us?” Leon furrowed his brows.

“Nothing just yet.” President Graham replied simply. “The changes will take place over the coming years. We’ll probably relocate you. I’ll get you your own office, maybe a secretary. I’d rather have you all close.”

Again, Leon’s life would be uprooted, not that he much enjoyed the one he had now. Still, this was more turmoil, more uncertainty. What other choice did he have but to accept it?

“If that’s what you think is best, sir.” Leon gave his half hearted approval.

“There will be more opportunities for work abroad. It’ll be exciting, I’m certain.” Graham assured him, not noticing the reluctance behind Leon’s words. “You’ve come very highly recommended. I’ve heard you’re a man who gets results.”

What choice did Leon have but to deliver?

◇ read more

[frnk-n-weenie]

hi guys, whenever i get into one of those crying fits (when you haven’t cried in a while and then it all hits you and you think of every horrible thing in your life at once), i turn to myself for comfort. i used to turn to the people i loved but would often find their responses to be unsatisfactory and meaningless/counterproductive. i would walk away feeling more sad and less known than before. tonight i had one of those fits as i often do and i came away with a few things that made me feel a little more at peace.

1. to be loved and to be known work in tandem, but unlike what others believe, they are not the same. to love someone is not to know them, but to learn about them. to love someone is to spend the rest of your life learning about them. that’s what’s so beautiful about it. it may be beautiful to be known but it is more beautiful to know that there is someone out there who wakes up every day and chooses to meet you for the first time over and over again. i think the contentment of love comes from being known but the passion that drives a relationship is the desire to know what is still unknown. to undress every unrevealed secret. you can not reflect on a past relationship and think “they never knew me” because nobody does and nobody ever will. we could spend the rest of time learning about each other and that is what is so beautiful about it.

2. just because someone lives their life differently than you does not mean you are living yours wrong

3. you can’t be truly evil at 16 years old. you don’t know how to be evil yet. it is taught to you or forced upon you or pulled out from the depth of your gut as a last resort to make yourself known. and eventually it subsides and you are left with the guilt.

4. BUT the important thing is to not let that guilt calcify. take accountability and make reparations, even if nobody is there to listen. one day, you are an angry, misunderstood 16 year old who had to grow up too fast and feels the only way to ever be seen is to raise your voice and thrash your arms. the next day, you are nearly 20 and more alone than you have ever been. but you are also the most at peace you have ever been. you speak in loving whispers to the people you surround yourself with. you dont flinch at their touch or cringe at the simple expression of love. your anger subsides without outside influence and you are once again 6 years old playing with spiders on the playground because you haven’t learned to fear them yet. you haven’t learned you are meant to squash them under your boot. i am nearly 20 and i am finally able to be a kid. and it is beautiful.

5. things aren’t always easy but for the first time in my life, i have something to live for. someone to learn about day after day. someone to whisper my gratitude to. i am not what my mother made me. i am happy despite the tears. one backward step does not negate the many steps forward.

i may delete this later but i also might not. just typing this out helped me calm down and maybe rereading will help some day in the future. maybe it will even help someone else. my goal with this blog is honestly to treat it like a diary. to say the things i can’t say anywhere else. even if nobody listens. that’s all.

xoxo

[emdotcom]

My Bad Faith Media Recs:

(In which a thing i like a great deal is incredibly flawed/morally questionable/contains harmful themes & views/a combination of these)

Post-Shift 2 (Not morally bankrupt, just a powerful case study on how not to introduce players to new mechanics)

Clocktower 2: Ghost Head/The Struggle Within (IS morally bankrupt & does some absolute fuck-shit on NOT portraying DID, while also portraying things around it that are harmful. Plus, it's just bad to play, the only way you can get through this puzzle game is legit by using a walkthrough (because exploration gets you killed, & trial-&-error Do Not Work), + the endings are unsatisfactory & not worth your time to see)

Elfen Lied (maybe the worst piece of media I wish I could recommend more often, but will not due to how absolutely awful the content is. You NEED to look at the unconsenting media page before you touch this thing with a 100ft pole. It portrays some of the most abhorrent human behaviors, lays bare victims, showcasing their trauma for mere spectacle to keep an audience entertained. It repeatedly victimizes every single female member of the cast, either at an attempt at ""comedy,"" or to villain shorthand the villains while raising up the victims as sad characters you should heap sympathy upon, just so the protags can look like saints when they swoop in & help out. This is a constant re-iteration through an endless series of showcasing really heavy topics, with little to no care in how these topics are portrayed -- something that discusses a heavy subject but will never "handle it well." It's also kind of cathartic, for reasons I would need more paragraphs to explain. I watched it out of spite, & it instantly popped up to my favorite anime, & one of my favorite pieces of media, perhaps, before I got to the graveyard scene & went, "What the fuck?" & Had to stop watching, for a few weeks, only to come back & immediately adore it some more. It's so bad.)

Bendy & the Ink Machine (If you ever have interest in this series, your best way to experience it is by getting the sparx notes on the first game, then playing Bendy & the Dark Revival instead, which rehashes & references the first in a way I find derivative, but it ultimately a much better game to play. I think the first game is more interesting to talk about than it ever was to play, beyond maybe the first chapter -- but only if you treat it as a proof of concept, rather than the first of 5 entries in a single game. I cannot stress how shite it is to release your game in hacked up chunks that all need to be purchased, as basically paid dlc, & I also need to say that going back & making those previous versions unobtainable by mashing it all into one game that can instead be bought all at once does not erase what you were doing for years before that moment. I also need to say the devs are fucking awful for what they put their employees through -- that shit is dire. Also, the chapters are not at all cohesive, & do not "blend." At the end of one, you are teleported to the other, & the connective tissue is weak. The only 2 chapters that feel like they were planned together are 4 & 5, two chapters i speculate were likely originally intended to be 3 chapters, but were squashed into 2 when the devs inserted a new chapter for a character they previously had zero plans for after fans became incredibly interested in her. The series relies upon you reading alternative media like the novels & sequel to justify the first game & its ending. It's bad. It's so bad, & it makes me so angry that I have debated on getting into video essays exclusively to lay bare all the ways I despise this. It is my favorite game.)

[whathappenedtomyweekend]

pure rage

a rant because i feel like i have nowhere to go with this rage and sadness. I found out this afternoon that the hr department at my shitty customer service job scheduled a disciplinary meeting regarding my absences - in the past year, since i started working for this company, i have had 6 absences total - 4 OF WHICH have been in relation to MY BEST FRIEND FUCKING DYING. and now they want to 'review' my absences because they 'have reached an unsatisfactory level'. yeah, you read that right. my work performance has been barely influenced by this because i just squash everything down because they don't pay for sick days, so i have zero choice but to keep working - i still answer emails, phone calls, go out of my way to get their stupid fucking translations and reports done quickly and to a more than satisfactory level, ALL of the team leaders and my manager know about this, and yet I'm having this meeting with that same fucking manager. as if they couldn't say, hey, we know why she's been absent (mind you, my absences were 2 days long at most which was immediately after her FUNERAL so yeah, i didn't feel like i was able to work that day, but other than that, i had 0.5 days or 1 day here and there - AGAIN, 4 times since June, which i know is a short time span but hey, i wasn't planning on my best friend of 15 years to die but what do i know), let's maybe not do this, or just have an informal chat. that's the thing, normally in their absence procedures an informal chat comes first, then comes the review which ends in a formal written warning - if you then have 3 more absences, you get a second warning and then you're out basically. so this meeting is literally going to end in a WRITTEN WARNING because I'm grieving - on and off. sometimes it just overwhelms me, it's so big and my love for her has no place to go now except into my stupid notes app.

