#fuckers can stop you from growing food on your own damn property in all but like three states

[chasing-stardust-22]

Came across someone who was saying not to vote and instead invest in your community (and I mean they said only invest in the community, they weren't hyping up the importance of doing both) and one of their examples of "direct action" was... a community garden

My eyes rolled all the way to the back of my head just typing that, let alone reading it from someone who clearly believed what they were saying

[jambeast]

As a child, growing up in my Diaspora Household, full of Brown Bodies, I would often lift a handful of smelly spices to my nose to smell how good they smelled. Damn, these were some stinky fuckers! “Yummy,” I would think in my beautiful and lilting native language, “there’s no way that Wh*te People would ever make fun of me in an elementary school lunchroom for this.” How wrong I was. 20 years later, I have hunted down each one of the children who once were sort of mean to me about the food I ate and summarily executed them. If this sounds familiar, it means you’ve been reading a very specific genre of online writing: the South Asian smelly lunchbox essay. A prime example of these popped up recently: this Eater piece from last week. These pieces almost always begin with some sort of personal anecdote about the author’s childhood. The author is shamelessly mocked by their cruel, racist white classmates. Crying, they dump their lunch into the school rubbish bin (garbage can for all you Americans) and implore their parents to pack them Dunkaroos or Lunchables or some other disgusting branded pre-packaged thing. As these young Brown Bodies get older, they notice that the same white people who may have made fun of them at one point learn to enjoy Indian food. This unleashes a tidal wave of fury within their Brown Body — This is my culture, how Dare You — and, seeing red, they put pen to computer to type out some incoherent mess about how they’ve been personally wronged. This gets run in some food magazine and is effusively praised on Twitter for being a great encapsulation of everyone else’s rage

I've seen this sort of discourse a few times, and it's striking to me how similar it is to an attitude I encountered on 4chan's Videogames board, /v/ in like 2014-16

White nerdy male comic book/videogames fans on 4chan would claim to have been horribly bullied specifically for liking comic books and videogames when they were kids. That they were socially ostracised and, basically, oppressed, for being weird nerds in a way not dissimilar to any other oppressed minority (which (if true) I don't entirely disagree with.)

And then some time around 2012, The Avengers makes a lot of money and The Big Bang Theory gets popular and Mainstream Society (who they map on to a sort of... nonspecific Archetypical Spirit of the-type-of-people-who-would-have-bullied-them-personally-in-school; the Chads and Staceys of the world) starts getting into comic book movies and videogames. Everyone and their mum is watching the new Starwars Sequel and pretending like they were a big star wars fan the whole time (ignoring that the original star wars films were some of the most widely popular mainstream movies ever made ever, but anyway...)

And there's a sudden sense of rage that these people - the Sort Of People Who Would Have bullied them in school for liking Star Wars (or whatever) suddenly like Star Wars (or whatever), and suddenly act as though they weren't bullying them as a kid 30 years ago for liking star wars (which they probably weren't, since they aren't the same specific individuals, but importantly they are, to the /v/ user, the Sort Of Person That Would Have). It's as if they waived their right to like star wars (or whatever) as soon as they made fun of it 30 years ago (assuming they did, which they individually might have, but might not have, which doesn't matter). There's a sense that they, as an identity group, *own* [X Nerd Property], it's theirs, and you're taking it from them if you try and interact with it yourself if they don't permit you to, a permission you must earn through their respect or your group membership.

They had their chance but squandered it. It's as if Star Wars (or whatever) is unwilling to forgive them for their disrespect. That these people (not really any individuals in particular, rather an abstract Class of people) are hypocrites for not having the same preferences they did when they were children. And the punishment for this hypocrisy is the poetic justice of not being able to enjoy the newest okay-ish movie.

It's a very strange kind of resentment that seems to be calling out to a call to action to make everything worse out of spite; the Platonic Chads and Staceys of the world not liking Star Wars doesn't, like... that doesn't fix any of this. The impulse is not an impulse to Fix. It's purely a destructive impulse to Spite.

[leolair]

[Possessing Me Softly] Chapter 2: His name is Leo

"Whoa-whoa" The demon was holding your body when it went limp in his arms and you almost took him with you; so he had to shift his own weight to support yours. He was rummaging his brain for an explanation of what had just happened, why did you just passed out like that? Even more importantly, what in Hell's prairies was he supposed to do with you now. He should be explaining the details and commands of the contract to you, but... he can't, so... should he... leave and come back later? Well, for the moment he guessed he had to put you down.

The carmine orb fluttering by his side gurgled and he heard an excited voice inside his head. "Leo? How did it go?" Red drops from the bubble stumbled upon the dirt with every word.

Leo picked the honey tar and gave it a sniff. It wasn't completely ruined, he guessed. One could still salvage around half of it. Such a shame, it smelled really good.  "I closed it."

The bubble almost exploded when the voice spoke. "Congratulations! Oh, we have to celebrate. What do you want to eat?"

"Nothing that you cooked"

"It was one time I burnt the food, you have to let it go someday"

Leo didn't answer. There weren't numbers high enough to express how many times it had really been, and even when he didn't burnt it, N seemed to have a talent for striping ingredients out of their flavor. Leo had tried to teach him once or twice, but to no avail. Maybe N had a curse of sorts.

"Talk to me, Leo, how does your caster looks? Is she a girl, she sounded like a girl. Is she pretty? Have you two talked about the contract? Did you give her the bandage like I told you to?" Oh... that. Crap, N was going to nag him if he found out he had let you bleed all this time. He knelled right beside you; retrieving the small bandage from his coat, he started wrapping it around your arm. The cut didn't seem very deep and most of the bleeding had stopped now.

"No, she fainted," and the notion was swarming around Leo's head; he had seen deals being closed before and, although he admits he have been a tad more rough than he had seen N being in the past, he never witnessed a caster even losing his balance when the contract was sealed.

Leo noticed the voice in his head was awfully quiet, although he didn't ponder long if it was any sing of abnormality in your deal. "Maybe she cut too deep," the redhead suggested absent-mindedly. "Bleed too much". As far as he could see and as far as he could smell, there was blood everywhere. It coated the tars, it mixed with the honey, it stained the dirt and it even putted out one of the candles that had previously been knocked off.

He only heard a non-committal sound from his friend.

Time passed in which Leo picked your offerings, inspecting the ones he would take home and the ones he would simply toss out. So far he only had grabbed interest in the honey that had gone untouched by your blood and a small wooden music box. This weren't very common in the underground. He wondered how it would sound.  There was also some wine there that N would appreciate.

He was picking stuff around when he spotted a glimpse of metal in the dirt. He leaned down to pick it up, but...

Fuck. He let it down with a grunt.

"Leo? Everything alright?"

"Silver," the demon looked around for something to grab the blade with, but a caw stopped him. Hugnin, his familiar, was pecking at a black backpack. Maybe it was yours?

"Uh, bad choice. Do you think she knows it hurts us? Does she seem the evil type of woman? Maybe a witch?"

Leo opened the bag refusing to answer. Inside was an old looking book. He flipped through the pages, catching drawings of summoning runes along the paper. It was yours, then. He rummaged a little more until he felt soft cloth touch his fingers. He was looking for something he could wrap around the knife to grab it and not have his hand scorched. A sweater. Good enough.

He was about to reach for the blade when N's voice came back. "Hey, Leo? Try not using your hands to pick it up."

Sigh. Leo shoved the sweater back in the bag, maybe with a little more force than necessary. He squatted by the knife and placed his hands on top of it.

"Come on, you can do it, you just need to-"

Leo tuned him out. He could feel the air crisp around him and the hair in his arms stood up, but the knife remained on the ground. He pushed harder. He could feel something vibrating within his chest, the place where his soul might have been stored in the past. He felt energy in his fingertip and the knife lifted in the air. The sight always reminded Leo of a puppet having its strings pulled.

"I did it."

"Congratulations! Everything is coming together today isn't it? You had your first deal and you finally managed to lift sacred metals." His voice took a dramatically sad tone. "They grow so fast. I can still remember the day we met, you were so-"

"Shut up." Leo shoved the silver blade into your backpack; a little more force and the back of the bag might have been cut through. He felt better now that the thing was out of sight, but he was back on his initial conundrum. What was he supposed to do with you?

As if reading his mind N intervened. "You aren't just gonna leave her there, right?" But couldn't he? Couldn't he just... take off? Sure, the night was chilly but it wasn't all that cold, and he even cleaned around. Maybe if he threw your sweater over you…

"No," N was never going to let him live it down. Leo went to you and cupped your face in his hands. "Hey," he waited for a second, but the demon had to repeat his command a couple of times before getting any sing of awareness in you. "Open your eyes for me, please," your eyes rolled in your sockets and Leo had to fight a sigh. When they finally open, he rushed before you could pass out again. "I just need you to think of home, okay? Just think of your house for a second," It took a while, but he felt the image form in his head. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled at the strings, feeling them take him into his destination.

Chirp.

 Chirp.

 Chirp? Oh for fuck's sake... Those goddamn birds. You swore upon your nana's grave that that if you could go back in time just for a second it would be to stop you mother from planting that damned tree by your window.

Now, there’s a lie.

Ben.

You quickly sat in your bed and peeled the covers away from your body. Your head was killing you and the space over your sternum felt sore and heavy. You massaged the place, trying to sooth the feeling while searching for an injury. You found nothing. No blood, no scratches, not even a bruise. Still... you could clearly remember the star entering your body and the pain… oh the pain. It was like something impossible heavy pushed your insides around and took place in the middle of your chest.

Then, you noticed the bandage wrapped around your forearm. The wound throbbed and you could see some blood splattered in the cloth. You didn't remember bandaging it yourself. Did the demon...?

You got up, shaking the though off. Whatever happened was over and you needed a shower with urgency. Sweat, dirt and dried blood stuck to you like a second skin, your cheeks had crusts of dry tears that you don’t even remember crying. Well... some of them you did.

The ritual in theory was not that complicated, you thought as you striped in the shower, careful to not get the bandage over your arm wet. The blood sacrifice had taken more of your sanity, both mental and physical, that you could’ve predicted, but the rest was quite simple. A chalk drawn circle with an over spiked star, weird runes, candles, an incantation and offerings.