fuck this company. fuck this company and its managers and this fucking cold, inhuman situation. I've been wanting to leave for a while now, but have always had a few excuses that held me back - convenience, i hadn't been there for more than a year and didn't want to be labelled a job hopper, there are no good positions around, i don't know what i wanna do next - you get the point. I'm done. I'm truly fucking done with these people and this company. if there has ever been a time i have been motivated to find a new job stat, this is it. I'm gonna send out as many applications as i can, i don't really care where, to be honest, I'll do cs again as long as I'm not doing it at this company. I'm done. also very tempted to just quit at the meeting, especially because hr is gonna be there. i know that would be unwise unless i had something else lined up but i just feel like not quitting would be letting them kick me while I'm down but idk. I'm still waiting for the rage to subside so i can make some better informed choices lol.

anyways, long post, long rant, you get the jist. if you read it, thank you for giving this silly thing your precious time. not to be soap opera-y, but your life is precious. don't waste time.

[r-lestrcnge]

Following Athena's voice, Rabastan paused in the doorway. He placed a hand against the frame as he studied her, scanning bright eyes over her features and judging them to be unsatisfactory. Anger, he could work with. Distress, not so much. He had little patience for it. It was a pointless emotion; one that needed to be squashed before it became consuming. Yet a part of him knew that perhaps it was too late for that endeavour. She appeared to be in a rather pitiable state.

"Charming day," he blandly agreed, then pushed himself from the doorframe and paced towards her bed. He sat on the edge and took his time to get a better look at her. "Well. What do you intend to do about... all this." Vaguely motioning a hand, he sharpened his eyes towards her. "It will achieve nothing to waste away at home. Are you accepting defeat? And would you like some coffee?" He thought she could do with it. There was a lingering scent of alcohol in the air, and he would rather speak with her while her mind was clear.

As he studied her, he felt a sense of protectiveness. It was an urge to rectify what had caused this sorry state of affairs. If Thorfinn Rowle had been here now, he'd have cursed the man into another century. Such utterly foolish and selfish actions. He was embittered by Alecto's careless treatment of their secrets, yet she had merely brought them to light. They only had themselves to blame for this needlessly dramatic mess.

She hadn’t been expecting company, mostly because she didn’t have people over at her apartment, using her family’s Manor for whatever meeting she wanted to conduct. There were also very few who knew the address to her flat in the city, keeping her safely guarded from the ever wandering fanatics. Asides from that matter, Athena wasn’t exactly in the mood to be seeing anyone, the whole dinner ploy had left her feeling exhausted. Inebriated for a couple of days in a row, still angry beyond any rationality, the witch had taken to lying on her bed and trying not to think of how badly she’d ended up hurting, as though everyone had laughed at her own expense. It wasn’t working as it should, overthinking had become a new emotion she couldn’t get rid of.

She heard the snapping sound on the living room, realizing someone had just apparated into her home. A sigh left her lips as she sat up on her bed, knowing that whoever it was would soon introduce themselves, and that it could be only one of five faces— three of which she wasn’t in the mood to see. It was a relief when she heard her mentor’s voice, letting her head fall back on the pillow before replying. “Over here, Rab.” Her words invited him over to her room, where she laid on the bed, a blanket pulled over her legs, the expression on her face a perfect mixture of rage and pain. “Lovely day, innit?”

[peterparkerincorrectquotes]

Ok so tell me your headcanons of the most iconic and gen z stuff you think peter has done in the suit on patrol

ok he’s iconic in general. when is he not iconic? he’s literally a walking meme this’ll be easy

•  he definitely recreates vines. not even to videotape them. just for fun. just cuz he feels like it. he’s just vibin’

peter, sneaking up on a pair of criminals arguing about their evil scheme: can I get a waffle?? can I PLEASE get a waffle???

•  and he just eats snacks while on patrol sometimes. like, imagine you’re a criminal mastermind, and you’ve been planning a huge heist for months or even YEARS. and this kid in an obnoxiously red suit, eating a Big Mac with the mustard on the TOP of the bun, just WHIPS YOUR ASS. while holding the burger in one hand. like imagine that. the humiliation. the disappointment. the anger. the memes.

•  if peter meets a criminal more than once, he absolutely remembers their name, yet purposely gets it wrong.

criminal: it is I, Silver Claws—

peter: oh ya ya I remember you, Steel Nails

criminal: no, it’s—

peter: oh right Metallic Acrylics

criminal: wh— no!!

peter: my bad, I meant Iron Phalanges

criminal: ok now you’re just being mean

•  he definitely blares meme songs from his phone while he beats the shit out of assholes. I mean. can u picture that. like. peter DESTROYING a piece of shit to megalovania. that’s genuinely the funniest idea. 

peter: birds are singing.... flowers are blooming....

criminal: what

peter: on days like these.....

criminal: dude what r u on what r u smokin

peter: thots like you should be bURNING IN HELL *charges him*

criminal: whAT THE FUCK

•  probably songs like Running in the 90s, Africa by Toto, September, All Star, We Are Number One, the Kahoot theme, definitely Old Town Road... Wii Shop Bling if he’s really feelin’ it. 

•  he’s just... he’s the hero NY deserves. sorry tony, scoot over, make some room for a true gen z icon. 

[vapemaster42069]

I’m so hopeful (as a writer myself) for Apotheosis to be a bad ending.

I feel like it would be the most satisfying ending (at least for me, lit nerd extraordinaire) because neither Rumi or Thanatos has demonstrated a propensity for versatility. Ultimately, their stories would make the most sense if their actions caught up with them, and, unable to cope, they self-destructed by trying to place blame anywhere but on themselves. They’re so used to getting what they want by their own means, they would be unwilling to compromise their perspectives—even for one another—and it’s canon that they don’t trust each other, which makes it much less likely that a peaceful exchange is possible. More than halfway through the story, it’s unlikely that by the end they’ll have actually changed enough to talk about and negotiate the terms of their goals on even ground, without the crutch of brute violence or cunning magic.

Rumi denies her own imperfections and crimes, blinded by this image of themself as perfection. When he’s wrong, he lies or convinces himself that he must be right. It must be destiny. It’s too terrifying to face the consequences of her own actions, so she shifts the blame to divine intervention—to prophecy, and to destiny. He cannot face the emotional fallout, particularly the guilt, of being responsible for their own actions. They likely are not driven by some divine intervention. They likely are not special, and they are Not immutable. She’s so absorbed by this image of who she wants people to think she is, she has lost sight of who she is now and what it will take to become that perfect image. He’s lost himself on the way to becoming someone else. And he doesn’t care what it takes to get there, or who he has to squash to get what he wants.

Thanatos is driven by an old grudge he’s too afraid to question, in case it crumbles around him. He is slowly becoming the one thing he seeks to destroy— a god. He gathers power, enjoying the bloodshed, giving in to the ease of having a singular goal. As long as that goal is achieved, in his mind, it doesn’t matter what he leaves behind. He’s so wrapped up in his own desires, he can’t (or won’t) question himself, his motives, or his actions. He takes pain and injury as a form of reward, as proof that he’s struggling for his goal and worthy of its completion. In striving so strongly, he’s become his own weakness.

In the end, the will clash. They have to. There is not a way for all 3 of them to achieve their individual goals without sabotaging the others. My hope for this confrontation is that everything goes up in flames.

I want Rumi and Thanatos to crash and burn. I want each character to discover the actual consequences of their hubris, and have to live or die with the realization that, the whole time they played gods and thought themselves invincible and superior, they were wrong. For them to have the realization that they were narrow-minded, and look back to see that the end did not justify the means. I want their goals to be resolved, but unsatisfactory. A hollow victory, not worth their journey and not achieving what they thought it would. I want them to turn around and see the carnage they left behind. I want them to realize that they’re villains.

[pestkillers-blog]

Pest control orlando prices

When conditions are positive, are millipedes. There are two types of level supported millipedes  that relocate in very high numbers: These are the nursery millipede and the cyanide millipede . It's intriguing to peruse in Walter Ebeling's Urban Entomology that a few movements were exceptionally huge. In one case, it got important to apply  Orlando Pest Control  sand on dangerous railroad tracks for foothold of train drive wheels because of the crushed millipedes. In 1919, a millipede relocation made cows quit eating on account of the high numbers on the fields. Huge amounts of suffocated millipedes were found in wells, rendering the water unsatisfactory for drinking for a period. Field laborers got wiped out while hoeing a cornfield on the grounds that the millipede populace was so high the smell from the squashed millipedes overpowered them.

Ebeling continues depicting a few different events in his distribution. In Florida, these inch-long miscreants are regularly discovered slithering over gardens, walkways and even get into structures by the thousands. One intrusive species, the yellow-grouped millipede is known to exist in numbers sufficiently high to cause South Florida property holders sadness. Despite the fact that, this millipede is a presented species, its populace has become very huge as of late. They creep over yards, porches, walkways, houses and different structures. Monkeys in a Miami zoo have been seen scouring these millipedes on their hide to help repulse mosquitoes and different bugs. The monkeys additionally use them to get somewhat high. Analysts are as yet not certain with respect to how far north these may spread into Florida. Creepy crawlies.

Florida is home to four types of widow creepy crawlies the notorious southern dark widow the territorially regular earthy colored widow , the irregularly experienced northern widow , and the once in a while experienced red widow . Notwithstanding the general plenitude of widow creepy crawlies in Florida, confirmed human experiences bringing about chomps with genuine outcomes are unprecedented. A quickened northerly and westerly development in the conveyance of the earthy colored widow into close by states has been ascribed to the breezes related with ongoing tropical storms (e.g., Katrina) that ignored Florida from the southeast, obviously conveying certain fauna with them. One arachnid getting more consideration in Florida is the non-local provincial tentweb orbweaver (Cyrtophora citricola .

People of this species develop and keep up their own networks inside a province of interconnecting networks of neighboring conspecific creepy crawlies. The interconnected web mass can get rather enormous… an incredible sight! In one pitched example, an old truck in the Tampa territory was totally immersed by the webbing. Also, a local animal categories known as the dark pyramid subterranean insect (Dorymyrmex medeis, Fig. 5) has shown the capacity to shape supercolonies once in a while. In certain archived Florida areas, these ants have been available in such high numbers, that it was about difficult to control them. As per the University of Florida, our state is honored with 80 known types of mosquitoes, 33 of them being an aggravation to us and different critters. The accompanying rundown of species are known to transmit infection causing microbes, for example, yellow fever, dengue, West Nile infection, Chikungunya infection and the Zika infection, and most as of late, the Keystone infection.

[thegreatlibraryfangirl]

The Great Library’s departments

Right ok so here is my probably very weird and unsatisfactory take on the Great Library’s departments, as originally discussed here 

This is very, very, me trying to wrench history into the shape of the Library, and probably will not be useful for anyone’s fics apart from mine lol. 

holy fuck this is long i’m sorry. 

Ok, so, how did these divisions arise?

if you go back to ancient Greek/medieval times, there was a focus on the liberal arts. 

(Potentially useful reminder that I’m using Greek information about education and not Egyptian because the Library was founded by the Ptolemies, who turned Egypt and surrounding areas exceedingly Greek.)

These were:

First stage: grammar, logic, rhetoric 

To paraphrase Wikipedia:

Grammar: mechanics of language to the student, defining the objects and information perceived by the five senses.

Logic: “mechanics” of thought and of analysis, the process of identifying fallacious arguments and statements and so systematically removing contradictions, thereby producing factual knowledge that can be trusted.

Rhetoric: application of language in order to instruct and to persuade. 

Second stage: arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy 

These are basically conceived as applying numbers. Again stealing from Wikipedia: 

arithmetic (number), geometry (number in space), music (number in time), and astronomy (number in space and time). Arithmetic and music were often paired, and then geometry and astronomy.

Now, what do we have here? I would argue, a very clear Lingua and Artifex department, circa like, 400 CE?

(Note, there is every chance Artifex was called something different at this point in history, since that name wouldn’t make sense for those subjects. But I don’t think anything explicitly about numbers belongs anywhere else tbh)

(We’ll get to Historia/Litterae later)

“But Maz, that’s really narrow and entirely theoretical!”

100% correct and that is deliberate. 

I am not trying to squash every single possible area of study into these boundaries. (Although Scholars might; more on that later.) I don’t headcanon them as being conceived for that purpose. 

There was a clear division between “the liberal arts”, (which prepped you for advanced study in philosophy, law, theology, and, as mentioned in one place I looked but not others, medicine) and the “mechanical arts”.

The mechanical arts originally encompassed:

vestiaria (tailoring, weaving) agricultura (agriculture) architectura (architecture, masonry) militia and venatoria (warfare and hunting, military education, “martial arts”) mercatura (trade) coquinaria (cooking) metallaria (blacksmithing, metallurgy)

The standing of these mechanical arts grew slightly over the years, with two developments in the 12th century:

Firstly, navigation, medicine and theatrical arts were added instead of trade, agriculture and cooking. But for our purposes, let’s assume they were added to the list. 

The concept of the mechanical arts was theorised by one writer as less “unbecoming to a free man” than they had been viewed previously, and more as a separate type of knowledge “philosophy” which improved people in terms in physical benefits. 

(He also widens the boundaries of the mechanical arts:

“For example, through some circuitous reasoning, Hugh classifies “all such materials as stones, woods, metals, sands, and clays” under “armament.” He thereby includes here all technologies such as carpentry, masonry, cooperage, joinery, and metal casting.”) 

So, here we have these areas being viewed as just as touch more respectable. Here is some interesting reading on the changing views on the mechanical arts, with details on what the various scholars included under that definition). Also  see here for a slightly later (and English!) view.

Secondly, and I think vitally for our purposes, a philosopher and translator decides that these mechanical arts can come under “applied geometry”.

Thus, from the 12th century onwards, I suggest that at least architecture, engineering, blacksmithing and metallurgy started to appear under the Artifex umbrella. 

This also implies that Alexandria is a commercial hub by then, which, fair enough.

“Indeed, a commercial, quasisecular setting was required before the usefulness of the mechanical arts could be integrated into the Christian scholastic system because in a monastery, the practical arts were more closely related to subsistence, and hence could not have been conceived as philosophically important.“ Source as above

A quick but I feel important sidestep: who is making these changes?