Now that's where it got interesting. Apparently there wasn't any "how-to" when it came to flattering demons, but there were basic offerings that, if the internet was right, pleased a great variety of them. Oh!, because the little fuckers turned out to be picky. Some liked rice grains; some wouldn't present themselves if you offered it; some would drool over raw meat; some would open you in canal if you dared to have it near them during the ritual.

In the end you went with wine, honey, incense, a couple of herbs and a small music box, because apparently, the one thing they all agreed on was that 'tech is neat'.

You wrapped your body in a towel and stepped out of the shower, even when it felt like only you lived in this house now, with your parents always in the hospital. Passing by the sink, you stole a side eyed glace in the mirror, what you saw stole a gasp from your lips. There it was, just like the books had described it; a single black symbol on the skin between your breasts. It was a small cross with two horizontal lines, a hollow circle sat atop the upper one and another more filled one dangled from the one at the bottom.

You ran your fingers over it and reality came crashing down on you, making your head spin. You were marked. You were marked like cattle.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"I sold my soul to a demon."

It was almost ironic that after all that time of researching satanic rituals and their whatabouts, it was now that the gravity of the situation fell upon you.

You were screwed.

You were beyond screwed; you had sold your soul and now it was someone else’s property. Well... not quite yet. Not until Ben was healed. You were going to be around until he could carry on with his own life. The rush of adrenaline made your head spin a little. It brought back memories from last night; the candles, the smoke, the blood, the demon-.

You saw movement out of the corner of your eye. You twisted your head as fast as humanly possible and backed against the wall when you saw... him, in your shower stand. He looked so out of place with his red eyes and ominous clothes. Just now in the bathroom light did you realize that his hair, despite how the candlelight made it seem last night, was actually of an auburn shade. Like old blood. Fuck, he was intimidating. The big black coat he wore didn't helped either.

Thinking about clothes...

The lack of them in your own body fell on you and you gripped the towel around your chest. "What the hell are you doing here?" He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He seemed at a loss for words.

"I... We need to talk. About the contract," he shifted in his feet "I need to teach you-"

"How long have you been in there?" Getting into hysterics was a bad, bad idea, yes, but you were dressed in only a towel, your arm was bleeding and your head was about to explode, so, if your voice had a particularly panicked tone, well... you had motive.

"I just got here, I wasn't... watching" The demon seemed to stumble upon his words.

You cradled your head in between your hands. Jesus Christ, the day had barely started and you already wanted to crawl back in bed. "Can it wait?"

"Yes, but-"

"Please, just... Go downstairs, give me a second"

The demon nodded and disappeared in a bright light and a loud snap that brought a buzz to your ears.

What the-…

When you walked down the stairs a part of you wished the red-haired demon would be gone, but to your despair, he was planted in the middle of your kitchen, his eyes stuck to a brightly coloured cookie jar. Despite his dramatic look what made your heart jump was not him, bu the big bird perched in one of the wooden chairs from the breakfast table. When she heard you enter the room, she twisted her head around and stared at you with... one, two... seven? Seven eyes. Lord. Her companion heard you as well, and in a likewise manner twisted around looking guilty. You wanted to ask him if he would like a treat for the bird, instead you asked him what did he needed you for.

"Leo" Eh? "My name" Oh. You introduced yourself.

Leo took a notebook from a hidden pocket in his black coat. "We need to go over some things" You eyed the clock hanging over the wall. The black tail of the cat ticked in a steady rhythm; it's eyes traveled from side to side, but you had the feeling it was somehow judging your  life decisions. Nevertheless, you still had some time until school started, so you sat down at the kitchen table, motioning Leo to do the same.

"Before we begin, do you have any question?"

"Yeah, why were you in my shower stand?"

"I-... You passed out, so I-"

"Yeah I get that, but how did you got in there?"

"It's..." He was trying to place it with the right words, but seemed unable to.  The silence extended, you thought he was just going to left that hanging, but he proceeded talking "It's easier to show you."  

You wondered what he meant, but a bright light shined and much like the way he did a couple of minutes ago, he vanished into thin air.

"What?" You looked around, but were completely alone in the kitchen. The baby blue walls that your father used to always keep on patrol for any oil or sauce spills, would have given a dramatic contrast with the almost gothic appearance of the demon. You stood up, looking through the windows that gave to the back garden. Your mother's forgotten cops, dried and dead sat unbothered under the early sun, but no trace of a black coat or a red head. Where had he...?

The black bird made a deep noise that sounded an awful lot like human speech. You passed saliva. It's okay. You knew some birds could mimic sounds. It wasn't all that rare. Although, added to the eyes and the way she looked at you, It was creepy as fuck. "What was that?" you spoke with a trembling voice.

"Leo."

"Leo?"

The air in front of you changed and there he was, he was... too close. You breathed in deep, and received a whiff of coffee and something deeper,  far more sinister that complimented the situation perfectly. He was so tall he towered over you; he was close enough for you to feel the heat emanating from his body and his face was… his eyes were...

You took a step back.

"So you appear" Nod. "Whenever I call?"

Leo hesitated. "It works on intent" He passed his hands through the front of his clothes, as if straightening imaginary wrinkles. "You don't need to call me, just..."

"Yeah, I didn't call you upstairs."

"You didn't need to, I was sort of, 'keeping an eye... Ear. Keeping an ear out'"

"And what, you heard me saying the word 'demon' but not the shower running?"

"I didn't hear you I... well I did hear your voice, but I wasn't outside the door or anything"

"Then where-? Oh." It finally fell on you what he was trying to say. "How does that actually work?" You motioned between the two of you. "The books weren't all that clear."

"The contract is inside of you." Leo pointed at the middle of your chest. The star. "That..." He struggled with his words "keeps a door of sorts, open."

You placed a hand over your sternum. Then, a feeling of heaviness around your heart made itself present. As downing as this whole affair seemed... You had a cause. You had a purpose. Last night when you opened your wrist you thought that was going to be it, and the fact that it didn't... well, that changed nothing. "Is there anything else?"

You saw him shift in his chair. He was uneasy and you could almost swear he didn't want to keep going. Regardless, he started reading from his notebook. "The caster, as solicitor, holds complete liberties over the course of action they might prefer to accomplish the given task through, although it is advised to follow the generic methodology presented by the casteé. In addition, the contract enforces the fulfillment of these commands to accelerate the process and to assert the caster wishes are seen trough."

"Wait, what does that mean? I can just boss you around?" Nod. "And you 'have' to do it?" Shrug. "Yikes."

Leo let out a big exhale of air. You had the feeling he was trying to calm himself down. "I need to see your brother soon, but for now, please tell me what exactly is his situation.”

You squirmed in the chair, already familiar with the drowning sensation that swallowed you whenever someone asked about Ben's many afflictions. "My parents were... rather old when they got Ben and the pregnancy was risky," There was a knot forming in the back of your throat, but you pushed it down. "My mom... she went through a lot and Ben was born sooner that we thought."

"How soon?" You noticed the demon was scribbling in the notebook from before.

"Near 28 weeks. He... started to get really sick; had problems breathing and the doctors hooked him to a respirator, but... because of how long he needed the machine, his lungs took some damage. Over the years it escalated, he was diagnosed around a year ago with chronic lung disease. It was supposed to get better over time, but... it hasn't."

"How old is your brother right now?"

"He will turn three in a couple of weeks," which brought to mind that you still had to plan something for his birthday. Last year he had been crazy for butterflies, so you managed to sneak a couple and let them flutter in his hospital room. The smile on his face was worth every second the nurses scolded you. This year, you wondered where on earth you were going to get a dinosaur.

"I see. Is that all?"

"No. He gets infections all the time, even in the hospital's 'sterile' chambers. He also had a very bad anemia that slowed down his growth." Leo was nodding you along, pen dancing over the paper.

>>He has... trouble learning. At the beginning the doctors guessed his brain hadn't developed correctly, but it seems fine in all of the scans," you leaned against the wall, talking about Ben always drained you emotionally. You wondered if anyone will notice if you skipped class today. You considered for a moment, but desisted upon realizing that staying home would just prolong your current conversation. You focused again on your train of thought. "We are just... stumbling in the dark at this point. All the other preemies in his wing stayed in the hospital only a couple of weeks, Ben lives there."

"Is there any chance I could look into his medical records, as well as your family's?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll have to look for them, though."

"I'll need some blood too."

A chill ran down your spine. Last night you had to pay a price in blood, maybe... "You want me to..." your hand gestured towards the kitchen knives.

Leo's eyes bored on you. He seemed strangely amused by your suggestion.  “I mean a sample. From your brother?”

Embarrassment brought the color back to your face. Right.

[throughthedirt]

Season 1: Chapter Nine

Previous Chapter — First Chapter

Miles

It didn't matter that I was just shy of turning 44 years old. The University of Oregon campus was nearly 300 acres of property housing nearly 23,000 students from around the world. Sure, the majority were teens and young adults, but there was no shortage of older individuals seeking education. More so, I didn't have to be a student. I could be a teacher, a maintenance worker, the IT guy, even a fuckin' janitor. For all anyone knew, I belonged here. And the way I walked through those grand, window-framed doors - people knew. I had a purpose. Showing no signs of hesitation, fear, or confusion, I waltzed my way throughout the campus. For nearly an hour, I roamed the campus freely and without even batting an eyelash to any other person. I was mostly ignored by those who did notice me. But for most, it was like I didn't even exist - just like the rest of them. I was just another body in a mass of humans. But I was here for a reason, and that was to fulfill a job and keep a promise; an agreement that got me freedom in 6. Kyle Turner. Kyle fucking Turner. "Fuckin' football prick raped my niece and got off scot-free," as Correctional Lieutenant Dave Ward would say. The very first words of his that changed the course of my history at Oregon State Pen. And I had read the reports, the articles, the media frenzy - all in prison. I knew what he had done, and he was guilty. But a fully-paid scholarship and a hell of a lot of "hush-money" got him nothing. Not even a smack on the wrist. He walked. Went free. And Ward's niece? Well, things didn't go so great for her. Fearing him, she refused her admittance into UofO, afraid she would see him again. So the fucker had to die. And now it was finally time. 