It’s worth remembering that despite the majority of our characters being gold bands by the end of the series, such an award is described repeatedly as rare, once-in-a-generation, etc. Most of the Library’s Scholars must, thus, be varying degrees of silver band, and handling research projects of varying sizes. 

I see the Library as essentially a very expensive, most-prestigious-in-the-world scholarly establishment, where rich families send their children in the hope that they will make use of the knowledge stored there for several years, and then return home with bolstered knowledge, connections and reputation, ready to start whatever their real life may be. 

Note I mean that in a broad, theoretical sort of way: with the exception of Medica and Garda, the Library did not give professional/technical/vocational training. 

(Alternately/additionally, perhaps some go to the Alexandrian University mentioned in Ink and Bone.)

Are the changes made by innovative silver band babies? Most probably. They’re young and fearless, and I feel like their publishing record/standard would affect their applications to get their bands renewed once their initial term is up. But the lifetime gold bands could be pushing the envelopes too - after all, they’re going to be constantly searching for new topics. 

Anyway. That was a tangent, but one that’s been brewing in my brain for MONTHS. 

Let’s recap. At this point, we have:

Lingua: grammar, rhetoric, logic.

Artifex: arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy (+ architecture, engineering, blacksmithing and metallurgy as per individual Scholar’s tastes/requirements)

As we progressed out of the medieval age and into things like the Renaissance and onwards, more disciplines were added to “the liberal arts”. These included:

“literature, poetry, drama, philosophy, history, art, and languages moral philosophy (ethics)” Source

Here, I hope you’ll agree, is where we see the birth of the need for a “stories/narrative” based department. Is it called Historia or Litterae? Who the fuck knows?

Adding a few that I feel are necessary here … 

Lingua:  grammar, rhetoric, logic, languages (learning and translation), language change (both through history and study of current accents and dialects). Linguistics in general. 

(i could go on, like onomastics (study of history of names), lexicography (the theory and practise behind creating dictionaries and relating words together, ahem, control of the common Greek language), phonetics/phonology (overlapping study with Medica about how speech is formed in the body) … but I won’t. You see how easy it is for interested persons to start to expand the scope though).

So, this ends up with something vaguely like:

Lingua: grammar, rhetoric, logic, languages (translation/interpretation), linguistics.

Litterae: literature, poetry, drama, history, art (ethics?).

Artifex: arithmetic/mathematics as a whole, music, astronomy.

architecture/engineering, blacksmithing/metallurgy/etc, chemistry, physics.

(Medica: biology, ethics, whatever else makes up medicine…)

All of these apart from Medica are initially theoretical skills, and expand into wider areas/practical applications as the Scholar themselves wishes. 

So to answer the original fucking question, Maz, art restoration I’d put as probably coming from a Litterae Scholar, and requiring Artifex involvement either with another Scholar or with a lot of Artifex reading and stealing of workshops! But it could in theory be the other way around.

On the other hand, though I don't know how you're building Ben, this could also be the perfect opportunity for an outside vocational expert to come in and trump the researchers, a la this hairdresser. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/this-woman-is-a-hair-style-archaeologist-82478448/

[duckbeater]

Some Notes on A. S. Hamrah

A lifetime ago, I thought it’d be rewarding to teach A. S. Hamrah’s “A Better Moustrap” to first-year students struggling through their second semester of basic comp. I wanted to wow them with Hamrah’s heedless deployment of unsettling theses, argued crisply and irreverently, in an essay that supplies a plausible solution to its concerns (a rarity among most rhetorical appeals, whose authors left my students stimulated but empty-handed). Very in the vein of “A Modest Proposal,” “Mousetrap” confronts a social ill—fetish videos where women crush small animals to death under their Stilettos—yet proposes a non-ironic salve: “crushies,” where “the must-have plush-toys of the Christmas rush will be smashed underfoot.” Most of my course was based on weird internet shit, which I thought (I still think) mostly anyone can appreciate, especially the young. “Mousetrap” is full of that weird-internet-shit jouissance.

“Reading this is like eating your favorite food,” I told the class. “You’re just gonna shovel in ideas. They’re all delicious. Eh, they’re pretty weird, too. But it’ll be fun.” It wasn’t fun. Nobody read the essay. Moving through its arguments, in front of twenty-five nineteen-year-olds and a few grandmothers, was embarrassing. I had to dissect Hamrah’s great takes on crush video culture, his movements through film history, his appraisals of Mickey Rooney, then his wider and, to me, scintillating prognostications on American adulthood—an adulthood most everyone in the classroom (accepting the grannies) was soon to inherit—totally alone. “Do you watch these videos?” one student asked. “Then what’s your fetish?” asked another. “Bryson fucks books!” became the consensus. (“I fuck your dads!” I thankfully did not say but very much wanted to. I was a coward; this partially explains why no one bothered to complete my assignments.)

Flying solo—or falling sans parachute, as the case may be—through Hamrah’s film criticism and cultural reportage of the last decade has probably been a shared experience among his far-flung admirers. Finding his byline in Bookforum or the obscure domain of the International Federation of Film Critics or mirrored pages from the defunct Hermenaut was usually the result of a periodic Google search. If he appears more regularly now, and more regularly in prestige venues, that’s the fault of n+1, where he’s contributed reviews tri-quarterly since roughly 2008.

Indeed, it was Hamrah’s initial, online-only contribution that inspired so much ardor and devotion. “Oscars Previews” provided bright, bursting capsules—the gleeful bitchery of a best friend's phone call. Apparently this quality was transliterated from its material creation, when he reported the piece to his editor, Keith Gessen, over a phone, after complaining he didn’t have time to write the thing. Each entry in this salvo (none are more than a hundred or so words) lands with a zinger. They have the polish of a joke, featuring a setup, some reinforcement and then a payoff. He even plays some of his capsules against each other as callbacks. The entirety of Hamrah’s entry on Michael Clayton reads: “There was a lot of driving in Michael Clayton. I like driving in movies but after a while Michael Clayton started to seem like a car ad—though it showed how a car ad can be liberal. That’s a message for our times.” The wit is authoritative, hypnotic, dismissive. The taste behind these pronouncements felt sui generis, and the criticisms brief enough to be dispatched verbatim without attribution. I was a senior in college when I first read Hamrah. I had a busy season of parties at professor’s houses and dined-out on his opinions for weeks. 

This is not to say Hamrah only works when you’re young and grasping for style. But I do think it’s evident now that his short forms are the seedbed for his long form successes, paper sketches for the larger canvas. When you read enough of Hamrah’s capsule reviews, you get the sense he’s reporting exactly (or only) what fits into his little joke, sometimes you can even hear him reaching for his beats. When you read a whole book of them, you get the sense Hamrah’s less interested in the works under review than in his performance of reviews, his performance of freedom and audacity.

—

The Earth Dies Streaming, apart from film writing, is a log of Hamrah’s fascination with his persona, his brand of humor and arch sensibilities. He’s not exactly a curmudgeon—he wants readers to know he’s tried too many drugs to be a curmudgeon (comparisons to acid trips crop up, as does “bad speed”)—and he’s not exactly an academic (despite his Ivy League bona fides as a corporate semiotician)—and he’s not even a movie reviewer in the jejune, crass, sell-out way so many movie reviewer must be in today’s enfeebled, saturated, and deeply compromised market (he tries “to never include anything in [his] writing that could be extracted and used for publicity”). This is where I trot out a gif of Amy Poehler playing a Cool Mom in Mean Girls. Hamrah’s bobblehead offers virgin daiquiris to teenage cineastes. “I’m not like a regular film critic,” he says, “I’m a cool film critic.” The tits, the wink, the velour sweatsuit.

Other irritations. Hamrah’s insistence on the inferiority of animated films and his churlish dismissal of Miyazaki’s contributions to the medium’s history. He’s always on accident catching some part of a children’s movie—on an airplane, in a public clinic—and using these unsatisfactory experiences to comment on the aesthetics and advancements of animation at large. It’s a hobby horse he flays as often as Adorno assaulted jazz, and (to both their credits), slightly adorable for how insistent and under-thought. If only, as he does in “Jessica Biel’s Hand,” he would immerse himself in the backlog of lauded animation from this century and the last, he might, for once, be able to say something interesting about it.

Hamrah’s stance against feature-length animation is nearly as looming and placeless as his stance against other films critics, whom he evidently reads closely but can never be bothered to cite. His essays are peppered with a dreaded sea of bought-off weekly reviewers whose pedestrian tastes frustrate him. This, despite the regularly insightful, playful, and overall helpful criticism of David Edelstein and Emily Yoshida at New York; Dana Stevens at Slate; Manhola Darghis at the Times; Justin Chang in Los Angeles; and the fairly dour takes of Peter Debruge in the industry’s digest, Variety. Hamrah alludes to David Denby’s work in Streaming’s introduction, then names him outright in a later capsule review of Little Children. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine as to with what critical consensus Hamrah finds his views out of alignment. These are critics and journalists who, obliged by deadlines, report weekly on their film-going habits. That they have new things to say even once a month is a miracle, but that they do so four to ten times a month is frankly incredible. (It must be evident that I’m a fan of movie reviews and film criticism. I work an office job where between menials I find intense delight and distraction in the work of daily reviewers, and I carry around with me an ungainly amount of knowledge regarding box office performances and future releases that in all other ways I have no interaction: I go to the movies maybe three times a month, often by myself, and often I see low-brow flicks. Last weekend I saw the third How to Train Your Dragon movie; the weekend before that, Isn’t It Romantic; a weekend before that, Roma. I saw these movies on the advice of daily reviewers, and Roma only after reading Caleb Crain’s celebration of it.)

I volunteer Richard Brody and Christian Lorentzen as Hamrah’s contemporary intellectual kin, with caveats. Brody’s work is too mystical, too mythical to properly critique his subjects, and his symptomatic readings, which border on the Lacanian in terms of the extraneous and deranged, become hulking apertures that always overtake whatever work is under discussion, squashing them. Also he is never, ever funny in his reviews. Brody is a curmudgeon, and what he criticizes rarely appears in the films themselves but float around the films’ receptions, financing or forebears, and when he ventures into specifics—a film’s lensing, its sound, the actors and their acting styles—his descriptions become ridiculous. Lorentzen, as with his book reviews, writes to a word count. (There is no other reason for the amount of tedious plot summary in a Lorentzen take-down.) If Hamrah sounds like these critics, it may be because all three are careful in their dissents to let the filmmakers know they think they’re complete assholes. When these three do find praise for a work, it’s the entirely appropriate object of adoration, art-house and independent, or, gotcha!, a studio event they appreciate for more correct, more interesting, and more nuanced reasons than everyone else.

What sets these critics apart from the daily reviewers I listed above, may be the daily reviewers’ capacity to surprise and be surprised. Perhaps they saw a movie with a daughter and her friend; they appreciated a family flick in context; they were caught unawares by stray scenes in a larger, unsuccessful work, and appreciated glimpsed wisdom. They have hope yet for a return to better forms. These reviewers are flexible and receptive; they are as likely to be charmed as they are to be chagrined. Even when Brody, Lorentzen and Hamrah are surprised by the quality of a work, they take it as an affront to their sensibilities and bridle, like horses suspicious of an open gate. Why were they not warned? Why should they trust this development? Their reflexive, ingrained annoyance, occasionally flowering into high dudgeon, fills their actual reviews with foregone conclusions. One does not visit their writing for news, or for new takes, for synthesized connections, or revelations of form. One visits for the comforting familiarity of a flagging standard—“a continuity of aesthetics that [has] become an aesthetics of continuity,” if I’m remembering the St Aubyn phrase correctly.

Criticism this entrenched in its own personality ends up toothless. It’s why Renata Adler, for instance, will be remembered for her reporting and not her film criticism. Despite its bite—and it’s quite biting—it rarely leaves a mark. Hamrah never cites Adler—nor do I think he will. His prose and her prose are rather too alike. He must sense the comparison coming, and dislike it, because Adler is not particularly well informed on film and filmmaking. Her amateurish moonlighting grated in 1968, and it grates now, but only for its prosumer-level expertise. Her prose (like Hamrah’s) remains indelible, deadpan, and addictive. When I recall the subhead to Kyle Paoletta’s appreciation of Hamrah, “Always On: A. S. Hamrah’s film criticism is a welcome corrective in an outmoded field,” I consider Adler’s own attempts at the form, as a corrective. And I find them contiguous with other platforms discussing same, places like Slate, Twitter, and The Ringer’s Exit Survey, which preempts the leap from hot take to tweet. (Q: “What is your tweet-length review of Venom?” A: “What if All of Me (1984) but action and also tater tot–loving aliens?”) What I’m saying is this: Hamrah’s form is not novel. His tone is not novel. His writing is, however, very convenient (brief, digestible) and entertaining, and he’s been adding more personal atmosphere of late.

So the named lodestars in Hamrah’s critical firmament: Pauline Kael, Susan Sontag, Jonathan Rosenbaum, J. Hoberman and Manny Farber (to whom Hamrah pens an exceptionally sweet and informative essay). Hoberman, the only critic still alive among these titans, shares Hamrah’s acid tongue and penchant for political excavations, while doing his readers a courtesy by assuming not all of them attend film festivals or live in limited-release area codes. The same semester I taught “A Better Mousetrap,” I taught Sontag on sci-fi movies and Hoberman’s seminal “21st Century Cinema: Death and Resurrection in the Desert of the (New) Real” (later to become his book-length essay, Film After Film). Hoberman can be as tart and irreverent as Hamrah, but he’s not above recounting plot summaries. He’s both a guide and a rebel. I suppose, following my own argument, if in fact I’m making one, this makes Hoberman the better critic—a classification that would not hurt Hamrah’s feelings. (This would hurt very few film critics’ feelings.)   

—

Very little of the above matters. I had hoped to answer why, then I got bored (then I had to go to work; after that, I had to design a booth for a marketing expo in London; then I lost the thread). When I was in Brooklyn last December, I dropped into the Spoonbill on Montrose. The first book I bought on my second time in New York City was Hamrah’s The Earth Dies Streaming, and I carried it about like an obsessive as I made my way by foot to Prospect Park. I devoured it in a few days. I devoured it again on the plane ride back to Chicago. And I’ve read all the capsules before, and most of the essays—they’re usually posted in front of paywalls. If I quibble with Hamrah, it may be because he’s made me a better writer, and surely a better thinker, yet I found that I disliked my own dismissiveness and superiority, my own rigidity. If I can name my influences, I thought, I can break from them. But this is unso. 

[yueqqi]

Lost Requiem - Chapter 3

Summary: A man from New York seeks a new life after a terrible mistake that locked him in eight years of imprisonment, only for him to be greeted again by the gates of Hell.