Approaching the glass doors of the Performance Center, I made a fatal mistake. Reaching my hand out to pull on the handle, the door stayed shut. It creaked as I tried to open it - but it was locked. "Uh, hello?" A large football player called to me in his confusion, his mouth agape and his eyes squinted as he made his approach. He was as heavy as he was tall; his long, afro-style hair alone adding inches to his height. "This building is for authorized personnel only..." He said to me, pulling a plastic card from behind him and slipping it through the swipe-pad beside the door. The pad flashed green and the door clicked. Unlocked. This place was advanced, way more security than I could have ever imagined. University of Oregon had changed in the last 6 years. Turning to him, I gave a toothy grin and begin to chuckle. "Boy do I feel old, huh." He looked at me, cautiously as he stood before the door. But I didn't let him disappear into the building before I extracted needed information. "I'm actually lookin' for someone - maybe you can help me..." I iterated, "One of your football mates, Kyle Turner." The player gave me a saucy eye glare. "What about him?" Pausing, I conjured the biggest load of shit I could muster up in 0.2 seconds. "My niece, you know-" I started to chuckle, so much so that it interrupted my speech. "Ah man, this is embarrasing on her part, but she's... she's a HUGE fan of his. And I mean HUGE. She has posters of him all over her room, you know?" "Uh-huh..." Little interest from him. Only suspicion. But I didn't let him get another word in. "I mean she's just nuts for college football. Strange for a girl, no? I guess the world is changin' and I'm far behind. Heh, heh, heh." I chuckled again, trying to fluster the boy with too much information for him to process. "But ANYWAYS -" I continued, "Her birthday's comin' up and I was hopin' to get maybe a... you know... surprise appearance from him?" There was a look of confusion on the poor boy's face. "WITH COMPENSATION, of course." Another smile. "Uhhhhhhhmm, righttttt." He replied. "Let me..." He struggled to respond. Possibly the weirdest request he'd ever received, surely. "Let me go see if he's here. I'll be right back." "Sure thing, but ah-!" I held my hand up, a signal for him to stop as he reached for the handle. "Allow me," Taking the door by the giant O shape in its handle, I pulled the steel frame open to allow for the jock to head in. In respect to him, I closed it behind him, locking me out of the building once more. I stood there waiting. Waiting patiently. With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I casually swayed my body and whistled a chirpy hymn. To my surprise, it took only minutes for the door to open again. And out came Kyle fuckin' Turner in the flesh. And he wasn't a teenager anymore. No... He was a man, now. "Uh, hi-?" Kyle would greet me, without so much as a formal introduction. Fuckin' millennials. It took me a moment to sink in his appearance. Tall, 6'1, still shorter than me. A big guy, no doubt. But size didn't matter when it came to murder. Only intent, motive, and calculation. "Yes! Kyle Turner." Pulling my hand from my coat pocket, I extended it to him. "My name is Angelo Rossi. It's great to meet you!" Turner took my hand, shaking it as firmly as I was squeezing. But as he had taken my hand in his, I had also raised my other free hand to firmly grip his bicep. A sort of gesture of greeting, but it secretly to scope his muscular size. "Yeah, thanks." The fucker would respond. Yeah, thanks? Really? Really. Releasing his hand, I returned my superior 6 foot 3 stance to it's upright position and gave a fake, cheery smile. "My niece, she's a crazy fan." Pulling for my wallet, I slipped out a photograph of a teenage girl. "Her name is Nakoma. She's... half native half Italian, like me. Heh." Kyle took the photo in his hand, his eyebrows raising at the beautiful young lady he saw in the picture. Perfect, interest. "A looker, I know. Causes me more problems, ya know?" I chuckled, taking the photo back. "So listen, I came here hopin' I could hire you. For a job, of sorts." Kyle crossed his arms before him and looked at me curiously. "Oh yeah?" "Yeah, man. I'm organizing Nakoma's 16th birthday and I really want to make it special. She has posters of ya' all around her room and I thought, pffftttt, what better to surprise her with her favorite football player? Every teenage girl's dream, right?" I laughed again, thinking the idea is silly, but might actually work. "Nothin' major. There's be about 30 of her girlfriends there hangin' around the pool-" Realizing it was January, I instantly corrected myself. "Indoor pool, at her father's place. Big place, you know?" Kyle's head was nodding - Still interested. "Figured you can drop by for an hour or so, or even less if you're in a crunch. Sign some autographs, take some pictures. Grab a bite to eat, whatever you want. There'll be plenty of food, cuz, well, Italians, am I right?" Laughing again, Kyle's interest seemed to only be piquing the more bizarre and outlandish the story got. "Sounds fun." He smiled, bringing his fingers to his lips as he pondered the thought of 30 hot teenage girls in their bikinis. "But uh-" He started to sway. "I don't know-" "I'll pay you $5,0000. Cash." I confessed. His eyes widened. "$2,500 for showing up. $1,500 for autographs and another $1,000 if you take some selfies. You know' - the girls thing. Selfies, heh." I paused, my eyes growing darker as they remained hidden behind Aviator shades. "What do ya' say? We got a deal?" Swiftly changing tunes, "You know what, don't sweat the decision now. There's a lot of politics in sports, I'm old. I know it." I waved my hand in typical Italian fashion. "You gotta' business card or somethin'?" "Uh, nah but I can give you my number-" Perfect. A rich white kid, hot-shot jock, AND a moron. This was too easy. Handing him the photo, he retrieved a pen from his pocket and jotted down his digits. "Wow, thanks man. I appreciate you considering this." I waved the photograph of "Nakoma" and slipped it back into my wallet. "I'll give you a call something this week. Talk it over with your coach or manager or whoever you kids report to, heh." I put my hand out for him to shake again, "And nice meeting you again."

—   —   —  

I found myself roaming the halls of University of Oregon on my attempt to exit the campus. My curious mind sent me further and further into the campus maze - a prestigious multitude of buildings and intricate floor plans; each with its own purpose, meaning, and unique design. Deep in UofO, I stumbled upon the Department of Fine Arts. The halls were brimming from floor-to-ceiling with murals and artwork. Slowing my pace, I stopped to appreciate the work. I had always had an affinity to for paintings. My eye had always found itself drawn to the color red. Red. My dark irises wandered the walls, finally pulling towards a large, 5 foot canvas. It soared above me - dazzling in its ocean of red. The painting was of a woman, presumably dripping in blood. A sort of, Queen of the Damned. Intrigued, my eyes shifted to the small plaque stuck to the wall by the corner of the artwork. Nicola Strom. My stomach sunk as my heart skipped a beat. "Crucifixion." The words rolled off of my lips. My head retracted slowly as my eyes closed. "Mmmm."

—   —   —  

January 20th, 2018 - Five days after release. Eugene, Oregon had been unusually warm for January. For the most part, it was sunny and rainy on-and-off, with an average high temperature of 45 degrees F. Too warm for snow. At least, not enough sub-zero temperatures to keep it for more than a couple days, anyways. Luckily for this lovely Saturday evening, the rain had stopped early morning and the skies were greeted by a brightening sun. Kyle parked his Trail-Rated Jeep cruiser in front of the colonial-century home, red-bricked mansion. He ducked his head, looking over the place with his pale eyes as he took in the sheer size of the place. Although Eugene was home to old money - big money - it was also commonly inhabited by the middle class. Whoever owned this place... wasn't a white-collar, middle class citizen. Exiting his truck, he approached the front door, which was lavishly decorated with a Sweet-Sixteen balloon bundle. A clear indication he was at the right house. As he rang the doorbell, it only took a few seconds before he was greeted by a familiar face. "Mr. Turner." I said, standing tall with my hand cemented firmly on the back of the door. It was the first time he was seeing my hazel-speckled brown eyes. It was also the last. "Cute." I blurted, subliminally mocking his uniformed self as my eyes gazed over his full-football get-up. Shredded sleeves to show his pectoral muscles. How sleazy. Helmet and all. How sweet. "Come join the fun." I smirked, guiding him through the front door. "But maybe take off the helmet." Chuckling, Turner cracked a smile as he took a step into the house - which was, unsuspectingly, filled with the sound of laughing girls. "Too much, huh?" Kyle joked, unclasping the helmet and slipping his head free. His back was to me as I closed the door. "I thought mayb-" The moment he turned to face me, my hand - hidden behind the door the entire time - swung straight for his head. A thin medical syringe pierced into the side of his neck - administered by my right hand - Gloved. Protected. Injecting the cocktail of muscle relaxants, Kyle quickly deteriorated in a matter of seconds. His initial reaction to grab for my hand, but by the time he could react - it was already too late. He was losing almost all of his muscle ability. One. Two. Three. He hit the ground, unable to move, unable to moan, unable to call for help. With his body curled in the middle of the hallway, his eyes remained open - panicked. Looking down at his 6'1, 200 pound physique - which had been reduced to nothing in just seconds - I shook my head. Pathetic. His eyes followed my every move. He was conscious. Awake. Aware. I stepped over him and walked past him like he didn't even exist. Stepping into my living room, I smiled at the sound of giggling teenage girls filled the open-concept space. Walking over to the stereo system, I grabbed the remote and clicked - Off. Silence. Girls? What girls. There were no girls. Returning to his paralyzed figure, I crouched down to brood over him. I tilted my head to the side and grabbed his face between my gloved thumb and fingers. Squeezing his limp cheeks between them as I leaned his head to look at me. "Oh, Kyle." I made clicking noises with the back of my tongue. "Remember her?" Pulling a photograph from my back pocket - Sarah Ward. "Yeahhhhh." I flicked the photo in his face, nearly submitting to my urge to spit on him. "You're gonna die tonight." There was a dark, unforgiving grimace that crept my cheeks. "And it's gonna fuckin' hurt." Two, single-drop tears fell from the corners of his eyes. Hours had passed. Daylight turned to dark as night loomed over the city. Darkness was here. And it didn't come from the sky, nor the sun. Using Kyle's keys, I exited the mansion on the quiet, quaint street. E 22nd Avenue - a large strip of homes graciously spread apart; separated by the comfort of many, decades-old trees. I pulled the vehicle into the long driveway, reversing it rear-forward all the way to the side of the house. Two garage doors welcomed the Jeep, closing behind the front of it. It remained utterly hidden, safe within the confines of the home's garage. It would remain there until 3:45 in the morning, and a storm was brewing. The sound of the garage door sliding gurgled as it swayed open. Keeping the lights of the Jeep off, I placed it into drive and pulled it out of my driveway. The garage door closed behind me automatically, dismissing any evidence it had ever harbored a crime scene. My heart remained regular - beating as it would driving any other vehicle, on any other day, under any other circumstances. Humming, I drove the few blocks between the mansion and the University Campus. The Jeep came to the vehicle entrance of the Oregon Autzen Football Stadium. Like everything within the Performance Center, it required a swipe card to be unlocked and accessed. Holding out Kyle Tuner's card, I flicked it between the pad and waited. Flashing green, the gates to the field slid open. Although forbidden to bring any vehicles directly on to the terrain, it was 3:50 in the morning, on a Saturday. Too late for any players to be hangin' around during off-season, and too early for any maintenance workers or cleaners to begin their services. It was pitch-black, and between the sticky snow and the blowing winds - visibility was poor. Reversing the trail-rated wrangler, I slowly backed it up on to the field, parking the trunk of the vehicle directly in front of the brightly-yellow painted goal-post. Exiting the vehicle, I was dressed from head-to-toe in Kyle's football uniform, with the addition of a black long-sleeved T-shirt underneath. No tattoos were visible. Virtually nothing about me was recognizable. For all intensive purposes, I could very well be Kyle Turner. Unlatching the trunk, it swooshed open. There lay the true Kyle Turner. The flesh and blood. And there was a lot of blood. Taking the thick, twisted rope in my hand, I ran it from the back of the truck to the goalpost. Tossing it over the post's T-center, I caught it back in my hand and ran it back to the truck. The end of the rope was supported by a curled grappling hook. Kneeling behind the trunk, I fastened the hook to the hitch on the Jeep and found my way back to the driver's seat. Pushing the gears into drive, I slowly began to inch the vehicle forward until the rope strained - pulling viciously with the weight. Metal to the floor, I forced the truck into overdrive, suddenly gunning it forward and sending the object in the trunk to veer out of the vehicle. Decelerating the tracks, I watched in my review mirror as the item - two strong planks of crossed wood - reeled up against the T in the yellow goalpost. As it mounted to perfect height, I slammed the Jeep in park, and swiftly - excitedly- hopped out of the truck. It started slow at first, my heavy, rumbling laughter. But it evolved, soon developing into a magnified, thrill-infused maniacal cackle. Victory.