A wrist with a warm, metallic wetness pressed to his lips, and there was whispered command into his ear, “Drink.”

New York City, New York, August 28th, 1996

The gentle rain chorused against the rooftop of the worn three-story building, red brick dim beneath the shrouded skies. Only a yellow light lit the small establishment from within, bright yet still quiet as pedestrians carrying umbrellas walked past in their busy ways.

Splash.

Rain soaked his brown leather jacket as his motorcycle quieted to a dull hum when he turned from the street into the alleyway beside the building. Parked outside the white metal side door, he pulled his keys from the ignition and pocketed them with a flourish.

Ezekiel removed his helmet, letting his hair fall into place where he had tied it back early in the morning, and popped open the back container behind the seat. Reaching in, he pulled out a black sheet and laid it over his motorcycle, shielding it from the rain that cascaded from above.

The break room was dark when he unlocked and entered through the white door. Reaching beside the doorway, he felt for the switch and flipped it on, showering the room in an incandescent light. A tiny thing it was, with a fridge, cramped counter space, a sink, and a circular rustic table made of ash wood. He slipped out of his leather jacket and hung it on the wooden coat hanger, where a navy peacoat was already hanging.

Old Memories was a tiny bookstore with a tiny clientele, but the business owner had managed to get by the past ten years—how, Ezekiel wasn’t sure, especially during their first meeting almost a year ago.

Bjorn was a quiet man with a strange intensity behind his amber eyes, with a strange habit of speaking in riddles, so Ezekiel was more than skeptical accepting the job as a store associate. Of course, it was the only job that responded to his application within three weeks of his job search, so he didn’t have much of a choice.

Aside from Bjorn’s oddities and his rare appearances outside the third and second floors where black blinds were pulled shut most days, Ezekiel found himself at home amongst Bjorn’s collection of books. Bookshelves upon bookshelves dominated the first and second floors, and customers would find cozy reading areas with a sofa and coffee table throughout the store. The third floor, Ezekiel had visited only once for the interview, lacked the warmth of the lower floors: it was a cluttered one bedroom apartment, beige walls covered in hanging paintings ranging from abstract to realism, all of which had been done by Bjorn’s hand.

Ezekiel often wondered how the man had managed to juggle his art with his business, but when he voiced this to Bjorn, the pale, frail man merely had smiled and said, “Passion is only a vice when you allow it.”

Ezekiel didn’t know if Bjorn meant his art or his store.

There were no customers when Ezekiel tied his navy apron around his neck and waist, branded in white with Old Memories in a delicate cursive, and stepped out onto the floor. He supposed it wasn’t abnormal, as it was the usual dead hours on a Monday afternoon. He sat down at the chair behind the front desk near the back of the store, feeling it creak beneath him as he leaned backwards.

On the wall beside him was a bulletin board pinned with newspaper and a worn, yellowed Now Hiring sign in bold black print. Toward the bottom was pinned an old newpaper clipping, not for the customers, for for Ezekiel.

22-year-old black man killed in a warehouse fire on 18th Street during a drug bust

Since hearing of Karael’s death five years ago, a piercing cold hand had gripped his insides and permeated his heart and gut with a sense of icy dread and guilt. His death was attributed to a near drug overdose which incapacitated him before the fire, caused by a scuffle between police and the gang members on the scene, and no one had come back for him. Like most articles, journalists pinned it on Karael voluntarily overdosing; according to what Duma and Hasielle had heard from the police, they had suspected foul play—not that they had much evidence.

When Karael’s body was recovered, it was mostly ashes. No DNA evidence could be found, but according to witness testimony, Karael was the only one left behind.

It was very much an open-shut case, and Ezekiel couldn’t argue with that as a lawyer. While he personally found the evidence unsatisfactory, it wouldn’t be a case he could win even if he went to pass the bar (if he could in spite of his criminal record).

Yet, something kept nagging at from from the deep recesses of his mind, a whisper of “but maybe.” Ezekiel often found himself wistful with thoughts about Karael using this as a cover to escape to someplace far away, where he wouldn’t be a puppet for the city gang, but an ache squashed those thoughts down every time. Through the years knowing his brother, Ezekiel doubted Karael was smart enough to pull that off.

That damn weed killed brain cells after all, and Ezekiel had once found a stash in 15-year-old Karael’s backpack.

The sky beyond the windows darkened once more, and rain pounded more ferociously upon the city, a cacophony of falling bullets to Ezekiel’s ears.

“Afternoon, Ezekiel.”

The smooth voice, a Latin yet not quite-so lilt to it, spoke near Ezekiel’s ears, and he flinched, sending the tilting chair falling backwards. He flung his arms out, sending the chair falling back forward, and landed itself evenly on four legs with a loud thud. He cursed, “Holy shit, Bjorn!”

He would’ve expected the man to be leaning over him with that mysterious, teasing smile, but instead Bjorn was standing a good five feet away on the other side of the desk, with lips only ticked up in a faint smile and immaculate platinum hair braided from his delicate, yet almost gaunt face.

Ezekiel squinted in disbelief at the store owner. How?

Bjorn drew his attention away from him to the window, gaze penetrating with unknown thoughts. “A storm draws near, yet unfortunately I don’t believe an eye could be found this time around.”

“...Yeah, well, we don’t get hurricanes of’en.”

Bjorn gave Ezekiel a sidelong glance and hummed. “How goes your search for publishers?”

He let out a sigh and slumped back in his chair. He replied, “Not well at all. Not a single company in th’ area is interested in my novel.”

A hum of disapproval. “Certainly not a satisfactory outcome. It’s truly unfortunate that the youth of this generation lack an appreciation for the darker, grittier aspects of the human experience. Our souls are like the petals of lotuses blooming from the dark recesses of the past; it is a shame that we choose to ignore our roots.”

Ezekiel raised an eyebrow, nodding, “Uh-huh…”

“Here,” a pale hand reached into Bjorn’s trouser pocket and pulled out a business card, sliding it across the desk to Ezekiel, “A friend of mine would be interested in publishing a novel like yours. They’re based in Las Vegas, but they’re still transitioning offices from their old one in Hollywood. It may be a bit out of the way from where you are intending to go, bit I figure you might want to give it a try.”

Ezekiel’s eyes widened and he leaned forward in his seat to look at the business card, linen-textured and inked in blood red.

Crescent Publishers

Akiho Yorihara, Head Editor

XXX-XXX-3294

1234 Jefferson Rd, Hollywood, CA 90038

Bjorn added, “I hope you don’t mind, but I shared with them the general basis of your novel. They were immediately intrigued, so your chances of getting published with this company would be quite high, I’d say.”

Ezekiel stared up at Bjorn, finding himself at a loss for words. He stuttered, “Well, uh, thank you, but you didn’t have to do this. I’ll give ‘em a call later today.”

“Truly, it was my pleasure to help. I wish you luck.”

Before Ezekiel could speak another word, the doorbell jingled with the entrance of a customer. He smiled and welcomed them to the store, but when he looked back, Bjorn had vanished.

New York City, New York, September 24th, 1996

The church was quiet, hushed whispers among family and friends only accompanying the open space.

Ezekiel, donned in black, sat at the front, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he stared blankly ahead with red-rimmed eyes. His body felt numb as Duma let out a sniffle and patted his shoulder, murmuring, “I’m gonna see everyone out, I’ll be back.”