—   —   —   January 21st, 2018 - The Discovery. The lights to the stadium flickered on - lighting the dark early-morning. The sun would not rise for another hour. And for a group of football jocks mucking their way to football practice, it would be a morning they would never forget. Wailing. Loud, incessant, uncontrollable wailing. The sound of screaming echoed throughout the stadium; hair-raising in its velocity, and intensity. The scene brought a grown, 21-year old man to his knees. Vomit projected from his chapped lips as he puked vehemently on the immaculate, freshly-snowed grass - staining it flaxen. It brought a wave of nausea to the entire team. Some cried, some collapsed, some gagged, heaved, hurled. But most... most stood in shock. Hailed before them was the body of Christ - a crucifixion of their most valued team member. There lay the body of Kyle Turner, naked and colorless, with only the stain of bleeding red that covered his postmortem flesh. His genitals were mutilated. His penis split in three different directions. He had been completely castrated; his balls were absent entirely from his groin. An indescribable amount of blood has been loss at its expense, leaving a blood-pour of red human serous to cascade down his legs. Cause of death? Blood loss. Slow, agonizing, harrowing blood loss. The cross hung from the center of the goalpost, the snow beneath his purple-faded feet red with blood. His hands were staked on either side; his ankles crossed and tied. His neck - the same color as his bruised toes - was mounted by barbed wire. His head bore the same fate - crowned like that of Christ with blood trickling from his scalp. RAPIST - Carved with a knife in to his forehead. SINNER - The words dripped from his abdomen in crusting blood, beginning to harden... but still moist. Fresh. —   —   —   "Shocking news this morning on KVAL-13." Smitha George - Live News Reporter, would announce on national television. "A tragedy has occurred at University of Oregon. Senior Football Quarterback Kyle Turner, Star of the Oregon Ducks, was found brutally murdered at the campus stadium." She would go on, standing unshaken in the parking lot of the Performance Center. "Police have ruled the case a homicide after teammates found Tuner's mutilated body crucified on the goal-post of the end field." Spilling too much information for her own good - reporters classically interfered with investigations; often jeopardizing their efforts. "His hands and feet were reportedly pinned to a wooden cross, and his head wrapped in barb wire. Teammates report that the words "Rapist" and "Sinner" were carved on his body..." "... And that his eyes and lips were painted red, with blood." "Turner's vehicle, a Black 2017 Jeep Wrangler - was found abandoned at the scene. Police are looking for any information that may aid their efforts in solving this terrible case." She paused, staring into the camera as her words fed into the lives of millions of Oregon residents. "I'm Smitha George, reporting LIVE for KVAL-13 News." The clip ended.

[gospacegay]

The Oops

A long one shot inspired by a frightening conversation with a pregnant woman while sleep deprived on public transit. This shameless rusame monster contains mature subject matter.

00000

Ivan woke up groggy with a pounding head ache. He appeared to be naked, sprawled on the shag carpet of a small bedroom. He'd never been in this place before, as far as his memory could recall. Stray beams of sunlight danced through sheer curtains, burning his eyes.

There was soft snoring, and the Russian dared a glance to his right. A tanned arm lead up a well muscled shoulder. That was connected to the freckled face of a sleeping American. Fuck. Why did drunk escapades always happen with this fool? It probably had something to do with the empty bottles of everclear scattered around Ivan currently. Despite over a century of vodka abuse, it seemed he never got used to this stuff.

Ivan briefly considered waking the naked American draped shamelessly across the child sized bed. It really wasn't worth it with this crushing hangover. Alfred's voice would probably sound like scraping metal right now. Sitting up with great difficulty, he clutched his head and evaluated the situation. Judging from the books scattered about, this was a young boy's room. Feeling quite gross and tacky, Ivan gathered that drunk sexy nonsense had occurred.

He peeked down the hall beyond the door, discovering smashed up walls and a trail of mixed clothing Gathering the clothes, he explored until a bathroom was found. At this point there was so much damage done to the property. The Russian wasn't concerned about borrowing hot water too. After a fast shower and stealing several painkillers, Ivan didn't feel dead anymore.

The only good thing about the situation was his clothes still being clean. Standing over Alfred's still snoozing form, Ivan was rather displeased. Not only was the younger nation mostly clean, but there was an unused condom in the American's pant pocket. Ivan definitely bottomed if that was the case, which was usually a huge no. Now Ivan had to deal with that upcoming mess.

Wanting to beat the life out of Alfred, Ivan begrudgingly acted with chivalry. He dumped the sleeping man in the bath tub and ran a cold shower. With a painful shriek, a gasping American came back to life.

“What... Where... Why is it so fucking cold?” the honey blonde blurted out, disorientated and shivering. “That's what you get for not using a condom, filthy American.” Ivan cursed, making Alfred stay in the freezing torrent a little longer. “Condom... what? My head hurts so much. No more everclear ever again. I think I died...” Alfred whimpered, finally allowed to crawl out of the tub.

After helping Alfred get dressed, the pair shuffled into a trashed living room. The couch was flipped over, decorative pillows tossed around. Red, white, and blue spray paint was on everything. Sloppy renditions of Russian and USA flags ranged from the ceiling to the floor. Judging from a scattered newspaper, they were the Russian city of Pushkino. How they got here from the conference hall near Red Square was a total mystery.

Alfred's phone was smashed to bits, so Ivan used his. “Who ya callin'?” Alfred drawled, eating food from a kitchen off to the side. “Clean up squad. I need to get this dealt with before work notices anything.” Ivan informed flatly, actually quite worried. He didn't want to be chewed out again for another 'incident'. Last week Ivan punched a Latvian representative in the face, so he was already on thin ice.

Finishing the quick call, the Russian explored the rest of the house. Ivan grimaced, discovering the inhabitants of this place. Seven people had been apparently locked in the windowless basement with nothing but a pack of smokes and some cookies. He really hoped the citizens could be bribed into silence.

After waiting twenty minutes for clean up crew to arrive, Alfred stopping fidgeting beside Ivan and headed to the open front door. “I'm... uh, gonna go. If either boss hears about this, or anything we did, I'm super dead.” Alfred admitted, just as nervous as Ivan about all this. “I understand. Until we meet again.” the Russian bid goodbye, pretending to be calm.

The second Alfred left, Ivan started chewing his nails anxiously. He could only intimidate the right people and hope this would all blow over.

00000

Between bribery, fear, and an efficient clean up crew, No one ever found out about Ivan's latest drunk adventure. They didn't happen often, thankfully. The last one had been rather tame, with Ivan waking up on the roof of a furniture store. He still couldn't recall much about that evening.

Two months passed by without event, and Ivan rarely had bad days. In fact, he felt almost... happy. It really was a strange sensation to be so giddy upon waking up. Perhaps he was losing his mind again? No one had been maimed or punched in a long time, so it wasn't insanity. Either way, this lightness of spirit felt fantastic.

It was nearly march, and winter refused to release it's death grip on the land. As he was about to leave his home, he felt the strangest discomfort. Ivan was shivering, as if he was cold. He didn't get cold, not normally. He was hungry too, alarmingly so. It was the reason he had to go out today. He had eaten everything in the house, even the canned pickled fish.

Putting on a furry ushanka and knitted mittens, Ivan forced himself to brave foul weather. He really needed food, like right now. Driving to the local market, Ivan was a hot mess by the time he parked the black Lada. Suddenly, the snow squall weather was a relief against internal heat. His own incurable hunger drove him onward. After buying four more bags of groceries than he normally required, It was time for a trip to the separate produce store next door.

The apple display inside was alluring, some Chinese species apparently. Without a second thought, he selected a large pile for purchase. Ignoring the rest of the food in the store, he rushed to pay for it. He had never desired to eat an apple so badly in his long long life. He must be losing his mind after all.

As soon he was back in the car, he plucked an apple from the plastic bag he brought from home. It was so red, and juicy looking. He bit into the doomed fruit eagerly. Another apple soon followed, then another. Ivan wiped his face with napkins from the glove box, answering his cell phone. “Hello?” he greeted in sing song, enamored by the perfect sweetness of apples.

“You sound... happy.” his boss greeted skeptically. “Sir, have you every tasted an apple? Really tasted it? It's so...” Ivan gushed, moaning at the end. He grabbed another apple, biting into it. So perfect right now. “So I was talking to your psychologist. You haven't really been yourself. You aren't... upset by anything are you?” his normally confident boss asked gently. The poor man had seen the extent of Ivan's 'crazy' moments, taking them quite seriously.

“No, I'm... just so happy I could cry sir. I've been so caught up with work, but I promise I'll finish it. After... oh... oh fuck this apple is so amazing. I need to bake a pie. Six pies.” Ivan rambled while eating, followed by a high pitched manic laugh. He really needed apple pie now. This absolute second, to be truthful. His world would end without them.

“So... You can take a week off. Bake all the pies you want, okay?” his boss ordered, sounding scared on the other end. “I can be so loyal sir, If you want I could... could... I don't know... why don't I know?” Ivan started crying in frustration, forgetting why he was at the store completely. “I'm going to hang up now.” his boss warned, then the line went dead. He really was losing it, wasn't he?

Suddenly horribly upset, Ivan returned home as fast as he could. Hauling all sixteen bags of food into the house, he put everything away. He tried to think of what to cook, but he couldn't stop feeling sweaty and disgusting. He dialed a number angrily, pacing in his kitchen.

The grouchy voice of America answered “Who the fuck calls me at two in the morning?”

“America, I require apple pies. You make passable apple pies and I need six right now.” Ivan demanded, time zones be damned. “No fuckin' way commie.” the groggy nation denied, audibly yawning. “Pies, or I turn New York into a radioactive crater, my sunshine.” Ivan threatened in sickeningly sweet tone. He needed those pies, badly. He didn't understand why, and he didn't question it in the least.

“Uh... you all there bud?” Alfred questioned hesitantly. Ivan grew angry, surprising himself with the speed of these mood shifts. “I could destroy the world if I wanted to, it could be so easy.” the Russian snarled, having to stop his manic pacing. These damn stomach cramps were becoming quite bothersome. “So... I suddenly decided I'm going to make those pies. Don't blow up Japan or anything... 'kay?” Alfred replied, sounding much more alert. Ivan hung up, pleased.

In roughly ten hours, the best apple pie on the planet would be his. Of course, he'd never tell the cocky American. Alfred's ego would grow to hideous proportions otherwise. Ukraine could make a fantastic peach pie, but that apple was something else entirely. Ivan curled up with a book and three bags of chips, waiting patiently on the couch by the window.

00000

A loud banging tore Ivan from dreams of baked goods. He was so hungry it hurt. Maybe he was going into a small famine. Famines tend to drive him well off the deep end. More banging came from the front door. “Let me in you crazy fucker! It's cold out!” the unsophisticated yell of Alfred filtered in. Ivan walked over to the door, almost dancing with joy. He loved visitors, contrary to popular belief.

Alfred stomped in, arms laden with apple pies sealed by plastic wrap. “I brought pies. Please don't blow up New York.” the honey blonde greeted gruffly, clearly unhappy to be here. Ivan set he pies on the counter in the kitchen, then impulsively fawned over his guest.

Ivan hummed as he brushed snow off tanned freckled skin. Alfred looked mildly uncomfortable, not having something to say for once. Taking off the American's winter clothes, Ivan fussed with stray strands of hair until everything looked perfect again. “What are you doing?” Alfred asked, looking concerned. “I... don't know?” Ivan wondered out loud.

Grabbing a cold apple pie, Ivan returned to the little nest of blankets and pillows on the couch. He silently began scarfing it down. Sweet sweet apple pie satisfaction. It was worth being ten hours late and unheated. Looking smug, Alfred bragged “You really like my apple pie, huh? Explains why every time you get drunk, we end up –”

“Finish that sentence and I'll shoot you in the leg.” Ivan growled, flashing the gun holster on his hip. “So you're a little touchy today.” Alfred noted sarcastically. The Russian grunted in affirmation, half a pie already gone. “What did your boss do to piss you off?” the honey blond asked with ease, sitting in plush arm chair.

“He's scared of me. I don't know why... I was just trying my best. I can't help being upset!” Ivan admitted, feeling emotionally overwhelmed. “Why does everyone have to be so afraid of me? I love having friends. It makes me want to kill them all because it's so frustrating!” the Russian continued, starting to sniffle again. He grabbed tissues from his improvised little nest, blowing his nose loudly.

“Wow okay. You are totally insane right now.” America mumbled to himself. “I AM NOT! I CAN'T HELP BEING ITCHY THEN COLD, AND SOMETIMES HOT! HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF BEING UNSTABLE WHEN YOU KEEP LOSING MISSILES OVERSEAS!” Ivan roared, completely losing his cool.

“Holy shit, I didn't sign up for this.” Alfred whispered, sinking further into his chair. He sat up a second later, blue eyes bright. “Dude, I think you're sick!” the honey blonde stated loudly. Ivan was about to start a new tirade of fury, when he paused. “I... cannot get sick.” Ivan protested softly, unsure. “You were cold. You never get cold. You have ice and children's tears for blood.” Alfred repeated Ivan's own words, somehow making them retarded. He did have a good point though.

“I am not sick.” Ivan insisted stubbornly, pulling apart a section of his blanket nest so he could hide under it. Looking away a second, Alfred managed to get close. He placed a cool hand on Ivan's skin, pulling it back sharply. “You totally have a fever!” the American exclaimed. “I'm fine. I only need apple pie.” the Russian deflected, looking sadly at his empty pan. He was so hungry. Those pesky cramps weren't letting up either.

Whistling something annoying, Alfred disappeared. He returned with a bag of ice and another pie. Eyeing the pie like a ravenous predator, Ivan stopped hiding under the blankets. The American wisely handed the dessert before his hand was ripped off. “So what makes a Russia sick?” the fool wondered out loud, putting bag of ice on Ivan's head. Between cooling off and the pie, Ivan was rather grateful.

“You're all about the oil, so maybe prices are wacky.” the idiot mumbled, browsing his phone. “New phone?” Ivan asked between bites. “Yeah, after last time, my boss got mad. Made me replace it with my own cash. It's okay, I got a totally bitchin' model. See?” Alfred showed it off proudly as he talked. The back of the device was American flag themed with all the stars being shiny white.

Ivan rolled his eyes and continued eating pie. “Yours isn't any better, Mr. Tricolour.” Alfred huffed, offended. After Ivan's pie was done, the cramping finally stopped. Exhaustion hit him hard, completely unexpected. Getting up with wobbly steps, the Russian tried to make it upstairs. Making it to the base of the stairs, he looked up wearily. He was definitely not going to make it.

Leaning against the wall, Ivan gazed at Alfred with violet eyes. Too proud to ask, but too tired to climb the stairs, the ash blond hoped America would take the hint. He didn't. “Why you standing at the bottom, go up already.” Alfred ordered bluntly. The Russian glared at him, then shook his head in disappointment. It was taking him everything just to stand. Giving up for the time being, Ivan sat on the floor before he fell.

“Are... you too tired to climb stairs? How much did you smoke?” Alfred asked incredulously, adjusting those cute glasses of his. They were the one part Ivan really liked. He was total sucker for glasses, and freckles. “You are an idiot.” the ash blond murmured, stifling a yawn.

Unexpectedly, Ivan was scooped up bridal style and carried up the stairs. “Holy shit you've gained weight, did you eat an entire horse?” Alfred complained, in Ivan's room quickly. “You have no right to complain, burger lover.” the Russian hissed, still feeling unhinged. “Hey, I like my all beef patties.” the American teased shamelessly, wiggling his eye brows. Ivan rolled his eyes but didn't comment.

Dumped on the bed. Ivan didn't bother undressing as he snuggled under the covers. The ice bag from down stairs returned, much to the Russian's relief. Another pie was placed on the night stand. “You can be so sweet when you are not being stupid.” Ivan purred, basking in all this positive attention. “Fuck you. To think I was going to have sex with you, jerk.” Alfred retorted.

“Hmm, I would not be opposed to such activities.” the ash blond flirted, violet eyes half lidded. Alfred blushed, still a child at heart. “Seriously? Even though your sick and... well, okay! Awesome! Yeah! I'll go get the lube!” the honeyed blonde cheered, bolting off. “Only one condition.” Ivan whispered sweetly, beckoning his partner closer. Alfred came closer, within arms reach.

Ivan grabbed the American by the throat, grip tight. “Use a condom or I will kill you.” the Russian growled, eyes aglow with murderous intent. After a few seconds, he released the rapidly paling nation. Resuming a lustful mood, Ivan smiled. Coughing for air, Alfred stammered “Christ you're insane... but totally hot right now. Let's do this.”

00000

After sticking around for a few hours the next morning, Alfred had to move along. He was supposed to be in Luxembourg for a public relations stunt of some kind. Ivan had entirely different plans. Arms wrapped around his seasonal lover, the Russian held on stubbornly as they cuddled in bed.

“I have a flight in an hour and a half. I'm not even supposed to be here!” Alfred protested. “I do not care, stay and play with me.” Ivan murmured in husky voice, fondling the American's half hard cock. “That's... not fair. How can you still be... that tickles! Gah!” the honey blonde squeaked as Ivan ducked under the covers and fooled around. Of course that stupid patriotic phone had to ring.