The funeral for Hasielle was a quiet affair, though Ezekiel couldn’t say the same about her death.

Through his childhood, he had seen Hasielle battle her anemia with a ferocity unmatched by even a professional wrestler. A strong woman, she had been, but even time had begun to wear her down to where Duma, and now him too, had to support her like she had with them. Just one day weeks ago, she collapsed on a grocery trip. A hospital visit in an ambulance and two days later, she whispered to Duma and Ezekiel on the white bed, “It’s ‘bout time this lady sleeps. Don’t worry ‘bout me, promise?”

Since then, Ezekiel couldn’t stop worrying. First, their father. Then Karael. Their mother. Since their other relatives rarely interacted with them, it was now only him and Duma. Now, more than ever, his sister needed him and he needed his sister, not just to pay the funeral and hospital bills but also to try to restabilize their lives.

He had always dreamt of a new life, a new future where he could restart after his time in prison. That was precisely why he powered through and started his novel one night in the library with a journal and pencil three years before his release, and later finished and polished a manuscript just four months ago.

Now, he supposed it’s not such a bad idea to stay in New York with his job at the bookstore just so Duma could finish her degree smoothly. In the end, as it would, his dream was too grand, too far out of reach for his fingers.

He gulped down the dull ache in his chest, fingers tightening on his cheap black trousers. A cold hand rested itself on his, gentle yet tight like an anchor. A shiver ran down his spine at the icy touch, like the sharp wind coming through the door in the dead of winter, yet it was… Comforting.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” a voice murmured from beside him. Ezekiel smirked bitterly.

“That has to the first straight thing I’ve heard from your mouth, Bjorn.”

A chuckle. “What is straight may not be so, Ezekiel. But truly, it seems that a typhoon would drown a lotus at every given chance.”

“Well, I suppose life would throw shit in your face; that, or death pulls the rug out from beneath you.”

“Perhaps not so crudely put, but yes,” Bjorn hummed, “The abyss swallows you and you are bound and blinded for eternity.”

“How dark.”

Bjorn paused before clicking his tongue and shaking his head. “My, Ezekiel, one to jump to conclusions. Yes, it is dark, until you remove the cloth the abyss has tied around your eyes yourself, and you might just find that the abyss isn’t an abyss at all, but rather an ocean of light.”

Ezekiel let out a breath, “If this is supposed to be some motivational speech—”

“It’s not, but rather the truth I have discovered through the ages,” Bjorn interrupted, voice firm and sharp. His grip on Ezekiel’s hand tightened. “It is up to you to decide what you do with it.”

Ezekiel blinked at Bjorn. Rarely had the other man ever spoken with such a tone: for the whole year they’ve known each other, Bjorn always had this wistful gaze and light, almost carefree tone. After a pregnant pause, he glanced down at their hands and sighed, “I think it’s best for me to stay here and help Duma for awhile.”

The look in Bjorn’s eyes was unreadable as he remained silent after Ezekiel’s admission. He finally nodded, removing his hand from Ezekiel’s and reaching out to tuck a curl in Ezekiel’s hair behind his ear, fingers lingering a second too long as they dropped down and brushed against the side of Ezekiel’s neck where his pulsepoint was. “If that is what you wish; you were given a chance at a new life and you have many paths to follow. I have to commend your loyalty.”

“You don’t have any family?”

Bjorn was silent for a moment as his eyes unfocused. He shut his eyes and let out a sigh before smiling faintly at Bjorn, “Once, long ago. We haven’t been in contact.”

“Maybe you should take a vacation one week and see them.”

“...Perhaps. I’ll see you next week, Ezekiel. I hope your plan goes well,” Bjorn stood and nodded to Ezekiel in farewell.

Hollywood, California, October 10th, 1996

The flight had been a long one, landing at 11 pm in the bright, bustling city. It was a tiring night, and Ezekiel was supposed to meet up with the faceless Akiho Yorihara at noon the next day, yet a whole hour after his face met the pillow in the hotel room, he could not sleep.

A race through the streets in a used motorcycle he bought from a local man he saw an advertisement for in the news clippings two weeks ago, and two bars later, he found himself being pushed with unexpected strength against a wall with newspapers and magazine covers pasted to it, covered in multicolor graffiti. A spicy drink on his breath, he found himself tipping forward with lidded eyes, close to the pale, shorter man dressed in black leather and buckles.

Well, goths weren’t exactly his type, but something was just so enthralling about those burgundy eyes that peered up at him from thick black lashes.

A hiss of frustration. He was shoved more roughly against the wall so he was straightened.

“Dammit, that wasn’t part of the deal. How much of a lightweight are you?”

Ezekiel mumbled, “Y’make my heart lightweight w’them nice thighs.”

Burgundy eyes glared at him, speechless. A deep sigh and cold lips pressed against his neck, tongue dragging against his skin until they hovered over his pulse.

Ezekiel let out a soft hum, hand reaching up to tangle against short black hair.

A sharp pain. Flames coursing through his veins, but he couldn’t scream. He could only let out a gasp, eyes widening as the smog cleared from his mind. Fuck, what is this?

The flames dulled to a molten gold that rippled down his spine, leaving behind tingles in its wake. Warmth pooled all over, like the swath of an ancient linen brushing against skin, like the embrace of a lover after climax.

No, it was better. Like enlightenment, like the feel of power surging through like a tide.

A lotus bursting through murky waters.

The touch against his neck was familiar. Flashes of platinum thread, soft amber glimmering in the church’s light.

He could distantly remember watching a movie Duma had dragged him to a month after his release—something with 18th century vampires. Could it be…?

Ezekiel was slumped against the wall as his eyes slid shut, his heart slowing to a stop. A wrist with a warm, metallic wetness pressed to his lips, and there was a whispered command into his ear, “Drink.”

And he did.

[animefandomshipper]

hey babe! for the suggestive sentence starters could you maybe do, “i can tell you’re hot and bothered from all the way over here.”

@catwoman10001

Suggestive Starters Meme (NSFW)• I can tell you’re hot and bothered from all the way over there •

I decided to make second chapter (which is why I stubbornly refused to not post this until it was done) so those who are interested for what happens after can find it on ao3.

*

There were eyes everywhere here, bolted to the windows of their soul inside out, their stories behind, beyond his understanding. Such as to them in this dimly lit, shallowly depressed room, him the same.

The ice sunk to the bottom, bubbles rising to the surface to take one last breath.

He huffed a laugh, the ends of its tune crackling with a dryness that was once foreign.

They didn’t know, they didn’t know a damn thing.

The drink sloshed slowly with nimble fingers, a smile no longer true crawling to the corners like pinned needles, stuck in place and in no favor of delicacy. He briefly pondered his appearance as he downs the liquid down, the mirrors in his flat no longer in use. Was it as bad as how he felt? Even so, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

His smile widened, so bitterly and big, he could feel the old bigoted man inching to him in the last few minutes recoil backwards. The thick odor of cigarettes and rat shit whifting away from him. Good, his claws are no longer in his control.

Wordlessly, he gestures the man behind the bar for another refill, a bitter eagerness for his one and only welcomed company. The sweet formula for another ten minutes of forgotten pain.

He situates himself comfortably in his seat, his bottom long going numb and now, with the drink slid into his view, so will his heart’s heartbreak.

With enclosed precision, the burn meeting the back of his throat is a divine poison so sweetly spiced, the flickering image of a face is gone for a for a few eternally grateful, silenced seconds.