Alfred answered it, grunting in greeting. “No s-s-sir, I'll be there soon, I'm just... um... holy fuck.” he sputtered a beat later, devolving to a groan as Ivan started sucking his eager member. Not letting up in the least, the Russian used every trick he knew. In no time at all, Alfred was a wordless mess. Ending what sounded like an angry call prematurely, the American turned off the device.

“That was dirty, Vanya. I'm gonna pound you into the mattress.” Alfred threatened, eyes dark with predatory lust. Making a sound of contentment, Ivan continued to tease and push the boundaries. The sex was mind melting if his lover was driven mad enough with desire.

Alas, forty minutes later, the fun had to come to an end. Ivan was sated and sleepy, while Alfred was a boneless pile beside him, panting as if he had run a marathon. “You're so fun when you're sick.” the honey blonde whispered, wearing a dopey grin. The Russian hummed, equally pleased. Sighing, his bed mate sat up and started locating all of his clothes. Too lazy to move, Ivan gestured at a card on the nightstand. “Use that taxi service. No other will get you to the airport in time.” the ash blonde ordered more than offered.

Looking at the Cyrillic labelled card, Alfred hesitated. “This is a government service. Your boss might figure it out.” he commented, unsure. “Both our bosses will know if you don't arrive in Luxembourg by noon. I will call the line if you are so scared, little America.” Ivan joked sharply in his dark way.

Truthfully, no one but a very traumatized Canada knew they were hooking up regularly. Ivan's obviously unhealthy relationship wasn't questioned, mostly because it made him happy. So little brought joy to his cold heart these days.

Calling Ivan's personal line to the government, he ordered a car show up for diplomatic reasons. Such an excuse had been used before, and didn't raise any suspicions. Bundled in Cheburaska pajamas and a knitted blanket, Ivan escorted Alfred to the door after his lightning fast shower. “Do not say anything in the car. Do not smile. They do not know you are American. Leave this tip on the seat when you get to the airport.” Ivan explained for the sixth time in a deadpan manner.

“Omigod, I know the drill. Don't make me wear that stupid hat again.” Alfred scoffed as Ivan fussed over him at the door. “It is a ushanka, and it is as practical as it is fashionable.” Ivan argued. “It's fugly, and it feels like wearing a tiny furnace.” Alfred protested. “Is it not good to keep a lover warm?” Ivan purred. Alfred blushed slightly, always partial to compliments.

On that high note, Ivan pushed him out the door and slammed it shut. The dork would be fine waiting ten whole minutes outside. Shuffling back to bed, The Russian yawned and arranged the blankets just right around himself. Pleased, he finally allowed himself to nap.

00000

Two days crawled by painfully, and Ivan finally conceded that he was sick. Wincing from the worst lower abdomen pain possible short of being cut open, Ivan considered his options. Since he punched Latvia's boss, that country was out of the question. Most of his former states wouldn't answer the phone, let alone help him. Not that they could be trusted to do anything properly anyways.

That left his sisters, and...

Ivan was mentally stumped to think of anyone that didn't hate his guts. America probably liked him, but the nation had already come to his aid once this week. The USA president would just get suspicious from another visit, blowing their cover.

Since Belarus was more insane than him, she was definitely not an option. Swallowing nervously, Ivan dialed the phone. After four rings, Ukraine's happy voice was heard. “Hello, who is this?” she greeted. “Hello big sister.” Ivan answered quietly. He took a deep breath, clutching his aching gut. “O-oh um, hello, brother. It has been a long time... this isn't about the NATO council, is it? Because I'm an ind-d-dependant nation now.” She stammered, scared. The tears were not far off already.

“I require help... Katya. I am sick.” Ivan appealed, trying out her name for the first time in years. “You are sick? Are you certain it is not famine?” Ukraine reasoned, using the same line of logic as Ivan had. “No, I have fevers and itches, and great pain. I have been this way for some time.” he explained tersely, feeling on edge.

“Oh little brother, I will see what I can do. I must call my boss first.” Katyusha instantly volunteered, sounding quite determined. “No really, You don't need to call him. Perhaps you have soup recipes or cures that could assist.” Ivan suggested, knowing damn well what his sister's boss was going to say. The line went dead. She never listened to a damn thing did she?

Ivan waited five minutes, then caught her call back. Naturally, she was in full cry baby mode. The Russian cringed as his sibling talked. “I am so sorry little Vanya. He won't let me help. He didn't even want me calling you back.” she cried, voice wobbly. “I will sleep it off. Do not worry.” he dismissed. “I  tried to convince him, but he was very –”

The line went dead again. Ivan was shocked at how fast the Ukrainian government had located his sister's phone and remotely terminated it. Before they took at least a minute. Their tech department was really getting caught up with the times. He was alone in his vile suffering. Ivan supposed he deserved it for being a monster, not that he felt terribly guilty.

Walking seemed to be crippling level of pain, but kneeling on the bed was okay. He distributed his weight evenly on spread legs. It was almost like his insides were shifting and being arranged. The urge to push came suddenly, and he obeyed it wholeheartedly. Grabbing his metal and wood headboard with white knuckled grip, he tried to expel this pain physically.

It seemed to be working, the source of near blinding agony moving lower within. He could be rid of this hell after all! Inspired, he took to alternating deep breathes and pushing. Between profusely sweating and whatever he refused to look at below him, the dirty pajamas were becoming an issue. He kicked and thrashed the last of his clothes off violently fast, desperate to return to his task.

It was an eternity of hell and white hot pain. Ivan was sure getting cut open was more fun. He could feel something almost gone but his lower back and ass felt like they were about to tear open. Barely holding on, he trembled and shrieked primal sounds that weren't words anymore.

Then it was over. The pain remained but it was a mere shadow of seconds before. Ivan fell to his side, turned to rubber. Gasping for air, he rolled over to see what tried destroying him from the inside. Lights from the bathroom cast shafts of pale yellow into the dark bedroom.

It was covered in a few faint splotches of Ivan's own blood, but it was otherwise clean. It was a white egg with faint red and blue speckles. He had apparently just laid an egg. It was large too, slightly oblong and the size of a bowling ball.

Compulsively, he touched it. It was warm and solid feeling. It was... his. Ivan felt himself starting to cry, euphorically relieved. It was over and this egg was his, and for some irrational reason, he couldn't be more pleased. His whole world just seemed brighter. He was a mother... somehow, and he couldn't be more proud.

Through sheer maternal desire, Ivan dragged his tired and battered body to the washroom. Cleaning himself up with a shower, He discovered some of the damage his lower end had survived. He didn't want to look at it, the water pooling around the tub drain tinted pink. Clean enough, he ate five painkillers at once, and chugged water straight from the tap.

Now for the oddity he seemingly produced. Dressing in fresh new pyjamas, he used the ruined blanket to gently wipe the egg clean. Changing all the bedding, Ivan lovingly draped an electric blanket around the new centre of his universe. All the pillows in the house were bunched around that, a fluffy barrier to prevent movement or heat loss. Setting the electric blanket to a pleasant temperature, the Russian was pleased. He immediately passed out from physical exhaustion, goal accomplished.

00000

Bright daylight danced over his eyelids. Ivan groaned, feeling like he had fought a war and lost. Everything ached, screaming when he moved. This was not what woke him up. “Big brother! I have come to affirm my love for you!” Belarus called out in loud song, echoing from near the kitchen.

He really didn't have time for this charade. A second of terror gripped him, realizing what had happened last night. The egg! He located it frantically beside him, ignoring inhuman pain to peel a few pillows away. Beneath, his new pride and joy was intact and still pleasantly warm. A sigh of relief shuttered out of his weary form.

“Are you asleep big brother? I looove you sooo!” the voice of his misguided sister called out again, extremely close. The bedroom door creaked open eerily, her slim form behind it. Long ash blonde hair framed an insane smile, A strict black dress clinging to her feminine figure. With a skirt nearly to the floor, she probably had a whole cutlery set in hiding. “Natalya. You invited yourself in I see.” Ivan grumbled, too worn out to be scared. He was in no condition to run as it was.

“How could I not dearest big brother in all the world? I love you! Let us be married!” she crooned. “I cannot, I am busy this day.” he dismissed, not sounding as strong as he would like. “What obstacle falls in the path of our destiny? I will destroy it!” she uttered venomously. No. The egg, she couldn't hurt it!

Drawing on near demonic rage, Ivan slid off the bed and stomped over. Towering over her, he emanated pure destruction. “You will not hurt it, It is mine! I will flay you one centimeter of skin at a time until you kill yourself from the agony!” he threatened, pinning her to the wall with one hand.

Belarus shriveled under the soulless stare, dark blue eyes large and watery. Ivan immediately felt like the most despicable sibling ever, recoiling in horror at his own action. “I would never hurt anything of yours big brother. I love you, remember?” she whimpered. Ivan needed help badly, feeling faint. He could feel himself bleeding again in places he shouldn't bleed. He needed food, immense amounts of food, to recover.

His obsessive baby sister was the perfect egg guard, the Russian realized. She was as psychopathic as he just became, but all the time. That could really work to his advantage.

“I must share with you a secret, Natalya. You must tell no one. Should you assist, I will reward you with... tickets for both of us to attend the opera hall... together.” Ivan offered, begrudgingly grinding out the awful words. Fear of being killed totally forgotten, the woman perked up with a happy smile. “I will prove my love for you, future husband. We will be the loveliest couple in attendance. Please, tell me this secret!” she complied eagerly, pressing against him in slightly groping fashion.

Shrugging her off easily, he walked to the bed with difficulty. Grateful to sit down, he gestured to the mound of pillows. “In there is my greatest treasure, my heart... my miracle. It needs to be safe and warm, because it is so precious.” he explained, blushing as he thought of his strange offspring.

Belarus raised her brows in surprise, silently waiting for permission to approach. He granted it with a genial gesture of hands. She approached in reverence, then took a few pillows off the top. The woman gasped. “It is... an egg. The biggest I have ever seen!” she uttered, pressing a hand against it delicately. The hand pulled away as if burned. “It is... alive, right?” Belarus inquired skeptically.

Ivan's heart threatened to stop at such an implication. He pressed his ear against the warm shell, concentrating hard. It was so faint, a tiny rapid heart beat within. The barely audible sound brought a large smile to his face. “It... is alive. It's alive. My little miracle unknown to science.” he crooned, so joyful he might burst.

Carefully Natalya press an ear to the shell. She then jumped back, looking mildly scared and confused. “Where did you find this?” she demanded in a steely tone. “It is mine. That is all that matters.” Ivan growled defensively.

The younger sister hesitated, then relaxed her taut form. “Very well. I will guard this strange egg to the death in exchange for a date at the opera. There our destiny will be sealed.” she replied, waxing romantic nonsense again.

“It is not a date.” he corrected tiredly. “After we'll kiss in the light of a full moon. You'll admit your love for me, and we'll start planning the wedding. I was thinking white and violet with pearls...” Belarus trailed on, completely lost to reality again. Ivan put his face in his hands, exasperated. He already knew from experience that the 'wedding planning' speech would last hours.

00000

It was early June, and the heat was staggering. It would be Independence day for Russians everywhere in just five days. Despite the building revelry of the people tingling in his veins, Ivan Braginsky was scared.

It was six months since he laid that egg. Most of the uncontrollably angry 'mother bear' moments were out of his system after the first month. After that point, he felt safe enough to be with others. His boss finally stopped being scared of him, and let him go back to regular work hours. Everyone assumed another of his psychotic breaks had come and gone like normal.

Through a state of the art monitoring system, Ivan managed four hours at his president's side each day. After that, his overpowering need protect dragged him home. The rest of the day he'd work from his study. His precious gift would be bundled up safe in a sturdy basket. It was always in arms reach so he could compulsively check it's temperature.

Sometimes he just felt the shell, speaking to the thing inside. He sang to it in private, told it stories. In true scientific theory, Ivan recorded the egg's weight every morning. He also measured the heart beats per minute at least three times a day. Sometimes that factor was measured up to six times a day. Ivan's paranoia was strong on days like those.

Natalya ended up being a spotty weekend babysitter, covering the odd day so Ivan could attend vital political meetings. After being rewarded her evening at the opera, the visits were even rarer. This no longer bothered him. Russia was scared something was wrong, but had no one to turn to. His little sister thought he stole the egg, and no one else knew it existed.

Ivan figured the father was obvious. There was only one person Ivan had sexual interest in for the last century or so. There was only one nation allowed to see Ivan naked. There was only one nation stupid enough not to wear a condom, then not even apologize about it after.

Every time Ivan gathered the nerve to call Alfred, he faltered and stopped dialing. What would the ash blond say that didn't sound crazy? Laying eggs wasn't normal. What if it didn't hatch at all? What if it was a grotesque beast? No... no. His little miracle would be sublimely beautiful, Ivan knew. Even if it had two heads, or a tail, he would love it as only a mother could.

This brought into question all sorts of absurd things. What species was the Russian if he laid eggs? Was he a he at all? Was this inane gypsy magic, or a curse? Did Alfred do this to him? Was Alfred an alien? All the weird possibilities gave Ivan a headache. None of this would ever come to conversation if his offspring died prematurely.

So it was that the feared Russian Federation was curled up with an egg, chain smoking cigarettes to calm down. Four days from his own independence day, Ivan compared meticulously tracked weight and heart rate charts for hours. The heart beat was deeper, slower and very regular. That seemed fine.

From the second day since it was laid to now, it had lost nearly half it's weight. It was a paltry 4.3 kilograms now. Just thinking about having laid anything that weighed 8.1 kilograms made Ivan wince. He was lucky his body could regenerate so quickly. Checking the temperature one more time, the tired nation padded downstairs for another cup of strong tea. He needed it to keep up his vigil.

Two days to Independence day, Russia was woken up from light sleep. He checked the egg nervously, then froze. There was weak vibrations from inside. Even better, there was soft sound. With trembling hands, Ivan recorded the new development. Afterwards, he resumed the protective cuddle around the egg.

Gently he whispered “Can you hear me little Sasha? I decided to name you Sasha. It is a very pretty name, for girls or boys. I'm planing our future together, how I'm going to raise you. I'll be so much kinder than I was as the soviet union. I didn't... I didn't know how much I could love, until I gave birth to you. I didn't know how much I could feel, or care for another. You made me whole, changed me. I will do my best to protect you and love you... So please live. Please...”

Ivan cried himself to sleep that night after waiting in vain for more activity, completely exhausted.

It was only three hours until Independence day, and it was sweltering temperatures. Worried the egg would overheat, he was draping a cold damp cloth over the top. He had long since turned off his cell phone, and unplugged his computer. There would be no more distractions until the hatching, no matter what the consequences.

The egg was visibly moving now, and Ivan was a nervous wreck because of it. He paced the room like a caged wolf, caring little about his own state. He couldn't remember when he last slept or ate, and didn't care. The movement increased enough with time that it rolled on the mattress, stopped by a ring of pillows. Hyper focusing on something, he slid onto the bed. The cold cloth had fallen off, revealing a long crack in the shell. It was spanning out like a spiderweb, still quite small.

Excitedly recording the news, Ivan glanced at his wrist watch for a time stamp. It was five minutes into his special independence day, and his young was hatching. It was like a gift of fate and love, with all the planets aligned in his favor. Ivan Braginsky had never been so thankful in his centuries long existence.

00000

Everyone at the world meeting was equal parts excited and afraid. Russia had been violent and unreasonable, breaking England's arm at the last meeting he attended. After falling into a laughing fit, the Slavic giant of a man just walked out and hadn't been seen by anyone since. That had been ten months ago.

Not only was Russia volunteering to host after such a long absence, he even offered tasty treats. Ivan even hinted at having made a world changing breakthrough. Whether it was in the sciences or humanities was being discussed in the meeting hall. All thirty one nations attending openly admitted the lavish room was quite beautiful, dripping old world artistry and charm.

The trays of homemade cookies and cakes were tentatively approached at first, then casually enjoyed. Only one nation was unhappy, silently counting every tick of his watch. “Russia is late.” Germany muttered, unimpressed. Nearby, Sweden said nothing, but was also tracking the time. “Relax, Germany. This cake is wonderful!” Italy replied, clearly enjoying himself.

Russia entered the room in glamorous fashion, wearing a tailored suit and his ever present scarf. “I apologize comrades, There was interruptions getting here.” he greeted happily, smiling warmly. Between the smile and the child in his arms, people couldn't help but stare.

Standing at the head of the table, Ivan continued to speak. “I will admit I was quite insane the last time I was at an event like this. I trust my own baking is a suitable apology... I bring wonderful news. This little angel is the love of my heart, my ray of sunshine. Everyone, meet my two month old daughter, Sasha.” He gave the child's cheek a little kiss at the end, positively beaming. The pale as snow baby giggled, grabbing her mother's large fingers.

“How the fuck is this possible?” A foul mouth Southern Italy blurted out.

“Am... I high?” Netherlands whispered, looking confused.

“I don't think you are. Unless I am too.” Denmark replied loudly. Norway just shook his head.

“No one here is dumb enough to sleep with you. Just admit that you stole it.” England accused bluntly.

“Normally I would cut off your fingers for such a comment. It seems the rigors of childbirth have calmed my murderous tendencies.” Ivan purred, not ruffled by the verbal assault. It simply wasn't important anymore, not in comparison to the radiant love of his child. Unless there was insults against his child, then blood would be had.

China seemed reviled from hearing this, while Thailand and Japan become much more interested.

“I have no idea how you cooked up a kid, but she sure is cute.” America complimented, not far from Russia's place at the table. “Thank you, America. I'm quite proud of her. She was born on my independence day, like a little miracle.” Ivan explained cheerfully. “Oooh let me hold her, I'll be super good.” Alfred asked, reaching out like a child himself. “Very well. You must support her head though.” Ivan chided, confident the honey blond couldn't fuck things up. He was a natural of sorts for this.

Transferring the infant safely, Ivan sat in his chair. “Feel free to talk now.” Ivan finished, still glowing with joy and pride. “So who's the... um... other half of this?” Alfred asked, as retarded as ever. “Father, and you'll have to guess.” Ivan replied smoothly, thoroughly entertained. The summer blue eyes, wild lick of frosty blonde hair, and cute nose were obvious signs. Greece and France on either side clued in, paling in horror. The rest of the table slowly came to the realization as Alfred studied the baby intensely.

“Hmm. No idea. Super cute though.” the honey blonde concluded, as adorable and oblivious as his own daughter. Handing the baby back, Alfred returned to doodling on his national security papers. He looked up, noticing everyone staring at him.

“Why does everyone look like they want to throw up? Are the cookies poisoned? Because I ate like ten, and I'd like to know if I'm doing to die of poisoning instead of boredom.” he asked lightly in jest, getting dead silence.

“Are you kidding me you bloody git!? Of all the irresponsible things to do, and to breed with that! You make me ashamed, you twit!” England lectured, seething visible frustration. “Stop hitting me, old man! What did I do?” Alfred protested, shielding his face as he was beaten with a newspaper by his English founder and parent.

Ivan watched the comedic scene with a serene smirk, cradling his baby close as she giggled and cooed in her snowflake patterned onesie. Life was going to a lot more interesting, to be certain.

[wrongeddeadthenevermourned]

Character Development Asks: Whump Edition

- Who is the first person your character calls for help when they’re too sick to cope on their own?

The only person Kai has ever called out for was basically NO one because he relies on himself alone, don’t fool yourself lol. He trusts NO one. As much as no one trusts him.

- Who would be the first to notice that your character is hurt? Who would be the first to make it to their side?

Kai would notice he’s hurt first. Only time anyone else has ever noticed he was hurt, is if it had benefited them. Look at the episode where Olivia fucking stabs him right through his entire midsection for your clue in.

- Who would your character take a beating for?

Bonnie. Mister Kai “I was stabbed through the entire middle of my body, but I am going to save Bonnie so she can stop suffering the same shit I went through, not that anyone cares about that part but at least I am helping to save Bonnie.” Parker.