But never is time ever so kind to stop its race with pain.

He’s back with another pulse of quickened breath, memories he thought he burned in the fire of hatred and betrayal coming back in form of whispering ashes. In a single moment, everything they had was gone. And for what? A night with the bitch he’d been eyeing.

Oh, Mikaela. Why oh why had you not seen it? Their growing distance in the many months before the cheating bastard’s departure was now, through the new Mikaela’s eyes as clear as day. His boyfriend’s disinterest in him batted away for tiredness of a long day as he unknowingly veiled himself from the many clues littering their home. Now dubbed his home once again after he kicked him out.

His hand cradled his face, the other dug into a fist. ’Do you miss him?’ His mind coldly inquired, forcefully wisened to a fault.

’No,’ he reminds himself, ’I no longer miss him, I merely miss every moment with the me I no longer remember.’

The one he loved to be. The one that stood so strong and unreachable for the hands of mortals with lecherous intentions. He had fallen from that height, and now his wings have singed to dust. How dare he take that Mikaela away, leaving only a bleeding heart and a crippled stranger in his own skin?

A stranger, left behind and unsatisfied with every moment after.

He clamps his quivering mouth shut at the thought, the curled fist dropping into his lap to swipe softly yet unsatisfactory to his shaking thighs.

Unsatisfied. What a lenient description.

As much as he wants to deny it, he’s grown desperate. Desperate for a caring hand ready to please, a hot mouth worshipping his starving body with praises. Of soft kisses not asked to be given, gifted by their own will.

Is that so wrong to want? A passionate lover who he could trust his frail heart with, no worries for it to be thrown back, disinterested and one only capable of loving it as strongly as he?

Passion fueled nights died as quickly as it started. And him with it.

But that might not be the case anymore.

”Another drink for the beautiful blond, on me.” He perks in suspicion, discreetly narrowing into defense as a man plops into the seat beside him.

His muscles simultaneously bunch in tension and soften to quiver when those bewildering and gorgeous green eyes lock onto his in a dominating stare. A gasp, so frail and small is stolen from his lips.

Who is this beautiful man?

He’s convinced the second those dazzling emeralds lid over dark lashes he’s been put under a spell.

”Please,” he grips his thighs helplessly together, that purring voice a baritoned choir, ”a gift, take it.”

He’s defenseless, shaking a small thank you passed surprisingly in a steady voice, ”I appreciate it.”

The mysterious man grins brightly and Mikaela internally swoons, why did he look so accomplished? His gratefulness was expected, it would be rude to not say a thing.

”I’m glad. Oh!” He chuckles, white teeth reflecting another perfect aspect of him, ”my apologies, my name is Yuuichirou but you can call me Yuu.”

”Ah um… my name’s Mikaela…” he chided himself, was it wise to tell this gorgeous- though still unknown- man his name?

”Angelic.”

”What?” He jumped, uncharacteristically blushful at the strange word, even more so at his unwavering stare, his soul bared for him to see. What was angelic precisely?

”Your name.” He explains. ”I’ve never heard such a beautiful name.”

”Th-thank you,” he stutters, the steadiness from before waining the more he interacted with the man- Yuu, he corrected.

”I can’t help but notice that you’ve always come here alone.” He carefully treads to the topic Mikaela would rather forget about, his reasoning for being here. To drown his sorrows like the coward he’s associated himself with.

”Oh.” He dipped his head to his lap, lips scrunched and hands nervously playing with each other.

”No it’s alright you don’t have to elaborate.” He hurries to clarify, ”wrong conversation starter huh?” He chuckles and Mika can’t help but appreciate his turn of humor.

He shifts the conversation to talk about himself, Mika leaning more and more interested the more he rants and jokes.

Strange. He can’t help but sober up and join in, the aching that persisted his heart for month tampering down with every new piece of information Yuu allows himself to give.

He laugh, loud and strained with unuse as Yuu accidentally spills a drink to his attire and all he does is curse, never chastising Mika for laughing and joining in just as easily after grabbing a handful of napkins given to him by the bartender.

He’s free or whatever is close to that and lets himself go with Yuu and comes to a decision when he sees the raven struggle to find something else to talk about. He squashes the buzzling echoes of warnings away and began to retell his story, catching him of guard to quiet down.

He’d be a fool and a liar to not notice his predatory eyes when he mentions the unveiling attraction that led to him here.

”It’s his loss.” He spears his opinion out of clenched teeth so strongly Mika is left breathless by its unquestioned honesty, ”if he let go of such an angel of a person so willingly then I can’t help but think there’s something wrong with him.”

They’ve gotten closer somehow in the past hour, their legs touching and hands briefly coming to connect only to separate with the territory unknown just yet. But now, Mika wants nothing more than to drown in his arms and cry, those words having never been spit so strongly and venomously before in any situation in his twenty-two years of life.

He almost can’t take it.

”Yuu-chan…”

”No wonder I could tell you were all hot and bothered from all the way over there. You haven’t been taken care of like you should have been.”

He freezes and so does Yuu, him in a bashful liquid of embarrassment and Yuu, like he’s just been cornered by a pack of lions.

”Oh God tell me I didn’t say that out loud.” He stumbles out with a hand suspended in mid-air to his horrified face, shooting daggers at the silently dying pink-haired bartender kneeling down the floor.

Mika can’t compute, ”what?”

”Forget it forget everything I said-”

”No no no,” his heart hammers against his ribcage, something foreign squeezing inside that wills him to catch Yuuichirou’s shoulder. ”What did you mean by that? ’Haven’t been taken care of like you should have been?’” he hastily requotes, a moan pressing his tongue as he does.

”I…” he sees his chances of bolting away has lessened with the pale hand gripping his still, ”I just mean that…” he doesn’t want to say it if it causes Mika to run away, that wasn’t his intention.

”Its okay, you can tell me.” Mika softly runs his tongue to swipe at his quickly chapping lips, ”I won’t be mad.” No, he won’t, and the coiling embers so close to the match agrees.

”I wanted to take my chances with you when I saw you all those weeks ago but never had the courage until now and all that time you looked so sad and needy and I… I don’t know I just really wanted to talk to you?? I don’t know you’re pretty and I can’t think right now with you so close.” Yuu gasps out every word and Mika can’t say he isn’t flattered.

Mika blinks and snorts, ”you’re secretly a dork.”

”Is that a bad thing?” He twiddles his thumbs without looking back to Mika, ashamed and more than a little embarrassed.

”No,” he breathily rasps, shuffling his legs to make contact with Yuu’s, ”it’s not a bad thing at all.”

Yuu catches on and slithers a hand to his leg. ”Careful Mika,” that tone ripples a tremor, rapidly smoothing him into an addiction with how he practically purrs his name, ”I’m still a hunter.”

”From what I got I don’t have to worry,” Mika chuckles, a mischievous smile (true and real he can’t believe-) coming to tempt his hand to discover new places, loving the bewitched effect he seems to have on Yuu. ”Would you really let me go?”

”That’s the last thing I want to do.” His growl is low-pitched and Mika instinctively offers his unmarked canvas of a neck as a peace offering. And he doesn’t have to wonder if it works, Yuuichirou’s pupils dilating into black rings brimming with unquenched lust.

”Mika, let’s go.”

With a smirk of triumph, he does as told and when he leaves the bar with a hot mouth chasing his, and the next time he walks in here, he will no longer be alone.

[1oscarprgirl]

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