- What injury or sickness would be enough to make your character break down crying?

Look, Kai hasn’t cried since he was a fucking child. Not realistically, -Pushes the scene where he’s explaining Luke’s feelings and his apparently bawling somewhere in private, away- Since his merge with Luke is glossed over, let’s talk about it for a minute. He finally was able to feel all the hurt and pain he brought everyone and that hit him, fucking hard, right in his psyche. But he viewed the entire event, as, basically silly. So he glosses over it and no one else asks him any further about it. Because I guess Luke’s feelings no longer matter? Or Kai’s new found feelings, don’t matter. Fuck Kai, amiright?! -Rolls eyes- I’m sure he has also had a bit of a cry session over just being sick because of the Merge with Luke and vomiting up blood, must have been painful. Is sure as hell looked a little like it was. Could of also been the damage from being STABBED IN THE STOMACH.

- What injury or sickness would your character be most squeamish about?

None. He has not ability to process the realizations of such things in front of him. To him they are ‘normal’ occurrences. Perhaps because of his childhood of abuse.

- What injury or sickness would traumatize your character most if it happened?

Probably the fact that he’s a sociopath and as he was growing up and becoming one he was starting to recognize the numbness to life and others around him. Which might have been pretty terrifying to realize something you had once felt, you can no longer feel without dissolving into another phase of being or being so filled with rage because of what has made him so numb and lead to his sociopathic nature traumatized him in the first place.

- Where is the most vulnerable spot on your character’s body?

Probably his torso. I mean, how many times is someone going to stop him like that. Or his neck. Beheading him usually stops him. lol.

- Where are your character’s ugliest scars?

Probably on his torso. Though he canonically can’t scar anymore. I however wish to keep the damage done to him in some form. So there IS scaring. So his most ugliest scars are the ones from when he has tried to kill himself and where others have tried to kill him/killed him. There’s a thin line to the left of his neck and scratching/tearing to the right. His stomach has a light hole in the sternum from the pick axe, a small sliver on his back from Olivia, another sliver in his right back side and right leg and such from Bonnie attacking him. A gunshot scar in his right front side of his torso, well, several. Teeth marks around the sword scar of his neck on his left side. Faint cut scars on the left side of his forehead, near the hairline. Another faint stab scar just above the one created by the sword. Some faint scars along his arms and other spots of random impact damage to the body. Re-healed cracks in his bones. All these have remained, for something to reflect on in threads.

- Where is your character most comfortable when they’re recovering from an injury?

Pfft, Probably Prison World to be honest, at least he’s safest there. Even if Alaric sends some rotten teenagers there and probably got killed a few times before manipulating the dumb fuckers into aligning with him. Dumbasses.

- When sick or injured, how long does it take for others to convince your character to be treated?

No one cares if Kai is injured. Kai doesn’t even really care when he’s injured. Well, maybe a tiny bit, but he will also just brush it off. Like when Olivia stabbed him, and he decided “ I have a hole in my entire mid section. But let’s bring Bonnie HOME~ Quickly, yeah?” Before almost dying. Who knows what happened after THAT moment. I can speculate that ones drinking Damon’s blood and him helping them they told him to scoot and he left to go hide in a bush for a while. Because TVD didn’t really do anything with him after that for a while.

- When would your character finally admit that they’re under the weather? Do they beat around the bush or say it outright?

Kai ran to Josette for help, despite her clearly not being amused with him. And feeling ill anyway. He still felt/knew, he needed her then when he was vomiting up blood. Of course this was also followed by her throwing him at a wall, and him even confessing that he needed her around. As well, he was no longer a threat to anyone at that time. But still, this is probably the best instant of his finally relenting and going to someone for his needs. And they deleted most of that fucking scene. The dirty bastards.

- When faced with a situation that is guaranteed to get them hurt, does your character hesitate or rush headlong into it anyway?

Kai rushes in headlong, I am fairly certain of this. Because when Kai wants something, he will literally kill himself to get it if he has to. Again we can go back to Bonnie being saved by Kai. Or Kai most recently ‘fighting’ Hope in order to find something. Then as Alaric came to chop his god damn head off he looked so ...blase about it. Death doesn’t scare him. But you gotta ask the question as to why. The why is because he spent eighteen years committing suicide and GOD knows how many times he might have done it in the other prison.

- How quickly would your character break under torture?

He probably has a very high tolerance to any such tactic after spending most of his life in isolation. Which is the most torturous thing that can realistically be done to another human being without physically or mentally assaulting them, but is just as detrimental to the psyche of a person. Add on perhaps twenty two years of whatever in the fuck Joshua and the other members of the coven and his family might have added to. There’s clearly nothing anyone can do to Break Kai, unless other measure’s were taken first. Kai is literally the greatest stronghold. His metaphorical walls are absolutely formidable. Nothing really gets in, and nothing really gets out. He’ll literally just laugh at any attempt, or manipulate you.

- How well would your character serve as a caretaker to someone who is sick or injured? How good is their bedside manner?

Hmm, well, When Kai and Bonnie were trapped in the Prison World. Despite the fact that Kai was doing it for a reason. He was very hospitable to her. Had she not been fucking hostile and stupid, he might have even taken her out with him. But hey, it’s whatever. Kai made her food, served it to her, unpoisoned. Tried to have conversation with her. Even helped to fix the ascendant with her. He kept her in his company, despite his well being over having such, himself. Even if there was an ulterior motive underneath all of it, getting out of the Prison World. He also didn’t have to GO that far. Since he never even needed her to get out in the first god damn place, despite her blood. Which he had just been dripping all over the damn place. It could even be argued that he was dragging it all out, to be more agonizing toward her.

But nah, I think he just was wanting to enjoy the company, and despite his other plans, because clearly the woman was hostile and he definitely is smart enough to see she would screw him over again, he still hung around the entire time. Trying to provide his version of comfort with a nice home cooked meal, he made, for her. On his favorite holiday. THANKSGIVING! - throws up hands- The villain has a better heart than the main characters and his entire family and it’s just glossed over because he killed a few family members who are probably just as terrible as Joshua themselves AND on top of that the rest of the entire main cast, who even WHILE THIS WAS GOING ON, one of them was out going on some murder spree venture because he wanted to. #KaiDeservesTheBestRedemptionArcAU, lol.

- How much pain would it take for your character to lose consciousness? Is it a slow fade or a sudden plunge into darkness?

Well it’s a little bit of both. Depending on where you stab him. Sometimes he’s just very chill where he’s injured, despite blood loss or injury to the head he’s very mellow.  Or if you put and axe in his sternum, he passes out almost instantly and dies. Huh. Funny, that.

- Does your character ever hide their injuries or try to treat them on their own? Why do they think they have to do this?

Kai doesn’t hide his injuries. They are just ignored and so he is able to go about bleeding all over everyone’s property as he please. Because fuck you and your fancy ass couch, Damon. You like you wood floors? Well fuck those too. Kai generally will provide aid to himself and why he thinks he has to do that is because no one else cares if he’s hurt. They literally shot him in the shoulder with an arrow one time, and instead of patching that up, put him in a coma in the fucking kitchen or wherever, where someone tried to kill him. But was stopped because he was ‘needed’ like, don’t fucking touch me. Who the fuck do any of these characters think they are? Break all their neck Kai, damn...lol.

- Does your character ever exaggerate their injuries to get more sympathy or affection? Does their caretaker fall for it?

No, Kai doesn’t exaggerate much things like this. For he even understands when it’s serious. Despite his playfulness. He still will run to family when he’s vomiting up blood, first, for help. He couldn’t care less about what they feel about it. Because he expects nothing, and honestly gets nothing. In the deleted scene that is essential to his ‘growth’ in character. We see him finally pull down the veil, in front of Josette. Where she then accuses him of being a liar and then proceeds to throw him into a wall. He doesn’t want, or need no sympathy from any of these people. And he learned from a very young age to not need it from these people.

- Does your character blame themself when someone they care about is hurt?

Fuck no. Perhaps in his earliest childhood, he didn’t like when others had been hurt. It is important to understand that Kai, as a child, was very different from Kai as an adult, the result of life long abuse who finally snapped when he was twenty two. As a boy I am sure he was much more receptive to other peoples injuries. Say if Josette had fallen and scrapped her knee, he more than likely would have been on the front line to see to it that the injury was fixed. Kai as an adult stabs her, while she pregnant and kills her. The gravity of differences is that Josette has contributed to the same abuse that resulted in his fracture. Josette is no longer ‘needing’ protection from harm. She to him has no become the harmer. And so to had every other single family member he had killed prior. Kai HAD loved them all, at one point. Then the dam broke, and instead of seeing the people he loved. He saw the people in his way, the people who abused him. So he doesn’t blame himself for murdering them, or bringing them harm. Because to him, they were just as happy to let him die, to let him suffer, as he was to be rid of them. To finally be free, and allowed to live.

- Could your character stay still long enough for an injury to heal or do they try to go about their business despite it?

Kai may not plan things precisely. So when they do fall apart and he is injured and if he were offered help in healing, he will take it. He’s not that ungrateful. He’s willing to play along to get what he needs, when it is needed. However, in the event that no one offers him to heal or he is injured while in the ‘thick’ of whatever he’s doing, he will just keep going on, business as usual like, because he has things he needs to do and that matter more to him than self care, usually.

- Could your character push through an injury long enough to complete a vital task or mission?

Oh definitely. He absolutely is a glutton for pain, and will keep persisting till he is killed off or done with what he had needed to do, or eliminated the threat.

- Could your character find the strength/willpower to survive what could be a fatal wound?

Yes. Definitely. After all, he was stabbed by Olivia, while still human, and willed himself through that, full knowing he could die. Even saying as much to everyone else, but decided to help them regardless because Kai, with Luke’s empathy of course, Not entirely BECAUSE of it, did want to be close to those people. And had risked his life to do so, for Bonnie, as well. Kai is pretty resilient honestly. But he has to want to be, otherwise he could easily just be fine with taking a dirt nap. Because he has no feeling toward a necessity to survive, nor a total fear of death.